As I was scrolling through Instagram recently, I noticed a new page sliding into my feed through a suggested post: @tinyhouseperfect. It seemed designed to exploit my frustrated desire for a space of my own. I want to own a house. I can’t buy a house right now. But what if the house is very small? So small and perfect?
Soon I was navigating elf cottages in the Scottish Highlands, A-frames on the Gothic coast, and cozy “lake house” reading nooks and chef’s kitchens. I was projecting my future self on the Scottish coast, wondering how much it would cost to rent a house for a weekend, but then I realized that price didn’t matter because that house didn’t exist. Each of these tiny houses was rendered by AI software and further smoothed with the help of AI software. I was imagining something fantastical.
In retrospect, the nature of these homes was obvious. Their interior was incredibly expansive, with a carefully selected selection of delicious offerings from room to room. It’s not hard to imagine why Instagram would put @tinyhouseperfect’s computer vision in my sights. I haven’t hidden my obsession with home ownership and renovation from the all-seeing eyes of the internet. At night, I wander between Zillow and DIY Instagram accounts, wandering the hallways of homes I’ll never visit, appreciating the work of influential contractors I’ll never hire, and aesthetics I’ll never choose. Consider your choices. Now, artificial intelligence has invaded my domestic fantasy and reshaped my desire to fit within the walls of that fantasy.
In recent years, an entire AI-powered economy has become a reality. If you search Pinterest for decorating inspiration, you’ll find that you’ll end up with websites full of artificial bedroom designs and selling inexpensive interior accessories. “House porn” accounts on TikTok and X churn out renderings of disinfectant lofts and impossible views from non-existent apartments in Paris. The website “This House Does Not Exist” randomly generates new homes in response to commands. Additionally, a number of AI-powered design services and apps, such as SofaBrain and RoomGPT, churn out smooth images tailored to your specifications.
A jingling set of house keys was once synonymous with American success and the ultimate prize for hard workers. The misery this idea has produced (see: the Great Recession) has not diminished its appeal. Now, homeownership is more unrealistic than ever, thanks to rising interest rates, a lack of supply, and corporate landlords snapping up limited housing stock. The AI house only reveals its unreality. In virtual markets, the supply is infinite and the key is always in the lock.
from anywhere, from anywhere
Voyeurism of homes has always encouraged mental projection. There are people older than me who are watching celebrity home tours and home building programs on TV. Magazines with the theme of aspirational family life are still old. In the 1970s, Architectural Digest transformed from a trade publication into a showcase promoting the private spaces of so-called “men and women of taste, distinction, and personal accomplishment.” In the 1980s, viewers of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” were encouraged to imagine how they would spend their money if they had it.
This was a terrible trade-off for American inequality. The rich could afford luxurious homes, while others could experience the freedom that comes from looking at photos and judging every choice up close. At the end of each episode of “Lifestyle,” Robin Leach encouraged viewers to “champagne is a wish, caviar is a dream.”
A modern-day version of “Lifestyle,” Netflix’s reality show “Selling Sunset” focuses not on the people who live in Hollywood mansions, but on the glamorous real estate agents who sell them. As these diligently groomed real estate agents prepare and stage luxury homes, viewers can imagine not living in a mansion but having it under our complete financial and aesthetic control. you are invited to do. Artificial intelligence and predictive algorithms only enhance this sense of personal ownership, making our dream home feel as if it was built just for us.
The lake house featured on @tinyhouseperfect first caught my eye with its sparkling views of the water from its expansive windows, but upon second look I realized it was arranged to suit my personal tastes. I reluctantly admitted that it was appealing too, since it seemed like it was. There was a claw-foot bathtub with pewter fixtures, a window seat with attractively cluttered bookshelves, and a kitchen painted a cool green. In place of cabinets were exposed wooden shelves lined with shapely glass bottles containing potions and preservatives.
I thought the lake house was in the middle of nowhere, but it actually came from nowhere, or maybe everywhere. It was chock full of design touches that were perfectly in sync with what I see on my Instagram and Pinterest feeds. The “personal preference” that attracted me was actually a very impersonal preference. In other words, it was an aesthetic that so thoroughly dominated my internet browsing that I started to feel like I had chosen it myself.
In Filterworld: How Algorithms Flatten Culture, Kyle Chayka describes the “uncanny frictionless geographies created by digital platforms” and how, for example, cities around the world have little discrimination. It describes the “ambiguity and unreality” created by the existence of unidentified hipster coffee shops. world. This feeling of airlessness overtakes even our collective imagination and permeates our mind spaces.
While social media and artificial intelligence lead us to ubiquitous mega-style, its products are often touted as centers of creativity. An Architectural Digest article about AI design tools says they “inspire architects” and provide “fresh perspectives” that allow them to think “outside the box.” But while the AI’s prompts are seemingly endless, the results are often eerily mundane. Many of the AI decorations appearing on Instagram feature the same eerie imagery, including liquid blankets, haphazardly surreal wall art, and hearths lit by inert flames.
Although these renderings are inexpensive, it feels as if the flattening of the design is affecting wealthy homes more than anything else. I don’t use any AI software, but there is a little game I play to refocus my housing obsession on absurd and unrealistic spaces. Dial up the pricing in the Zillow app so you only see properties listed on the city map priced at $10 million or more, $50 million or more, or $100 million or more. As costs rise, the profiles of potential buyers become increasingly vague and mysterious, until they seem not to exist in my world at all, and the tastes on display are themselves mechanical. It starts to look like it’s programmed to.
Watching old episodes of “Lifestyles and the Rich and Famous” and its spiritual successor, “MTV Cribs,” I’m struck by how similar the homes of the wealthy look. In a 2004 episode of “Cribs,” Snoop Dogg opens the door to his mansion to reveal a drawing room with granny furniture and a giant urn. The room could have fit in Debbie Gibson’s 1993 “Lifestyle” home. All the properties currently listed on Selling Sunset feel like they’ve been laser-cut from the same blueprint, and each home is a flat box of flashy minimalism. His $195 million Manhattan penthouse, which currently stands on my Zillow feed, is just a giant version of the glass box exterior that’s recreated in every luxury condo in New York City.
The very wealthy have the resources to dramatically change their spaces according to trends, giving wealth itself an artificial aesthetic. An Architectural Digest tour of Drake’s Toronto mansion looks as if it was designed by a bot, with its cartoonish proportions, glass surfaces, and random click-and-paste patterns. And the magazine’s tour of influencer Emma Chamberlain’s home feels eerily saturated with lively design, including a bulbous sofa, an egg-shaped stone dining table, and billowing velvet chairs. It will be done. Even unexpected details feel intentionally programmed. Swiping through a bedroom in an AI-rendered house can create the same mechanical feeling.
no people or animals
The lake house I coveted was created by Norwegian-based designer Ben Mifre. A few years ago he started using his AI software to create architectural concepts and post his art on Instagram, where he has amassed more than 500,000 followers. Unlike some of the bizarre renderings that suffocate social media, Myhre’s bespoke images are created using his own photos of buildings, the generative AI program Midjourney, the AI-powered photo enhancement program Topaz, and the help of Photoshop. It takes hours to build. In addition to adorable little houses, he creates images of homes inspired by Harry Potter, Santa Claus, and “The Lord of the Rings.”
I reached out to Myhre and spoke on Zoom. “I like to use it to unlock dreams,” he says of artificial intelligence, which he considers to be a type of “collective imagination that is accessible to everyone.” I was interested in the contours of his imagination to animate his dream home, and he shared some of the prompts he used to create his lake house. He coached the software to create a “cozy and whimsical house kitchen set in the beautiful Scottish Highlands,” a kitchen that “looks out the window at early autumn nature and a vast, beautiful lake view.” He called for “rustic details,” “depth of field,” “warm tones,” and “raw style.” And he called for the banning of certain elements: “No humans or animals allowed.”
There are no people or animals. One of the reasons Myrhe’s images look so “real” is because he creates them in the style of his tours of online homes, such as those found on Zillow and his Airbnb. But I didn’t fully understand the appeal of his work until he said those words. Fantasy is a space where living things have disappeared. The home sales slide show and its AI counterpart have an apocalyptic feel. The houses feel urgently abandoned, books cracked on the armrests and fires still burning. When I “toured” the lake house, I was looking through the shelves of corked water jugs and wondering where the residents had hidden their practical kitchen utensils, when I finally realized they were missing. I did. You don’t have to cook for anyone.
Mayfre said his photos can sometimes upset people who were expecting photos of actual homes. “When people find out it’s not real, they feel a little cheated,” he says. In his caption, he appeals to those who distribute his own work (like @tinyhouseperfect): “To avoid misunderstandings, please be sure to credit us when sharing and clearly label the fictional AI-assisted scene.”
But there is also a temptation in the unreality of these images. My journey through Zillow is fueled by jealousy of the actual occupants of the house where I can only live in my mind. There is nothing “real” about my fantasy of living in a place where there is no money, even though my mind goes over the floor plan and starts working to put furniture in the room. Touring luxury homes, whether it’s on Zillow, Selling Sunset, or @tinyhouseperfect, distorts my vision in a different way. Even though you have more than enough, you feel like something is missing.
Lake houses are not inhabited by humans, but this also applies to dream houses in real life. Many of New York’s luxury apartments remain vacant. Some are acquired as assets by the ultra-rich. Even if people are sleeping on the streets outside, they are not there to house people. Domestic voyeurism has always been a form of misdirection, a glorious distraction from our inability, or refusal, to protect everyone. It forces us to think of housing as a lifestyle choice rather than a right. The AI house will complete the trick. They represent a home finally freed from all responsibility to humans. There is no shelter, only atmosphere.
