Kristoffer Tjalve

Sunday postcards with links to the quiet, odd, and poetic web.

The sunflower was the symbol of the day. In my opening remarks, I reflected on its meaning: In the language of flowers, sunflowers represent loyalty and adoration; they turn their heads to face the sun. It is also the national flower of Ukraine, and with its yellow petals and dark center, it is reminiscent of an eclipse, symbolizing both the end and the beginning of an era.

As I entered the film school, I realized something that had never occurred to me about sunflowers: they are heavy. I had been thinking about sunflowers metaphorically, and neglected them as literal, physical flowers. It was an ironic moment; in my conversations with the speakers, I had asked them to talk in first-person. I didn't want concepts or abstractions: I wanted figurative paintings of their lived experience.

...I wonder if sunflowers feel lonely; they might not even notice each other standing in a field of flowers. They are too busy trying to see and be seen by the sun. Chasing the light, not unlike how we chase visibility, failing to recognize those around us, and those absent. This publication is both for those who I met at the film school and those who weren't there, because you are also part of the network. Naive Yearly is not just one thing: one offline event, one group of people. It's also the newsletter, and the community around it, and these pieces, and anyone who engages with them. It spreads and erodes. Just like the internet, which is also multiple: productive, extractive, colonial, monolithic, capitalistic, but it is also full of poetry, wonder and care.

I'm happy it happened, and that the adapted talks are published here on Are.na. It is the site that opened my eyes to the wildflower fields outside of the walled gardens and reconnected me with hundreds of people with a similar love for the web.

Certain things are only visible at certain frame rates. At certain times. In certain rooms. You found me, and I found myself. We became us. We became white foam when Cronos attacked his father. An airborne seed. A plastic bag. A parachute. A capsule. A file. A metaphor. A vocabulary. A thread. An environment. A contamination. A mantra we repeat to ourselves like the evening prayer I recited with my mother before sleep. A reminder of days, lunar cycles and Earth’s orbit around the sun. A practice expanding what the web is and can be. A web. A living web. All in plural.

Where do babies come from? Do we have everything we need? Why do old people lose their hair? Do you love flowers? How do you make scooters?

I practice letting Uno’s questions leak into my language. They are short, sweet, and straightforward, whereas mine are long and convoluted. Without a doubt, Uno asks better questions than me. Maybe because he is more interested in learning and socializing than being perceived as smart?

Most websites copy conventions. As a result, everything ends up with similar trending colours, sans serif fonts, responsive grids and placeholder texts. It is a seamless user experience. I rarely struggle to locate what I’m looking for: the about page, contact information, and everything else is easy to find, and without much thought, I can proceed with my day.

The convenience comes at a cost. Not only is it boring when everything looks like an e-commerce template, but I also struggle to differentiate the sites from each other. As the sites assimilate, they become indistinguishable and interchangeable. No wonder they rely on search engine optimization and digital ads to get visitors. I remember them as a convention and forget them as individual sites.

Therefore, I love landing on websites where I don’t immediately understand what is happening. Especially when it is clear that the chaos is made with care and intention. Today, I’m bringing an interview with a person who makes such sites. Kim Kleinert’s work radiates strong visions, and a devotion to websites’ material and cultural histories. Enjoy.