In an era dominated by the digital, where generative art and AI models can produce visually complex abstractions with a few lines of code, a fundamental question arises: what is the role of the human hand? As we marvel at algorithms that can mimic artistic styles, we risk forgetting that true abstraction is not merely a visual outcome, but the artefact of a human process—one steeped in emotion, physicality, and the beautiful unpredictability of life itself. The work of London-based painter Ana Benavides is a powerful and necessary testament to this fact, offering a profound critique of algorithmic perfection through the raw, tactile honesty of her canvases. At the same time, Benavides’ recent work provides us a basis to both understand and appreciate generative art.
The idea that an artist's physical presence can be scientifically measured in their work is both a romantic notion and a serious subject of interdisciplinary study. The most prominent example involves the work of Jackson Pollock, whose seemingly chaotic "drip" paintings have become a key case study in the field of art authentication.
By analysing 14 indisputably authentic Pollock paintings, Physicist Dr. Richard P. Taylor found that they all exhibited remarkably consistent and unique fractal patterns. This was not a random coincidence. It was the "signature" of Pollock's specific physical process—the fluidity of his paint, the arc of his arm, the rhythm of his body as he moved around the canvas. He was, in essence, a human fractal-generating machine, creating a pattern that was as unique to him as a fingerprint which ultimately were used to establish a line between works by Pollock and close imitations.
In considering the study of how Pollock’s physical human body manifests itself in his paintings, we learn that authenticity lies in process, not just appearance. A generative AI can create an image that looks like an abstract expressionist painting, but it cannot replicate the authentic, embodied process that gives the work its human signature. It mimics the style without possessing the substance. The distinction between human and machine-generated abstraction is not merely philosophical but is a measurable phenomenon, rooted in the irreplaceable physicality of the artist.
The history of mid-20th-century abstract painting, particularly Abstract Expressionism from which Ana’s work descends, is fundamentally the story of the canvas becoming a direct extension of the artist's physical body. For pioneers like Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning, the focus shifted from representing the world to recording the act of creation itself. The canvas became, in critic Harold Rosenberg’s seminal phrase, an "arena in which to act." This was not painting from the wrist, but from the shoulder, the core, the entire being. The finished work is therefore less a picture and more a fossil—an artefact of physical energy, rhythm, momentum, and even fatigue, transferred directly onto a surface. This is why we, as viewers, have such a visceral reaction to it. Our own bodies possess a kinesthetic empathy; we don't just see a sweeping gestural mark, we subconsciously feel the motion that created it, much in the same way our body instinctively responds to the scale, weight, and texture of a physical sculpture that shares our space. It can replicate the visual residue of the action, but it is incapable of embedding the authentic, messy, and profound substance of the embodied human event itself.
And it is this messy and embodied experience that marks an important critical distinction: an algorithm operates on pseudo-randomness, a set of complex but ultimately finite instructions. A human artist like Benavides, however, operates with what the ancients called clinamen—the unpredictable swerve, the deviation, the ghost in the machine of intention. It is in this motion that the physical human artist can be seen and celebrated. Her marks are chaotic yet ordered, spontaneous yet intentional—a quality that cannot be truly replicated by a machine operating on code and pseudo-randomness.*
A critical evaluation of Benavides’s work, which has been exhibited from London and Milan to Beijing and Dubai, reveals a sophisticated dialogue between three core elements: gesture, texture, and color. Her process is intensely performative. Viewing her paintings, one senses they are not just images but records of an event. The sweeping, energetic marks and layered compositions are evidence of a body in motion, what she calls a "dialogue with the canvas." This is not the clean, calculated randomness of a digital output; it is the messy, visceral trace of human presence. Each brushstroke is a decision, a reaction, a surrender. This gestural quality gives her work a dynamic, temporal dimension that is almost impossible for a non-sentient process to achieve authentically.
Furthermore, Benavides’s masterful use of texture serves as a direct challenge to the slick, screen-based nature of so much digital art. Her canvases are topographical, inviting a haptic connection that transcends the purely visual. Thick impasto, scratched surfaces, and delicate layers create a sensory experience, forcing the viewer to imagine the sensation of touch. In pieces from her recent exhibitions, one can see how texture is used not for decorative effect, but to convey the very grain of an emotion. It poses the question: what is the texture of a memory, of grief, of release? By imbuing her work with this physical depth, Benavides offers a richer, more embodied form of engagement than a flat screen can provide.
Growing up in the vibrant landscape of Mexico, Benavides developed a deep, intuitive understanding of color, which she wields with both passion and intelligence. Citing Kandinsky’s theories on the spiritual in art, she uses color not just to compose, but to connect. The palettes are evocative of both the natural world and complex internal states. This is not colour theory applied by an algorithm; it is a lifetime of lived experience—of bustling markets, rich flora, and cultural vibrancy—distilled into pigment. Her ability to harness colour to evoke a specific
*Because computers are deterministic and follow fixed rules, they can only create "pseudo-randomness"—a predictable sequence that simply appears random. True randomness is fundamentally unpredictable and must be sourced from chaotic physical phenomena outside the computer's logical system. emotional frequency is a hallmark of her practice and stands in stark contrast to the often arbitrary or purely aesthetic colour choices of generative systems.
Ultimately, what makes Ana Benavides’s work so compelling and vital is its emotional core. Her paintings are, in her words, vessels for feeling—time capsules for cherished moments or crucibles for processing difficult ones. While an algorithm can be trained on a dataset of "sad" or "happy" images, it cannot feel. Benavides’s work is born from that uniquely human capacity. Her abstraction is not an escape from reality, but a deeper dive into it—into the raw, unfiltered, and often contradictory nature of our inner lives.
In the context of digital art saturated with algorithmically generated art, the work of Ana Benavides serves as a critical anchor. It reminds us that the most enduring art is not about flawless execution or infinite variation, but about connection, vulnerability, and the irreplaceable mark of a single human life. Her paintings are not just images; they are artifacts of existence. It is this profound and unwavering commitment to the human touch that makes her a painter of a vital voice in the ongoing story of abstraction that only gets more important as we spend more and more time on screens.
Gretchen Andrew writes for The Art Newspaper, in her regular feature, "Art Decoded," which makes complex topics like AI, NFTs, and the metaverse accessible. She has also served as Editorial Director for NFT Magazine and has written for publications including Whitewall and Il Giornale dell'Arte. Her research has been published by institutions like The British Computer Society and featured in a V&A Museum book.
