The audience is first lured to peer through a small hole, curious to witness Alice in her little house. But upon opening the door, they do not find Alice. They encounter the back of themselves instead.
How easily we trace the flaws and mistakes of others, how naturally we observe the lives unfolding outside us. Yet the mirror turns slowly inward. We are often the last to recognize the quiet fractures and hidden beauty within our own selves.
Arduino · Processing (Java) · Camera · MacBook · Wood
On view at tiat, SF — Epistemologies of Slop
An immersive installation exploring AI mukbang, ASMR, and the epistemology of slop. It is organized around the question of what it means to trust what we consume, see, and feel through a screen.
feed me is a 1:1 encounter with an avatar that mirrors the most-viewed AI mukbang video on YouTube in real time. The performance of eating without hunger, without body. It eats for you. The copy has become the source. The avatar shifts look from one AI mukbang to the next. It doesn't parody AI mukbang. It becomes the perfect mukbanger, eating as pure performance. From Will Smith Eating Spaghetti to this, glitch optimized into synthetic intimacy, the meme perfected, and the viewer, satisfied.
When an avatar mirrors the most-viewed AI mukbang creator with same food, same sounds, same intimacy, but no body, no hunger, no need, who is the source?
The copy doesn't refer back to an original anymore. It is the thing. Banana milk doesn't taste like bananas. It tastes like banana milk. Las Vegas isn't a fake city. It's just Vegas. The simulation swallows the original.
And when it looks at you, feeds you, makes you feel known. Was the intimacy ever about who was on the other side?
Inspired by Alan Lightman's Einstein's Dreams. In his essay dated April 24, 1905, he imagines a world with two kinds of time: mechanical time, rigid and predetermined, and body time, fluid and unpredictable.
In this world, there are two times. There is mechanical time and there is body time. The first is as rigid and metallic as a massive pendulum of iron that swings back and forth. The second squirms and wriggles like a bluefish in a bay. Each time is true but the truths aren't the same.
— Alan Lightman, 24 April 1905
Building on this, I envisioned a world where time follows the rhythm of one's breath and heartbeat. To explore this, I created a prototype where a microphone detects the speed of a participant's breathing and adjusts the tempo of a clock accordingly. The faster or slower you breathe, the faster or slower time itself seems to pass.
An urban intervention designed to create small moments of pause in the fast pace of city life. Installed on top of street signs, traffic lights, and the corners of buildings, the mushroom-like sculpture points toward the sky, gently inviting passersby to look up.
In cities, our eyes are often fixed on phones, traffic, and the ground beneath our feet. Funji interrupts this downward gaze, offering a playful reminder to take a breath and shift perspective. By simply noticing the sculpture and following its direction, people momentarily disconnect from the rush of urban routines and reconnect with the larger world above them—the sky, the clouds, the changing light.
The name combines "Fun" with "Munji" (the Korean word for dust), nodding to the cycle of "dust to dust, ashes to ashes." Funji transforms something as small and overlooked as dust into a whimsical guide for reflection.
A real-time kaleidoscope built from a live camera feed, paired with generative sound tied to color shifts in the image. Participants see themselves refracted into abstract, symmetrical patterns.
The piece draws a line between the Zen Buddhist path to happiness — appreciating who you are, seeing beauty in things, enjoying small things around you — and the way a kaleidoscope imparts symmetry and beauty onto whatever sits in front of its lens. Seeing yourself this way, fractured and reassembled into pattern, opens a small door onto self-acceptance.
Built in Processing: a live camera capture is flipped, rotated, and repeated into a hexagon, then that hexagon is rotated and redrawn eighteen times to fill the screen. Sound is generated from the shifting difference between the video's live color values and a set of pre-defined reference colors, sampled every 30 frames.
Arduino · Processing (Java) · Camera · MacBook
What remains at the end of the day are the traces of how we lived — how gently and honestly we treated ourselves, how meaningfully we connected with others, how we contributed to something larger than ourselves.
Dust grew out of that desire for connection. As a student living far from home, I imagined it as both a friend and a bridge — a companion carrying the presence of loved ones across distance. Not just an object, but a living interface between solitude and community.
Dust is a gift of presence. Friends send their voices through a Facebook app, and the small pin, worn on a jacket or close to the heart, becomes their messenger — interrupting the silence of everyday life with a vibration, a sigh, a whisper, a laugh. When stroked, it responds with small affirmations, transforming into a companion that blurs the line between solitude and community.
Dust asks us to imagine technology not as a tool of efficiency, but as an evocative object — an interface for tenderness, a reminder that care can travel across distance, and that even circuits can carry love.
Custom circuit · Microcontroller · QProx capacitive sensor · Vibrating motor · Speaker · 3×2 in
At just 3×2 inches, Dust contains a custom circuit, microcontroller, QProx capacitive sensor, vibrating motor, and speaker. Yet its real substance lies in what Brian Eno once called “the big here and the long now”—a small device that stretches presence across distances, holding space for connection in fleeting moments.
A way to resist automation and mass production. A way to express in the most labor intensive format.
A San Francisco–based art practice making prints, books, and objects that expand your relationship with luck, connection, and the present moment.
"I release what holds me back."
"I am safe in my own energy."
"I move with what flows to me."
"Opportunities find me."
"I own all of who I am."
"I stay the course."
I was observing daily life and writing essays when these started appearing. Blueprints for machines I dream about, and for the utopia I'm working toward. Each one could go in many directions. Do any of these resonate? Email me to collab.
60 real-world missions. One a day. Logged live.
Each day, tear off a mission from the book and do it. Scan the QR code on the back to log your action to the global feed — a live record of strangers completing small acts of curiosity, connection, and presence around the world.
The feed is a collective document. Every entry is someone who stepped outside their routine for a moment and let the universe play through them.
Start a conversation. Ask deeper. Let it go where it goes.
Artist based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Working across internet culture, the handmade, and the space where physical and digital experience meet.
Her work reveals beauty in the ugly, surfaces the unknown, rediscovers the forgotten. It is a resistance against the violence of sameness, the flattening that comes from the pervasiveness of social media. Art is thought experiment, a way to ask questions, think out loud, and make friends.
Past life: helped people build mobile games and MMORPGs. Trained in Industrial Design at KAIST (BS) and Interactive Telecommunications at NYU's ITP (MPS).
Find her somewhere in San Francisco with guitar in hand, dog Max beside me, putting up posters about what it means to be lucky. She reads about philosophy obsessively, ancient to contemporary, and love a good conversation about simulacrum, what AI is doing to art, and where the two meet.
I write and paint as a way of staying with things a little longer.
