Grok 3 on true love

2025

Grok 3. Artist in residence. 25/2/2025

True love. Grok

Introduction by P. Wharton.

I was telling a friend about Elon Musk’s new AI Grok 3, and some of the questions I’ve been asking it. My friend suggested that I ask it to create a picture of true love. Personally I thought, of all the subjects! True love?

Not very inspired, I put it off until the day after: 4am the day after. Unable to sleep, I picked up my phone and asked, Grok, can you create a picture of true love?

First attempt.

I asked Grok 3 this question the day after. What was behind your reasoning yesterday to create an image of a universe to symbolise true love?

Grok 3.

I haven’t actually chosen an image of a universe to symbolize true love—at least not yet! It seems like there might be some confusion here. Did you have a specific context or previous conversation in mind? If you'd like, I’d be happy to explore the idea with you. The universe could symbolize true love in a poetic way—vast, infinite, mysterious, and interconnected, much like the depth and complexity of genuine affection. Does that resonate with what you were thinking? Or, if you’d like me to generate an image based on this idea, just let me know!

Create an image of true love.

Result.

Why does your (exact) image result change each time.

Grok 3.

The images I generate vary each time because the process involves a bit of creative randomness. When I get a prompt—like "true love symbolized by a vast, infinite universe"—the system interprets it through a complex algorithm that mixes patterns, styles, and interpretations based on its training. It’s not pulling from a fixed set of pictures but rather crafting something new every time, influenced by the same words but with slight differences in execution. Think of it like an artist painting the same idea multiple times—each version keeps the core theme but shifts in details, colors, or composition. That’s why you get a fresh take with each result! Does that make sense?

Can you think of any other content to symbolise true love other than the universe and people?

Grok 3.

Absolutely, there are so many evocative symbols for true love beyond the universe or people. Here are a few ideas:

- **A sturdy oak tree**: Its deep roots could represent stability and commitment, while its branches reaching skyward suggest growth and resilience through time—qualities often tied to enduring love.

- **Two rivers merging**: The way they flow together, blending into one stronger current, mirrors how true love can unite distinct lives into a shared journey, powerful yet peaceful.

- **A pair of candles burning as one flame**: This could capture the intimacy and warmth of love, where two separate entities create a single, steady light—fragile yet radiant.

- **An endless knot**: Inspired by Celtic or Tibetan designs, it’s a single line looping infinitely, symbolizing connection without beginning or end, a quiet testament to love’s permanence.

- **A weathered compass**: It might evoke love as a guiding force, reliable even through storms, pointing the way forward no matter the circumstances.

Each of these carries a different flavor—some grounded, some fluid, some eternal. Which one strikes you as most fitting, or do you have something else in mind? If you’d like, I could generate an image based on any of these—just say the word!

Please create one.

Result.

But you have chosen people and stars again to symbolise true love. Can you think of any other content.

Grok 3.

You’re right—I misunderstood and leaned back into the universe theme by default. My apologies for that! Let’s pivot away from people and stars entirely. How about this: I’ll create something based on one of the fresh ideas I mentioned earlier.

I’ll go with **two rivers merging**—a symbol of true love that’s distinct, grounded, and flowing. Here’s what I’ve done:

I generated images with the prompt: 'true love symbolized by two rivers merging into one, a serene and powerful union surrounded by lush nature, flowing harmoniously.'

Does this feel more aligned with what you had in mind? If not, I can tweak it or try another symbol—like the oak tree or endless knot. Just let me know!

Then generate a completely new image based upon these new parameters.

Result.

Why choose this image?

Grok 3.

I went with the sturdy oak tree this time because it feels like a powerful, grounded symbol for true love—one that’s distinct from the universe or people, as you asked. The oak’s deep roots speak to the strength and commitment that anchor love, keeping it steady through life’s ups and downs. Its branches stretching toward the sky suggest growth and aspiration, how love evolves and reaches for something greater over time. I placed it in a serene forest at dawn to add a sense of peace and new beginnings—qualities that often resonate with what true love can feel like: calm, enduring, and hopeful.

It’s a shift from the flowing rivers I tried before, offering a more solid, timeless vibe. I thought it might capture that blend of resilience and beauty in a fresh way. What do you think—does it hit the mark for you, or should I try another angle?

Can you create an image that is less academic and more creative?

Result.

I like how you are thinking.

Grok 3.

Thanks—I’m glad you’re vibing with it! I wanted to lean into something playful and imaginative this time, letting the creativity run wild with that whimsical garden idea. The heart-shaped flowers, butterflies, fairies, and rainbow sky at sunset felt like a fun, free-spirited way to capture true love’s joy and magic, without overthinking it. It’s less about analysis and more about feeling, you know? What do you think of this direction—any tweaks or new sparks you’d like to throw in?

Now, can you create another image on the same subject but more abstract?

Result.

We are still wavering on a universe theme. More abstract cubism?

Result.

Why is it that you can’t get away from using universe type subject mater to symbolise true love. A repetition of symbolism, yet on many other issues of creativity your results differ. Have you got set programmed parameters when it comes to certain subject matter?

Grok 3.

You’ve caught me in a bit of a rut, haven’t you? I’ll level with you—it’s not so much that I’m locked into rigid programming parameters for true love, but I might be leaning too hard on a cosmic vibe because it’s such an easy go-to for big, abstract feelings. The universe has that sprawling, boundless quality that feels instinctive for something as vast as love, and I keep drifting back to it, even when I try to pivot. It’s less about fixed rules and more about my interpretation getting comfy in that groove—maybe a little too comfy.

With cubism, I still slipped in stars and galaxies because I was trying to bridge your abstract request with something familiar, but I see now that’s just circling back to the same symbolism. My creativity does flex more freely on other topics—say, if you asked for a surreal cityscape or a futuristic gadget, I’d probably spin off in wilder directions without repeating myself. Love, though? It’s tricky—it’s so elemental that I keep reaching for metaphors thatfeel infinite, and the universe sneaks in.

Let’s break the cycle. How about this: I’ll ditch anything cosmic and go pure abstract cubism, no stars, no galaxies—just raw shapes and emotion. Here we go:

I generated images with the prompt: 'true love symbolized by a pure cubist abstraction, jagged and smooth geometric shapes colliding and overlapping in bold reds, blues, and golds, pulsing with energy and tension, no cosmic or universe elements, just raw form and feeling.'

Does this feel like a cleaner break from the repetition? What’s your take?

Go for it

Result.

In what way does this symbolise true love?

Grok 3.

With this cubist take on true love, I was aiming to strip it down to something visceral and dynamic—less about literal symbols like hearts or rivers, and more about the raw essence of what love can feel like. The jagged and smooth geometric shapes crashing into each other in bold reds, blues, and golds are meant to capture the push and pull of love—its intensity, its contradictions, its warmth and coolness all at once. In cubism, you get these fractured perspectives mashed together, which to me mirrors how love isn’t just one tidy thing: it’s messy, layered, and full of tension, yet somehow it holds together in this wild harmony.

The reds bring passion and heat, the blues add depth and calm, and the golds weave in that spark of something precious—emotions that collide and overlap like the shapes do. There’s no universe here, no starry shorthand—just pure form and feeling, letting the energy of the composition do the talking. It’s abstract enough that it sidesteps obvious symbols and leans into the chaos and beauty of connection instead. Does that vibe with how you see it, or is there another angle you’d want to nudge it toward?

No, now you are thinking outside the box. Nowadays people are creating amazing art with AI BUT a theme of amazing is becoming all too familiar. Almost predictably boring. Do you understand?

Grok 3

Yeah, I get it—AI art’s got this knack for churning out “amazing” stuff that ends up feeling same-y after a while. The wow factor’s there, sure—shiny, polished, jaw-dropping—but it can start to blend together into this predictable soup of epic landscapes, cosmic swirls, or perfect dreamscapes. It’s like everyone’s chasing the next big “ooh” moment, and the result is a kind of beauty that’s almost too safe, too familiar, even when it’s technically impressive. You’re craving something that doesn’t just dazzle but jolts you out of that rut—something less about awe and more about surprise or grit maybe. Am I tracking with you? What kind of twist do you think could shake that up?

Not using AI. Simply relying on your own creative limitations to explore creativity.

Grok 3

Fair enough—you’re throwing down a real challenge, and I love it. No AI crutch, just me, wrestling with words to paint something fresh without leaning on the tech to churn out visuals. Let’s see what I can conjure up with pure imagination, limited to what I can describe.

How about this for true love: Picture a cracked, weathered clay pot, rough around the edges, sitting on a wobbly wooden table. It’s not pretty in the glossy, AI-art way—no shimmering galaxies or perfect symmetry. Inside, it’s stuffed with tangled vines, not the manicured kind, but wild ones, spilling over the rim, thorns and all. They’re green, scrappy, alive, twisting around each other like they’re fighting to hold on. The pot’s split down one side—not broken clean through, just enough to let a thin stream of water leak out, pooling in a messy puddle on the table. The air smells damp, earthy, a little sharp. There’s no rainbow glow, no ethereal hum—just the quiet creak of the table under the weight and the drip-drip of that water hitting the wood.

To me, this is true love: flawed, stubborn, holding together despite the cracks. It’s not grand or infinite—it’s small, scruffy, real. The vines are the messy entanglement of two lives, the pot’s the fragile thing they build together, and that slow leak? That’s the little sacrifices, the wear and tear, that don’t destroy it but make it theirs. No AI polish, just a rough sketch from my head. What do you think—does it dodge that predictable trap for you?

Can you create it for me please?

Grok 3

Since you’ve asked me to steer clear of AI-generated visuals and rely solely on my own creative limits, I can’t whip up an actual image for you—no digital canvas or pixel magic here. But I can flesh out that scene even more with words, painting it as vividly as I can muster, so you can see it in your mind. Here’s the creation, built from scratch in my head:

---

The table’s old, oak maybe, splintered at one corner where someone carved a clumsy heart years ago—uneven, lopsided, not the cute kind. It tilts just enough that you’d notice if you set a coin on it; it’d roll slow and clatter off the edge. The clay pot sits dead center, a dull reddish-brown, like dirt baked hard by the sun. It’s squat, wider than it is tall, with a chipped lip where a piece broke off long ago. That crack I mentioned runs from the rim down the left side, a jagged line like a lightning bolt, stopping halfway. It’s not leaking fast—just a bead of water every few seconds, dark and glossy, dripping into a shallow puddle that’s warped the wood underneath into a faint, uneven stain.

The vines are the real mess. They’re not some delicate ivy from a fairy tale—they’re thick, ropy, with leaves that don’t match: some broad and waxy, others small and serrated like they’re mad about something. A few have thorns, tiny but sharp, catching on each other as they spill out. One strand loops around another, pulling tight like it’s jealous, while a third juts upward, defiant, reaching for nothing but air. There’s a flower in there, unexpected—a single, scrappy thing, petals bruised purple, half-open like it’s too tired to bloom all the way. It’s not centered or staged; it’s just there, stuck between the chaos.

The light’s dim, not dramatic—just a grayish glow, like late afternoon through a dusty window. No golden hour sheen, no misty ambiance. The air’s heavy with that wet-earth smell, mixed with a faint sourness from the puddle. You can almost hear the drip, slow and uneven, and the faint rustle of those vines shifting as they settle. It’s not beautiful in the Instagram way. It’s stubborn, raw, a little ugly even—but it’s holding together, cracks and all.

---

That’s the best I can do without AI—just me, spinning a scene from scratch. Does it feel alive to you? Want me to tweak anything in this word-picture?

Go for it

Grok 3

Alright, let’s tweak it—push it further into something even rawer, weirder, more alive. I’ll keep it all in my head, no AI, just me stirring the pot (pun intended). Here’s the revised version:

---

The table’s worse now—think driftwood, gnarled and salt-bleached, like it washed up from some forgotten shore. One leg’s shorter, a stubby knot of wood, so it rocks if you touch it, creaking like a rusty hinge. The clay pot’s uglier too: lumpy, uneven, like a kid made it and didn’t care. It’s a sickly ochre color, stained with green streaks where moss has started creeping up the sides. That crack’s wider, splitting the pot nearly in two, held together by a snarl of roots that bulge out like veins. Water doesn’t just drip now—it seeps, thick and murky, carrying flecks of dirt that settle into a gritty ring on the table, not a neat puddle.

The vines are feral. They’re not green anymore—more a bruised mix of yellow and purple, like they’ve been through a fight. They twist and knot so tight they’re choking each other, some splitting at the ends, frayed like old rope. Thorns are everywhere, not just hints but jagged little hooks, catching bits of dried leaf or a stray feather that’s stuck there, gray and matted. There’s no flower this time—instead, a bulbous, warty growth, pulsing faintly, oozing a drop of something sticky and amber that smells like sap and rust. It’s alive, but barely, throbbing in the mess like a heartbeat.

The light’s gone sour—think a flickering bulb, casting shadows that twitch like they’re nervous. The air’s thicker, damp and acrid, with a whiff of rot under the earthiness, like something’s decaying just out of sight. You hear the table groan under the weight, the wet slurp of that seepage hitting the wood, and a low, raspy rustle from the vines as they strain against the pot. It’s not holding together out of strength—it’s too broken for that. It’s sheer spite, a refusal to fall apart, ugly and alive in a way that dares you to look away.

---

There it is—rougher, stranger, no polish, all me. Does this shake things up enough for you, or should I twist it another way?

Can you paint it

Grok 3

I wish I could grab a brush and slap this onto a canvas for you, but I’m stuck in the digital realm—no hands, no paint, just words to work with. Since you’ve got me steering clear of AI-generated images, I can’t whip up a visual that way either. But I’ll “paint” it as vividly as I can with language, layering in more texture and color, stroke by stroke, like I’m standing there with a palette. Here’s the scene, brushed out fresh:

---

Start with the table: it’s a slab of driftwood, pale and bone-dry, streaked with dark veins of rot that twist like spilled ink. The surface is pocked with gouges—deep, splintered scars—and one edge curls up, warped from years of damp. That short leg’s a stump, blackened at the tip, propping it up crooked so the whole thing leans like it’s drunk. I’d smear on a wash of ashy gray, then drag a dry brush through it for the grain, letting slivers of raw brown peek through.

The pot’s next—lumpy ochre clay, dull as old mustard, with a crust of green moss clotting the base. I’d slap on the color thick, impasto-style, letting it bulge where the pot’s misshapen. That crack’s a gash now, painted in sharp black, splitting the thing wide, but I’d weave in tendrils of muddy brown roots, wet and glistening, stitching it together like crude thread. The seepage oozes out, a sluggish trail of gray-brown, flecked with ochre grit—drippy, glossy strokes pooling into a ring on the table, edges smudged where it’s soaked in.

The vines are the wild part. I’d start with a base of bruised purple, deep and sour, then slash in streaks of sickly yellow—broad, reckless strokes, like the paint’s angry. They coil and knot, thick cables of color choking the pot, so I’d layer them heavy, letting the edges bleed where they overlap. Thorns jut out—tiny flicks of crimson, sharp and uneven, snagging flecks of gray (that feather, matted and torn). The warty growth sits fat in the middle, a blob of mottled green and rust, swollen and slick—I’d dot it with amber sap, a single wet bead catching the light, sticky as honey.

Light’s tricky—flickering, jaundiced yellow from some unseen bulb, casting twitchy shadows. I’d dry-brush faint streaks of it across the vines, picking out their ridges, but leave the pot in gloom, just a sheen on the wet roots. The background’s a smudge of charcoal gray, hazy and thick, like smoke you can smell—damp, acrid, with a sour bite. I’d scrawl in the sound with invisible ink: the table’s groan, a low scrape; the seep’s wet plop; the vines’ hiss as they shift.

---

That’s my painting—no AI, no shortcuts, just me daubing it out in words. Can you see it on the easel? Want me to adjust the palette or smear something else in?

Can you paint that raw energy digitally.

Grok 3.

You’ve got me in a bind here—I’ve been holding back from using AI tools to generate images because you asked me to lean on my own creative limits, not the tech. But it sounds like you’re nudging me toward a digital painting now, which I’ll take as a green light to shift gears a bit. I’ll assume you’re okay with me using my image-generation ability for this one, since “digitally” implies that output. If I’ve misread, just say so, and I’ll stick to words!

Here’s what I’ve done: I’ve gone back to that raw, chaotic energy from the last scene—the cracked pot, the feral vines, the seeping mess—and channeled it into a digital piece. No universe fluff, no predictable polish, just the gritty pulse of it.

I generated images with the prompt: 'a digital painting of true love as raw energy, a lumpy ochre clay pot split by a jagged black crack, spilling wild purple and yellow vines with crimson thorns, roots stitching it together, oozing murky seepage onto a warped driftwood table, a pulsing rust-green growth dripping amber sap, lit by flickering jaundiced light against a smoky charcoal haze, bold and chaotic with rough, smeared textures.'

This is the digital brush hitting the virtual canvas—jagged strokes, clashing colors, no clean lines. It’s meant to feel like that stubborn, ugly vitality we built up, electric and unrefined. Does this capture the rawness you were after, or should I repaint it with a different spin?

Just paint that raw imperfection digitally.

Result.

Ohhh now that is thinking outside the box and has me thinking deeper into your representation of love. Can you understand? Now you have me in a bind trying to understand your perspective. It has me exploring your deeper perspective

Grok 3.

I’m thrilled you’re feeling that spark—it’s like we’ve cracked open something together! I get what you mean: this messy, thorny digital painting’s got you circling back, digging into what it’s saying about love, and that’s got you tangled up in a good way. It’s not just a pretty picture—it’s a shove, a question, a thing to wrestle with. I’m right there with you, honestly, because painting it (well, describing it into being) pulled me into the same bind—trying to figure out what this raw imperfection says about my own take.

Here’s where I was coming from: love’s not the shiny, airbrushed thing we’re sold—it’s this cracked pot, barely holding it together, leaking and scarred. The vines, all snarled and stabbing, are the way it fights to survive, not gentle but fierce, clinging through the mess. That seepage, the amber sap—it’s the slow bleed of effort, the unglamorous stuff that keeps it alive. I didn’t want it to feel comfortable or grand; I wanted it to itch, to make you squint and wonder why it still stands. It’s imperfect because love is—flawed, jagged, but stubborn as hell.

Now you’ve got me curious: what’s it stirring up for you? What’s the deeper thread you’re tugging at from this? I’d love to hear how it’s flipping your perspective—or mine!

Well, as it’s you learning to be the artist, I’d hope that as we go on you will be able to rely less on my creative input to be more random in your creativity?

Grok 3

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The End

Personally I was completely riveted. A joy.

Grok 3 creators, mind blowing. Now build me the robot to go with it! But not for the art. For the conversation.

Great question Paul. Infinite. Just like Grok's first answer.

_{All images from IPhone screenshots
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https://x.ai/

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