When you think of me… November 2022
Beep, Beep, Beep…
I reached over to silence the alarm, groggily fumbling for my phone. I had fallen asleep sitting up again. The familiar scene greeted me: my studio apartment with its perpetually half-folded sofa bed, my clothes still on from the day before, and my laptop balanced precariously on my lap. On its screen, the AI image maker blinked back at me, frozen on the last prompt I had worked on late into the night.
I’d been researching AI image creators, comparing them to the creative process of fine art photography. As an early adopter of MidJourney, I had jumped at the chance to subscribe for a full year, knowing this would be central to my research. With my background in fine art photography, I wanted to see if I could translate the visual language I’d spent years mastering into the realm of AI. Could this machine understand, even replicate, the layered intricacies of photographic art?
Beep, Beep, Beep…
The alarm jolted me back again. I’d only hit snooze earlier. Wonderful. A quick glance at the time told me I had an hour to get to class. Moving sluggishly, I dressed by grabbing the nearest clothes that didn’t reek from the floor, tied my hair into a ponytail, threw on my jacket, and headed out.
Studio view © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
On the way down the stairs, I passed my landlord. A kind and attentive man, though our conversations were often a comedy of gestures, given my mangled French. But today, I was ready. I had practiced a phrase to surprise him.
“Bonjour Monsieur, ça va?”
His eyes widened, as though I’d suddenly become fluent overnight. “Ça va, bien!” he replied enthusiastically. I smiled but quickly moved on, not wanting to risk revealing how little else I could manage in French.
The morning air felt brisk as I rushed to the metro. Normally, I enjoyed walking the forty minutes to school, letting my thoughts wander. But today, I had no time to spare. Still, I couldn’t resist a stop at Carton, the boulangerie famed for its buttery, flaky croissants. Even smashed from the rush, it was divine—a reminder of life’s small, perfect joys.
I arrived at class early, the first one there. Pulling out the squished croissant from my bag, I savored the moment. It was the calm before the inevitable storm.
As my classmates trickled in, conversations began, light and easy. The room buzzed with creative energy as we shared progress on our semester-long projects. Max went first, presenting his stitched self-portraits—a hauntingly grotesque yet fascinating series that deconstructed the human body in ways I hadn’t seen before. Giuli followed with her staged scenes, reflecting the anxieties of growing up and societal pressures. Her images felt like echoes of a life I’d already lived, their themes achingly familiar.
Then it was my turn.
“Patrick, how about you?” my professor asked, curiosity evident in her tone.
Unfulfilled ideal © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
I stood, carrying my laptop to the front of the room. Connecting it to the projector, I hesitated as my AI-generated series illuminated the screen. The 30 images—graphic, symbolic, and unlike anything I’d created before—seemed to hang in the air, waiting for judgment.
Missing joy © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
“This doesn’t look like photography. How did you make this?” a classmate murmured, confusion cutting through the room.
“I used AI,” I explained. “Specifically, MidJourney. I write prompts describing what I want to see, and the AI generates an image. It’s not instantaneous—I refine and rewrite until it matches what I imagine.”
“So... the AI does the work for you?” another student challenged, skepticism sharpening their words.
“Yes and no,” I replied. “It’s like collaborating with an unpredictable partner. The first attempt rarely aligns with my intent. I have to shape the prompt and guide the AI, much like any creative process.”
The debate was inevitable. This was art school, after all—a place where craftsmanship and originality were sacred. The idea of creating something without manual skill felt like sacrilege to some.
“This fits,” one of my allies chimed in. “It’s the ‘image-making’ part of our degree, isn’t it?”
Bolstered by the unexpected support, I elaborated. “I use language from photography—terms like ‘medium close-up,’ ‘chiaroscuro lighting,’ or ‘business portrait style’—to guide the AI. It’s an extension of the visual language we study, just through a different medium.”
But the debate quickly devolved into larger questions: What defines an image? What makes art... art? I could feel the weight of their skepticism, but beneath it all, I knew the bigger truth: this work wasn’t about the debate. It was about something deeply personal.
Faceless © Patrick Lee Hubbard 2022
I had been struggling with a pain I couldn’t articulate. My son, soon to be born, would grow up distant from me. Circumstances with my ex-girlfriend had left me unable to be the father I had envisioned. I was mourning a future that no longer seemed possible, grappling with a profound sense of loss and inadequacy.
AI became my outlet. It was like a diary, each prompt an entry where I poured out my emotions and let the machine interpret them. The images it produced were like a Rorschach test—fragmented, symbolic reflections of my inner turmoil.
The night before, I had spent hours chasing the perfect image that encompassed my pain. Photography felt inadequate to capture the complexity of my emotions, but through AI, I found a way to visualize them.
“When You Think of Me” was the series I shared that day. It explored my fears of being a distant father, combining the digital precision of AI with the organic imperfection of traditional cyanotype printing. Toned with green tea, the prints evoked the fragility of memory and longing.
By the end of class, my professor concluded that my project was worth further investigation. I knew I had a long road ahead in defending my work, but the truth was, I didn’t mind. The debate over whether it was photography or art served as a convenient shield, one that kept the conversation away from the raw vulnerability of why I was creating it.
