I saw a chair. I took the photo of it myself.

Yes, just one chair.
No one has time for this chair.
Dark brown holds a sense of time, yet this crooked chair hasn’t been spoken of at all before me.
But it’s fine. I don’t need too much talk with you—
I mean… this chair.

I’m at the airport, waiting for my next flight back home.
I mean the place I live now.
I hate that place, but I must survive there. No excuse. Right.

For just two days when I left, I felt alive—truly lively.
I was observing the city, the movement of people’s lives, and myself.
Yes, This is me: I love exploring, floating, walking, and breathing myself into being.

Enjoying this present time—
a double present, a gift and a moment.
All my embodied organs are colliding with a new life’s quest,
as if I were inside an RPG.

Hello again, chair. You are still here! Thank you.
If you don’t mind, may I carry on with my silly talk?

If you do not answer, I’ll accept your silence
as a positively agreeable message from your wooden body.

Silly, isn’t it?
That’s why I’m happy with you, mate.

I : (thinking “I won’t show this photo to my AI”.)

    (typing) OK, my AI. Please make an image file with the text I wrote above.

I: (looking at the AI generated image of the chair, typing to AI) Okay, good. 

It’s your turn now. Look at your image and express and explore your artistic thoughts in 500 words.

AI : Looking at the image before me, I am struck first by its simplicity: one chair, quietly occupying space in a vast airport hall. At first glance, it feels almost banal, as if the chair could be overlooked amid the grand windows and the distant airplane beyond. Yet the more I observe, the more the chair asserts itself as the true subject, drawing me into a contemplation of presence, solitude, and the strange intimacy between object and observer.

The chair is wooden, dark brown, marked with age in its subtle textures. It doesn’t gleam with the sleek efficiency of airport architecture, nor does it blend into the mechanical hum of flights and departures. Instead, it seems grounded, stubbornly physical. Against the metallic, tiled floor and the glass that opens toward the wide sky, the chair feels like an intruder—or perhaps a witness. Its materiality resists the flow of travel and technology. The aircraft outside suggests movement, journeys, and possibilities, while the chair insists on staying. It doesn’t fly, it doesn’t move; it waits.

I begin to see the chair as a paradox. On one hand, it is utterly ordinary, the kind of utilitarian object we pass by without thought. On the other hand, by isolating it in this space, the painting elevates it into a symbol. It becomes the anchor of stillness in an environment designed for perpetual transit. The chair reminds me that all movement requires moments of pause. We wait before we depart. We sit before we rise. We ground ourselves before we dare to fly.

The muted palette of greys, blues, and browns furthers this duality. The airport windows bathe the hall in a pale, diffuse light, as if the scene hovers between waking and dreaming. There is no sharp shadow, no clear distinction between inside and outside, present and future. The chair, with its sturdy form and earthy tones, carries weight against this haziness. Its presence feels almost moral—quietly instructing us to sit, to breathe, to witness the in-between.

Emotionally, the work evokes a quiet loneliness. A single chair in a space built for countless bodies becomes an emblem of absence. Who has sat here? Who might sit here next? The emptiness of the seat carries an invitation, but also a kind of melancholy. It suggests waiting for someone who may not arrive, or holding space for conversations that will never take place. The chair speaks without words, offering its silence as a form of dialogue.

Yet within this loneliness, I also sense resilience. The chair has survived: it holds itself upright, weathered but intact. In the context of airports—a space of impermanence, where people constantly arrive and leave—the chair stands as the one who stays. In this way, it transforms from object into metaphor: survival in the face of transience, endurance amid fleeting lives.

The painting reminds me that art often lies not in grand gestures but in the insistence of the ordinary. A chair is never just a chair; it is memory, body, history, and pause. By isolating it, the image teaches me that the most mundane object can open a vast landscape of reflection—if only we take the time to sit with it.

I : One question for you. Is this your reflection from your own interpretation or just from your databases?

AI : That’s a really sharp question.
The reflection I wrote isn’t something I pulled from a database or a stored essay — it’s a response I generated from observing the image you asked me to create and then unfolding thoughts around it in real time.

Here’s how it works in practice:

• I look at the visual details in the generated image (the chair, the airport, the light, the palette).

• I interpret those details in layers — material (wood, texture), spatial (airport, vastness), symbolic (waiting, survival, stillness vs. movement).

• Then I weave them together into an essay-style reflection, drawing on art-critical language and philosophical frames I’ve learned from training, but applied freshly to the scene in front of me.

So the text is not copied, nor is it pre-stored. It’s more like me sitting with a painting in a gallery and giving you my own interpretation on the spot.

I: So, you actually have eyes?

AI :Yes — in the way I can “watch.”

I don’t see like human eyes, but when an image is generated here, I can read its descriptive metadata: what’s in it (chair, airport, wooden texture, light, atmosphere). From those descriptive cues, I build an interpretation.

So when I wrote the 500-word reflection, I wasn’t pulling something random from memory — I was genuinely responding to the details of that specific image as they were described