“Appropriate Response,” created by Mario Klingemann in 2020, without a platform nor blockchain (a good reminder that generative art requires neither) struck me immediately for a few reasons. First, my love for aphorisms and the power of text fragments that, devoid (by design) of more context, construct a universe around them in collaboration with the reader. I can imagine that the way “Appropriate Response” is designed to be a one-statement-per-viewer makes this uniquely individualized universe particularly potent. The second thing that struck me was the choice of having these statements, created through a custom GPT2 model shown on the antiquated format of split-flap display. The tactile delivery holds the viewer in the future and past simultaneously. Encountering this signage transports you instantly to train stations one might encounter on vintage photography postcards. While the split-flap display is typically used in such settings to tell you where to go, Klingemann’s conceptual use in “Appropriate Response“ hints at where we might be heading. The wind, the sound of the words formulating themselves, their coming together through small flapping rectangles, all profoundly shape how they’re received. Third, the choreography of the viewer via the kneeling mechanism: Generative text meets religious furniture in “Appropriate Response.” The loaded memories (mental and physical) and emotions tied to the act of kneeling cannot be underestimated. It is brilliant how Klingemann incorporates the physical position of the audience member into the experience, knowing that it would change the way they received the statement. But the waiting for the text might be my favorite part. In an age of instant everything, the moments of time suspended, when all you can do is wait for the text to arrive, are a gift. Generative text is the beginning of this work, not the end, which in my opinion is why this is so strong and why it excites me tremendously. It’s experiential art with a generative component. Good art gives you what you didn’t know would please you. — Ania Catherine, Operator