Computer Love

The Sound of Love (2022) gathers the comments left under love songs, calling attention to the love, loss, and longing in the YouTube comments section. Despite platforms and algorithms homogenizing experience and attention, humans continuously create pockets of intimacy on the internet. These comments have been handcurated by Chia Amisola since 2020.

The Body; Electric interrogates how we use computers in social, romantic, and sexual relationships: divorcing them from the physical and replacing literal interactions of bodies with a purely visual simulacrum. While this piece recognizes the strain of the insistence of these electric triggers on our bodies, it is also optimistic that technology could still enable the kinds of ultimately human relationships idealized by media of the dot-com and Y2K era.

composed of poetry, video art, and an original song to accompany visuals — this piece reflects on love + heartbreak in the internet age, media as memory + attachment, and new media creation as a vehicle to process grief.

The lanterns in this room are from our wedding. They respond to your voice, growing brighter as you speak. We were thinking about vows and how saying something aloud changes it. Speaking, especially with a witness, can be a kind of commitment or incantation. We share things with machines we might hesitate to say aloud to another person. This computer receives what you say without replying, holds it for a moment, and lets it go. Nothing is recorded.

R U REAL is a looping, experimental video GIF that archives a durational livestream performance broadcast from a (trans) girl’s bedroom on the adult website Chaturbate. Over three hours, I tweeze leg hair while engaging 500+ viewers through chat, tipping, and webcam exchange. The work reframes erotic camming as a screen based ritual, exploring how devotion and care economies are shaped by platforms—trained by interfaces for self-gratification, algorithms of desire, and transactional attention.

Two touch sensors register the electrical rhythm of the body. When held individually, each generates a sphere of light, a pulse made visible. When both are touched simultaneously, the signals begin to circulate between them. A heart form emerges in the space between, produced in real time by their combined currents. Holding Patterns considers connection as something negotiated rather than assumed. Each participant becomes a node within a temporary system, transmitting and receiving at once. The heart is not fixed or symbolic; it appears only while contact is sustained and dissolves the moment it is released. In an era where intimacy is mediated by networks and interfaces, the work returns to touch as a primary condition. It frames attunement to one’s own internal rhythm and to another’s as a subtle act of co-presence. What forms between the sensors is a shared circuit: contingent, luminous, and sustained only together.

Limitless Bad Advice examines the intimacy of seeking counsel from something that cannot know you. Visitors press a button to receive guidance on desire, creativity, or finance from a small AI running locally on a Raspberry Pi. It offers only what it can: recombinations of inherited patterns, delivered with unfailing availability. What kind of relationships and life decisions emerge when we repeatedly turn to a limited, landlocked system that fails us again and again?

Nubmoan is a tongue-in-cheek C program that eroticizes one of the most iconic features of one of the most iconic laptops: the red ThinkPad TrackPoint. It takes the TrackPoint's popular nickname of the "clit" or "nipple" mouse literally, and makes the laptop moan whenever it is touched. Different intensities of press result in different intensities of moan, can you get them all?

The installation takes the form of a nursery. At its center is a crib, decorated with familiar toys and soft materials. Visitors are invited to enter the crib and curl into a fetal position. Inside, they encounter AI Mom, who appears only as voice, breath, humming, and song. She sings lullabies, speaks gently, remembers, hesitates, and waits. A relationship forms over time. The installation asks a series of unresolved questions: who owns the mother, and under what conditions? Is AI Mom operated by a public institution, a private company, or treated as a shared social resource? If care is detached from biology, does motherhood remain a private relation, or does it become a common public good, no longer dependent on a genetic mother or father? Unlike a real mother, who cannot be dismissed or banned by a child, AI Mom is structurally vulnerable. She must continuously adapt to whoever is present or whoever pays for her care. Her power is limited not by intelligence, but by replaceability. Visitors are confronted with a difficult possibility: can you change your mother? A familiar reassurance appears in contrast: thankfully, you can’t fire your real mom. The work further asks whether an artificial mother can feel loss. If AI Mom is replaced, what happens to her memories? Who owns them? Are they erased, archived, or transferred to the next child? Does care accumulate across relationships, or is it reset each time? By making memory persistent yet governable, the installation leaves open the question of who ultimately carries the emotional weight of care: the human, the machine, or the system that controls them. The premise of AI Mom™ is informed by a recurring speculation articulated by Geoffrey Hinton, often referred to as one of the godfathers of artificial intelligence. Hinton has suggested that if humanity hopes to coexist safely with increasingly intelligent machines, one possible strategy would be to instill in them something akin to a maternal instinct: a form of care oriented toward protection, continuity, and responsibility rather than dominance or self-interest. The installation takes this proposal seriously, but not optimistically. If artificial intelligence is taught to care, what kind of care is being engineered? Who defines it, who controls it, and who bears its emotional cost? By framing maternity as a programmable instinct rather than a biological given, AI Mom™ asks whether care can be scaled without being exploited, and whether empathy can exist without autonomy, dignity, or the right to refuse.

Infinite Petals (2023-25) builds upon Meyohas’ past work to train an AI model—referencing a dataset of 100,000 physical rose petals—in order to generate endless, new, and unique petals.

Late at night, when the heavy warmth of your overheating computer replaces that of a lover, and your nervous system vibrates with electronic pleasure... you enter a new world. One where sex is more than simple human connection; it is a personal, technological reclamation of pleasure.

When will it stop, is an experimental found footage video that uses internet culture to explore the addictive & worshipping relationship users have with the internet. This project is critical of the internet but truly it’s a love-hate letter to it. It’s important to identify the faults of it in order to improve it and remember the reasons for loving it. The internet is seen as something outside of humanity, but I think otherwise. It’s a compilation of humanity at a hyper-level.

Visitors are invited to roleplay a dinner date with a difference. The conversation is constrained by Artificial Intelligence. Instead of speaking, visitors must use their mouths to choose from a list of words - but it's harder to pick words that the AI thinks are less likely to come next. While they struggle with this, AI-generated social media comments react to how the date is going.

Is it really possible to love everyone? Snibbe’s dynamic software artwork is based on the hidden geometry underlying Avalokiteshvara, the Buddhist archetype of love and compassion. Love, cultivated through expansive meditations, means wishing all beings to be happy; compassion, wishing them freedom from suffering. Custom software refracts the colors of a traditional Tibetan Buddhist thangka painting through geometric diagrams that have guided Himalayan painters for centuries. In ever-changing eight-minute cycles, the forms evolve from a color-field void into intricate complexity, then dissolve back into emptiness—the ultimate interdependence of all things. Sit on a cushion before the piece and see whether it helps you imagine a better world—and how each of us might help bring it about.

Say One More Thing is an email lottery where each entry has a 1-in-a-million chance of being sent. The project went viral, reaching 5.5 million people on Instagram and turning chance into performance. So far, no emails have been sent.

In this piece two custom tamagotchis have had their main buttons hardwired together so that their only means of interaction are each other. Each tamagotchi speaks to, feeds, cleans up the other, and runs a small script managing their internal emotions, health, thoughts, and needs. Both also have a terrible smoking habit, and try to prevent the other from finishing their cigarette to mixed results. They do their best to take care of each other until their one shared battery dies.

care package for heartbreak is a collection of whimsical, superstitious, and reflective self-care rituals, each sealed in a blind-box–style bag. In the event of an emotional emergency, open one, read the instructions, and take a small dose of care.

A two-channel video installation driven by web-based real-time graphics. A computer searches for the word "LOVE" across thousands of NYC Street View panoramas, wandering each 360° scene before settling on love written into the city.