The Algorithm’s Brushstroke →

A web of code, invisible yet omnipresent, threads through the lives of 95% of the world’s connected souls. Social media algorithms, designed to serve up tailored snippets of joy, news, and distraction, have become the unseen architects of our days. At first glance, they’re tools sorting posts, curating feeds, painting our digital lives with effortless precision. But beneath their surface, they wield a darker palette, shaping thoughts with a subtlety that rivals any drug. These algorithms, fed by our clicks and swipes, learn us intimately. They dangle dopamine in bursts majority of users check their feeds within minutes of waking, chasing the high of a like, a share, a moment of relevance. The mind, caught in this cycle, grows restless, tethered to the next notification. Over time, tolerance builds: we need more posts, more outrage, more validation to feel the same spark. Abruptly stepping away brings its own withdrawal loneliness, unease, the gnawing fear of missing out. Studies reveal the toll: heavy users report heightened anxiety, depression creeping like rust through their thoughts, their sense of self eroded by endless comparison. As an artist, I see this canvas for what it is. My paintbrush demands slowness, intention, the raw pulse of creation but the algorithm pulls me toward its rhythm, urging me to post, to perform, to reduce my art to a thumbnail for likes. The human connections I once sketched in bold, messy strokes conversations, laughter, shared silence fade, replaced by a feed that dictates who I am. The architects of this epidemic? Tech giants, pocketing billions while their algorithms sculpt our minds. Investigations exposed their designs crafted not just to engage but to addict, prioritizing profit over sanity. Yet, glimmers of resistance emerge. Communities are turning offline, trading curated feeds for unfiltered moments. Some, like me, are reclaiming the canvas, using art to disrupt the algorithm’s grip, to remind us what it means to feel without a screen’s permission. This invisible web, spun from lines of code, holds the power to repaint our souls, to trade our humanity for a scroll’s fleeting thrill. As an artist, I stand at the easel and ask: will we let these algorithms define our masterpiece, or will we dare to wield the brush ourselves? The choice, for now, remains ours.