IN CONVERSATION WITH is a series from Archetype where we interview artists in/at the edges of crypto across music, visual art, design, curation, and more.

Maya Man is an artist focused on contemporary identity culture on the internet. Her websites, generative series, and installations examine dominant narratives around femininity, authenticity, and the performance of self online. 

She is the creator/co-creator of several NFT collections including Art Blocks curated NFT collection, FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT, as well as Ugly Bitches and Little Darlings, both with Ann Hirsch. She is also creator of the browser extension Glance Back.

She has exhibited internationally at bitforms, NYC; SOOT, Tokyo; Verse, London; HEK, Basel; and Feral File, online. She has been invited to speak on her work at The New Museum, NYC; The V&A, London; and MOCA, Los Angeles. 

Over a video call, Man and I chatted about cultivating physical spaces, Chinese finger traps, the role of software in art, labels for girlhood, and more.

The following interview has been edited and condensed for length and clarity.

Katie Chiou: For those who may not be familiar with your work, can you share more about your background and journey as an artist?

Maya Man: I'm an artist interested in identity, culture on the internet, and ideas around the self––specifically self-presentation and curation––and how those things interface with being on screens like phones and computers and being online. That curiosity has been a driving force for me for a long time. My background is in computer science and media studies. I studied software during college, as well as media studies, which is more focused on theories around how technology affects society at large. 

My primary medium is software. I often write code, specifically web-based projects that run in the browser, using JavaScript to create my work. But I also do installation and physical textile work as well.

KC: Right before the call, we were talking about how you got an MFA, but didn’t study art in college. At what point did you know that you wanted to form an art practice, and specifically an art practice related to software? In college?

MM: During college, I didn’t have the language or structured thought process to articulate that I wanted to be an artist. I knew that I was really invested in exploring certain themes and ideas, but it wasn’t until after I graduated and worked at the Google Creative Lab in New York that I realized I felt so driven by my investment in exploring ideas around the self and the internet. I wanted to create things that were more strange or critical than I could at a big tech job. I’m very conceptually driven, and being an artist has allowed me to follow my desired lines of exploration in the world. It’s the best framework for life I’ve found. As an artist, everything you do operates under a coherent practice. There’s a lot of flexibility in how you craft your practice, even more than in other artistic fields like filmmaking or music. Being an artist gives me a lot of freedom.

‍KC: You’ve created a lot of artwork in web3. You’ve launched an NFT collection with Art Blocks and multiple other NFT collections on Solana since then. What was your initial foray into crypto like? 

‍MM: I had been making software-based artwork for years, since like 2014, when I was first introduced to p5.js via Lauren Lee McCarthy. I was in this community of artists who were making not only digital work, but specifically code-based artwork. The way I heard about crypto and NFTs was through being involved with a lot of people who were already really interested in technology. At first, it came in whispers, and then it kind of came out all at once, making it difficult to ignore. 

It was so divisive in the different scenes that I was in. I felt really scared thinking about working with NFTs because I didn't want to engage with something a lot of my peers were so critical of. But at the same time, I'm very excited about new technologies and always curious to understand how they could operate in a way that might be beneficial to digital artists. 

My first NFT was the piece I did in the first Feral File show. I was invited by Casey Reas, who is an artist I've admired for a long time and has been a really amazing mentor to me. From there, I was pretty available in response, is what I often say. For example, the artist Dmitri Cherniak suggested that I do an Art Blocks project. I had seen Art Blocks a bit and wasn't super familiar, but then I started thinking about doing one, and thinking about what I could make that felt true to my practice but also would fit into this very specific format of generative art releases that they were doing. And that's how I came up with FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT.

It was really exciting because there was a lot of energy and attention being put into means like software-based artwork, digital artwork, that were very much—and I would argue, still are—seen as, Michael Connor once said in a panel he was on, "the basement of the art world.” At the same time, it also felt really complicated because there were a lot of aspects of crypto and NFT culture that I did not align with. I felt like, “Wow, I believe so deeply in art on the internet, and it’s so sad that so much of the NFTs that are getting sensationalized and popular are such terrible representations of, I think, the culture of artists making this type of work at large.” There’s been a lot of frustration alongside the joy.

KC: Given all your frustration and misalignment with crypto culture, what motivates you to engage with web3? What does working with web3 add to your practice—experimentation, monetary value, something else?

MM: There are multiple vectors that I feel are additive for me as an artist and potentially for other artists. For me personally, platforms that allow for releases of generative artwork have been central for me. You upload the JavaScript file and when someone mints or collects a piece, the code runs live and produces that piece within the system you've designed. That, to me, is a major part of my practice. The process of introducing randomness into a system that I'm writing and building in code, conceptually and in every way, plays a major role in how I think about my artwork. But it’s very difficult to showcase or convey that to people when you're not showing it on a platform built specifically for this type of work, or when you're showing it in a gallery. In a gallery, maybe you've written an algorithm that's live, running via projection or on a screen, or you've written an algorithm that produced a number of outputs, and you've curated a selection of those to make physical in some way and show. But I think, especially for people who are less familiar with code as a medium, it's difficult to understand the level of chance that's embedded in that process and system, which I think is a really important part of anyone’s practice who works with software in a generative way. I sometimes have a challenging time emphasizing that code-as-a-medium aspect of the work when the end result is just someone viewing an image on Instagram or a printed physical piece. They can’t see the process. That was one of the amazing aspects of NFTs—I think they helped popularize and increase literacy around what it means to work with code as an artist.

NFTs also brought money to artists for their work. They created a contemporary art market for digital artwork that hadn’t really existed in a strong way before. I have a real belief in the inherent value of digital objects and for the first time, NFTs offered a technical solution that, in large part, allowed for mass engagement. There was a critical mass of people who were open to using this mechanism to participate in a digital art market, and that was really valuable in a lot of ways.

The last thing is that it brought energy to the community. I've gone to events all over the world in the past couple of years where I've met other people who are excited about digital art and serious about it. Like I mentioned before, a lot of web3 work that gets the most publicized is not necessarily a reflection of the people who are most passionate, the people who are making the strongest artwork in this space. But I feel really lucky that I’ve had the chance to meet people who share the depth of love and attention that I want to give to digital art practices. 

KC: In your experience, how has the role of software in art changed over time? How much have new, buzzy technologies like crypto or AI affected the field?

MM: I’ve been thinking about this general question a lot especially because the conversation around AI has intensified over the past couple of years, particularly in the past year. I guess I’m a bit bored with the larger conversation about AI and art, questions like—”Who's making the artwork? Is AI displacing artist labor?” There’s this sensationalized fear around AI’s involvement in the arts because people often imply that it’s offloading the artist's labor to a new technology. But I believe the labor of the artist is all in their mind—it's more about how they execute their ideas and how they use these new technologies. Approaching the question from that perspective is more interesting to me. I’m not that interested in using AI personally, but I’m curious about why other artists are. So when we're talking about an artist using AI, I’m more curious about why they want to use it, how it serves the concept of their work, and why it’s essential to them. That becomes the really exciting question for me.

KC: We just spent a lot of time talking about technology and internet culture, but you also just opened a physical space in SoHo called HEART. Can you tell us more about that?

I wasn’t really seeking to open a space, so it felt almost fateful because I was also craving to do more curatorial work and be with people in person. Coming off a couple of years deeply embedded in the web3 art scene, I realized that the moments I valued most were when I could show work IRL and hang with people in physical spaces. The intensity of the online scene really drained me. So, once I had access to this space, I felt a strong desire to serve the community I felt part of in New York.

I was frustrated with the lack of shows focusing on art on the internet, pop culture, and work that uses digital mediums. For obvious reasons, galleries are still mostly showing work made in traditional mediums, since they’re businesses. But I wanted this space to become something that I, as an artist, would be excited to see exist. I decided to call the space HEART because in my MFA thesis, I talk about the concept of the heart on the internet as an icon. Amidst all these tech platforms born out of the masculine Silicon Valley "tech bro" archetype, they use the heart icon almost as currency. The heart emoji has the most versions in the emoji set, and it’s been a continuous symbol of emotion in our digital communication. It’s a very feminine symbol by nature, so I decided to call the space HEART in the spirit of all those ideas and feelings.

It’s been really exciting to have a space to bring people together. Right now, there’s a show up called Sacred Screenshots, showcasing 26 different artists. Each artist submitted one unedited screenshot from their phone that they felt was sacred in some way. I worked with Jason Isolini, another artist, who helped me print them four feet tall, and they’re hung all around the space. These are 26 of my favorite New York City-based artists who all work with the internet or new technologies in some way. I wanted everyone to be present in the same room in some way, and it’s very cool to have the space to do that.

KC: I’m curious if you’ve encountered any difficulties, challenges, or complexities in trying to display digital, internet-native art in a physical space. What has that process or the thinking around it been like?

MM: I have a really tenuous relationship with the idea of the "white cube" gallery. In many ways, I want it, because to me, it represents ultimate validation for a working artist to show their work in this sanitized, bright space. But I’ve also been thinking a lot about attention. It’s very important to me to make work that operates online, that people can view on their phones or laptops at home. To me, if I make a website as an art object, that’s my work. If you’re viewing the website on your phone, you’re viewing the work in its truest form. But also, if I’m showing it in a gallery and the website is running live on a screen or in an installation, that’s also the work.

Digital work, by nature, has this very fluid quality where you can view it in many different ways, and those are all representative of the experience I want my audience to have. But what I’ve found is that people’s attention spans on their phones or computers are really short—mine is too. I wanted to show the work here and offer experiences at HEART in a way that allows people to spend time with what artists are making, in a way that you simply can’t do on the internet. So the choice to print these screenshots out and have them physically hanging around the room versus doing a slideshow of screenshots or something like that, was very much about attention and also about absurdity. It’s about taking something you’re so used to seeing on your phone and transforming it into something absurd by printing it out four feet tall next to many other artists’ screenshots.

KC: I went to the opening night of Sacred Screenshots, it did feel super absurd to see the screenshots blown up. My favorite screenshot was the Chinese finger trap.

MM: That was Jared Hoffman’s screenshot. A lot of the screenshots have crazy lore that you just can’t know by looking at them, so it’s been really special to talk to all the artists about the stories behind their screenshots. Jared Hoffman talked about how he thought of a Chinese finger trap as an analogy for when you’re trying to get out of a situation that you know is bad for you. You’re really deep in something, but you know you want to get out, and it’s really hard to escape. That was the Chinese finger trap.

KC: That’s so funny because that analogy is so relevant to our conversation… Shifting a little bit to online identity and the internet which is at the center of a lot of your work—how do you think the internet has changed our collective process of meaning-making and identity and community?

MM: We're in a moment where, at least in my life and among the people I interact with—caveat city—I feel like we're very meaning-poor. People are struggling to find meaning in life, and I find that people, myself included, are turning to the internet to try to find meaning and instructions on how to live and be a person in the "right" way. I've always been the type of person who wants to do the right thing, and sometimes I couldn’t figure out what that was, which really stressed me out. So, I spent a lot of time online trying to understand how to build a life that was valid in the ways I wanted it to be.

But with people being less and less religious these days, as religion has faded from the role it used to play in culture, I think that has deeply contributed to this meaning-poor moment. People are looking online for a sense of direction, to figure out who they think they are, and to ascribe an identity to themselves. I think that’s been a really challenging shift for people because the way the internet operates is extremely intense.

KC: An interesting tension I feel is that people used to turn to the internet to seek answers to their deepest, most vulnerable questions about identity—that’s the basis of most early 2000s coming-of-age movies. But now, in 2024, it almost feels like the narrative has flipped. You spend so much time on the internet that it almost becomes the driver of the lack of meaning because your eyes are glued to the screen. You still turn to the internet for meaning, but if you spend too much time there, you end up devoid of meaning. Maybe that’s even related to why you opened a physical space? I don’t know if you have thoughts on that.

MM: My thoughts are that it’s really complicated. The way the internet has entered and infiltrated society is complex, and that’s why I’m so invested in thinking about it. But I’m also hesitant to make any blanket statements about it because it’s so multifaceted. There’s a tendency to want to label the internet as either net good or net bad, but I’ve said this before: I feel like, at this point, the internet is like air, like the universe. How can something so vast be purely good or bad? It’s just everything—it’s all there. It’s a question I struggle with a lot because the internet has made my life beautiful in so many ways, and I wouldn’t want to live without it. Yet, at the same time, I recognize and criticize the ways it has also destroyed parts of people and the way we structure relationships of all kinds.

I’ve noticed in myself that my relationship with the internet has evolved to be more and more one of escapism. I find myself turning to it in small, mundane moments during my day, and that’s something I feel very conflicted about.

KC: It’s a Chinese finger trap.

‍MM: Totally Chinese finger trap.

KC: Your work specifically often explores femininity and girlhood. Can you share more about how you think modern notions of femininity may have been uniquely defined by internet culture?

MM:  People sometimes ask how I decided to make work about the subjects I focus on like girlhood, and honestly I don’t think I ever definitely decided. These interests have been so innate in me since I was a child. If I go back and read old journals, I can see that I was grappling with concepts around femininity and being online long before I knew I wanted to be an artist. In the early days of being online, I felt a lot of guilt and shame about how I used the internet—it felt extremely egotistical and self-centered and that was really uncomfortable for me. At the core, I’m interested in identity. And as an artist, I’m a vehicle for my own practice, so I use my identity as a case study and a tool to explore how I’ve formed my concept of self, especially as I’ve grown up in the daily process of consuming and producing content online.

I’m really curious about the extremes of girl culture online because I grew up fascinated and awed by it. My work explores the ideas of femininity that I consumed in magazines, on Tumblr, Instagram, and now, to some extent, on TikTok. The way femininity is performed in these very classic ways has always been a fascinating line of inquiry for me. 

For example, the artist Ann Hirsch and I did a project together called Ugly Bitches, and we’ve talked about this a lot. In 2024, the popular understanding of gender and how it operates in culture has evolved to recognize gender as a spectrum, allowing people to identify in ways that feel more aligned with their true selves. But still, the extremes of binary gender performance on the internet operate in these really intense ways that I find fascinating.

KC: Can we take “Brat Summer” as a case study for thinking about this? Brat by Charli XCX is an album all about the dark, ugly, complex parts of girlhood, yet it’s somehow garnered extreme mass appeal and gone viral, which is so interesting.

MM: Oh my god, I’m so scared to comment on Brat Summer. What you said made me think about how there have been many phases where a genre of femininity becomes popularized in a way that people really want to attach to. I think of things like "nasty woman," which was tied to Hillary Clinton. There’s this constant push and pull, this desire to label and then escape the labels we make for ourselves. It reflects an underlying desire to feel like you fit into something, to belong to something that aligns with how you want to see yourself.

All these different labels—like "that girl," "girl boss," "nasty woman," and now "Brat Summer"—are very aspirational. They offer a way to talk about a part of yourself that feels glamorous, even if the label is meant to embrace the unglamorous aspects of your life or self. By labeling a piece of yourself, it sort of glamorizes it. I think people want to feel like they belong to something in a glamorous, fun way, and Brat Summer is just the latest iteration of that. 

But it’s something we’ve seen in a really cyclical way, again and again. Even recently, with the way people are using the word "demure.” I think because media is driven by narrative—the media, films, TV shows, TikToks we consume—they’re all driven by these narratives that we can label. It feels good to narrativize your life and label it in a way that’s cute and fun.

KC: That reminds me, you actually make TikTok dances to promote HEART. When you’re making them, is there some sort of calculation? Like, “If I do this TikTok dance, people will watch it, they’ll see I have this space, and they’ll come to the space”? Or does it feel more like, “This is just fun, and I want to do it”?

MM: I don’t believe in the idea of just doing something for fun and not for an audience. There’s always an aspect of being on display in some way through the video. But honestly, the true psychology of it is that I find a song and think, “Oh, this is fun.” Sometimes I do an actual TikTok dance, sometimes I’m just flailing around in freestyle mode.

When I think about TikTok, I don’t expect anyone I know to see it because I don’t have a huge following there, and I don’t expect this style of video to go viral. It’s just me dancing with a bunch of filters layered on top. But when I post the videos on the HEART Instagram, part of me thinks, “Oh, this might be fun content that catches people’s attention and makes them want to come see the screenshot show I’ve put a lot of energy into.” I think the screenshots the artists have contributed are really special, and it’s a temporary opportunity for people to see them in person, so I want people to come see it.

I guess that’s the full psychology of it. But the videos themselves are pretty non-calculated. It’s just like, I make the video, post it on TikTok, have it on my phone, and then when I’m playing on my phone, I think, “Oh, I’ll just share this on HEART.”

KC: It’s important that we’re talking deeply about these topics, but also to some extent—they’re so deeply silly and funny. It’s hard to reconcile the two parts of my brain.

MM: I totally agree. My life feels like an ongoing attempt to put these two pieces of my brain in conversation. It’s something I’ve often struggled with in my work because I’m very indulgent in my relationship with the internet. There are people who make work critical of being online or writers who are very offline and critical—they don’t really engage. But I find a lot of fun and joy in being online, and I want to follow that, while also engaging with the part of me that’s hyper-critical of the many detrimental aspects of online culture.

To me, the conversation between these two perspectives is where the most interesting things emerge. This also relates to femininity because young girls generally rule social media platforms—they’re the best at them and know how to wield them in a powerful way. But there’s also a lot of societal violence and disrespect towards young girls, and I think that influences how people view those who engage deeply with the internet.

KC: What’s been inspiring you in digital art lately? What do you hope the space looks like 5 years from now?

MM: I recently went to see the Brian Eno documentary at Film Forum in New York twice. Seeing it twice was fascinating because it’s a generative documentary, so it’s different each time. But both times I saw it, toward the end—I'm pretty sure it was toward the end both times—Eno emphasizes that it took him a long time to realize this, but to him, art is about feeling.

I’ve been thinking a lot about feelings lately because I’m also someone who likes to be very heady. I enjoy theory, and I like to operate up here in my mind. Lately, I’ve been focusing more on feelings and how to let them guide me and reveal my true desires. I feel that sometimes the way we talk about art, think about art, and the way the art world operates at large gets pulled away from the idea of feeling. And I’ve felt very inspired lately to be more consciously driven by feelings.

I hope that in five years, there’s widespread respect for digital art and software as a medium for creating art, as well as continued excitement. There was a lot of excitement over the past couple of years with the rise of NFTs, but I feel that energy has dissipated a bit over the past year. I’ve never been particularly excited about NFTs specifically—I’ve always been really passionate about digital art and art on the internet. I hope that excitement for these forms of art sustains over the next five years. I also hope there are many opportunities for artists working in this way to show their work in physical spaces.

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