/ Navigating Curatorial Interface
The initial rationale for developing this website stems from an inquiry into how an academic thesis could itself be curated as a digital space, thereby embodying the very practices it examines. This approach allows me to merge scholarly analysis with net art’s curatorial ethos, particularly from the standpoint of the artist-curator, by leveraging the democratic and accessible nature of web technologies. Unlike a traditional, institutionally bound curatorial team, a website enables a single researcher to construct, experiment with, and disseminate a curated environment directly. This method not only responds to limited resources but also activates a space for creative digital practice. It became apparent that traditional textual analysis alone was insufficient to engage with the spatial, interactive, and procedural nature of net art. This realisation led me to adopt a practice-based approach, building a website, not only to critically analyse existing digital exhibitions but to inhabit, firsthand, the conceptual and technical decisions that define curatorial work online. This hands-on engagement enables me to identify and explore three core themes central to my research: layout, structure, and content. The dimension of connectedness interrogates the digital space as a curatorial environment, examining how interfaces, metaphors, and symbols are employed by artists and curators to create distinctive arenas for born-digital art to flourish. To explore these questions materially, I select Wix as a platform—an intuitive website builder that offers considerable freedom in designing visual layouts, while also allowing for the integration of custom code when necessary. This dual capacity supports both creative experimentation and technical refinement, embodying the same fluidity between accessibility and complexity that characterises many net art projects themselves.
Several key questions guide the experimental construction of the website, particularly concerning the conceptual use of digital space. The primary objective is to design an entrance to the virtual gallery, drawing inspiration from platforms like Arebyte Online and Artists Space, where a dedicated ‘Enter’ button functions to elicit a sense of transition into a distinct environment. This deliberate architectural choice stands in contrast to conventional website design, which typically prioritises loading efficiency and immediate content delivery by directing users straight to an information-rich landing page. By incorporating an introductory portal with a single point of entry, the interface invites the user to dissociate from the broader network, thereby drawing a conscious parallel with the physical act of entering a gallery through its doors. In this context, the interface operates not merely as a communicative ‘window’ into machine logic, but as a metaphorical threshold—a door opened onto the curated space of the gallery itself. To achieve the same effect, the landing page of Curatorial Interface also features an ‘enter’ button.
A second critical consideration is the conceptualisation of navigation through digital space. Conventionally, web design favours a straightforward, forward-moving menu structure that has become increasingly minimalist over time; current best practice often encourages presenting nearly all information on a single landing page, resulting in extensive vertical scrolling supplemented by anchored links corresponding to specific sections of a horizontal menu. The Wix platform facilitates this approach by enabling anchors anywhere on the page, thereby producing a sense of continuous downward movement. My interest, however, lies in questioning how digital space is perceived and utilised. Standard web pages predominantly operate along a vertical axis, rarely exploiting the full potential of two-dimensional layout by incorporating lateral, or x-axis, movement. As Lev Manovich (2001) observes in The Language of New Media, the evolution of the page format, from clay tablets to printed paper, and now to electronic screens, is historically anchored by the convention of the rectangle, yet digital technology introduces new fluidities and instabilities. He notes that “messages written on clay tablets, which were almost indestructible, were replaced by ink on paper. Ink, in its turn, was replaced by bits of computer memory, making characters on an electronic screen. Now, with HTML, which allows parts of a single page to be located on different computers, the pages became more fluid and unstable” (p. 75). 2
Despite the evident divergence from print media, through the incorporation of images, hyperlinks, and pagination techniques, the underlying structure often remains reminiscent of the rectangular newspaper page. With my website, I seek to disrupt this inherited logic of linearity and the established conventions of web navigation, exploring instead a more fluid and spatially dynamic mode of engagement.
What I find compelling about net art exhibition practice is its consistent subversion of the normalised format of the webpage, repurposing digital space in ways that challenge conventional modes of engagement. We have come to treat websites primarily as information hubs rather than as spaces for experimentation in their own right, environments capable of generating distinct aesthetic and conceptual propositions that, in turn, influence how net art is curated. This relationship operates as a two-way circuit: the digital shapes the physical just as the physical informs the digital. In my view, constraining web design to mimic the print formats of the past, simply because they are familiar and straightforward to navigate, undermines the very purpose of digital space, reducing it to a mere representation of pre-existing structures. By contrast, net art actively distorts these conventions, foregrounding experimentation and compelling curators to engage with the digital through its own spatial and interactive language.
As Bob Bicknell-Knight (2022) reflected in an interview with Off Site Project, his own curatorial approach initially tended toward the simplistic, partly due to concerns around audience engagement. However, he gradually shifted toward a more experimental practice, one that actively plays with spatial organisation to capture and reflect the conceptual core of an exhibition. In his words, “Like with the artwork I produce, working in a multidisciplinary way, I always try to put concepts first, so the format of (or how you interact with) the show should function in tandem with the conceptual nature of the exhibition” (Bob Bicknell-Knight, 2022). 2 These ideas were central to his exhibition Office Space (2020), which explored the latent violence embedded in the aesthetics and culture of corporate environments. The featured works examined a range of experiences, from the dynamics of flexi-working in a male-dominated financial recruitment firm to the personas encountered at speed-networking events. To convey this theme through the interface itself, Bicknell-Knight deliberately employed the x- and y-axes of the webpage. By zooming out within the Wix editor, he was able to utilise space beyond the conventional viewport—though not without constraints. Content could only be added to the right and downward, and the starting point for visitors could not be controlled. Moreover, the right-hand side of the layout was forced into a white background. Yet these limitations proved conceptually productive: the endless, disorienting corridor-like space that resulted echoed the aesthetics of corporate architecture, and the pervasive white background reinforced the sterile, generic quality of the office environment. In this way, the interface became integral to the exhibition’s meaning—not merely a container, but an expressive and critical component of the curatorial statement.
The principle of navigation, where conceptual depth takes precedence over slick, user-friendly design, emerged as a central focus in my own practice. Here, the navigational menu is employed not as a rigid directory but as a map. This approach draws directly on Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s distinction, introduced in the ‘Rhizome’ chapter of A Thousand Plateaus, between a tracing and a map. Whereas a tracing reproduces a pre-existing, hierarchical structure (like a conventional table of contents), a map is open, connectable, and experimental. It can be entered at any point; every use modifies its structure. In this spirit, the website’s navigation functions as a cartographic interface for the internet’s own rhizomatic logic. In this space, ideas proliferate non-linearly, generating unexpected connections and fostering new conceptual formations. This mode of engagement deliberately sidesteps the linear narrative expected of a traditional thesis. Instead of a predetermined sequence, it offers a field of potential pathways, inviting a form of critical exploration that is itself a practice of rhizomatic thinking.
To visually articulate the connections between different chapters and to resist the convention of linear information representation, I design the menu of my website as both an architectural plan and a conceptual map of the research. Each subchapter exists as a node within a branching structure, allowing users to click through and navigate the theoretical content directly. This non-linear table of contents functions simultaneously as an interface and a critical diagram of the project’s intellectual structure. By employing both x- and y-axes, the design enables users to trace thematic linkages themselves and choose their own path through the material based on interest.
This menu itself is an evolving object; it undergoes constant iteration as new connections emerge and the research deepens. The initial inspiration to treat the menu as a conceptual roadmap comes from the exhibition ELECTRIC DREAMS: ART AND TECHNOLOGY BEFORE THE INTERNET, held at Tate Modern in 2023. The exhibition, which explores the period from the birth of art to the dawn of the internet, presents visitors with a timeline of key concepts in the form of a motherboard circuit. What resonates with me is the clarity with which it visualises conceptual and historical connections—an approach that becomes essential in representing the non-linear, interdependent structure of my own research.
The central challenge lies in implementing this conceptual map as a functional website menu without specialised coding knowledge. I attempt to emulate approaches by minimising and zooming within the Wix framework, but I quickly find the platform’s constraints—particularly its limited support for multi-nodal connections and non-linear movement—failing to accommodate the complexity of the structure I envision. A second approach involves exploring basic scripting to extend Wix’s native capabilities, yet I discover that lateral (x-axis) navigation remains dependent on predefined scrolling tied to mouse movement—precisely the kind of predetermined pathway I wish to avoid, as it contradicts my aim of granting users agency to discover connections autonomously.
A resolution emerges through the adoption of Miro, a collaborative application designed for creating dynamic visual maps. I embed a full-screen Miro dashboard directly into the website, using hyperlinked text within the board to simulate menu functionality. This method allows me to preserve the non-linear, exploratory interaction I initially imagined. What I create is a menu for the website that maps the entirety of my research. Each chapter and subchapter connects via coloured lines, their hues corresponding to different physical internet cables, a metaphor for the materiality and logical length of conceptual connections that is often overlooked.
I visually translate three specific cable types into the map's language. The first is the Ethernet crossover cable, which connects two similar devices directly. In my map, this connection is colour-coded purple and links the most intimately related subchapters to show a close, direct conceptual bond. The second is the twisted pair cable, typically used to connect devices on a local network. I use this type, colour-coded orange, to show how broader concepts within a single chapter relate to a central idea. The third is the fibre optic cable, used for transoceanic internet spans. This type, colour-coded grey, signifies the most far-reaching conceptual links between different chapters, connecting ideas across the research’s entire architecture.
Furthermore, the map incorporates favicon symbols that give a distinct identity to the three main sections of my research. These symbols duplicate the icons used in the written thesis and as QR codes, creating a continuous visual language that bridges the physical text and its digital representation. The favicons update dynamically based on the user’s location in the research, providing immediate contextual orientation.
This process proves deeply instructive. It highlights the material and technical limitations that curators and artists frequently encounter when translating complex spatial or conceptual ideas into digital formats. Moreover, it underscores how interface constraints can paradoxically stimulate creative problem-solving. Ultimately, this experience reinforces my view that even a foundational understanding of digital logic enhances a curator’s ability to devise expressive and innovative frameworks for presenting digital art. The website, and this menu in particular, remains a living document—its structure is never fixed but updates organically as the research itself evolves.
My final consideration regarding navigation centres on the use of hyperlinks and references. Most pages of my website, beyond the main menu, The Wrong archive, and Alternative Realities Illustrated, contain academic text presented as a core component of my PhD research. This digital presentation was a primary motivation for building the website: to explore how, as a curator, I might natively integrate scholarly work within a digital environment, rather than merely copying and pasting printed text. To achieve this, I employ two key strategies: hyperlinking and a dynamic referencing system. I am particularly interested in how the digital and printed versions can function both independently and synergistically within a hybrid model of knowledge distribution.
One significant divergence between the digital and printed texts is the treatment of images. In the digital version, users do not see images of external artworks, unless I create them myself, whereas the print edition includes reproductions. This distinction is intentional, reflecting the nature of net art itself. A central aim of building this website is to exhibit net artworks within their native environment, preserving their interactive and processual qualities. Many net art works rely on user engagement, requiring manipulation, sorting, or clicking; reducing them to static images extracts them from their context and diminishes their functionality. This displacement echoes the problem of removing graffiti from the street to display it in a museum, fundamentally altering its meaning. This concern connects to ideas from the book Data Loam: Sometimes Hard, Usually Soft. The Future of Knowledge Systems (2020), where the print edition incorporates scannable symbols that trigger augmented reality content. To emulate this hybrid approach, I generate a unique QR code for each chapter, enabling readers to move seamlessly between physical and digital versions of the text. Every artwork referenced in the digital text is hyperlinked in green, a stylistic decision inspired by The Wrong Biennale (where blue denotes links), to make them visually distinctive and functionally explicit.
The final navigational element involves the redesign of academic referencing for digital interaction. References are essential to scholarly writing, and I seek a system that functions intuitively within the fluid, non-linear space of the website. While I use Zotero for managing citations, implementing such an elaborate tool from scratch was impractical. Instead, I draw inspiration from curatorial and research platforms that use folksonomic tagging, such as the Cyberfeminism Index by Mindy Seu, which employs a system of numbered, clickable cross-references. In Seu’s project, each entry is assigned a number displayed in green; clicking the number navigates the user to related sections. This commitment to a minimalist, sustainable design is achieved through JavaScript and system fonts, a combination that ensures the project's longevity by eliminating dependencies on external libraries.
I adopt a similar but adapted system for my references. Rather than assigning a number to each publication, I attribute a unique identifier to each author. For example, all references to Lev Manovich, whether from The Language of New Media or his article ‘Inside Photoshop’, are grouped under the same identifier. This method aligns with the rhizomatic structure of the website, revealing conceptual connections between different parts of the thesis and allowing patterns of theoretical influence to become visible across chapters. Furthermore, this system generates valuable metadata: it facilitates analysis of the most frequently cited voices in the research and illustrates how they are applied across different themes and contexts. Finally, I include a dedicated index page that functions as a digital bibliography where all reference numbers are listed alongside authors, creating a symbolic search interface. This page serves not just as a citation list but as a conceptual map of the research’s academic foundations, inviting users to trace intellectual lineages and discover unexpected scholarly connections, thereby completing the website’s ecosystem of non-linear, user-directed exploration.
The experimentation with the navigational architecture of the Curatorial Interface website and my strategies for translating the physical thesis into a digital environment constitute a practical engagement with concepts proposed by Deleuze and Guattari. Foremost among these is the principle of heterogeneity. The website is designed as an assemblage of disparate yet interconnected parts: academic text, a conceptual map, an image archive, and an interactive bibliography, each operating within its own logic while forming a cohesive whole. This heterogeneity is most evident in the deliberate absence of embedded artwork images; instead, images are hyperlinked to their original online environments. This decision positions Curatorial Interface not as a closed container, but as a node within the vast network of the internet itself, allowing the user to exit the curated space and connect directly to the living context of external net art projects.
Furthermore, the site’s structure embodies the rhizomatic principle of multiplicity. The user is presented with multiple, non-hierarchical entry points and navigational modes. One can enter through the introductory portal, navigate via the conceptual map, browse the academic text linearly, or use the index page to search by theoretical influence. Crucially, the user’s path is not predetermined; one might choose to trace a thematic connection via the colour-coded cables on the map, or engage solely with the written analysis. This horizontal navigation places the user in control of how information is sequenced and consumed, generating a unique multiplicity of experiences with each visit. This multiplicity is compounded by the website’s nature as a living document; the sections explaining its own construction are written in the present tense to reflect its constant evolution. The iterative, trial-and-error process of developing the site’s central map is itself a performance of multiplicity, as its form adapts and expands in response to the developing research. Through this design, Curatorial Interface does not merely describe rhizomatic thought but attempts to function as one, creating a digital curatorial practice defined by connection, variability, and user-generated meaning.