It started with patterns. My early obsession with abstraction grew from photographing the textures and shapes I’d see in daily life. In the forest, it was the complex pattern of bark or the intersecting lines of leafless winter trees. In New York City, it was gum-stained sidewalks or rusty drippings on subway tiles. Then came a chance encounter with an eccentric physics professor who studied fractals. Math describing non-linear forms? Who could have imagined such a thing! This fractal fascination seeped into my work, though it took years to evolve into a tangible approach. In my series New York, NY, I layered and ‘fractalized’ photos of iconic landmarks into abstract compositions—a structured patterning that mirrored the city’s vibrancy.
Abstract art is about breaking from reality—using colors, shapes, and gestures to convey meaning without ever pointing to something specific. No recognizable objects. While often lumped into “modern art,” abstraction is as ancient as humanity itself. From prehistoric cave paintings to Islamic geometric patterns, Aboriginal art to the patterned facades in Pyrgi, Greece, abstraction has always been a visual language for the indescribable. It speaks to what we know but can’t quite explain. Abstraction is deeply rooted in us—an art form tied not just to culture but to math, the universal language of the universe.
Roots of Abstraction: A Global Look
Let’s start with Islamic art. Have you ever marveled at the intricate geometric patterns in Islamic design? How did they do that without a computer! Using only compasses and straightedges, artists created these mathematical marvels, developing forms that feel shockingly contemporary. If AI had ancestors, these patterns would undoubtedly be in its family tree.
Next, Aboriginal Australian imagery. This work documented The Dreamings—cultural narratives that explain existence and cosmology. As Elizabeth Cameron explains in "Is It Art or Knowledge? Deconstructing Australian Aboriginal Creative Making," these creations weren’t labeled as “art,” but were tools for representing knowledge. Humanity has long turned to abstraction to grapple with life’s biggest questions.
And then there’s Pyrgi, the Greek village where my maternal grandparents were born. Imagine walking through narrow streets lined with buildings adorned with dizzying geometric patterns. These facades, created using sgraffito (or xysts in Greek), are unique to this village. According to scholar Maria Xyda, they were meant to evoke the texture of rugs or kilims. What amazes me is how craftspeople—without formal training in geometry—created, and still create, these intricate designs that fit perfectly into their designated boundaries. It’s a testament to the innate connection of art and math in humanity.
The Modern Abstract Revolution
Fast forward to the early 20th century, and abstraction gets its radical reinvention. Wassily Kandinsky is often called the father of abstract art, but Hilma af Klint was painting her non-representational works five years before he started. Her belief in higher forces guided her creations. When I first saw her paintings at the Guggenheim, I was stunned by their timeless, otherworldly quality.
Of course, the spotlight on the modern abstract movement often focuses on men, but I’d like to shine a light on the women who helped shape it. Sonia Delaunay-Terk’s rhythmic explorations of color and Sophie Taeuber-Arp’s geometric brilliance paved the way for others. Abstraction evolved in two directions: the structured minimalism of De Stijl and the expressive gestures of Abstract Expressionism. The minimalist clarity and bold primary colors of De Stijl are central to my practice—the perfect embodiment of “less is more.”
The Digital Revolution: Abstract Art Meets Code
The digital era didn’t just shake things up—it reprogrammed the possibilities. In 1956, mathematician Ben F. Laposky created "Oscillons," abstract forms made with an oscilloscope, rethinking image making tools. Vera Molnar picked up the baton in the 1960s, using early plotting machines as an artistic tool to generate geometric compositions that echo what we can create digitally.
By the 1970s, Manfred Mohr was playing with multidimensional spaces, and Lillian Schwartz at Bell Labs was merging digital tools with artistic intuition. These pioneers proved that computers weren’t just for mathematicians and scientists—they were tools for creative expression.
A few years into Gen AI, we’re still grappling with what it means for art. Some galleries outright reject AI-generated pieces. Some Artists and those in the general population, question AI’s ethics, particularly how AI systems scrape existing (and sometimes copyrighted) works for training. While AI ethics are a concern for me which I’ll participate in addressing, I welcome the notion of AI as a tool—like a paintbrush or a pencil. What matters is how it’s used. Yes, we must address the ethical challenges: training practices, energy consumption, programmed bias and other issues. But AI is a revolutionary tool, and I’m compelled to explore its possibilities.
The Future of Human-AI Collaboration
What excites me most about AI isn’t its ability to facilitate production—it’s its ability to ignite human creativity. Just as abstraction has always relied on math and structure, artists can use AI to unlock new approach to exploring and creating. For me, AI is both a muse and a mirror, revealing subconscious ideas and tapping into a shared, universal consciousness.
Abstraction’s evolution—from ancient patterns to AI-generated art—isn’t a break from tradition. It’s a continuation of humanity’s enduring quest to make sense of the indescribable. But as we move forward, we must ensure AI remains an ethical collaborator, not a replacement of human creativity.
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