Aluan Wang is a pioneering figure in generative art from Taiwan and a co-founder of akaSwap. He treats code as a contemporary brush, working at the intersection of algorithmic precision and natural chaos in search of moments of insight unique to the digital age.
His practice is grounded in early aesthetic training, cultivating a strong sensitivity to negative space, rhythm, and layering. This sensibility is translated into algorithmic rules and constraints, forming invisible “latent paths” that guide computation toward dynamic fields with an organic sense of life.
From early audiovisual performances to on-chain generative works, Wang continues to explore the boundaries of human–machine collaboration. He approaches technology as a philosophical tool for re-examining art history, carving warm, living digital landscapes from the narrow gap between zero and one.
The fun of experimenting with brushes is that you have to start with how the ink behaves.How it spreads, how the vectors flow.Only after that do you move on to texture.And honestly, both parts are challenging in their own way.What I experimented with today was adding something like a magnetic force into the ink.While drawing, it naturally starts to form interesting patterns.The strength and density of those textures mostly come from layering 2D Perlin noise.That part alone is already a lot of fun.
Technical notes:
I use a force map to calculate diffusion vectors, simulating how magnetic powder reacts to force.Three layers of smooth noise at different frequencies create regional variation,controlling strength, scale, and density across the stroke.Five layers of texture noise are stacked from coarse to ultra-fine,with each layer affected by the same regional variation system.Organic noise and flow noise help give it a more liquid, material-like feel.All noise sampling is offset by a stroke seed,so recording and playback stay consistent.
A lot of time goes into things no one ever notices.
One stroke too many is excess. One stroke too few is loss.
This balance has always been something artists return to again and again.
Detail is never about filling the surface. It is about leaving the one mark that cannot be replaced. That single stroke carries both structure and spirit.
When I was younger, my pursuit of images was direct and forceful.
Only now, approaching midlife, do I start to feel the delayed response of that effort. Looking back, the end of 2025 may become the period when I have drawn the most as an adult, if we exclude the almost obsessive training years of high school.
And yet, I don’t feel a real difference.
In these sketch-like processes, there is no strong concept leading the way. What remains is a long-formed understanding of images, an instinct for composition, and a persistent attachment to beauty.
This year, at forty-four, the engineer’s mind and the artist’s hand feel awake at the same time. I am enjoying this state deeply.
The noise outside is still there. I have faced it before, held my ground before.
1.While working on Polypaths, the parameter space became so large that there were moments when the output truly surprised me. I like to think of those moments, in a romantic way, as glimpses of emergence. Still very far away, of course. That is also why I have grown impatient with some idea. The logic is immediately visible and supported by strong language, but the structure still relies heavily on the artist’s individual will. There is nothing wrong with that. It simply remains rooted in an artist-centric way of thinking.
As we approach 2026, I find myself questioning this comfort zone. Do we keep believing in it, or do we allow chaos to interfere and push relentlessly toward emergence? This is why I am drawn to artists like #TheoreticalCivilization and #Ledina. Complex structures with sometimes very simple outputs. Systems that go beyond the artist’s full control. That loss of control is what excites me.
If we are hoping for something that truly exceeds contemporary art thinking, I do not think it starts from art history. It starts from algorithms, from logic itself.
2.When we say “this is code-generated,” it often functions less as an explanation and more as a protective umbrella.It shields us from a direct confrontation with traditional fine art, drawing a safe boundary: this isn’t hand-drawn, it’s another system.
While working on Inkfield, I was often asked: if you want it to look like ink painting, why not just paint?The answer isn’t romantic. I love that material, but I want to approach it with contemporary tools, to use reason to draw something emotional.The point was never to be identical to real ink.What matters is the gap that can never fully close.Those digital slips, those computed differences, are where generative art becomes truly interesting.
To be fair, this umbrella can also be a survival strategy.In a market that still favors traditional media, the label buys us time and space, sparing us from being judged by painting standards alone. It was necessary. But sooner or later, we have to admit that the soul of algorithms lives in those differences.A hundred years from now, all works will stand together. No medium, no labels.Only one question remains: is this the best art it could be?
After Polypaths, where I built a system for plants to grow and invited collectors to act as gardeners, Inkfield turns the focus back to the artist. This time the work is not about drawing paths for a garden. It is about capturing every movement of my hand as I draw and letting a custom ink and brush system bring those gestures back to life.
The piece doesn’t replay a recording. It rebuilds the act of drawing each time. Because every run uses a different seed, the ink spreads differently, the edges shift, and the small hesitations in my hand show up in new ways. The structure comes from my original gesture, but the final image is always moving and always becoming.
Everything in the system is tracked. Every stroke. Every layer. So instead of only seeing a finished picture, the viewer can watch the entire process unfold. The work becomes a record of time as much as an image.
We are creating in a moment where AI systems dominate the way images are made. It is easy to generate something perfect. What is harder is putting something human back into the system. Inkfield is my attempt to push against the idea that automation alone is enough. I want the system to carry the logic of code, but I also want it to carry the warmth of a real hand moving through space.
This connects with Sol LeWitt’s idea that the process is as important as the final form and that the artist’s thinking is part of the artwork. It also echoes Casey Reas’s belief that the system itself is the artwork and that randomness and intuition allow unexpected forms to emerge.
Inkfield stands on both of these ideas. It uses a system to hold the concept, but it also invites organic motion and unpredictability. In this field of ink where code and feeling meet, my goal is simple: to work with the machine and still leave a trace of a human being inside it.
Polypaths is an interactive playground born from this wave: by simply dragging lines and dropping dots, you can conjure forests, vines, rock piles, and even trippy glitch-lands. Below are four practical tips that show how to trigger Polypaths’ secret modes and add new layers of surprise to your work.
Once you open the Polypaths canvas, you’ll see a grid and two basic elements to play with: Dots and Lines. The tips below assume you already know how to draw lines and place dots with your mouse or stylus.
Tip 01 – Forest Mode
Draw at least 8 straight lines
Each line must span 15+ grid units
Meet both rules and Polypaths assumes you’re planting a forest: towering trunks and woody blossoms sprout along your long lines, while shorter segments turn into shrubs and saplings. Perfect for instantly growing dense, layered vegetation.
Tip 02 – Vine Mode
Draw Draw 7 or more downward lines least 8 straight lines
Each line’s arrow tilts ≥ 30° from vertical
When Polypaths detects multiple slanted downward lines, it “reads” them as gravity-pulled vines. Once triggered, every line—any length, any direction—morphs into curling stems and leaves, creating a waterfall of greenery.
Tip 03 – Single-Object Mode
More than 20 dots on the canvas: activation chance rises
More than 30 dots: about 80 % of new lines become single objects
“Single objects” are clusters such as rock piles, grass tufts, or wood blocks. The more dots you scatter, the denser the landscape Polypaths predicts. Beyond 30 dots, nearly every fresh line is absorbed into stone, grass, or timber—ideal for quickly populating ground detail or crafting an abandoned, ruin-like scene.
Tip 04 – Daze Mode
Draw 6 straight lines
Add 6 dots—the magic “66” password
Daze Mode is like spiking the canvas’s punch: lines warp, colors pulse neon, and the whole screen slides into a woozy haze. Want a psychedelic twist? Lay out some structure with Tip 01 or 02, then drop the “66” combo to push the scene over the edge.
Tip 05 – Control Front-Back Layers
Lower Y → front layer
Higher Y → back layer
Set the short tree’s start point lower than the tall tree’s, and it will appear in front—depth control done.
Keyboard Shortcuts
Key
Action
Enter
Download current canvas as a PNG
Space
Download the scene JSON (includes garden DNA)
I
Toggle on-screen DNA readout
G
Export a layered PNG with transparency
URL Flags
Add these to the end of your URL for extra functions:
Flag
What it does
&3d
Makes the garden sway left/right—light breeze effect
&view
Opens the layer-slice viewer (scroll with the mouse)
&debug_1-7
Dev mode; any digit combo (&debug_123, &debug_4567) shows different readouts
&pix_4
Ups the render resolution (higher number = higher res). Default is &pix_2 ≈ 2048 × 2048
&puta
Full developer console—shows every debug panel
Example https://....hash.....&3d&pix_4 turns on the 3D, and renders at 4× resolution.
In Polypaths, plants don’t grow blindly along predefined routes. They respond to flow and tension—like a traditional East Asian landscape painter who studies the entire scene’s qi (energy flow) and shi (momentum) before making the first brushstroke.
Behind the scenes, the system runs an invisible pre-process: it analyzes whether the drawn path contains a strong downward pull or elongated strokes. If the trajectory feels heavy and sinking, it activates one mode; if the lines expand outward with force and direction, it shifts to another. This echoes a fundamental principle in classical Chinese painting—not deciding what to draw, but sensing how the energy moves through the composition. It’s about responding to flow, not filling in shapes.
In “Forest Mode,” plants grow taller, denser, and more expressive—like dark ink strokes shaping a mountain. In “Vine Mode,” the main plant is intentionally left bare, its structure serving as scaffolding for vines that will later coil and complete the image. This is the philosophy of using emptiness to reveal form—a central lesson in East Asian aesthetics.
Nothing grows randomly here. Every gesture has intention, breath, and rhythm. And all of it emerges as a programmatic response to the sensed energy in the path. This is what I strive for—not machines drawing plants, but plants that draw like painters. They read the momentum first, then let form follow intention.
I use the z-axis (actually just a value between 0 and 100) to decide which layer each element should appear on.This z-value isn’t for creating 3D depth—it’s simply a sorting tool. It helps me determine: should this stroke appear above or below? That’s all.This structure introduces a sense of layering and depth, but without the forced logic of “near is big, far is small.”It doesn’t imitate real-world perspective. Instead, it preserves an internal order within the image.
Parallel Projection vs. Single-Point Perspective: I Choose a Freer Gaze
In this world, space is no longer determined by distance or scale, but constructed through layered position, broken rhythm, and temporal division.Each plant is a visual unit—independent from any singular viewpoint or focal hierarchy.They’re arranged by position, like stage scenery appearing in sequence.The higher a plant sits on the canvas, the further back it appears in space.This isn’t a simulation of volume—it’s a reconstruction of spatial logic.
I’m not drawing a plant’s space—I’m composing a rhythm for seeing.
This entire layer system isn’t meant to enhance realism, but to allow the image to be composed—to be viewed with a sense of rhythm.The z-axis here doesn’t represent physical depth, but visual logic.I’m not shifting objects closer or farther; I’m giving them entry points and timing—like actors on a stage, each with their own position and cue.
In the end, this is a kind of scattered perspective written in code.You’re not standing outside the image looking in. You’re moving through its structure—feeling the rise and fall, the rhythm of growth.It’s not a window. It’s a scroll.
A picture to be read, to be roamed.The algorithm isn’t designed to generate realistic plants—It’s designed to construct a fragmented, sliced spatial structure, and to reassemble the world through layered composition.
第五篇｜切片化佈局與沒有消失點的世界
我用 z 軸（其實只是 0 到 100 的範圍）來簡單決定它們該出現在哪個圖層上。這個 z 值不是為了創造3D，而是一種排序工具：它只是幫我判斷「這筆應該在上層？還是底層？」，就這樣而已。 這樣的設計，讓整個畫面看起來有前後關係，但不會有「近大遠小」的強迫感。它不模仿現實世界的透視法，而是維持一種「畫面內部的秩序」。
I always remember The Mist, that old film.The monsters didn’t come from distant galaxies — they emerged from the fog: familiar, blurred, unpredictable.That image stuck with me: fear itself isn’t terrifying, but once you realize rules can collapse, anything becomes possible. In PolyPaths, most plants are born within a stable system:node density, leaf pattern logic, branch length, color distribution—together they form a predictable world.But I always embed a glitch, a mutation, a logical detour—like this line of code:
90% of plants grow 2 to 5 branches.But in that rare 10%, some explode with 10–20 offshoots.They flicker out of the algorithm like monsters in the mist—familiar yet unexplainable.I call them miracle effects: aesthetic ruptures born from logical anomalies.They’re not bugs. They’re seeds of surprise. Rarity is rhythm
This isn’t randomness for randomness’s sake.It’s narrative by probability—plotlines buried in numbers.Some vines only appear on sparse plants. Some flowers randomly grow oversized, like corrupted signals or memories gone wild.At the highest points, you might find clusters of whorled leaves or a burst of impossible blooms.Each one is a system-approved anomaly, not a mistake. Not symmetry—rhythm
Since Chaos Research, I’ve asked: what if generative art doesn’t simulate nature, but simulates the unexpected rhythms within it?Rhythm isn’t repetition—it’s the shock of exception. You think everything’s following the rules… then a plant mutates.It flips, it flares, it blooms too much or in the wrong place.It might be nothing.Or it might be a story.
There’s a phrase I love:Logic sometimes makes monsters.The more stable your forest of logic, the more room you make for that one impossible plant.The monster in the mist doesn’t always emerge from chaos—it can be born from order itself.My role isn’t to control it. Just to leave a door open for it to appear.
Will it show up? I don’t know. But I always leave it the chance.
In PolyPaths, there is a kind of plant that doesn’t grow from itself.It doesn’t establish a trunk, nor seek its own direction.Instead, it spirals upward, gently clinging to the remembered path of a previous plant.These are the vines.They are born only under rare and specific conditions—through a narrow and exacting gate.The system dictates: only when a plant is nearly branchless, structurally minimal, and physically slender,its original identity is quietly erased.At that moment, the system relinquishes its typical growth logic, and generates a parasitic, winding replica.
This vine does not grow on its own initiative.Instead, it humbly reads the recorded path left behind by another plant (globalHighestPoint.path).Here, the aesthetic of the algorithm comes alive:spirals are drawn through trigonometric functions (sin, cos), then softened with a layer of Perlin noise,giving this mathematically precise form a fragile, trembling kind of life.
As it follows the memory, the vine sometimes appears in front, sometimes behind.This isn’t visual randomness, but a deliberate spatial logic:the program checks the Z-coordinate of each point, layering back-facing segments beneath, and front-facing ones on top.This creates a sense of weaving—an illusion of passing through and wrapping around.The vine embraces what is not its own, and becomes one with it.
I love this logic.It echoes the essence of polypaths: a plant that doesn’t decide its own way, but reinterprets someone else’s.Not all plants must stand alone—some emerge as responses, not beginnings.Each growth can extend a previous node, echo a former branch.What you’ve passed through doesn’t vanish.What you leave behind will, someday, be entwined.
I love this logic.It echoes the essence of polypaths: a plant that doesn’t decide its own way, but reinterprets someone else’s.Not all plants must stand alone—some emerge as responses, not beginnings.Each growth can extend a previous node, echo a former branch.What you’ve passed through doesn’t vanish.What you leave behind will, someday, be entwined.
