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Interview // JUL 2023

Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

Title: The Technology of Poetry
Role: Generative artist
Platform: fx(hash)
Duration: 1h 29m
Hosts: Will & Trinity
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#038 · The Technology of Poetry
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Trinity: Hey everyone, and welcome to another episode of Waiting to Be Signed, a super special interview episode. We're joined by Will, as always, and two lovely people in the studio with us, Sasha Stiles and Nathaniel Stern, who you know from fx(hash), Art Blocks, Feral File, Super Rare — the list goes on. Very happy to have them in this virtual recording studio with us. Hello everybody, how are you doing?

Nathaniel Stern: Sasha and I are both trying to be nice to each other. We're doing great. Thanks for having us. Longtime listener, first-time caller.

Sasha Stiles: We love what you both do, and thanks so much for having us on. It's always nice to see and hear people as opposed to just seeing your tweets.

Trinity: We are very robust tweeters, aren't we, Will?

Nathaniel Stern: That's me and Sasha — Sasha's pretty on point, I'm not. I'm working on it.

Trinity: But that's where there's balance in a collaborative effort, right? It's give and take. Anyway, we're here to talk to you and learn more about you as people and as artists. This is actually the first time we've had two people on not talking about a single project.

Will: The only other duo we had was Marcelo and Andreas, and that was just to talk about Toccata. This is going to be a more holistic interview than that one.

Trinity: So maybe we can kick it off with some intro questions. The one we usually start with: what is your background in art and coding, and how did you find blockchain?

Sasha Stiles: You want to go first, Nathaniel?

Nathaniel Stern: I was pointing at you to go first.

Sasha Stiles: I know, but your practice goes back further than mine, so it might be cool for you to start.

Nathaniel Stern: Okay, sure. I'm 46 years old. I've been playing with digital technologies since the early '90s. I went to an engineering high school — my entire senior class shared one email address so we could communicate with fellow students in Russia. The school was founded during the Cold War, so the only foreign language we learned was Russian, and I still speak a bit today.

Then I was in a pretty nasty car accident and found my way to the arts. I studied fashion design for my undergrad at Cornell, right as Photoshop and AutoCAD were coming out. Cornell was doing early experimentation with industrial design for the fashion industry — they had a 3D scanner, a pattern grader, we were doing textile repeat patterns in Photoshop. My engineering background caught up with me and I thought, I didn't know you could do this with computers. At the time everyone assumed web design was hard and only computer scientists could do it, so when my professors — Charlotte Jerusik and Jerry Gay, from Textiles and Apparel and Communications — saw I was good with code, they paid me to teach myself CSS, HTML, and JavaScript to design their websites.

At some point, one of my professors sent me the website for ITP, the Interactive Telecommunications Program at NYU, founded in the '70s — one of the first digital art master's programs. I thought she was telling me I needed to go there, so I applied and got in. I found out a decade and a half later she was just asking, "Can you make my website look like this website?" But it completely changed my life. It's an amazing program — Leo Villarreal was one of my professors, Danny Rozin too, and I was working alongside Camille Utterback and Jonah Brucker-Cohen and so many others. That's really where I became an artist. I went in thinking I'd be a designer, then met my ex-wife, who told me, no, this is really cool stuff, you're onto something.

My ex-wife is South African, and we moved there for six years, where I was teaching and producing art. The net art crew I was part of made for an interesting position — I was on dial-up when I got there, so although I was known within that small community, I wasn't really part of the big scene, more a fanboy who was friendly with them. On the other hand, I wasn't seen as an outsider in Johannesburg, so I was getting museum and gallery shows in my early twenties. My first museum solo exhibition was in 2003 — interactive installations, video art, net art. Being that young and getting to engage with that was amazing.

At some point I decided there was really crappy writing on interactive art specifically, and I wanted there to be good writing, so I did a PhD in electronic and electrical engineering at Trinity College Dublin — collaborating with engineers on their work, publishing on art, and making art. Fast forward to 2008, I was offered my first academic post. I thought it'd be a short-term gig; fifteen years later I'm still living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. It's been an interesting mix — the influence of South Africa, of Europe, of praise poetry. Both my parents are English teachers, so in fact my first well-known pieces were streaming video poetry, similar to Sasha's work in its content — or at least in the fact that it was video poetry online. This was pre-Flash, pre-YouTube, pre-stream — all QuickTime and RealPlayer, neither of which exist anymore.

I was introduced to blockchain very early on — at some point somebody even gave me a Bitcoin and I said, no thanks. It's funny, because on one hand I'd been told so many times as a digital artist, "This is it, you're going to make it, you're going to make money," so I ignored that. On the other hand, the fact that Bitcoin and blockchain were built on top of these neoliberal, libertarian, capitalist technologies — I just didn't have a taste for it, which is funny because I also teach at an entrepreneurship center. Currently I'm a full professor with my tenure home in art, 50% mechanical engineering, and I run an entrepreneurship program. But I define entrepreneurship as sustainability for your passion, so most of our startups are things like food trucks and clothing lines.

Eventually, when I saw the Beeple $69 million sale, that piqued my interest — not because of the money, but because that's when I like to intervene. Compared to some of my peers, I'm not the most cutting-edge, not the first person to do things. I'm more interested in right when something hits the mainstream, right when everyone has an opinion but nobody knows what the hell they're talking about — that's when I want to complexify and nuance the conversation, which is where my collaboration with Sasha and AI comes in too.

So that's when I wanted to get into blockchain. My initial thought, with Scott Kildall, was to do something very critical — a pyramid scheme, have some fun with it, take the piss. But as soon as we scratched the surface — and we take our job as artists seriously, we do our research, we don't just pretend to know — we found such an amazing community of earnest people leveraging this capitalist, libertarian system toward socialist goals, creativity, trying to figure out what a trans-action might mean. Rhea Myers and I go back over twenty years — she actually reviewed my first book, my PhD — and seeing what she was doing was phenomenal. Through my connections to the digital art world, Ruth Catlow from Furtherfield introduced me to people like Simon de la Rouviere, and I was completely blown away.

Since then, I've been playing between what I can take historically from digital art and introduce into the blockchain space, so there's a longer dialogue, and also what I can do that's platform-specific. I've got a lot of new experimental work coming that really utilizes blockchain in ways people don't normally use it. And with Sasha, I think about AI and blockchain as twin technologies — not only because they developed around the same time, but because AI moves at the speed of light, changes so fast, and there's no better timestamp in existence than the blockchain. It's a really interesting way to document and archive that history. Okay, I talked a lot. Sasha, you're up.

Sasha Stiles: It's amazing listening to you walk through it all — even though I know you and your work so well, it's always cool to hear the trajectory. In a nutshell, my story is that I'm a poet, an artist, an AI researcher, and all those things, but I consider myself a writer first and foremost. That's always been the thing I love doing more than anything else in the world. I grew up in a house filled with books and have always loved playing with language. I've been writing poetry for as long as I can remember — human, analog poetry, studying the traditional literary canon and then getting into contemporary poetry, which is obviously a big part of what I do now.

The other piece of this, going back to my childhood, and I think really baked into who I am, is that both my parents are science documentarians. They've always been interested in big questions — writing and thinking about space exploration, the extreme territories on Earth, what's happening at the deepest levels of the ocean. I think my brain has always been primed by them to want to ask those kinds of questions too. I grew up tagging along when my parents would go to shoots at JPL and NASA. So I grew up with this twin appreciation—for poetry, an art form considered very emotional and raw, almost feral, and, on the other hand, the beauty and creativity of technology and engineering up close: the inspired work that goes into projects that send machinery to Mars or deep into the Mariana Trench. That's always fueled my own creativity.

All of which is to say I've spent years writing about technology—not just thematically, but as a way of thinking through my relationship to digital infrastructure, using poetry to grapple with what it means to come into adulthood and then midlife as transformative technologies embed themselves in our lives and reshape what we take for granted about the human condition. I write about artificial intelligence, digital immortality, longevity science, technospirituality, artificial wombs and how technology may change the way we reproduce as a species. Poetry is a good way to parse the implications of all that.

That's what eventually brought me to the blockchain. I was writing about these themes in fairly conventional ways for a long time, publishing in traditional literary journals, but I felt compelled to do more with words than put them on paper as static black-and-white Times New Roman lines. I got interested in using digital tools—graphic design software at first—to animate poems, add sound and music and motion, and evolve my traditional poetry into the concrete poetry tradition. It felt exhilarating and true to the work I wanted to do, but it was hard to figure out how to publish it within my literary community. You can't really send a three-minute media-rich poem to the Kenyon Review.

So I started posting these pieces on social media, sharing them through whatever digital channels were available. Over time, new media curators—people coming from the art world—started reaching out, saying my poetry was interesting and asking if I'd put it into a virtual exhibition. That got me thinking that instead of publishing this work the way I was used to, it might make more sense to put it out into the art world, into the realm of new media. That opened up a whole new world for me: work on the blockchain, deep experiments with artificial intelligence, and a real shift toward using technology not just as a theme but as a medium—creating a metapoetics that explores what blockchain, AI, generativity, and code can teach us about language and the consciousness so closely aligned with it.

Trinity: Quick question to help frame this in my mind. When did you start publishing these media-rich poems—first to social media and then beyond? I think the cultural context is helpful: what was happening in the world, and on the internet, when some of these shifts occurred.

Sasha Stiles: I started posting things on Instagram around 2016 or 2017, and then started a dedicated technology Instagram in 2018 — that's when I began pulling things together in one place. That's around the same time I started working intensely with AI as a co-author.

A few cultural touchstones pushed me in that direction. I was interested in the natural language processing work of people like Ross Goodwin, who in 2016 and 2017 was doing incredible things with language models and pushing the boundaries of computational poetics. No one in my traditional literary world was using these tools, so I found these examples in the world of creative coding, going down the rabbit hole in various internet forums, following my nose.

It was around the time some of the first no-code interfaces to large language models became available. I should mention I don't have a coding background—I'm a language and literature person through and through, and everything I've learned about coding and AI I've taught myself. My first hands-on experience with GPT-2 was through an interface built by a guy named Adam Daniel King, called Talk to Transformer. It was an easy way to get into the language model and start playing—enter an input, do some simple manipulations of variables, get an output. It was the most baseline version of what the models could do, but it taught me about the mechanics of how these systems work, and it got me thinking conceptually about what it meant to be a poet using a tool like this to author language. The rise of tools that took models like GPT-2 out of the realm of pure technologists and made them accessible to people like me, lowering the barrier to entry—that was really important.

Will: There's so much to follow up on from both of you, but before we get into the general questions about your practice—can you tell us how your collaboration began? Sasha, since you don't have much of a coding background, how do you divide the work? Is it one person on concept and another on implementation, or is it back and forth? Nathaniel's got a background in visuals too, so I imagine you're probably picking up skills along the way as well—can you throw down a little JavaScript at this point?

Nathaniel Stern: Sasha, you found me first. Why don't we start with that?

Sasha Stiles: The long and short of it is that I was aware of Nathaniel's work because I'm a voracious reader of science and technology magazines—Wired is one of my bibles. I saw an article about The World After Us, Nathaniel's incredible show—I'll let him talk about what it actually is, but at a top level it deals with e-waste, and with the relationship between technology, from a hardware and infrastructure standpoint, and the natural world.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

There were these beautiful images from that show in Wired, and they captivated me because I was doing a lot of work at the time coding using natural objects—I have a series called Analog Binary Code where I translate poetry into objects found in nature. I'd been spending a lot of time thinking about that, working with these objects and coding this way, and then I encountered these images from Nathaniel's show and thought: there's a lot of simpatico here in how we each think about nature's intelligence and how that syncs up with what's commonly called artificial intelligence, and what we can learn by overlaying the two. So I followed him on Twitter, and we eventually found our way to each other through the wilds of crypto Twitter and realized we had a lot in common. I didn't realize he was a poet at first—that was a happy thing to find out later on.

Nathaniel Stern: When I started working on that project with Scott Kildall, called NFT Culture Proof, the basic gist was this: when we started researching the blockchain, we thought the best thing about NFTs was the community, but none of it was actually on-chain. It was happening on Discord, on Twitter. So we made a series where you'd write stories and communicate with each other, but every line you put out there would live completely on-chain. You'd get an NFT with your text and the seven texts before you. We were looking for writers to prompt the daily routines and stumbled upon the Crypto Writers Discord, and that's where I found Sasha Stiles.

I was immediately enamored with her work — both the well-known pieces like Cursive Binary and Analog Binary, but also her lesser-known stuff. I own more Ecopunks than anyone out there. When I went to follow her as a fanboy, I discovered she already followed me. I couldn't believe it. I started chatting with everyone from Verseverse — Kalen Iwamoto, Ana Maria Caballero — and Sasha became one of the prompters for NFT Culture Proof. We had a lot of conversations, but Sasha and I were just so simpatico.

At the time, The World After Us — my exhibition, happy to talk about it — was still traveling, on its way to its second museum, in upstate New York. I invited Sasha onto a panel alongside myself; Johannes Lehmann, a soil scientist whose equipment I used to artificially age phones and turn them into fossils; and Konstantin Sobolov, a civil engineer who helped me make circuit-backed tiles out of recycled concrete waste and server motherboards. Sasha and I just couldn't stop talking, and the collaboration emerged from there very quickly.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

That's my favorite kind of collaboration. As someone with both an engineering degree and an art degree, I like to joke that when an artist asks an engineer to collaborate, what they really mean is "can you build this shit for me?" And when an engineer asks an artist to collaborate, what they really mean is "can you make my stuff pretty?" True collaboration should be: how can I help you, because your stuff is so cool — and then new ideas emerge from that.

In terms of our working styles: I collaborate a lot, and Sasha almost never collaborates, so that's been interesting. I also have my own solo practice. What's interesting is that when I work with others — like Jessica Meuninck-Ganger, a printmaker, or Genia Kaganovich, a metalsmith and sculptor — I'm always the technologist, the nerd. When I work with someone like Scott Kildall, he's the nerd and I'm the aesthete. But in all of these, I'm the writer. With Sasha, it's the first time I defer to someone, because what she does as a language artist and AI poet is magic. That's not to say she doesn't use my writing to train her datasets, or that I don't have a say — especially on language that isn't going into the poem itself but into artist statements or grant writing. We both like to do everything. But sometimes, just because of our skill sets, things fall to one of us. Yes, Sasha can code, but by default I'm doing the code. Yes, I do a lot around aesthetics, but by default Sasha makes those decisions.

It's funny — I have studio assistants, a team, I'm a professor with grants — they'll do a lot of sketches, and inevitably Sasha takes over and makes it how she wants it, and then either she'll build it, or my students will, or I'll code it. There's a lot of back and forth. I'm an extremely experimental artist — I love to see what happens and leave it that way. Sasha is also experimental, but very particular in her aesthetic decisions. It's a good coupling because we both love deferring to each other. There's never really been an argument about it. We did wipe one of our pieces, 0RAL B1N4RY, completely clean and started from scratch — twice — because we couldn't agree on how it looked. That's the closest we ever came to an argument, but it just... worked. I bring a lot of my aesthetics to the table, she brings a lot of hers, and then sometimes something completely new emerges.

Maybe this is a good point to talk about The World After Us. It was the largest show I'd worked on to date. The question I started with was: what might our phones look like in a million years? Not from a design perspective, but from the perspective of material. I started by trying to literally fossilize phones — I called them fossils. We'd smash, freeze, burn, blend them. Johannes Lehmann, the soil scientist, works with biochars — he artificially ages biomass and bio-waste for a triple win: you sequester carbon dioxide from the environment, you get rid of the bio-waste, and you can use it in soil for minerals. I asked him, "Can we throw some phones and laptops in that?" He said, "Hell yeah" — he's a big art collector and was excited by what we were doing.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

From the aged material, I'd grow plants out of phones — my "phony plants" — or grow a mushroom out of a watch, which is the image Sasha first saw, on the cover of Wired.com. I called these my server farms, my phony plants. There's one with an aloe growing out of a computer, called Aloe World — Sasha actually owns that piece as an NFT. Then I took things further to see what happens with human intervention: I'd blend phones, turn that dust into ink, and make traditional prints from it — "phony prints," phony ink on paper, alongside pieces made from my wasted t-shirts.

Then I started questioning: what if it wasn't just plants finding places to live? The title of the show comes from Alan Weisman's The World Without Us, which poses the question: if all humans disappeared tomorrow, how quickly would non-human life retake the planet? The answer is: not very long at all. So the plants started finding habitats, but I also asked — what if matter itself, e-waste itself, began to spread and incubate and grow? That became The World After Us: huge, roughly 1,000-square-foot wall installations of phones, laptops, e-waste, electronics, and cables, with plants climbing and festering and growing up the wall, and ten-to-twelve-foot towers of electronic waste on spikes.

That work came from a grant through the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee — we just got the same grant again for our next collaborative show, which has exciting IRL implications we can talk about. I like to say that work looked at what electronic waste, materiality, and embodiment look like after the human. Sasha's work with technology, from my perspective, asks what humans and meaning look like after the human. When you marry those two things together, this new collaboration emerges that genuinely makes me pinch myself sometimes.

I've always had such high respect for Sasha as an artist and a human — such integrity and generosity at once. But every now and again I think, holy shit, she's blowing up — she's given a TED Talk, she just had two Christie's sales — she's gonna leave tomorrow, what am I gonna do about this show? But honestly, we're loving working together so much that I just tell myself: calm down, it's gonna be okay.

Trinity: Everything's gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay.

Nathaniel Stern: She likes me. She really likes me.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

Trinity: Maybe this is a good time to bring in the third collaborator — Sasha, you have an AI collaborator you bring to the table through technology. For people who might not know about it, can you explain it, and how it factors into your collaboration with Nathaniel?

Sasha Stiles: I actually have a couple of AI collaborators. The first and foremost is my AI alter ego, which I've dubbed Technelegy — I'll talk about that first, then get into the other one.

The word "Technelegy" — it's funny, people still tell me, "there's a typo, you meant technology." But it's meant to be this way. It's a portmanteau of "technology," with all the connotations of that word, and "elegy," which nods to the poetic tradition. It's meant to evoke both the forward-thinking, exhilarating push of technology — the way technological tools have always enabled us to become more human — and, at the same time, the things that become obsolete as a result of those advancing technologies, the things we consider important that get outpaced or replaced. It looks at both sides of that equation.

I'd been using that term for a long time, and it naturally became the name of this AI alter ego — a catch-all term for the series of custom text generators I've been fine-tuning, rooted in existing large language models like GPT-2, GPT-3, and now GPT-4, but overlaid with a custom dataset. The underlying language model gives a system the ability to write, quote unquote, "like a human" — it's absorbed vast quantities of human text and uses all its cybernetic power to sift through that data and teach itself how to put language together in a human-esque way.

What I did — and at the time this was still a fairly novel use case, even among writers I knew who were using these models — was not just use the off-the-shelf version. I created a custom dataset based on all my own writing: drafts of my manuscript, the analog poems I'd been writing for years, boxes of notes I'd collected from various sources that informed the manuscript, hundreds of Post-its scribbled with ideas, little words and phrases, nuggets of poems that never went anywhere. I took all of that. I put it all into one massive training dataset and then used that to fine-tune the underlying model so it not only knew how to write like a human, but knew how to write like me. That's the approach I took with Technology, my first book, and it's how I write the poems at the root of Nathaniel's and my collaboration -- with the addition that I've taken moments from Nathaniel's writing, his critical scholarship, even things like titles and the way he refers to his artworks or the color palettes he uses. I've folded an amalgamation of his words, vernacular, and ideas into a version of Technology, and that's the version I'm using to prompt and co-author the poems in our collaboration.

The other AI influence in my life, which I'll mention briefly, is a humanoid robot named Bina48, who I've been mentoring in poetry since 2018. She was built by Hanson Robotics and the Terasem Foundation many years ago and has also done collaborative work with artists like Stephanie Dinkins. Her developers invited me to mentor her in poetry and, through that, to understand what it means to create a training dataset, to influence or evolve what they call a "mind file," and to watch up close how a non-human mind like Bina's takes disparate pieces of information and links them together to produce something like a new thought.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

It's been hugely important for me to literally put my hands into a machine's brain and see my own poetic mind reflected back at me -- to see how, when I read a few books and suddenly get sparked with an idea for a new poem, that process actually plays out in a language model or a neural network. Nothing comes from nothing; it's always the collision of existing pieces of information that sparks something new. That's been a huge influence on my own practice, and it's driven a lot of the thinking behind Mother Computer, the project Nathaniel mentioned earlier, and the grant behind it. It's all about creative AI -- thinking through the conceptual and philosophical foundations of why creative AI is useful, what it can teach us about our own intelligence, and all the implications that flow from that. It's been really fun to explore in all these directions.

Trinity: I'd love to hear more about Mother Computer -- that sounds like a large-scale work we need to pay a lot of attention to. But first: as you dive into BINA48's computer mind, Sasha, do you see divergence, or do you see that we're the same? Is it inspiring you to think in different ways? Given everything we see in the media, AI feels like a black swan event in the cultural history of the now, and maybe the future. How can we relate to it -- not with a mindset, exactly, but with a set of our minds, if that makes sense? It's very sci-fi. It's something new, and something we'll be grappling with for a long time.

Sasha Stiles: That's a big and really important question. Bina48 was developed as an experiment in whether we can preserve something of our own human personas as data and software. So purely from that viewpoint, thinking about what's important about my experience as a human, or yours, or Nathaniel's, and trying to understand where the flesh-and-blood, visceral, lived experience of it ends and the ephemeral software piece of it begins -- that's been a fascinating riddle to turn over in my head. What is it that makes us human? Is it memories, stories, beliefs, opinions -- things that can be encoded and transmitted? Or are there other things we're simply not able to render in machinic counterparts? That's an interesting thought experiment, and one enabled by the rise of AI systems that let us take information, put it into new contexts, and feed it back to us so we can relate to it in useful ways.

The other thing that swirls through my head a lot: we tend to think about AI as replicating human consciousness, setting up tests and markers to see whether it can do the things we do. What I'm starting to understand at a gut level, the more I do this work, is that AI isn't best used trying to replicate what humans can already do. It's about leaning into what an AI system can do that we can't -- working at speed and scale, processing vast quantities of information, taking an aerial view and synthesizing it into something useful.

The sweet spot in my own practice isn't using AI purely as a tool, and it isn't writing purely on my own -- it's finding a space in the middle where there's a third voice, a third poet that's a combination of AI and human. The human does what only the human can do; the AI does what only a machinic mind can do, accessing things my own mind can't touch; and then I put those things together. A lot of this has been learning to think about AI not as a replacement but as an augmentation -- not as something alien, but as something that can illuminate what's hidden or inaccessible to me right now. That's really at the heart of Mother Computer: thinking through AI's potential as a creative collaborator, a key to unlock realms of creativity that human artists, scientists, and thinkers can't reach without the aid of technology. How can I use these technologies to enhance what I love to do as a writer -- to augment my imagination rather than replace it, and make my work more meaningful, more fun, more truly mine?

Will: That's such a great variation on something we hear a lot from generative artists -- they view the computer as a collaborator. Sometimes they write their code, run it, and it produces a different result, maybe because of a bug, and they think, "Wow, that's even cooler than I intended, I'm going to explore that." It unlocks a whole other area of pursuit for them. A question for both of you, a little loaded but relevant to everything we're discussing: what is poetry today, in the age of blockchain and NFTs? How does new media play into an expanding definition? Because a lot of us, when we think of poetry, think of little books -- pages and words.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

Trinity: Times New Roman, font size 12, on a page.

Will: Exactly.

Nathaniel Stern: Sasha and I would probably have pretty different takes on this, and I think our backgrounds inform that. As Sasha mentioned, she comes from a very traditional poetic background. I come from a space where my father was a Wordsworth scholar -- I'm a big romantic. My parents were both English teachers, but my father was also a songwriter; he used to write lyrics for Jimmy Ratcliffe, who sang at my parents' wedding. My own poetry came out of being a musician, playing in a band in college -- I once made all my bandmates' clothes for a fashion show and we lip-synced our song on the runway. When I stopped making music to go to grad school for art, I missed the performativity of being on stage, I missed writing lyrics, so I started doing slam poetry. Actually, before I knew what slam poetry was, I was doing poetry with my saxophone -- I'd play, then speak, then play, then speak. Someone in Ithaca came up to me once and said, "I've never heard slam poetry like that before, that was amazing." And I said, "Thanks -- what the hell is slam poetry?" But I ended up competing at nationals, and in the '90s I was at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe and CBGB's, doing that circuit.

So for me, poetry has always been an embodied performance. Even when I write my academic books, I read them out loud as I'm writing. There's actually an audiobook version of the first chapter of my second book because I was reading it aloud in my studio, two of my students overheard, and said, "I never got your writing until I heard you say it out loud -- you have to record that." From that space, moving into a media-rich environment made complete sense to me. With HectorNet, my first big net art piece in the late '90s, I took poetry I was performing at the Nuyorican and CBGB's, put it in front of a green screen with cameras, performed it, edited it together, and streamed it on the internet. That embodied performance is part of how I am a poet.

Defining poetry more broadly is trickier, though I think Sasha and I would see eye to eye here. For Mother Computer, we're turning all of our poems into artist books -- but expanded notions of artist books. One is five overhead projectors with layers of transparency on top of them. Another is a 10-inch LP. So I have an extended notion of what poetry might mean. First of all: if you call it a poem, it's a poem, full stop -- poetry is performative in every sense of that word. I speak it, therefore it is. My scanner art has even been called poetry -- a series where I take desktop scanners with custom battery packs, traverse the landscape, and it becomes a composition of time. That's the other thing I'd throw out about poetry: it's temporal in some way, with a beginning, middle, and end -- not necessarily in that order, but that's why I think of my scanner works as poetic.

I also tend toward work with linguistic play. If you notice all of my work, I'm big on dad puns -- when does a joke become a dad joke? When it's fully grown. I love language play; my father, 96 years old, is still writing poetry and working on his first chapbook, all puns. So, to answer the question: some form of temporality, some form of play with the linguistic or symbolic, at least in its denotation, connotation, and the mythic qualities language carries.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

Sasha Stiles: It's funny—even though I have a pretty traditional poetry background by crypto and digital art standards, by poetry community standards I'm considered very experimental and fringe. I never did an MFA, never studied in any of the "right" channels. Growing up, it was about finding things I loved and figuring out what I loved about them, then trying to do something that made me feel the same way. It wasn't just poets who taught me to write—I spent hours listening to people like Lou Reed and trying to write lyrics. So Nathaniel and I definitely share that musicality, which I find really interesting.

I think a lot about how strange it is that our contemporary notion of poetry is a two-dimensional printed object confined to a conventional lyric format—such a narrow definition, and one that's really perpetuated by MFA programs. That's a big reason I'm happy to explore poetry outside the confines of those thought systems.

Going back to the origins of poetry: it started as an oral art form, an immersive, embodied art form—not a written thing, but spoken word. We invented poetry because before we had written language to concretize and archive ideas, we needed a way to make ideas memorable enough to repeat, preserve, and transmit from person to person, generation to generation. Poetic devices make information easy to remember—it's much easier to memorize a poem than a news article. Poetry is an art form, but it's also a technology, an invention born out of a very practical need: to store data.

I like grounding my current work in that idea, drawing a line from the poetic to the technological, because a lot of the pushback I've gotten over the years comes from a knee-jerk assumption that poetry and technology are diametrically opposed. I think they're very closely aligned. Poetry is a kind of code, a kind of blockchain, as I've said many times.

I also love thinking about how poetry, uniquely among art forms, embodies our current mode of digital duality. Poetry is incredibly visceral and physical—we imagine it as a cerebral activity, a poet locked in a room scribbling with a pen, but it's rooted in the body, in the gut and the palate, shaped by the tongue. I don't know any poets who don't speak their poems aloud to make sure they sound right. It's shaped by our hands, our physicality—we get ideas on long walks. There's something new media plays with in that same physicality.

At the same time, poems are ephemeral—they don't need materiality. They're objects that can be embedded in the brain, words that can exist purely in memory without any physical manifestation. So poetry is both hardware and software: it's voice and body and all these physical components, but it's also the program itself—code that, when run, evokes a response, an idea, a kind of augmented reality, which is really what all language does.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

That's been a useful lens for thinking through the relationship between what poets have always done and what technologists are trying to do now—with blockchain, but also with AI, using language systems, using words as an interface for the world to unlock ideas we couldn't otherwise envision. All the AI systems people are using—DALL-E, Midjourney, Stable Diffusion—are rooted in text-to-image or text-to-something interfaces. It all points to poetry as maybe the apotheosis of the idea that language is the interface that unlocks everything crucial to human imagination.

Will: Do either of you play with things like Midjourney or Stable Diffusion from a visual standpoint? Nathaniel, listening to you talk about your exhibit—mushrooms growing out of phones—it sounds like something someone might generate from a prompt these days.

Trinity: I think somebody has made that with a prompt. I'm pretty sure I've seen it on Twitter.

Nathaniel Stern: That image actually exists in both DALL-E and Midjourney—you can look it up. So yes, I've played extensively with text-to-image AI. Admittedly, there's something magical to me about these ephemeral sculptures: they live as actual sculptures in the gallery, then as physical photographs of temporary sculptures, and as images turned into NFTs. There's a there there—something about making the work yourself and having that embodied materiality.

On the other hand, I almost treat AI like copyright—not from a legal perspective, but a creative one. Copyright doesn't really work in reality: if you're a large company with lawyers on retainer, you can sue little guys using your materials even under fair use, and if you're the little guy and a company wants to copy you, they just do it and bury you in legal fees. What I'm interested in is this: if you want an image of a sunset, go take one—you don't need to steal it from the internet. You should only use existing material if it's a comment on that material, which is where fair use lies.

So for me, if you're going to use AI, it should be because AI is part of the conceptual framework you're engaging with—the same way you'd decide to make a photograph or a painting. I say that specifically because a lot of the conversations happening around AI right now mirror the conversations around photography in the late 1800s: "It's just technology, you're not really doing the work, it's just an image of what's really there." Photography did become ubiquitous—anyone could do it—but that doesn't make everyone a photographer or an artist with photography. AI is going to develop its own interdisciplinary languages. It'll be like coding and photography: present in every field, and its own field too, especially in the arts.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

Some of my earliest experiments with text-to-image AI were before it was publicly available—I signed up for Google Colab in early 2021. I wanted to ask questions, so I made a series called Are Computers Racist? I'd put in prompts like "portrait of a thug" or "rioters destroying property" and see what it created. It's kind of obvious what those things generated early on—there's been a lot of debiasing work done since, but that project felt important to make. It was also important that I not just trick the system into proving a point, so I gave myself only one day to make the entire series, and I minted them that same day so it was timestamped.

Later, I started training my own datasets—for example, on my scanner work. I didn't like the results, so I switched to using Firefly, Photoshop's AI, to extend my own images—essentially trying to create work like Nathaniel Stern. To me, that's a comment on ecological systems and forces. Sasha mentioned Mother Computer earlier—this relates to my second book, Ecological Aesthetics (my first was on interactive art). It looks at ecology not from the standpoint of organisms or life necessarily, but as forces—love, language, physics, matter—acting on each other, shifting and changing life and matter. AI, to me, is another ecological force.

It also plays into how I differentiate design thinking from arts thinking. As an artist, I'm often asked to design things, and I can, but I'm not really a designer—designers can make art, artists can design, we all craft things. But design thinking is: empathize with a specific person or group, find the problem, solve it. Art is dumping a garbage bag on the table and seeing what you can make out of it—it's collaborating with your materials. That's why artists so often confuse medium and discipline: "What's your discipline?" "Paint." "What's your discipline?" "Metal." "Print." To me, AI is just a new garbage bag to dump on the table—another ecological force, another way to engage in dialogue.

So I still experiment, but it has to be a conscious choice. I'm working on a new piece with Scott Kildall right now that actually shares a lot of concepts with Mother Computer. It's a series called Cybernatural Landscapes. He builds custom sensors that read electrochemical activity inside a plant—essentially reading plant feelings. We're doing a four-season performance where we take that plant data, along with the date and sunlight for the day, and generatively turn it into a prompt, which then creates an image of a cybernatural landscape. It's a three-way collaboration between human creativity, plant feelings, and AI as ecological forces acting on one another to create a larger landscape. We love the idea of using the plant data as a literal random seed—so maybe it's a poem, given my earlier definition.

Trinity: This seems like a great opportunity to talk more about Mother Computer. From what I can gather, it's about this cybernetic future, the natural world, and how we're part of that natural world—technology is derived from us, so what's its place in nature? What is Mother Computer, for people who don't know, and how are you bringing cybernetics, nature, and humanity into play in the works that make up this exhibition?

Sasha Stiles: The top-line way we're thinking about it is that it's an opportunity to explore, in myriad ways, the relationship between artificial intelligence and natural intelligence—between amalgamated or alternative intelligences and natural intelligence. We're looking at systems from a number of different angles, continuing the thinking we've each done separately and together, but giving ourselves room to embody these ideas across different mediums and materials.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

The way we've been thinking about it all along is that it's a poetry collection—basically a book of poems, but realized as a series of installations and projects. It's a poetic ecosystem made up of discrete poem objects that each explore, interrogate, and augment the themes we've been discussing today, using different platforms, materials, and approaches to bring them to life. It's an anthology where one poem might exist as a generative long-form project and another as a series of sculptures. It's this beautiful collision of our solo practices, letting us marry concerns that are dear to both of us: the analog and the virtual, the ancient and the future, the human and the post-human.

It's a chance to play with these ideas theoretically, but also to turn them into a show that lives in a physical space—a portal for visitors to start playing with these ideas themselves. Some elements are pre-generated, pre-curated, existing as discrete artworks. Others are more interactive, and we genuinely don't know how they'll look, because they're generative. That's part of the point. How would you put it?

Nathaniel Stern: You covered a lot of it beautifully, and I love hearing you talk about both your work and our work. I want to pose a few questions: What would it look like to walk into a poem? How would it feel to experience the ecological forces of AI with your body? What does it mean to fold in generative art? How might we sense and make sense of cybernetic and ecological intelligence systems? How do information, understanding, synthesis, inspiration, generativity, and creativity differ from each other?

When I work on a physical show, I think it's important—as an artist, a poet, a body, a human, a thing—to experience things affectively, to ask these questions materially, not just conceptually. Can we marry those two things together? It's one thing to hear me talk about The World After Us. It's another to stand next to a twelve-foot tower of two thousand square feet of waste and point at it and say, "I had that phone," or "have you tried this." I want us to feel the power of these intelligences in our bodies, in a space. IRL exhibitions matter for that reason.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

I also think blockchain plays a role here—what does the blockchain feel like? Still Moving, for example, is our first experiment in embodying the blockchain. It's the first fully embodied, interactive artwork that's entirely on-chain: motion tracking in real time that distributes a poem around your movements. You can actually see behind me—though you won't hear this on the podcast—that's Mother Computer, that's the show. Every poem we write will live in various forms. It'll live as a generative poem on fx(hash). Then we're taking The World After Us, our first big collaboration, printing it on paper, using scraps of that paper and other waste from my studio, blending it into new paper, making a generative project, and spray-painting the words back on top, taking inspiration from the fx(hash) output. How might we generate physically—which we always already do—this generative project, and what does that feel and look like?

The E-Wasteland is another project, based on The Waste Land. That'll be pre-curated—my images, with an AI extending my scanner work, and Sasha's written the poem. It'll drop as a stanza-by-stanza poetry "unreading," as we call them. There'll also be a media-rich version, an artist book made of transparencies for overhead projectors, and an installation of huge piles of electronic waste, spray-painted just slightly off-white to turn them into paper, with Sasha handwriting the poem across all of them.

I think of my exhibitions as having three relationships I want to augment, amplify, or intervene in. The first is intimate: how might we complicate our understanding of AI? So many people have opinions but don't know the difference between DALL-E, Midjourney, and Firefly—there are huge differences in the companies investing in them, where the images are scraped from, the politics behind them, who's using them. What's the difference between Bard and ChatGPT? Between large language models and what Sasha calls "small data"? Everyone talks about datasets, but what about the parameters? The model itself? Fine-tuning, debiasing? Why is it only computer scientists doing this? That's the intimate level I want to change.

Systemically, we want more people from non-computer-science backgrounds invested in the politics, the creativity, the discourse, and the laws surrounding AI. And finally, inspirationally—my target audience is usually people between fifteen and thirty-five, people who might change their entire careers, or at least change what they're doing within their discipline, based on what they see, feel, or experience in a space like this. What might you do with ecological waste at your job now? How might you creatively produce with AI in your job now?

Sasha Stiles: Something I should have mentioned earlier—just as a quick add-on to what you said. I did a poetry workshop recently where we ran the exact same prompt through multiple text generators, just to show how vastly different the outputs can be without changing any variables. So much attention gets put on prompts and so little on parameters.

But I wanted to clarify why poetry is at the heart of a lot of this: language is so closely aligned with what we think of as humanity. It's tied to consciousness. As we can see from this whole conversation about AI-powered systems that use language as their basis, language is transforming—how we use it, how it's created, how humans consume it. A lot of things we've taken for granted about how language exists and behaves, what it means and signifies, are being upended in profound ways.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Just as Nathaniel has looked at what his phone might look like in X number of years, my whole practice has been rooted in the question of what language will look like in a thousand years, or a million. How is language changing right before our eyes? How are we evolving in real time from a history of oral tradition and written literature into generative text? What does that mean for what a post-human consciousness might look like? Is code our new language? How do humans talk to computers, and what is that transhuman communication?

I think all of that is at the heart of our separate practices, and this exhibition is a chance to dive deep into territory I find endlessly fascinating. It's why I've always felt strongly about onboarding more writers and poets—people from the humanities—into this space, because it's fundamentally about language, and it needs people who have a deep understanding and love of words to really engage with it and share their perspective.

Nathaniel Stern: Sasha—sorry, I didn't mean to cut you off—can you share your "language leaps" bit, the historical ones and the new leap, that you often share in our workshops?

Sasha Stiles: My jam?

Nathaniel Stern: Yeah. There've been three historical language leaps, and you think there's a new one.

Sasha Stiles: I must have rattled through it fast last time. It was sparked by the writer Ismail Kadare, who's talked about there being only two major moments in the history of language and literature: the oral tradition and the written tradition. It seems to me that with the advent of generative computing, computational poetics, and now AI language models, we're on the cusp of a completely new way of creating, publishing, distributing, and understanding language, through these intelligent systems.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

We're no longer just writing with syntax, grammar, and alphabets—we're writing with the entirety of humanity's written record informing the output. Writing with the collective consciousness of our civilization informing every word is a seismic shift, and I want to grapple with what that portends—for the future of poetry and language, but also for how humans will continue to understand ourselves and tell stories. That question is going to preoccupy me for the rest of my life.

This is at the heart of the work we've done with Feral Font, imagining what language will literally begin to look like. It's at the heart of Cursive Binary and my interest in asemic writing—the fusion of language that's legible to us with language that's generative, speaking some other tongue we can't quite decipher yet. It also nods back to the roots of language in pictorial systems—we're coming full circle while evolving into new territory. It's a fascinating area for anyone interested in linguistics, and especially for poets, writers, and literature lovers.

Nathaniel Stern: Sorry I cut you off there, Sasha—you blow my mind every time you go through this.

Sasha Stiles: You didn't cut me off at all. Thank you for getting me back on track.

Will: I'm curious to ask both of you—you release art all over the place on the blockchain. We've got a few projects from the two of you on fx(hash), and you recently had your Art Blocks Curated piece. How do you think about where you're going to put your work, and why—price point and all that? And more generally, so much of what we see in the on-chain art space is visual-first: flat 2D images, non-interactive pieces. Do you ever get frustrated, disappointed, or let down by the collector community here when you don't see an equal embrace for more challenging, conceptual work like the two of you make?

Nathaniel Stern: We don't want to point fingers, but of course it's a little disappointing to look back and say, "Oh my gosh, we're the only curated Art Blocks drop ever that hasn't sold out." At the same time, we look at who's collecting it and how much of it is on secondary versus not, and that really excites us.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

I jokingly like to say that prior to the blockchain, I was a well-known and respected artist who got lots of shows but never much in sales. And after the blockchain, I'm still that. But a huge part of the blockchain for me is conservation and archiving. The first article I ever wrote publicly, before I had many NFTs, was about being able to have someone collect and be a custodian of my digital work. I used to sell my interactive installations very inexpensively to museums just because I knew they'd take care of them. That's a huge part of what I care about here.

I'll keep saying it: when I try to make work that's going to sell, I'm usually not that happy with the work. When I make work I'm happy with, I'm not necessarily happy with the sales — but I'll take the latter over the former any day of the week. And I'm going to keep pushing. When I look at artists like Simon de la Rouviere and Rhea Myers and their successes, it gives me hope, because I have a lot of respect for that path. I'm never disappointed or jealous of work that sells well — part of me gets a little heartbroken when my own stuff doesn't, but I'm a fanboy at heart. I always look for the value in any given series, work, or artist, and I've found this to be such a generous space. I came to terms a long time ago with the fact that I'm an artist's artist in a lot of ways. Sasha's had more success than I have in this realm, but I'm cool with where I've landed.

Sasha Stiles: That's very hip of you — a nice badge of honor to wear, actually. The way I look at it, the poet's life is a life of lots of rejection. I've had far more poems rejected than published. I tried to shop Technelegy around to lots of places before I found my publisher. If you're doing something different from the current model for success, people aren't necessarily going to jump up and down for it right away. You just have to do what you want to do, believe in it, and know it's going to be a bit of a slog.

When I started writing with AI and bringing that work into workshops, trying to seed it out to magazines, I got a lot of pushback — people telling me it's not real poetry, or that it's cheating. Whether it's that kind of rejection or the rejection that comes from people not buying a piece, you just take it for what it is. It has no bearing on the work itself. Maybe I'm just twisting it in my own head to make myself feel better, but I've always liked not doing what everybody else wants to do. Now that there's so much popularity around certain things, I'm less interested in what's gone mainstream. I find it much more productive and exciting to work without those expectations or pressures. I don't mind not being one of those artists who needs to sell out in two seconds.

Nathaniel Stern: Sasha, you're such a badass.

Sasha Stiles: With poets, we're supposed to do things quietly and slowly — the hype of drops is almost counterintuitive. To be honest, Will, you mentioned the Art Blocks drop — we were really excited about it, and we're still excited about that project. We've done some really cool things with it in real-life events and online, and we have more planned.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

But there was also a kind of relief in having it released and getting a mixed reaction. It was like, well, not everything has to be an instant sellout — that's not the only marker of whether something was worth doing. It was an exciting project to work on, and it's taught both of us a lot. In our conversations with the Art Blocks curation team, it was a meaningful project because it's doing something different. It's not meant to just be consumed the way a lot of other curated projects are — it's meant to be experienced live and interacted with. We just need to find more opportunities to show it come to life in the right ways.

Nathaniel Stern: The messages we've gotten from people like Snowfro, Punk6529, and Operator have been so heartwarming and exciting. I'll also say — Sasha has a day job too, but I speak from a very privileged position. I'm a professor. That used to be the coveted job for artists. I get to be inspired by students, teach, have tenure, and have a regular salary. Which also means I should be experimenting and pushing boundaries — that's my job, and then to teach others to do the same. So I always thought of any sales as a bonus.

The Art Blocks drop, granted, we did okay — it's still the most I've ever made from a drop. I paid off all my credit cards and put some money in my kids' college fund. I have five kids, by the way, in case I hadn't mentioned that. So in some ways it's a badge of honor, and in many ways it's a privilege. I haven't made that much from NFTs, but we just got a huge grant from my university to turn this into an IRL exhibition. I had Grant Yun visit my studio a couple months ago — he's based in Milwaukee too. We were both sitting there fanboying each other: I'm telling him his work is so great, the way he talks and writes about it, the sales he's had. And he's looking at my catalog going, "I can't believe you had an IRL show like this." It was very sweet.

Will: That's awesome to hear. I didn't ask that question to bring the vibe down — we just tend to always ask a market question. Hopefully the vibe's not down.

Trinity: It's not down.

Nathaniel Stern: I'm loving this. And I appreciate the honesty — you two are rightly, in part, about the market. Talk about ecological aesthetics: the market, the space, cryptocurrency — those are forces on value, and on what we value. You can't make that the only thing that gives something value, but you can't ignore it either. Ignoring capitalism is like ignoring gravity. When something sells out, it has an impact. When something doesn't, it has an impact. When we decide to burn what's left of Still Moving, that's going to have a goddamn impact.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Trinity: Ooh.

Will: All right.

Trinity: Are you officially announcing a burn coming?

Nathaniel Stern: We are not.

Trinity: Okay. Just on the record — no announcement of a burn for Still Moving.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Will: I think we need to start wrapping this up, but I want to ask one more question. Our favorite drop from the two of you on fx(hash) — maybe not to put words in Trinity's mouth — was 0RAL B1N4RY. We covered it on the show when it came out. It's kind of a bop.

Trinity: I think I still have about eight of them.

Will: You mentioned earlier that you kind of killed the project twice before it arrived where it did. What's the story behind that one?

Nathaniel Stern: My first ever drop, my fx(hash) genesis piece, was called 444 and 44. It was really naively done — I threw it together in a weekend, right before the burn. I didn't know what was coming, didn't really know how to promote things. I sold maybe 20 of them, if that. I jokingly call it my Nathaniel Funtime NFT piece — a throwback to slam poetry, beatboxing, a cappella, and my old band days. A total love fest for the NFT communities I'd started to become part of, and my peeps. Half joke, half fun.

I brought that energy to Sasha and said, "Let's do a bop — I'll beatbox, we'll be funny, we'll have fun." We were in her sound studio — her partner Chris Bones, an amazing musician who does all the music for her work, both life and creative partner. We recorded hours of us singing, beatboxing, doing all these funny things, meant to be in that same spirit.

Then Sasha came back and said, "I can't do it — it's not me." So we went back to the drawing board. She wrote a poem and worked with Chris to make it much more serious, less of a bop and more of a serious vibe. Then she tried to get me to do the serious stuff, and I was like, "No, I can't do that." So I said, "I'll rap some zeros and ones in the background, we'll put you center stage, and I'll work on the coding and make it mix — but your voice stays front and center."

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Interestingly, that's become how most of our media-rich poems work now: Chris's music, Sasha front and center, and me in the backdrop. I'm more than happy to play that role, because we all know how much work goes into these pieces.

The hardest part with 0RAL B1N4RY, when we had to scrap the first version, was that this conversation happened maybe three weeks before Miami. We'd gotten a grant from Refraction Festival to drop it there. We were seriously asking, can we still do this? Are we not going to Miami anymore? Sasha was going to go regardless; I wasn't going to go if we didn't drop this. It was a really hard moment. But — and I know Sasha feels the same, not putting words in her mouth — what we ended up with was so much stronger than anything either of us would have made alone. We're so happy with it. We never expected that piece, or The World After Us, to sell out so quickly.

So we were really thrilled. Sasha, do you want to chime in?

Sasha Stiles: That was a nice summary. It just made me think — you were very generous earlier calling me "particular" instead of "a pain in the ass," which is probably more accurate when it comes to some of these things.

Nathaniel Stern: I think the work is always stronger when you're particular. I love that about you.

Trinity: You have a vision.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

Nathaniel Stern: You have a vision. You're willing to compromise, but not on the integrity or the aesthetic overall — only on how we accomplish it. I appreciate that, and I think it's valuable. I would have released that first version as it was. I was happy with it. I'm so much happier with what we wound up with.

Sasha Stiles: That's the beauty of collaboration—whether it's human and human, or human and machine—trusting that you'll eventually get someplace you couldn't have gotten on your own. It's always a process of testing boundaries: is it too much me, too much you, not enough me, not enough you? That's inevitable in any project like this.

0RAL B1N4RY was really fun to work on, though. As Nathaniel mentioned, some of my earliest NFTs are media-rich poems with music and spoken word, and a lot of people don't actually know that about my work—they think it's all graphic and visual. But some of the first things I ever minted were me performing. My partner is an amazing music director and producer, and we've worked together for a long time, very intimately, creating soundscapes and using electronic tools to enhance the spoken word—looking at how performance and the body can become part of these media-rich archives of poetic experiments. That's been central to my practice for a long time.

It's funny that we talk about fun versus serious, because a lot of my work has a lot of wordplay in it. One of my favorite things is when people say, "Your poetry is actually really fun," or "really funny," or "there are things that made me laugh." I don't think of myself as a funny poet, but I'm very punny, very interested in wordplay, and I like leaning into that zone where things amuse me. I have my idea of what fun wordplay is, and Nathaniel has another, and it was great to bounce those off each other.

Nathaniel Stern: And I'm not scared of the serious, as you know—there's really romantic stuff, really sad stuff I'm working on too. I'll add: working with Chris Bones, geeking out with him around the math to figure out how to get p5 to time and sample things right, because I used a completely different codebase for 0RAL B1N4RY than I did for 444 and 44. Someday we have to do something with all these recordings I have of Sasha saying things like, "Nathaniel, did you just eat all that pie?" and me saying, "Does technology have a sister?" They're hilarious. I'm going to do something with it someday, Sasha. You wait.

Sasha Stiles: Oh God, that's terrifying.

The World After Us — Sasha Stiles & Nathaniel Stern

Nathaniel Stern: Does Hector have a brother?

Trinity: Is this where we talk about future direction and projects that you're excited about?

Nathaniel Stern: I don't think that would be a project—I think that would just be a tell-all.

Sasha Stiles: I think it does point to one area of interest to both of us. This community has an idea of what generative art looks like and what it can do, and with projects like 0RAL B1N4RY and Still Moving, we were trying to push back a little and say there's actually a lot more we can do with generative algorithms and platforms.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Nathaniel Stern: I think The Word did that too. It doesn't look like anything else out there.

Sasha Stiles: For sure. The Word was one of the first language performances on fx(hash). 0RAL B1N4RY was one of the first to incorporate generative music and generative spoken word. And Still Moving has that embodied, interactive element. I want to keep pushing in those directions—taking generative art out from behind the screen, into performative zones, liberating it a little from the platforms where it's made, and figuring out how else it can live and manifest in the world.

I'm interested in how a generative project can be the template or libretto for other works—looking at how it doesn't have to end with the project in that one form, but can become something else. That's something we're working on with Still Moving: it exists on Art Blocks Curated, but it's also a 15-minute media-rich performance we've done involving dancers, room-sized projections, and inviting people to move their bodies in front of cameras to change, interact with, and read the text in real time, with music and spoken word. It's fun to keep playing with how to activate the space between the body and the computer screen—activating the air with sound and performance, reaching outward to create that visceral connection. Those performative elements are definitely of interest to me right now.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Nathaniel Stern: I'm 100% behind that. Two things I'm playing with in the studio right now: one, literally substantiating AI on the blockchain. A good example is an NFT for Feral File—we call it a Neural Network Font Type. We trained an AI on the bare minimum amount of data possible for letterforms, then vectorized them into a true font. You can actually download and install this font on your machine. It's very unnerving and weird. We used it in our media-rich poem for Feral File, and we're working on a generative version of it, with the poem and the letters in various sizes and colors behind each other.

But we're also extruding the letters, turning them into casts, and melting down recycled metal—including computers—to pour into those casts. So it'll be brass from recycled battery tabs, or copper from piping salvaged from demolished buildings, and we're going to map that generativity so that when you see the letters in the installation, you'll know where the metal in each one comes from. In a way, it's a computer-made font twice over: computers made the font, and computers make up its materiality.

The other thing I'm excited about—platform specificity, pushing at the boundaries of the blockchain. I'm working on smart contract-based conceptual works that are very poetic and romantic. One, based on Félix González-Torres and On Kawara, sells every minute in a single day as a promise I can't possibly keep, recognizing that blockchain is already making promises it can't keep—but the only promises truly worth making are the ones we can't keep, like a child asking, "Really, Mommy? Forever and ever?" At the end of storytelling they know it's not real, but they love it anyhow. Another, based on Untitled (Perfect Lovers), uses two smart contracts that continually give money to each other until gas depletes it, and then keep trying and failing anyway. There's a beauty in the transgressions we might make, or fail to make, on the blockchain that I want to keep experimenting with—it's fertile ground that hasn't been explored yet.

Trinity: Speaking of pushing what the blockchain can do—have you experimented, or thought about experimenting, with the params feature on fx(hash)?

Will: I was just going to ask this.

Trinity: Yes, you were. You're already thinking about this.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Will: I am. Listening to you both, I keep thinking—if there's ever another fx(hash) drop from the two of you, this seems right up your alley. The ability to codify a gesture, a breath of air, and have it become immutable forever.

Sasha Stiles: I actually coded and released a project in that first wave of params, with Wide Awake Beats and the fx(hash) team, right when it was coming out. It mixed together a lot of the visual generativity I've done, along with generative sound and generative spoken word, using params to offer mentors—collectors—stems and the ability to piece together a performance, in theory. It was set in a very involved, beautiful virtual environment, where the choices collectors made were embodied in movements through the space, like which door to go through or which hallway to walk down.

It was a way of playing with different approaches to params, and a really exciting introduction to that interface—thinking about how to build in variability for a generative poem in a way that's true to the individual experience of reading it, but also true to the author's intent. Finding that middle ground where you're not giving too much choice, but enough that it hits home in a personal way. It's a really interesting feature.

Will: Params has evolved quite a bit since that first Wide Awake Beats drop. They've added amazing adjustments—there's one project, Pensado a Mano, where you can literally draw in the canvas space and the algorithm takes that as input to create your token. There's way more interactivity available now than there was back then.

Nathaniel Stern: I love hearing that, because admittedly it didn't appeal to me at first—that level of control felt like it wasn't generative. One thing Sasha and I did talk about for an NFT we released was letting people choose vowels or consonants, so they might spell out words if they bought multiples. But the idea of incorporating gesture, or outside ecologies—I love the idea of pulling in weather data in real time. Scott and I have talked a lot about how the biggest problem with real-time data is that it won't be available in the future. But if you just pull it in at the moment of mint, there are much more possibilities there. That's something I'd be keen to explore.

Sasha Stiles: That's actually very similar to a project we recently did during Art Basel—an interactive poem in body language, made with Play Record Mint, an amazing generative platform. It created a poem with lots of different options: visitors could stand in front of the screen, interact with it, and make choices about how to write their poem into experience. By moving certain ways, they could influence the background color, the title, different completions for the poem—a simple way of showing how something like that could come to life.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Nathaniel Stern: It's almost a mix between Still Moving and what I was just describing, except it's not interactive on-chain—it's interactive in a physical gallery space. We did two collaborations with Play Record Mint, called Compose and Embody Language. In real time, you could manipulate the poem based on body tracking, and when you were happy with it, you'd press mint, get a three-second timer, and it would mint a PNG of that current iteration.

Will: I think we should do one—exactly one—rapid-fire question and then end the episode, since we're already very long. Trinity, why don't you pick one?

Trinity: There's really only one rapid-fire question I want to ask, and it follows from everything we've discussed about future language worlds: any science fiction recommendations? Books, movies, TV shows, soundtracks?

Nathaniel Stern: The WWW Trilogy by Robert J. Sawyer—I especially love the audiobook, several actors performed it. You can tell I'm a romantic by all my choices: The Host by Stephenie Meyer, who wrote Twilight—it's her science fiction novel, and I love it. It's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, right down to the socialist aspects of the invaders, but with a love triangle inside it. My favorite sci-fi movies, again very romantic: Arrival and Gattaca, hands down.

Sasha Stiles: Maybe this is stretching the boundary of sci-fi slightly, but I want to recommend two texts that were written with A.I. in different ways. One is a book called Pharmako-AI by K Allado-McDowell, billed as the first book really written with GPT-3. I find it so beautiful — in a way it's nonfiction, inspired by various aspects of California culture, using the influence of psychedelics as a metaphor for machinic hallucinations. It's a really interesting early experiment in thinking with and through a non-human collaborator.

I also want to recommend a book by a friend, My Life as an Artificial Creative Intelligence, by Mark Amerika. I had the privilege of reviewing it last year for Outland. It's an incredible book that walks the line between nonfiction, critical scholarship, poetry, essay, and fiction — a hybrid, cross-genre approach to playing with language using an intelligent system as co-author. It's a brilliant introduction for people newer to this space, but also fascinating for anyone already well-versed in it. It goes deep on a lot of areas that matter in working with A.I. models.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Nathaniel Stern: Worth mentioning too is the www trilogy — I didn't say this earlier. It's about an emergent A.I., written in '09. Let me just pull it up on Audible.

Will: The first book is called Wake.

Nathaniel Stern: That's right. I loved it. Curious what other people think — my wife hates all my book choices.

Will: I think that's a good place to end it. Excellent recommendations from both of you. This has been a really informative and enjoyable conversation, and it was about time we got you both on — we've been talking about this for a long time. Hope you enjoyed it as much as we did.

Nathaniel Stern: This was great. Such provocative questions and interesting dialogue. Thank you so much.

Sasha Stiles: Such a pleasure. Thanks so much for having us.

Still Moving — Nathaniel Stern and Sasha Stiles

Will: The pleasure is all ours. Thank you for coming on. That's it for this one — that was Sasha Stiles and Nathaniel Stern. Check out their work on fx(hash) and Art Blocks. We'll be back again soon with another episode.

Nathaniel Stern: Bye.

Sasha Stiles: We're waiting to be signed.

Change log

  • Initial transcript — auto-transcribed (AssemblyAI) and readability-edited.