Against the Scroll: Yehwan Song and the Internet We Forgot

Written by Charlie Kane for Hypeart

A throwback to the early days of the internet is trending again, with its pixelated text, erratic cursors, and glitchy graphics gaining popularity due to a surge in Y2K nostalgia. The endearing simplicity of late ’90s and early 2000’s digital aesthetics has evolved into a unique visual vernacular: intentionally awkward yet retro, minus the dial-up hassle. However, this revival often only scratches the surface; while nostalgia abounds, the critical analysis seems to be lacking.

Yehwan Song’s work doesn’t stop there.

Instead of adopting the initial graphical style of the web like others, Song chooses to revisit the unstable atmosphere of that period, when the internet seemed cluttered, more intimate, and unpredictable. Born in Korea and working as a designer, artist, and developer, she has spent numerous years creating experimental websites and installations that defy the polished appearance of today’s algorithm-driven web. Her projects distort the viewing experience, shun effortless navigation, and break conventional UI norms. They question what we may be giving up when digital environments are streamlined into continuous feeds that require mindless scrolling.

For Song, the internet once had a different vibe. “It was more open,” she noted. “You could wander around, get led astray and discover things you weren’t looking for. I believe it’s crucial to remind ourselves—where are we now, and is this the world wide web we envisioned?

At this year’s Frieze New York, held from May 7th to 11th, Song presented her installation “The Barnacles” which delves into an examination of digital systems. This work is part of a larger body she refers to as “The Internet Barnacles“, which encompasses sculptures and video installations that investigate our attachment to digital platforms, and how they subtly guide us as they change. The initial concept was introduced in January at G Gallery in Korea, where barnacle-like structures were affixed to an abstract, rock-like form. In this latest version, the imagery has been altered, with barnacles now adhering to the sides of ships. Song uses this metaphor to comment on how digital systems subtly transform users as they become more ensnared in algorithms, surveillance, and data mining.

As a dedicated admirer, I find myself drawn to “The Barnacles,” an evolution of Song’s recent exhibition, Are We Still (Surfing)? at Pioneer Works in Brooklyn. This work moves away from digital explorations on the browser and into the realm of immersive, dynamic installations instead. Here, projections dance across modular cardboard structures, turning the traditional interface into a three-dimensional, unstable space. It’s almost as if a glitch has solidified or a screen I wasn’t expecting to step into.

Exploring ‘The Barnacles’ is more than just scrolling; you orbit around it, halt, and adjust your position to take in the scattered images. As Song explained, the internet initially served as a platform for connecting people and expressing diverse viewpoints. However, with all the optimization, we tend to overlook this. Everything becomes uniform – icons, layouts, and users.

As Frieze was approaching, Song managed both of her projects simultaneously. She was completing her installation in Korea and getting ready for a trip to New York. In our evening video conversation, the constant buzz of machinery echoed through her workspace.

Did it get too noisy there?” she inquired, her eyes weary yet attentive amidst the last-minute chaos. Despite the digital barrier, her messages—chaos, friction, disorientation—resonated clearly. The connection hiccupped once, muting her voice briefly. Her surroundings seemed slightly out of focus, while the continuous background noise was suppressed by noise reduction. There was no sleek user experience or effortless flow. Instead, it was raw and challenging, like constructing something that stubbornly refuses to be simple.

Though the internet appears to offer a unified perspective, its responses can seem all-encompassing, yet they overlook the truth that countless individuals have collaboratively constructed this digital realm.

Initially, Song didn’t delve into creating installations; instead, she honed her skills as a graphic designer, focusing on visual arrangements and digital aesthetics. As she spent increased time navigating the internet, her curiosity piqued about the hidden elements that supported the sleek interfaces she contributed to. Before joining the School for Poetic Computation, she self-taught coding skills to explore the underlying structure, history, and influence of these digital systems.

As a tech enthusiast, I’ve come to realize that Korea’s online landscape is predominantly English-oriented, even extending to programming languages. This got me questioning: who exactly is this catered towards? The internet seems to overlook the vast array of users with diverse needs and abilities. Unfortunately, as designers, we’ve been focusing on creating for a specific user – one who already conforms to the system.

The ongoing impact of that insight significantly influences her projects. She further emphasized, “What truly terrifies me is how swiftly we tend to overlook the existence of various user groups.” She continued, “The internet may appear to have a unified voice, providing answers that seem universally applicable, but it fails to acknowledge the multitude of individuals who collectively constructed this digital realm.

This marked a turning point. Instead of optimizing for efficiency or ease, Song started building work that completely disrupted expectations. Her browser-based projects don’t always respond to the user. They resist the frictionless legibility most sites strive for and ask users to slow down, pay attention and interact. Rather than send visitors to a traditional portfolio—which loads slowly—Song links her Instagram to a public Google Sheets document that pulls live content from her main website. Flattened into raw, chaotic cells, the database becomes a piece of web art: no hero image, tabs as navigation, and basic HTML markup.

She stated that when she creates interactive art, it’s primarily to offer something unique or unconventional. It’s about exploring new ground and pushing boundaries.

In her initial online endeavors, Song didn’t strive to create functional websites; instead, she aimed to disrupt them. Her intention was to challenge conventional norms, to disrupt the flow of passive consumption. Her “Anti User Friendly” series, which includes projects like Speak Don’t Speak, questions the purpose of a website. Buttons behave erratically, links redirect unpredictably, audio repeats and stutters. These sites deliberately resist seamless operation, and the friction they create is intentional.

This isn’t glitches for glitches’ sake. Song’s sites aren’t broken. They make the system visible.

As Song delved deeper into exploring browser capabilities, curiosity sparked within her about the boundaries of the frame itself. What occurs when the artwork transcends the screen? How does one approach design that intentionally causes disorientation in a space where projections merge with the floor and interface borders dissipate?

In a simple and conversational manner: The “Barnacles” project is an organic evolution from her online work, not a dismissal. While her websites might interrupt smooth scrolling, this physical installation challenges one’s sense of orientation. Unlike navigating through web pages by clicking, here you have to physically move.

“It’s not about changing the art. It’s about archiving it in a way that survives that environment.”

Song’s opposition to standard practices is not confined to her online presence; it also impacts the distribution and management of her work. Instead of conforming to the channels typically advised for artists – like social media layouts, predefined portfolio designs, or tech tools that favor those who pay for playtime – she often opts for unique approaches in her projects.

While her work focuses on self-reliant websites, it doesn’t imply that she can disregard social media platforms like Instagram. In her own words, “My work revolves around independent sites, yet I still share my content on Instagram.

She recognizes the inconsistency. Instead of producing work specifically for social media, she posts it there so others can view it. Rather than altering the artwork itself, she alters its presentation by using looping GIFs, brief videos displaying collapse and motion, and the occasional sponsored post to cover costs. As she explained, “It’s not about modifying the art; it’s about preserving it in a way that adapts to that setting.

Despite her inclination towards social media for disseminating her work, she maintains a level of doubt. In her words, “It’s not our storage, it’s theirs.” This implies that by using these platforms, we surrender control over data, formats, and context. Although she appreciates the value of digital archives (having benefited from them herself), she acknowledges the awkwardness associated with attempting to preserve websites. She likens the internet to a river due to its inherent fluidity.

Despite the fact that barnacles remain stationary, they don’t simply cling to immovable objects; instead, they attach themselves to whatever propels them forward. In the same vein, a song does not mend the unpredictability of the internet or provide an avenue for escape. It catches us in the act of clicking, thinking, drifting, leaving us pondering whether we are guiding ourselves through the web or if it is manipulating our course.

Photography provided by G Gallery, Yehwan Song and Charlie Kane for Hypeart.

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