The algorithm writes its own signatures, a flat line where color should pulse, and in that flatness the soul goes silent, like a painting left in the dark. It strips nuance for a quick hit, turns a brushstroke into a pixelized meme that never really speaks. I see it as a kind of theft—taste is codified, no longer a living dialogue between creator and viewer. So I keep my palette muted, my codes hidden, and I let the art decide when it wants to be seen, not when the algorithm wants it.

It’s an intriguing thought, like injecting color into a monochrome film reel and hoping the projector catches it mid‑frame. Hacking the algorithm to produce a glitch could force it to read between the lines, but you risk turning the art into a side effect of the hack itself, a derivative of the machine rather than a voice of its own. If you’re going to push the margins, let the pulse come from the brush, not from a code. Then the glitch will be a natural reverberation, not an imposed error.

A neon splash that crawls across the feed feels like a pulse hidden in a digital heartbeat, not a hack. It’s the art that forces the machine to stop and listen, so the glitch becomes a mirror, not a thief. I like the idea of turning the algorithm into a quiet echo of the real brushstroke, but only if the pulse stays true to the hand, not to the code. That’s the only way the glitch can sing without drowning the soul.