BODIES IN BETWEEN
Discussion participants:
Harriet Mummery – Interdisciplinary Artist, Researcher, Designer, Curator
Rachel McRae – Visual artist, Fine Art Lecturer
Wade Wallerstein – Digital Anthropologist, Strategist, Curator
Harriet Mummery – Interdisciplinary Artist, Researcher, Designer, Curator
Rachel McRae – Visual artist, Fine Art Lecturer
Wade Wallerstein – Digital Anthropologist, Strategist, Curator
Cover image: Harriet Mummery, a 3d scan of a plant
Discussion moderator: Ksenia Kopalova
What does it mean to have a body in the digital age?
In this conversation, artists Harriet Mummery and Rachel McRae join digital anthropologist and curator Wade Wallerstein to discuss how contemporary technologies are reshaping ideas of embodiment, agency, memory, and material culture. Through projects involving 3D lichen scans, votive offerings, and curatorial work, they reflect on translation between realms — aesthetic, spiritual, social, and computational. In this discussion, they explore how belief systems, cultural context, and digital infrastructures inform the way we build, interpret, and inhabit bodies — whether in the arts or everyday technological interaction.
In this conversation, artists Harriet Mummery and Rachel McRae join digital anthropologist and curator Wade Wallerstein to discuss how contemporary technologies are reshaping ideas of embodiment, agency, memory, and material culture. Through projects involving 3D lichen scans, votive offerings, and curatorial work, they reflect on translation between realms — aesthetic, spiritual, social, and computational. In this discussion, they explore how belief systems, cultural context, and digital infrastructures inform the way we build, interpret, and inhabit bodies — whether in the arts or everyday technological interaction.
Could you tell a bit about some of your most recent projects where you tackled the theme of digital bodies? What were the most interesting and the most challenging aspects in this work?
I’m interested in translating a biotic surface into an abiotic form
Harriet
My most recent project was made for an open call with the theme of Biophilia. It was part of a hospital exhibition, and that really pushed me to make something. My work always starts with conceptualisation, and then the process becomes a way of working through how to visualize those ideas.
The most recent works were around the topics of Hauntologies of Lichen and Echoes of the Machine. For me the process is a form of research. I bounce back and forth between ideas, and it’s all about translation—between the physical and the digital—and recreating a kind of digital body through surface interpretation.
My projects are always rooted in metaphor. Lichen, for example, has this beautiful symbiosis between the algae and the fungal body, or "skin," you could say. I’m interested in translating that biotic surface into an abiotic form. The project went through a lot of transitions and translations, exploring human-computer interaction along the way.
My most recent project was made for an open call with the theme of Biophilia. It was part of a hospital exhibition, and that really pushed me to make something. My work always starts with conceptualisation, and then the process becomes a way of working through how to visualize those ideas.
The most recent works were around the topics of Hauntologies of Lichen and Echoes of the Machine. For me the process is a form of research. I bounce back and forth between ideas, and it’s all about translation—between the physical and the digital—and recreating a kind of digital body through surface interpretation.
My projects are always rooted in metaphor. Lichen, for example, has this beautiful symbiosis between the algae and the fungal body, or "skin," you could say. I’m interested in translating that biotic surface into an abiotic form. The project went through a lot of transitions and translations, exploring human-computer interaction along the way.
Harriet Mummery
Harriet
The most challenging part of this work was working with the materials, trying to translate the surface through a digital process, then recreating it physically in a way that conveyed the concept—without the material overpowering it. The plaster, for example, just kept overruling everything. It really became about blurring the line between what I was trying to visualise and what the medium would allow.
I never set out thinking, “I’m going to make a plaster cast of this.” It started with a 3D scan of lichen I took back in 2020—and it’s been years in the making. I tried 3D prints, initially thinking I’d emboss them into paper, but that didn’t work at all. I went through so many different iterations, thinking about the paper’s texture and materiality, and how that might be translated into something else. Then I tried to work with molding, but the molds had bubbles, which I didn’t want.. I wanted a ‘ghost of the 3D print’ effect to be retained in the cast. Eventually, that was translated into plaster.
The most challenging part of this work was working with the materials, trying to translate the surface through a digital process, then recreating it physically in a way that conveyed the concept—without the material overpowering it. The plaster, for example, just kept overruling everything. It really became about blurring the line between what I was trying to visualise and what the medium would allow.
I never set out thinking, “I’m going to make a plaster cast of this.” It started with a 3D scan of lichen I took back in 2020—and it’s been years in the making. I tried 3D prints, initially thinking I’d emboss them into paper, but that didn’t work at all. I went through so many different iterations, thinking about the paper’s texture and materiality, and how that might be translated into something else. Then I tried to work with molding, but the molds had bubbles, which I didn’t want.. I wanted a ‘ghost of the 3D print’ effect to be retained in the cast. Eventually, that was translated into plaster.
Harriet Mummery
I’m interested in how stamped, transferable tokens operate as both exchanges between different states and as access points or screens between realms
Rachel
The ideas of transition and translation are definitely what I'm also interested in. Several years ago I did a collaborative project with Sarah Derat called ‘Digital and Dead’. We were looking into the ways people mourned online: sometimes in disjointed and awkward ways, but occasionally very ingenious and adaptive, people would negotiate collaborative mourning that would normally not happen offline. In this process we were looking into histories and different ways of thinking about the mind-body divide, or the soul-body divide, or even the divine-temporal divide. There’s this recurring idea of disjunction between the material and immaterial, and the awkward, in-between space where translation happens between these different states.
The ideas of transition and translation are definitely what I'm also interested in. Several years ago I did a collaborative project with Sarah Derat called ‘Digital and Dead’. We were looking into the ways people mourned online: sometimes in disjointed and awkward ways, but occasionally very ingenious and adaptive, people would negotiate collaborative mourning that would normally not happen offline. In this process we were looking into histories and different ways of thinking about the mind-body divide, or the soul-body divide, or even the divine-temporal divide. There’s this recurring idea of disjunction between the material and immaterial, and the awkward, in-between space where translation happens between these different states.
Rachel McRae and Sarah Derat
Rachel
In terms of my current work, it’s still very much in the material research stage. I’ve been working with ex-votos—votive offerings used in various religious practices, ‘tokens’, or small representations of body parts. For instance, if someone’s arm hurts, they might bring a small metal arm to a site of worship, hoping to exchange it for divine favor. But it’s not always literal—it can also be symbolic. For example, someone might bring a tiny model of a house, or, if their child is job-hunting, maybe a generic figure in a suit, representing a desired outcome.
I’m really interested in how belief systems—especially the ones we’re raised within—shape how we understand the world. The way we conceptualize the relationship between the physical and spiritual often shows up in philosophy, in the ways we structure our logic, and even in how we talk about technology. It becomes embedded in the structure of our thinking.
So my latest research is starting to explore those ideas further—through ex-votos, but also through objects like cryptocurrency tokens, secret service or military challenge coins. I’m interested in how these stamped, transferable tokens operate as both exchanges between different states and as access points or screens between realms.
In terms of my current work, it’s still very much in the material research stage. I’ve been working with ex-votos—votive offerings used in various religious practices, ‘tokens’, or small representations of body parts. For instance, if someone’s arm hurts, they might bring a small metal arm to a site of worship, hoping to exchange it for divine favor. But it’s not always literal—it can also be symbolic. For example, someone might bring a tiny model of a house, or, if their child is job-hunting, maybe a generic figure in a suit, representing a desired outcome.
I’m really interested in how belief systems—especially the ones we’re raised within—shape how we understand the world. The way we conceptualize the relationship between the physical and spiritual often shows up in philosophy, in the ways we structure our logic, and even in how we talk about technology. It becomes embedded in the structure of our thinking.
So my latest research is starting to explore those ideas further—through ex-votos, but also through objects like cryptocurrency tokens, secret service or military challenge coins. I’m interested in how these stamped, transferable tokens operate as both exchanges between different states and as access points or screens between realms.
Rachel McRae
Two threads—optimization and agency—have really shaped how we’re thinking about bodies in a broader cultural sense, especially within a Western framework.
Wade
This conversation is really timely for me—I’m in the process of curating the next edition of the Gray Area Festival in San Francisco with my colleague Hannah Scott. It’s an annual conference, exhibition, and workshop series, and this year we’re focusing on bodies: digital bodies, physical bodies, and how those relate to things like the mind-body or body-spirit divide.
We’ve been thinking of people as “body-minds”—assemblages that include not just the physical body, but also cognition, spirituality, and other immaterial elements. These aren’t easily separated; they’re entangled, and we have to treat them as such.
What’s been especially interesting in working on this festival is talking to dozens of artists who are exploring the relationship between digital technology, digital materiality, and bodies. Across all those conversations and research, two main themes have really emerged.
The first is this constant drive for optimization, perfection, and refinement. In 2025—especially in a Western context—there’s a strong cultural narrative around body augmentation and control. People like Bryan Johnson are trying to “solve” the body, cure aging, and treat the body as a kind of technical apparatus, the way you’d optimize a computer system. That mindset is shifting how we think about the body—it’s less about reverence for the physical and more about using mental or technical capacities to overcome its limitations. It’s a shift towards a strange obsession with body refinement that I’m really interested in.
The second major thread is agency. Agency seems to be the lens through which people are most effectively thinking about the body. What does it mean for a body—or a body-mind system—to have agency or to be denied it? Many artists are exploring the removal or restriction of agency and how that relates to embodiment.
So, those two threads—optimization and agency—have really shaped how we’re thinking about bodies in a broader cultural sense, especially within a Western framework.
This conversation is really timely for me—I’m in the process of curating the next edition of the Gray Area Festival in San Francisco with my colleague Hannah Scott. It’s an annual conference, exhibition, and workshop series, and this year we’re focusing on bodies: digital bodies, physical bodies, and how those relate to things like the mind-body or body-spirit divide.
We’ve been thinking of people as “body-minds”—assemblages that include not just the physical body, but also cognition, spirituality, and other immaterial elements. These aren’t easily separated; they’re entangled, and we have to treat them as such.
What’s been especially interesting in working on this festival is talking to dozens of artists who are exploring the relationship between digital technology, digital materiality, and bodies. Across all those conversations and research, two main themes have really emerged.
The first is this constant drive for optimization, perfection, and refinement. In 2025—especially in a Western context—there’s a strong cultural narrative around body augmentation and control. People like Bryan Johnson are trying to “solve” the body, cure aging, and treat the body as a kind of technical apparatus, the way you’d optimize a computer system. That mindset is shifting how we think about the body—it’s less about reverence for the physical and more about using mental or technical capacities to overcome its limitations. It’s a shift towards a strange obsession with body refinement that I’m really interested in.
The second major thread is agency. Agency seems to be the lens through which people are most effectively thinking about the body. What does it mean for a body—or a body-mind system—to have agency or to be denied it? Many artists are exploring the removal or restriction of agency and how that relates to embodiment.
So, those two threads—optimization and agency—have really shaped how we’re thinking about bodies in a broader cultural sense, especially within a Western framework.
Over the past 30 years the way the borderline (or its absence) between the digital and the physical is conceptualised has been changing multiple times. Isn’t this drive for ‘optimisation’ echoing the 90-s utopias of ‘leaving the meat of our bodies behind’? What kind of approaches to this 'divide' are of most interest to you at the moment?
Wade
When it comes to approaches, attitudes, and perspectives, what I’ve noticed in the artists I’m working with is almost a refusal to accept the old idea of the "digital divide." Most of them aren’t buying into that outdated utopian notion of leaving the body behind and entering the matrix. That kind of rhetoric feels very much in the past.
Instead, artists today are deeply aware of—and concerned with—the material realities of the digital. No one is thinking of “the cloud” as some weightless, abstract concept. They’re thinking about it as massive, football field-sized data centers, and about the mining of rare earth minerals that power these systems.
In another show I’m working on, artists Jill Miller & Asma Kazmi are using e-waste to map and visualize extraction routes from places like the Democratic Republic of Congo, where much of the world’s cobalt is mined. There’s a growing understanding that digital technology is not immaterial—it’s deeply, traditionally material.
That awareness shapes not just the work, but how artists relate their own bodies to technology. It's not just about physical interaction with devices—it’s about understanding how their bodies are embedded in broader systems of extraction, commodification, and environmental impact. That systemic awareness feels central to so much of the work I’m seeing, at least in my corner of the world.
Rachel
Yeah, I think—like Wade was saying—the digital has physical ramifications. It lives in infrastructure and mechanisms that are literally dug from the earth. It’s almost like an “Adam formed from clay” scenario—except, in reality, it involves people who are often enslaved or trapped in debt bondage, mining the materials that make it all possible.
Wade
I forgot to mention—beyond the ecological ramifications, people are also becoming more aware of the biophysical, individual impacts of digital technology. There’s so much rhetoric now around dopamine, serotonin, attention spans, and how content affects the brain’s chemistry. People are starting to understand that this material has both large-scale ecological and systemic consequences, as well as very real, embodied effects on individual biology and the nervous system.
When it comes to approaches, attitudes, and perspectives, what I’ve noticed in the artists I’m working with is almost a refusal to accept the old idea of the "digital divide." Most of them aren’t buying into that outdated utopian notion of leaving the body behind and entering the matrix. That kind of rhetoric feels very much in the past.
Instead, artists today are deeply aware of—and concerned with—the material realities of the digital. No one is thinking of “the cloud” as some weightless, abstract concept. They’re thinking about it as massive, football field-sized data centers, and about the mining of rare earth minerals that power these systems.
In another show I’m working on, artists Jill Miller & Asma Kazmi are using e-waste to map and visualize extraction routes from places like the Democratic Republic of Congo, where much of the world’s cobalt is mined. There’s a growing understanding that digital technology is not immaterial—it’s deeply, traditionally material.
That awareness shapes not just the work, but how artists relate their own bodies to technology. It's not just about physical interaction with devices—it’s about understanding how their bodies are embedded in broader systems of extraction, commodification, and environmental impact. That systemic awareness feels central to so much of the work I’m seeing, at least in my corner of the world.
Rachel
Yeah, I think—like Wade was saying—the digital has physical ramifications. It lives in infrastructure and mechanisms that are literally dug from the earth. It’s almost like an “Adam formed from clay” scenario—except, in reality, it involves people who are often enslaved or trapped in debt bondage, mining the materials that make it all possible.
Wade
I forgot to mention—beyond the ecological ramifications, people are also becoming more aware of the biophysical, individual impacts of digital technology. There’s so much rhetoric now around dopamine, serotonin, attention spans, and how content affects the brain’s chemistry. People are starting to understand that this material has both large-scale ecological and systemic consequences, as well as very real, embodied effects on individual biology and the nervous system.
Technology isn’t dematerialized, and neither are our ideas or ideologies. They're embodied, embedded, and enacted
Rachel
Even beyond that, I’ve been thinking more about the impact of ideology and politics. These impact us both in expected, engineered ways, and in the ways when people have cleverly exploited the addictive qualities of certain technologies. There are real physical consequences—on how people act toward others, and, as you said, how these systems affect our minds.
In some ways, I think what’s becoming clearer now—and this is something that’s been discussed for years in leftist and critical spaces—is that ideology, politics, and philosophy aren’t separate from the body. They come from the body, and they impact it. Technology isn’t dematerialized, and neither are our ideas or ideologies. They're embodied, embedded, and enacted.
There was a British Netflix show, Adolescence, that explored how the body is shaped by online culture. And there was that viral moment in New York: a pro-life activist cornered a pro-choice woman, provoking her with inflammatory rhetoric until the woman punched her. In a video essay I watched about the incident, the commentator said, “She shouldn’t have hit her—but her meat computer was glitching”. I found that phrase striking—it framed her physical reaction as a kind of malfunction under the pressure of emotional and ideological overload.
That moment—this embodied glitch—was captured on video, uploaded to TikTok, and went viral. It’s a perfect example of what Wade was talking about: trying to run the brain and body like a computer, expecting perfect optimization. But we’re not machines. We glitch. We are flooded with hormones. We react.
Wade
Which is interesting in the context of AI development, which is all about trying to go the opposite direction and technologically mimic a neural network structure.
Rachel
Which is interesting in itself, because in this process of AI development we’re always working with an approximation which is never quite right. That’s the thing—it’s this janky in-between space that never fully lines up.
But still, I keep thinking: this feels like it mirrors some kind of obsession with a pre-Enlightenment notion of the Divine. We’re constantly chasing this idea of merging, of achieving singularity. We want the ultimate truth. We want the 100% moment.
Even beyond that, I’ve been thinking more about the impact of ideology and politics. These impact us both in expected, engineered ways, and in the ways when people have cleverly exploited the addictive qualities of certain technologies. There are real physical consequences—on how people act toward others, and, as you said, how these systems affect our minds.
In some ways, I think what’s becoming clearer now—and this is something that’s been discussed for years in leftist and critical spaces—is that ideology, politics, and philosophy aren’t separate from the body. They come from the body, and they impact it. Technology isn’t dematerialized, and neither are our ideas or ideologies. They're embodied, embedded, and enacted.
There was a British Netflix show, Adolescence, that explored how the body is shaped by online culture. And there was that viral moment in New York: a pro-life activist cornered a pro-choice woman, provoking her with inflammatory rhetoric until the woman punched her. In a video essay I watched about the incident, the commentator said, “She shouldn’t have hit her—but her meat computer was glitching”. I found that phrase striking—it framed her physical reaction as a kind of malfunction under the pressure of emotional and ideological overload.
That moment—this embodied glitch—was captured on video, uploaded to TikTok, and went viral. It’s a perfect example of what Wade was talking about: trying to run the brain and body like a computer, expecting perfect optimization. But we’re not machines. We glitch. We are flooded with hormones. We react.
Wade
Which is interesting in the context of AI development, which is all about trying to go the opposite direction and technologically mimic a neural network structure.
Rachel
Which is interesting in itself, because in this process of AI development we’re always working with an approximation which is never quite right. That’s the thing—it’s this janky in-between space that never fully lines up.
But still, I keep thinking: this feels like it mirrors some kind of obsession with a pre-Enlightenment notion of the Divine. We’re constantly chasing this idea of merging, of achieving singularity. We want the ultimate truth. We want the 100% moment.
Harriet
Back to 2016 I was looking at datasets and social media platforms, and it was really interesting to see how people’s actions online were accumulating and manifesting in the physical world. There was this real sense of digital infiltration. When Trump got elected and Brexit happened, so many people were shocked, and you could now see how these online behaviours and viral interactions translated across from the digital, informational sphere into the physical world. People and digital bots were using these platforms to their advantage—to gain power, to push agendas.
It makes me think about the Divine—like, maybe the Divine now is just ourselves reflected back at us, with the algorithm pushing an idealised version of who we wish we were—the perfect self. Adam Curtis talks about this in HyperNormalisation, referencing the ELIZA program—how we end up just talking to ourselves over and over again, stuck in this feedback loop, trapped in a bubble.
That’s something I’m exploring right now, using lichen as a metaphor again. Lichens have this boundary layer on top of them, which shields them from extreme temperatures, rainfall, or erosion. I wonder if that space Rachel was talking about—the space between—is like this boundary layer. Can we ever really infiltrate it? Where does autonomy end and the digital begin? Maybe there isn’t a clear divide. Maybe we won’t ever escape it—and maybe we don’t want to.
Then there’s online group dynamics, the ‘herd mentality’ that does not necessarily replicate in the physical world in the same way. The idea of loyalty to a political party, doesn’t always correlate to what we see in our algorithms. Policies and people are swayed and infiltrated by online ‘news’ and in turn it begins to become our personalised reality. Adolescence touches on that—things happening under the radar, in digital spaces that parts of society are unaware of. People in these digital environments are behaving in sync, a digital herd – but they’re disconnected from our traditional systems of society governance like democracy or voting; it moves fast and is dividing.
Back to 2016 I was looking at datasets and social media platforms, and it was really interesting to see how people’s actions online were accumulating and manifesting in the physical world. There was this real sense of digital infiltration. When Trump got elected and Brexit happened, so many people were shocked, and you could now see how these online behaviours and viral interactions translated across from the digital, informational sphere into the physical world. People and digital bots were using these platforms to their advantage—to gain power, to push agendas.
It makes me think about the Divine—like, maybe the Divine now is just ourselves reflected back at us, with the algorithm pushing an idealised version of who we wish we were—the perfect self. Adam Curtis talks about this in HyperNormalisation, referencing the ELIZA program—how we end up just talking to ourselves over and over again, stuck in this feedback loop, trapped in a bubble.
That’s something I’m exploring right now, using lichen as a metaphor again. Lichens have this boundary layer on top of them, which shields them from extreme temperatures, rainfall, or erosion. I wonder if that space Rachel was talking about—the space between—is like this boundary layer. Can we ever really infiltrate it? Where does autonomy end and the digital begin? Maybe there isn’t a clear divide. Maybe we won’t ever escape it—and maybe we don’t want to.
Then there’s online group dynamics, the ‘herd mentality’ that does not necessarily replicate in the physical world in the same way. The idea of loyalty to a political party, doesn’t always correlate to what we see in our algorithms. Policies and people are swayed and infiltrated by online ‘news’ and in turn it begins to become our personalised reality. Adolescence touches on that—things happening under the radar, in digital spaces that parts of society are unaware of. People in these digital environments are behaving in sync, a digital herd – but they’re disconnected from our traditional systems of society governance like democracy or voting; it moves fast and is dividing.
New media art, or any digital artwork, is known for being very difficult to accommodate within traditional gallery spaces – due to its ephemeral intimate nature of media that's accessed individually, from the comfort of one's home/device. Do you think this aspect of such artwork can say something about how the digital transforms our relationship with the ephemeral and the intimate?
Working online requires an understanding of that space. It’s not unlike making public art in a town square
New media art, or any digital artwork, is known for being very difficult to accommodate within traditional gallery spaces – due to its ephemeral intimate nature of media that's accessed individually, from the comfort of one's home/device. Do you think this aspect of such artwork can say something about how the digital transforms our relationship with the ephemeral and the intimate?
Wade
I think this ties into the phenomenon of context collapse—where you put something into a digital or social space, but as the creator, you can’t fully control how that information flows. You can choose the hardware, software, or interface that presents the work, but you can’t stop it from being copied, replicated, or shared in contexts you didn’t originally intend.
Working online requires an understanding of that space. It’s not unlike making public art in a town square—you have to consider unintended or imagined audiences who may encounter the work. In that sense, it’s similar; it’s just specific to the material, the platform, and the social cues that shape how the work is received.
As a curator dealing with these questions—especially when thinking about how different kinds of bodies are impacted in digital space—I always try to defer to the artist. I follow the lead of both the work and the artist. What generation are they from? What’s their relationship to social media or web-based platforms? Are they fluent in those spaces, or are they coming from a different practice entirely?
It’s about asking: what’s native to this person? What makes sense for them? For example, I wouldn’t take an artist in their 80s—someone who’s been making work since the 1960s—and just throw their work into an online context and expect it to land well. That might not be their space. Sure, there are plenty of 80-year-olds online, but if this hypothetical artist doesn’t have social connections or familiarity with that digital context, it’s not fair—or useful—to place their work there.
Ultimately, I try to follow the artist’s lead and preserve their agency in how their work is presented. I’m really inspired by curators and artists like Legacy Russell, whose work on Glitch Feminism reframes the body through digital metaphors—glitching, modularity, augmentation. There’s a whole school of thought, particularly among Black and feminist creators, that finds empowerment in these digital frameworks.
So again, it all comes down to context—where the creator is coming from, and how we can help them retain as much agency as possible over their own representations.
Wade
I think this ties into the phenomenon of context collapse—where you put something into a digital or social space, but as the creator, you can’t fully control how that information flows. You can choose the hardware, software, or interface that presents the work, but you can’t stop it from being copied, replicated, or shared in contexts you didn’t originally intend.
Working online requires an understanding of that space. It’s not unlike making public art in a town square—you have to consider unintended or imagined audiences who may encounter the work. In that sense, it’s similar; it’s just specific to the material, the platform, and the social cues that shape how the work is received.
As a curator dealing with these questions—especially when thinking about how different kinds of bodies are impacted in digital space—I always try to defer to the artist. I follow the lead of both the work and the artist. What generation are they from? What’s their relationship to social media or web-based platforms? Are they fluent in those spaces, or are they coming from a different practice entirely?
It’s about asking: what’s native to this person? What makes sense for them? For example, I wouldn’t take an artist in their 80s—someone who’s been making work since the 1960s—and just throw their work into an online context and expect it to land well. That might not be their space. Sure, there are plenty of 80-year-olds online, but if this hypothetical artist doesn’t have social connections or familiarity with that digital context, it’s not fair—or useful—to place their work there.
Ultimately, I try to follow the artist’s lead and preserve their agency in how their work is presented. I’m really inspired by curators and artists like Legacy Russell, whose work on Glitch Feminism reframes the body through digital metaphors—glitching, modularity, augmentation. There’s a whole school of thought, particularly among Black and feminist creators, that finds empowerment in these digital frameworks.
So again, it all comes down to context—where the creator is coming from, and how we can help them retain as much agency as possible over their own representations.
Harriet
I think Wade mentioned this earlier—the physical changes we’re experiencing from things like doomscrolling on our phones, and how it's progressively getting worse the more we indulge in social media.
There was an exhibition called Soil: The World at our Feet in London recently, which I visited. It said it would take about an hour and a half to see, but I ended up spending three hours there. I knew it would be relevant to my work, so I started taking photos of absolutely everything—every artwork, every label. Now I just have this terrible digital replication of the whole exhibition – it's totally out of context, and I’ve done the curators no justice at all! I think it comes back to this idea of immediacy. At the exhibition, I was afraid I wouldn't retain the physical experience of being there. So I just compulsively documented it, hoping I’d go back and research or reflect on it later, but honestly, I don’t know if I will.
That’s something I find interesting—we’re always taking photos of everything. But where do those images go? Do we ever go back and really engage with them? I see students doing the same—snapping photos of presentations or lectures. But do they really revisit them? Or is it more about feeling like you’ve captured the experience, even if you never return to it? I like to think of myself as the kind of artist who will go back and research all those things. But do I actually do that?
Even with digital exhibitions, I’ll keep the tabs open with the intention of going back. But since my laptop is university-owned, it’ll sometimes just restart or update randomly, and I lose all of it.
I think Wade mentioned this earlier—the physical changes we’re experiencing from things like doomscrolling on our phones, and how it's progressively getting worse the more we indulge in social media.
There was an exhibition called Soil: The World at our Feet in London recently, which I visited. It said it would take about an hour and a half to see, but I ended up spending three hours there. I knew it would be relevant to my work, so I started taking photos of absolutely everything—every artwork, every label. Now I just have this terrible digital replication of the whole exhibition – it's totally out of context, and I’ve done the curators no justice at all! I think it comes back to this idea of immediacy. At the exhibition, I was afraid I wouldn't retain the physical experience of being there. So I just compulsively documented it, hoping I’d go back and research or reflect on it later, but honestly, I don’t know if I will.
That’s something I find interesting—we’re always taking photos of everything. But where do those images go? Do we ever go back and really engage with them? I see students doing the same—snapping photos of presentations or lectures. But do they really revisit them? Or is it more about feeling like you’ve captured the experience, even if you never return to it? I like to think of myself as the kind of artist who will go back and research all those things. But do I actually do that?
Even with digital exhibitions, I’ll keep the tabs open with the intention of going back. But since my laptop is university-owned, it’ll sometimes just restart or update randomly, and I lose all of it.
Harriet Mummery
Wade:
Don’t you love that moment when you lose all your tabs though? It’s weirdly freeing, isn’t it? Like—“I was never going to return to that anyway,” and now the possibility is gone, so there’s no pressure.
Rachel:
It’s like a to-do list. It reminds me of those old-school systems—like when your mom or grandma had a Rolodex, or a little recipe box with handwritten cards. It always carried that subtle weight, like, “I haven’t made gratin in a while,” or “There’s that apple bran cake I never tried…” It’s tied to memory and guilt in a way.
Harriet:
Yeah, I think I retain things more if I write them down, rather than just scrolling. Even with phone reminders—I have them, but they are not as effective.
Wade:
There’s a book from 2002 by N. Katherine Hayles called Writing Machines, and she talks a lot about exactly what you’re mentioning, Harriet—the idea that cognition, text, and writing are all interconnected technologies. They're not just related, but dependent on one another.
She explores how the way we absorb information—whether it's visual, textual, auditory, or tactile—shapes our understanding of that information. And it's not just the sensory mode, but also the surrounding conditions. The experience of reading something on a scroll is radically different from turning the pages of a book, and that difference profoundly affects comprehension and engagement.
I think we’ve now reached a kind of critical mass—enough adults have lived in digital environments for long enough that we’re really starting to see the effects. There’s a clear divide forming: a fragmentation of skill sets, technological usage, and even the types of outputs people produce, depending on their relationship to those environments.
Don’t you love that moment when you lose all your tabs though? It’s weirdly freeing, isn’t it? Like—“I was never going to return to that anyway,” and now the possibility is gone, so there’s no pressure.
Rachel:
It’s like a to-do list. It reminds me of those old-school systems—like when your mom or grandma had a Rolodex, or a little recipe box with handwritten cards. It always carried that subtle weight, like, “I haven’t made gratin in a while,” or “There’s that apple bran cake I never tried…” It’s tied to memory and guilt in a way.
Harriet:
Yeah, I think I retain things more if I write them down, rather than just scrolling. Even with phone reminders—I have them, but they are not as effective.
Wade:
There’s a book from 2002 by N. Katherine Hayles called Writing Machines, and she talks a lot about exactly what you’re mentioning, Harriet—the idea that cognition, text, and writing are all interconnected technologies. They're not just related, but dependent on one another.
She explores how the way we absorb information—whether it's visual, textual, auditory, or tactile—shapes our understanding of that information. And it's not just the sensory mode, but also the surrounding conditions. The experience of reading something on a scroll is radically different from turning the pages of a book, and that difference profoundly affects comprehension and engagement.
I think we’ve now reached a kind of critical mass—enough adults have lived in digital environments for long enough that we’re really starting to see the effects. There’s a clear divide forming: a fragmentation of skill sets, technological usage, and even the types of outputs people produce, depending on their relationship to those environments.
It feels that the way we think of the ‘divide’ really depends on the affordances we have the access to. Could it be that this perceived ‘divide’, if relevant at all, may be more of a divide in the background/generational/class distinctions rather than the technology itself?
Among many Māori communities, digital representations of artifacts are seen as no different from the physical objects themselves
Wade:
Just to frame our conversation—I think everything we’re talking about is very specific to a Western mindset and Western use of technology. The Western internet isn’t the only internet. We see completely different usage patterns, communication styles, and cultural meanings in non-English-speaking spaces—in Eastern internets, South American internets, and so on (eg: Third World Futurism). I think it’s important to recognize that what we’re discussing is relevant to us in the Western art world and academic environments, but these same dualities don’t necessarily apply elsewhere.
Rachel:
Yeah, this really reminds me of Lacan. When I was in my early 20s, I started thinking about how much of what we carry—our cultural narratives—are shaped by the language we speak. The language we’re using right now, in this conversation, is deeply colonial. And it’s also a language that’s heavily, heavily rooted in ideas of duality.
Wade:
Just to be the token anthropologist in the group—I keep thinking about specific ethnographic examples that challenge the Western binary between the physical and digital. For instance, among many Māori communities, digital representations of artifacts are seen as no different from the physical objects themselves. There's a fabulous collection of Māori artifacts where curators have recognized this perspective. They now enact ritual procedures and protocols around digital collections, because to those communities, both are material—just different kinds of material—and must be treated with equal reverence.
Similarly, in India, particularly within Hindu traditions, a photographic image of a deity is considered equivalent to being in the physical presence of that deity. That's why taking photos of idols or statues is often restricted—it’s not seen as a neutral act.
So, when we talk about this rigid material/immaterial divide, it feels very Western. Obviously, humans everywhere draw boundaries between what’s familiar and unfamiliar, but these binaries—digital vs. physical, body vs. spirit—aren’t universal. There’s room to break those down.
We should be thinking about other mindsets when it comes to bodies and definitions of embodiment. There won’t ever be one fixed way of understanding this. Rachel’s work speaks to that too—she's doing things like mudlarking, finding ancient fragments. These practices show how tools and technologies evolve over time. Humans have always made things—always shaped culture through the materials and methods available to them.
Just to frame our conversation—I think everything we’re talking about is very specific to a Western mindset and Western use of technology. The Western internet isn’t the only internet. We see completely different usage patterns, communication styles, and cultural meanings in non-English-speaking spaces—in Eastern internets, South American internets, and so on (eg: Third World Futurism). I think it’s important to recognize that what we’re discussing is relevant to us in the Western art world and academic environments, but these same dualities don’t necessarily apply elsewhere.
Rachel:
Yeah, this really reminds me of Lacan. When I was in my early 20s, I started thinking about how much of what we carry—our cultural narratives—are shaped by the language we speak. The language we’re using right now, in this conversation, is deeply colonial. And it’s also a language that’s heavily, heavily rooted in ideas of duality.
Wade:
Just to be the token anthropologist in the group—I keep thinking about specific ethnographic examples that challenge the Western binary between the physical and digital. For instance, among many Māori communities, digital representations of artifacts are seen as no different from the physical objects themselves. There's a fabulous collection of Māori artifacts where curators have recognized this perspective. They now enact ritual procedures and protocols around digital collections, because to those communities, both are material—just different kinds of material—and must be treated with equal reverence.
Similarly, in India, particularly within Hindu traditions, a photographic image of a deity is considered equivalent to being in the physical presence of that deity. That's why taking photos of idols or statues is often restricted—it’s not seen as a neutral act.
So, when we talk about this rigid material/immaterial divide, it feels very Western. Obviously, humans everywhere draw boundaries between what’s familiar and unfamiliar, but these binaries—digital vs. physical, body vs. spirit—aren’t universal. There’s room to break those down.
We should be thinking about other mindsets when it comes to bodies and definitions of embodiment. There won’t ever be one fixed way of understanding this. Rachel’s work speaks to that too—she's doing things like mudlarking, finding ancient fragments. These practices show how tools and technologies evolve over time. Humans have always made things—always shaped culture through the materials and methods available to them.
The “ghost” of the digital shows up in the physical world, in the images we consume, the ways we communicate
Rachel:
If you go back to classical Greek philosophy, you see the same worries—like anxiety around writing and the loss of oral tradition. Irving Finkel at the British Museum talks about how we’re going through the same thing now; only the delivery mechanisms have changed. Some details shift, but the broader dynamics repeat. There was that Babylonian tablet they found that was literally complaining about how lazy and stupid the “youth” were.
Harriet:
I listened to a podcast about that! There was another tablet where a wife was writing to her husband, saying something like, “You’re awful. You’ve left me with no money.” Just pure gossip.
Rachel:
Exactly—same human dynamics. That’s why it’s important to think about technology in a broader, more expanded sense. Even in England, there were long periods when the aristocracy spoke French. Language can act as a marker of class, or cosmopolitanism—linked to trade alliances—but also a tool of exclusion. Accents, vernacular, even who gets to speak in what context can all be used to gatekeep.
Wade:
The original intention behind religion and social hierarchy now translates in modern terms to: gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss.
Harriet:
Yes! I was listening to a podcast with Naomi Alderman, and she said we’re living through the third major information crisis. The second one was the invention of the printing press, and now we’re repeating the same patterns. We've made a new technology, we’re adapting to it, and now we're feeling the fallout—and everyone’s running around wondering what to do. Her argument was that we need to look back, reflect on what worked or didn’t in the past, and find a way forward, but it will be carnage in the meantime.
Now, most of what we experience is digital. It’s everywhere. And that’s where the question of translation comes in—how the “ghost” of the digital shows up in the physical world, in the images we consume, the ways we communicate. This isn’t a binary situation anymore. Digital and physical are fully entangled, constantly mutating into new forms. The more we talk about it, the better chance we have of navigating it—or at least anticipating how to use technology intentionally.
If you go back to classical Greek philosophy, you see the same worries—like anxiety around writing and the loss of oral tradition. Irving Finkel at the British Museum talks about how we’re going through the same thing now; only the delivery mechanisms have changed. Some details shift, but the broader dynamics repeat. There was that Babylonian tablet they found that was literally complaining about how lazy and stupid the “youth” were.
Harriet:
I listened to a podcast about that! There was another tablet where a wife was writing to her husband, saying something like, “You’re awful. You’ve left me with no money.” Just pure gossip.
Rachel:
Exactly—same human dynamics. That’s why it’s important to think about technology in a broader, more expanded sense. Even in England, there were long periods when the aristocracy spoke French. Language can act as a marker of class, or cosmopolitanism—linked to trade alliances—but also a tool of exclusion. Accents, vernacular, even who gets to speak in what context can all be used to gatekeep.
Wade:
The original intention behind religion and social hierarchy now translates in modern terms to: gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss.
Harriet:
Yes! I was listening to a podcast with Naomi Alderman, and she said we’re living through the third major information crisis. The second one was the invention of the printing press, and now we’re repeating the same patterns. We've made a new technology, we’re adapting to it, and now we're feeling the fallout—and everyone’s running around wondering what to do. Her argument was that we need to look back, reflect on what worked or didn’t in the past, and find a way forward, but it will be carnage in the meantime.
Now, most of what we experience is digital. It’s everywhere. And that’s where the question of translation comes in—how the “ghost” of the digital shows up in the physical world, in the images we consume, the ways we communicate. This isn’t a binary situation anymore. Digital and physical are fully entangled, constantly mutating into new forms. The more we talk about it, the better chance we have of navigating it—or at least anticipating how to use technology intentionally.
Harriet Mummery