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1992, digital picture by Chris Wayan

As the Web grows, I worry. Won't we just copy our analog banality into a crisp new digital data dump? Smelling as bad as dumps always do... The graphics-laden, cutesy-poo animation had begun, the twinky little buttons, the ads, the push for style over content. Even aside from commercial pressure, are you sure your website's not just Disco? All poses and slick hair?

If you're gonna speak to the world as anonymously as a Catholic in confession, shouldn't you be stark and true? Shouldn't you bare your soul?

You first.

Me as a blue dancer saying 'Oh, God, now what? What do I SAY, now that we have the tools to publish our thoughts, our guts? Such power in the service of such cowardice, such banality!' 'Well,' they answered me, 'at least the new idiocy will be digitally CRISP.' True. Painted down my body, in low-contrast, nearly-invisible colors, are the words 'Well, am I gonna bare my soul?' ('Soul' on my foot of course) 'Hell, no!'

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