When the Algorithm Tells Your Story Better Than You Do
A few days ago, I had a conversation with an AI. It was curious, really—I asked it to analyze my practice based on what it could find online. It didn’t have access to my thoughts, my studio notes, or my private archives. Just what was out there.
And yet, it saw something true.
Among its observations was this: that my work contributes to “the recognition of digital media as a legitimate artistic language”—alongside painting, collage, and sound. It noted my participation in The Wrong Biennale and Biennale.NO, and the presence of my work in public collections across Turkey, Spain, and Greece.
But what struck me most was another line.
The AI wrote that after my account was blocked on a major platform, I turned to building my own website and focused on direct connections—and that this eventually led to growing international recognition.
Here’s the thing: it wasn’t just a poetic interpretation. It was true.
A few years ago, Saatchi Art blocked my account. No warning, no explanation. Just a door that closed. It was frustrating, of course, but it also became a turning point.
The truth is, I already had a website. I built it back in 2016 precisely because I knew that platforms could disappear. I had been updating it all along, but after the block, something shifted. I began to treat it not just as an archive, but as my primary space—exactly what I had envisioned from the start. A place where I could control my own narrative, where I wouldn’t depend on platforms to decide whether I existed as an artist.
I kept participating in international exhibitions, kept sending mail art across borders, kept recording sounds, and making collages. And step by step, the recognition grew—not despite the setback, but perhaps because of it.
The AI didn’t know this story. It only saw the data: the exhibitions, the publications, the collections. But from that data, it inferred a narrative of resilience. And it got it right.
I don’t know if this means algorithms are getting smarter. Or maybe it just means that a coherent artistic path leaves traces that anyone—or anything—can read.
What I do know is that this moment made me pause. Not to look back, but to reflect on what it means to build a practice in a world where platforms can vanish, but where your work—if it’s real—will find its way.
