From Algorithms to Irony: The Evolving Language of Modern Sculpture
“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast!” said the Red Queen in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1871). Well, in 2025 (or in our futuristic vision of 2024) six impossible things a day might even feel like too few, given how rapidly artificial intelligence and computer graphics are generating new hybrid realities. But while cinema, video games, and advertising race to outdo one another with special effects, how is contemporary sculpture responding to this proliferation of the “impossible”? Until not so long ago, only the most “capitalized” artists Damien Hirst, Takashi Murakami, Jeff Koons could afford monumental productions, often realized with the help of specialized teams of artisans and fabricators. Their objects appeared as though they had just leapt off a digital screen, silently proclaiming, “This is the future, whether you like it or not,” exuding a technological aura that kept criticism at bay. Yet over time, the costs of 3D production and digital fabrication decreased, opening the field to far more artists. Simultaneously, audiences began to grow accustomed to the “miracles” of computer graphics, inevitably becoming more skeptical.
A telling example appeared in 2023, when the Swedish company Sandvik Machining unveiled what it called “the first sculpture made by AI” the Impossible Statue in stainless steel, inspired by masters like Michelangelo, Rodin, and Augusta Savage. Reception was lukewarm: more than one critic asked, “Would it be interesting if it weren’t made by AI” suggesting that much of the fascination lay in the “AI” label rather than in the work itself. That same skepticism led several artists to rediscover the value of hands-on craft ceramics, weaving, and traditional techniques as a counterpoint to a polished, seemingly impersonal idea of perfection. And yet, in the midst of this tension between analog and digital, some of the most exciting research lies precisely in the fusion of craft and 3D printing, software manipulation and centuries-old methods. Artists like Aria Dean use digital animation to generate “impossible” forms horses multiplying and fusing into seething masses which are then frozen into a single snapshot and transformed into a sculpture by a specialized workshop. Or consider Marguerite Humeau, who combines computer-generated forms with the social logic of bees and fungi, creating surreal hybrids in wax, paper, fabric, or resin.
We also see prominent examples of how digital fabrication can vastly expand sculpture’s vocabulary. As early as the 1990s, Frank Stella was using CAD software to design his abstract forms; more recently, he has experimented with 3D printing and even NFTs, inviting collectors to modify his works, allowing them to “grow.” In a different way, Tony Cragg famous for his organic shapes in tension has long embraced technology to amplify the ongoing metamorphosis that defines his volumes, while Anish Kapoor, often working in metal and stone, has consistently used technology (sensors, concave mirrors, reflective surfaces) to create perceptual illusions that challenge viewers’ spatial assumptions.
The most intriguing aspect is not the technological marvel itself destined to fade as the eye becomes accustomed but rather the spark of a new kind of sensibility. Digital sculpture represents not only an enhancement of human abilities, but also the opportunity to give material form to the most absurd visions, reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. However, the sheer computing power and precision of machines carries a risk: that the outcome might overshadow the artist’s own contribution, turning the creator into nothing more than a “software curator.” Some experiments, like Antony Gormley’s Quantum Clouds, were initially groundbreaking but now look like somewhat dated 3D wireframes, underscoring how purely technical innovation can quickly age.
Other artists, meanwhile, have harnessed a more “measured” use of digital tools to probe how we perceive what’s in front of us. Charles Ray recently exhibited pieces ranging from painstakingly handmade paper sculptures almost an anachronistic gesture to marble works fabricated by CNC machines, with visible tool marks left on the surface.
This results in layered perceptions: where does the human hand end and the “robot’s hand” begin? Sometimes the interaction with technology is deliberately hybrid: an artist might scan a small piece of twisted wire and then enlarge it dramatically, immortalizing the instant of a random gesture. Artists like Kapoor and Cragg have always shown interest in the boundary between the visible and the invisible, between form and deformation. Now, thanks to digital fabrication, that boundary is becoming even more fluid, opening doors to “sculpting” voids, light, and perception itself.
Centuries ago, Bernini and the Baroque sculpture tradition at large reminded us that stone can simulate the movement of windblown fabric. Today, 3D modeling and animation software provide a similar degree of freedom, turning marble into cloud and foam into solid in a ceaseless interplay between the physical and the virtual. For younger artists raised on video games and social media, there seems to be an “instinctive affinity” for these new tools, using them to question even the grand narratives of art history.
The point is not to celebrate AI as some definitive new frontier, but to view digital sculpture as a creative territory alive with contrasts: organic and synthetic, handcrafted and robotic, imaginary and material. In this light, the proliferation of “impossible things” is an invitation to look with new eyes.
When we find ourselves facing a horse that multiplies into a vortex of shapes, or a “cocoon” generated by algorithms and then produced in beeswax, we’re more struck by the work’s internal tension than by its realism or high-tech aura. In that moment, we recognize sculpture’s power centuries-old yet forever reinventing itself much like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole and realizing the world is not at all what it seemed. So, for the new generation of artists and curators, the challenge isn’t simply learning to use machines and software; it’s keeping a critical perspective on the potential and the limitations of digital fabrication. Perhaps that’s precisely what the Red Queen teaches us: believing in the impossible is not a surrender but a way of training the mind. And, if approached with intelligence and awareness, it can throw open previously unimaginable doors for sculpture, hovering between the marvelous and the uncanny placing center stage not the technology itself, but our endless ability to shape the world and laugh at it with irony.
fakewhale
Founded in 2021, Fakewhale advocates the digital art market's evolution. Viewing NFT technology as a container for art, and leveraging the expansive scope of digital culture, Fakewhale strives to shape a new ecosystem in which art and technology become the starting point, rather than the final destination.
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