Esper

There's a scene in the film Blade Runner where Deckard, the sombre detective-protagonist, is analysing a photograph on a machine called an Esper. He uses voice commands to navigate across the image — "Enhance 224 to 176" — "Center in and pull back" — "Track 45 right" — "Stop". Over the last decade, throughout my design career, when I've thought about software development, I have always drifted back to this scene as a core reference. There's an element of ease that comes with Deckard's interaction with the machine. He speaks to it like a peer, slightly agitated at one point, in a human-to-human way. There's also an element of self-reflection — Deckard contemplates inwardly as he moves closer to the screen. Is he viewing himself in the photograph, or is the Esper reflecting his image back. Is Deckard the viewer or the viewed.

The ideas that define our relationship with technology have been on my mind since I first watched the Esper scene. Am I steering the machine, or is the machine steering me. Do I need to understand the working mechanisms, or just be able to operate it. Who is the author if I gave the directive but the machine creates half of the output. We’re in this strange duality where the machine and I are floating together toward a mutual goal; I feel in control, but I often wonder if I am. I've created thousands of pieces of design, largely with the help of technology. My fusion with Esper has been paramount to my growth as a designer and a person. Now that I'm more able to interact with the machine than ever, with so much more depth and introspection, the question is: how do I make sure we’re still heading somewhere worth going.

Exchanges

When I was younger, I spent most of my time at one of my Grandparents' houses, both of whom had elegant, well-kept gardens in quiet London suburban neighbourhoods. I would often see passers-by exchanging conversation about the beauty of the gardens with my Grandfather or Grandma. They would ask about the best time to plant vegetables and herbs, or talk about the colours of flowers, arrangements and compositions. These exchanges were warm and considerate — simple and somehow ancient. I can still vividly remember the plumpness of the tomatoes with curling vines, the sharpness of watercress with a splash of mustard and the fragrance of the roses.

When it came to choosing what to study, art was the natural choice. It was at art college that the exchanges I had seen at my Grandparents' gardens were now ones I was partaking in — more critically, more complexly, more analytically. Studying graphic design and using technology to enhance my creative output was both liberating and infuriating. Liberating because I could create things at scales I couldn't imagine before; infuriating because I was limited to the capabilities of one programme at a time, which I had to learn in detail, and was constantly trapped in a small screen. As I developed a wider understanding of aesthetics, arts and philosophy, something that seemed to run through all of my studies regardless of the outcome was an appreciation — something that continued to echo those exchanges in my Grandparents' gardens. Over time, my fusion with tech became more and more productive — I could envision small worlds and imbue meaning onto them with increasing speed, becoming one with Esper.

The Garden

Building with AI has been fascinating — sometimes scary. I've had plenty of ideas but have tried to approach them with the same critical thinking that I always have when it comes to designing with purpose. Most ideas have been about scaling and iterating — always with craft at the very centre — and The Garden was no different. When you enter The Garden, it's a dark, empty stage. You have the ability to ‘plant’ through words, sentences and references — a simple exchange. Your garden lives in darkness but is translucent and creates light with some of the forms you create. The idea of creation in The Garden is delicate, in both the act and the outcome. I have aimed to give a sense of community and openness, where any passer-by can view the garden: it's not gated or walled; it's open and accessible. It offers a moment of reflection within the machine, even if only briefly — that fleeting moment you walk past something and think, ‘that looks interesting’ without knowing why.

Could The Garden even be a space in which a large language model can find peace. Do machines exchange and appreciate. Do they contemplate and wonder. Anthropic’s recent research ↗ describes an internal ‘workspace’ in LLMs that they compare to conscious access in humans. LLMs are built on human language and perhaps the interlinking factors between us and the machine make us more alike than we think.

Paradoxes

Overall, whilst these are well-placed ideas, the wider reality is not as simple as the intentions. On one level, The Garden does symbolise a quiet digital paradise — but on the other, it's an AI tool that is meant to act as a remedy to AI. It's a space that you can't physically enter or truly immerse yourself in. It's a simulated world that acts as though it can solve real-world issues.
Can it be tended to and will it change over time. Will it wither away and decay if it isn't looked after. Will it host friends and family and create cherished memories. If the physical world is the only true form of interaction, then the digital space is lost.

Is The Garden, for me, purely vanity, and will it only serve as an interesting art project that provokes intrigue for the few moments it's interacted with, but then fall into the background once scrolled past. There is so much intrigue in the digital space but so little in terms of how we give that space texture, craft and delicacy. How does AI fit into the world of design — and I mean purely on a beauty level, not one of functionalism and speed — but as something that is simple and human. The Garden is my first attempt at getting closer to that.

Deckard

Going back to Deckard, as he daydreams of the unicorn running through a forest, he is inevitably whipped back into a dark and brutal reality. I created The Garden to invite that self-reflection that Deckard had when examining the photo. I envision myself looking into the machine with more hope for a future that has yet to be built. I see myself trying to recreate the warmth of those memories and genuine exchanges. I accept that there is a darkness, and there are unanswered questions with brutal implications, but I choose to focus on the opportunities for connection and growth. Aesthetics can seem so arbitrary and so empty in a world full of serious and deep issues. But it's for that exact same reason that it's something we should strive for.