The jazz connection never fully disappeared. He's talked about the work in terms of rhythm and variation; the same motif, explored exhaustively, shifting slightly each time.

What’s fascinating is he didn't use the computer to generate randomness. He used it to explore a space too complex for the human mind to navigate alone. He'd write algorithms to slice through it, rotate it, project it down into two dimensions.

In 1969, he learned to program and got access to a plotter at a computing center in Paris. From then on, the computer became his only tool.

So he went the opposite direction: hard geometry and systematic rules. He started making black and white works based on the cube; not as a shape you look at, but as a logical structure you extract from.

At some point, he got frustrated with the randomness of it. The spontaneity started feeling arbitrary rather than free.

Mohr was a jazz musician in 1960s Paris before he became one of the earliest algorithmic artists. He played tenor saxophone in clubs and dive bars, free jazz, bebop, the chaotic and improvisational stuff. But he was also painting on the side, making abstract expressionist work.

This is one of those stories that sounds invented 😮

The fact that Romans had a whole genre for this (asária) is kind of funny.

There's something useful here for anyone working with code today. We have infinite options now: any color, any shape, any resolution. But Molnár's work is a reminder that constraints aren't obstacles. They're what force you to actually make decisions.

She talked about "1% disorder," introducing just enough randomness to break the rigidity without losing the structure. Too much order feels dead, while too much chaos feels meaningless. The interesting space is in between.

What is striking about her work is how much constraint shaped the aesthetic. The plotter could only draw lines. No fills, no gradients, just a pen moving from point to point. She built an entire visual language out of that limitation: grids, interruptions, rotations, systematic disorder.

When she finally got access to an actual plotter years later, the method didn't change. The machine just made it faster. The machine would execute her algorithms line by line, drawing geometric forms with small, controlled variations.

In 1959, she developed what she called her "machine imaginaire." She would define a set of rules, then execute them by hand, pretending she was a computer; following the instructions exactly and systematically.

And beneath the playful, cartoon-like figures lies resistance. Bold outlines, vivid colors, and childlike forms were deliberate. A visual language that confronted racism, power, and identity while drawing from advertising, comics, and pop culture.

Runs until Jan 31 if you're in Seoul.

His works are layered with hidden meaning. Cryptic signs, dollar signs, copyright marks, his iconic crown; all urging you to decode what lies beneath. What looks straightforward is rarely what it seems.

This rhythm of visibility and erasure mirrors how Black narratives have been edited and omitted from dominant culture. His text wasn't decoration, but encrypted meaning. Words function in his work like a spell, as one critic put it: they bring things into being and make them intelligible.

He pulled fragments from books, cereal boxes, newspapers, medical texts, transforming letters into symbols, often crossing them out to highlight their significance. As he explained, "I cross out words so you will see them more. The fact that they are obscured makes you want to read them."