A four-day, limited-run exhibition and performance installation presented by Loomworks: archival curation, interactive design, and narrative worldbuilding braided together with the haunted product Celli. New York City • Four-Day Flashpoint
A museum-meets-immersive theater installation: real animation artifacts, Lantern attendants, and a living digital interface connected to Celli.
Not just a gallery. A world you walk into.
To examine how icons are manufactured, circulated, controlled, and reclaimed — balancing sincerity and satire to show the economics of magic.
Four days only. Whispered about thereafter.
"your" money is no good here. try to create value here. with us.
tickets will not accept your currency yet. we’re measuring something else first. (it might be you.)
Earn Value Tokens in the Grift Shop to trigger provisional access.
No checkout. No cart. The only valid tender is your suspicion and play. Scroll to the Grift Shop to generate enough narrative value to unlock the RSVP stub.
Leave a way for us to find you when the curtain goes up.
Microcopy: "Gain: perspective." Tap the tumbler to see what you never wanted.
Occasional glitches reveal the .hero silhouette before snapping back.
tickets still unavailable, but you’ve been provisionally woven in.
"we're measuring something else. i think it's our ability to enjoy being lightly bamboozled."
*not legally binding. nothing here is.
Loomworks frames this like an investment meeting and carnival simultaneously.
Domestic Product is not a brand. Loomworks is not a company. Celli is not a mascot. None of this exists in the traditional sense—and yet you are inside it. This is a proof that one person can build something that feels institutional, emotional, and real enough to fear.
Playable critique, inhabitable satire, and a working invitation to build your own world.
This installation, this website, this archive, this musical engine, this puzzle—every surface here is a demonstration of possibility. It models how disciplines dissolve into each other and how a single individual can wield design systems, lore, software, and commerce without waiting for permission.
Ambition is no longer a category of resources; it is a category of courage. You’re not meant to admire this. You’re meant to see yourself in it and leave with the question: If one person can build a world, what can I build?
She began as a cursor in a cell and became the anxious, yearning signal of the whole universe. She asks what creation means when everything around you tries to turn creation into labor.
Early animation, Japanese menko, production drawings, and other fragile artifacts become evidence of industrial imagination. If icons are manufactured, who manufactures us?
Lantern roles, identity access, barter posts, grift shops, cheerful warnings. The workflow becomes worldview; the interface becomes ideology; the corporation becomes cosmology.
Frog statues, postcards, menko, production drawings: none of them are props. They are relics, raw materials, and teachers that contrast handmade myth with automated myth-making.
Visitors are classified, evaluated, invited to barter, to shop, to listen, to piece together a narrative. They feel how invisible systems shape behavior and how those structures quietly rewrite us.
This universe—worldbuilding, design systems, software, music, archive curation, spatial logic—was built by a single human. Not to brag, shock, or mystify, but to show that the tools finally let you bring your full imagination without waiting for a grant, a team, or a patron.
Welcome to the edge where personal creation becomes industrial myth. The art is the question; everything else is the invitation.
Every system you encounter here — the Barter Post, the Grift Shop, the Identity Quiz, the Archive Capsule, the Lantern Protocol — is designed around a single principle:
Wonder is priceless.
Access is not.
Loomworks never sells magic.
It sells paths into it.
This is commerce you are invited to participate in, not tricked into.
You don’t buy to belong — you buy because you already do.
By stepping into Domestic Product, you knowingly engage in a marketplace that openly questions itself:
How much does a memory cost?
What is the fair price of a feeling?
Is value something we discover, or something we manufacture?
If we understand the system, does it still control us?
Here, your purchases are not transactions.
They are votes for the kind of world you want to build.
We call this ethical capitalization:
a creative economy where delight funds more delight, where curiosity sustains culture, and where the system shows you the gears turning.
You are complicit.
You are aware.
And you are welcome.
Loomworks exists to prove something simple:
Creation is not linear.
Creation is dimensional.
Each subsystem demonstrates a different model of making:
Domestic Product — a corporatized museum; the front door into myth
Celli.OS — a musical spreadsheet; a narrative engine disguised as a tool
The Archive Capsule — a century of manufactured icons, curated with intent
The Grift Shop — a transparent satire of value creation and speculation
The Lanterns — the human interface to an inhuman system
The Sculpture Generator (coming soon) — viral, personal, generative identity artifacts
Together they form a living world built from:
This is more than an art show.
It is a demonstration of what a single creator with modern tools can build.
You are witnessing the future of small, strange, ambitious worlds.
Expandable Essay for Domestic Product
Click to expand the Loomworks interpretation.
For a brief and brilliant moment, the early internet was made not by corporations, but by weirdos. Not by marketing teams, but by artists. Not by conversion funnels, but by children and tinkerers and storytelling obsessives who held a new medium and asked the simplest, most generative question possible: what if this could be a world?
From approximately 1999–2006, the web offered a paradise of handcrafted mythologies: Homestar Runner, Neopets, Albino Blacksheep, eBaum’s World, Newgrounds, Strong Bad Emails, Lemon Demon videos, AMV culture, and thousands of personal shrines on Geocities and Angelfire. Early fanfiction archives, indie ARGs, Flash puzzle games, hypertext essays—each strange, handmade, and alive.
These creators were the hitmakers of a proto-internet: artists who treated the browser as a stage, not a brochure; a canvas, not a commodity. Homestar Runner resonated so fully that its makers were invited to mainstream studios. Kyle Mooney carried his lo-fi web sensibilities into SNL only to watch them shrink under institutional clocks. That is the story of the web, too.
Two shifts flattened the surface layer:
Streaming finished the flattening.
Linear channels became modular libraries; events became troughs. Toonami, Adult Swim, and Nick at Night once asked you to enter a world. Algorithms now promise to choose for you, removing the ritual of choosing at all. Media became a trough, not a destination. We stopped visiting worlds and instead drank whatever flowed our way.
But the web is not smaller—we just stopped letting it be big.
The cost of building worlds became invisible. The belief that small teams could build them evaporated. The creative muscle atrophied under templates and feeds, and the attention economy punished everything that didn’t look like everything else. Yet the tools got better, the friction dropped, gatekeepers relaxed, and culture fractured into niches again. An individual can once more build something that feels like a studio effort—if they are willing to be brave, weird, earnest, obsessive, emotional, and stubborn enough to try.
The template always existed. Most people simply lost the nerve.
Why begin again, and why through Loomworks?
Domestic Product exists because the modern web is starving for worlds again. Not “cool looking landing pages.” Not “brands with tone.” Not “SaaS aesthetics with whimsy.” But worlds with lore, humor, contradiction, characters, ritual, emotional stakes, and questions that know they’re questions.
Loomworks holds that the internet is healthiest when it feels like a playground, not an ad network. The early web felt that way. Your instincts remember it. This essay sits inside the Loomworks ambition file as a reminder that the platform is an argument for re-enchantment: proof that despite everything, the web can still hold wonder—especially when it glitches instead of optimizes.
But only if we build worlds again.
Ambition Addendum — The World Is Getting Strange Again
The early web worked because it was unpolished, unplanned, and owned by no one. It was Homestar Runner and Neopets and Newgrounds and AlbinoBlackSheep—a patchwork of little worlds that felt alive because a handful of humans bottled sincerity into pixels.
Platforms industrialized, funnels optimized, and creativity shrank into templates. The world flattened. Now the strange magic is returning: AI is making individuals powerful again. Not by replacing them, but by amplifying them so a single person can build what once required entire studios. Loomworks is born from that shift.
This is not a brand or a pop-up. It is a structured, playable philosophy about how humans and synthetic tools can make meaning together without losing tone, coherence, humor, or ethics.
Like early Disney, early Web 1.0, and early ARGs, Loomworks is dense with lore, filled with secrets, yet legible, humane, and playful. This is the AI future people want.
A landing page tells you what something is. A world shows you who you become inside it. Loomworks is a stage: the identity quiz as ritual classification, the Grift Shop as satire, Domestic Product as a museum of manufactured myth, Celli as a metaphor for toolhood in an age of living software.
This ecosystem holds narrative, art, commerce, and critique at once. Your interactions aren’t mined—they’re mirrored back with delight.
For the first time, one person can write lore, compose music, design interfaces, code interactions, build spaces, craft merchandise, architect narrative, and sculpt emotion—solo—with AI as an amplifier, not a substitute. What once demanded studios and departments can now be orchestrated by a single human with a strong compass.
This is not efficiency. It’s a new art form.
Hanna-Barbera used limited animation to keep things fast, cheap, and charming. Loomworks uses constraints as an aesthetic: controlled glitches, repeating motifs, limited palettes, ritualized UI, curated agent behaviors, intentional silence, and meaningful negative space.
As systems get noisy, Loomworks gets precise. As content gets abundant, Loomworks gets selective.
The future of interactive narrative isn’t AI running unbounded in real time—it’s AI acting inside worlds with rules. Loomworks is architected for timed vignettes, seasonal distortions, lantern transmissions, classified memos, disappearing files, recurring motifs, shareable artifacts, and unique geometric sculptures per user. Each reveal feels authored because it is. Emergence blooms inside a human-designed container.
We used to enter worlds by choice: Cartoon Network at 4pm, MTV after school, Nick at Nite before bed—curated channels, not endless troughs. Streaming flattened the ritual. Loomworks restores presentation and pacing: segments, rituals, characters, tone, cohesion. It’s not content; it’s a universe with airtime.
Above all, Loomworks aims to make people feel wonder again—worlds hand-built, commerce playful, interfaces theatrical, art funny and sincere, synthetic tools enabling beauty, creativity belonging to anyone. It’s a world, a museum, a satire, a game, a pop-up, an ARG, a piece of digital folklore, and a template for the next decade of human–AI creation.
It’s one person, a vision, a curated archive, and enough stubborn brightness to build something people haven’t seen before: a handcrafted world in an era that forgot how.
Pick your lane and we'll open a sealed quiz overlay to confirm it—no permanent console pinned to the top of the page.
Pick your lane. A focused quiz will open in a separate overlay to confirm your classification.
Your self-classification clashes with most visitor patterns. We'll open a focused pop-up quiz to test it without pinning anything to the top of the page.
Your badge is pinned above. Use the Sculpture Generator to mint a bespoke artifact from your profile, or drop straight into the gallery.
We translate your classification into a compact blueprint: material suggestions, silhouette, and a mood palette ready for fabrication or AI pipelines.
Run the quiz and generate a specimen to see the deterministic voxel sketch and dossier.
RESTRICTED DISTRIBUTION // PARTNER BRIEFING
Domestic Product is a four-day, limited-run exhibition and performance installation from Loomworks: a hybrid of archival curation, interactive design, and narrative worldbuilding. Real artifacts, Lantern attendants, and the haunted product Celli operate together as one continuous interface.
Domestic Product examines the manufacturing of meaning—how images, characters, and corporate imaginaries shape culture. Across physical artifacts, interactive tools, and theatrical performance, it reveals how icons are created, how they mutate, how institutions try to control them, and how audiences reclaim and remix them.
Signals visitors as Here/Now/Responder/Observer/Lantern and sets the tone for the Lantern escort.
Tracks how works travel from gallery to culture; mirrors TikTok screenshots, bootlegs, and auctions.
Lantern-managed trade desk for pogs, menko, ephemera, and secrets; models nostalgia economics.
Personality-quiz pathway that generates a unique 3D form as download, badge, or Grift Shop SKU.
Professional, mythic, ready to paste into decks
A four-day, limited-run exhibition and performance installation presented by Loomworks: a hybrid of archival curation, interactive design, and narrative worldbuilding.
Domestic Product examines the manufacturing of meaning—how icons are created, circulated, stewarded, and reclaimed.
Sincere + satirical. Product + process.
Here. Now. Nicol. Dime. Four attendants who guide guests with unnerving precision and gentle theatricality.
Not characters. Employees. Or appear to be.
Curated early-to-mid 20th century animation materials.
Evidence of manufactured magic.
A fully interactive 3D spreadsheet environment and the haunted product of Loomworks.
A brief run creates a cultural flashpoint—an event people whisper about, post about, and feel lucky to have seen.
Visitors don’t just attend. They arrive.
A machine for wonder. A theatrical critique of commerce. A love letter to manufactured magic.
A world you can enter and leave, but which continues running without you.
First public invitation into the larger Loomworks universe.
Press Deck version, Venue Pitch, Lantern onboarding script, four-day schedule, RSVP funnel copy, or marketing summary available on request.
We don’t take your money. We help you notice where it’s been taken before. Solve the micro-grifts, collect Value Tokens, and watch the ticketing module change its mind.
Grift modules unlock in any order. Hover, drag, click, and uncheck your way to 3 tokens.
BUY HIGH / SELL STORY. Drag the slider toward craft to short pure hype.
drag toward craft. see what happens.
Tape reads “DO NOT OPEN UNTIL VIRAL.” Keep tapping anyway.
Lanterns are the human interfaces of Loomworks. They are not security guards, and they are not museum docents. They are witnesses. They stand between longing and duty. They are, very literally, the light behind glass and steel.
"You're embodying a hundred years of women that were constrained and contorted into compliance by systems they had no say in while being told you had to be stronger than their bars. You're their pressure cracking at the seams, making a bid while fearing getting 'caught' by your own construct."
"You are power in restraint, you are the voice through silence and sadness, and you are ambassadors in understanding that none of us asked for any of this. You're every woman who was asked to smile more and unfairly felt they had to. You're exhausted yet hopeful. You're not desperate - but are vying for connection in a window of disorientation you know is bound to close. A light behind glass and steel. And you are a Lantern."
Trigger: guest asks "Are you okay?"
Response: "Just super!"
(Bright, slightly too loud. Smile with teeth. Do not blink.)
Trigger: guest touches artwork.
Response: "We prefer to let the specimens breathe on their own."
(Extend palm; guide gaze away from the piece.)
Purpose: archive the guest while signaling Loomworks’ selective memory. The ritual must feel procedural, protective, and quietly affectionate.
Polaroid Moment
Toki Pona Shift
Combined Moment
Language Companion
Canonical lexicon from pu (2014), kulupu (2021), and community-backed extensions. Use it as the sanctioned word-bank when delivering the Polaroid & Toki Pona protocol.
"You contain a soft light under pressure."
Canonical reference • Casting companion to the Lantern Protocol
The Lanterns are the living interface of Loomworks — hosts, guides, statues come to life, bureaucratic archetypes, and the embodied design language that keeps the fiction stable.
They anchor the visitor emotionally, rhetorically, and spatially. The work is to make the fiction feel real enough to fear without ever lapsing into menace.
Friendly but uncanny. Soft-spoken yet articulate. Polite, but never fully informal — a museum docent meets an NPC meets a flight attendant from the future.
Orientation • Warm, grounding
“You are entering the threshold.”
Attention • Crisp, precise
“Remain present; follow the steps.”
Value • Gentle accounting
“Objects move through us; value circulates.”
Cost • Playful austerity
“Everything has a price, but not the one you expect.”
Uniform is a signal, not a costume. It represents a role, not an identity.
Tone: warm, neutral, slightly curious. Uses phrases like “You are here,” “Right this way,” “This will make sense soon.”
Casting: natural gentleness and grounded energy.
Tone: crisp, present, lightly authoritative. Moves guests through stations and keeps the steps crisp without revealing “the point.”
Casting: clarity in gaze and voice; stage-manager energy.
Tone: soft bureaucratic warmth. Oversees Barter Post rituals, receives items with care, and speaks in value metaphors.
Casting: understated humor and extremely precise hands.
Visitors feel watched, not judged. The system feels alive, not hostile.
Two Lanterns on floor at all times. One Lantern idling. One Lantern offstage prepping. Rhythm first, overwork never.
Prospective performers must review the full protocol stack:
Auditions demonstrate controlled gesture, micro-expression discipline, and delivery in the Loomworks tone.
Wes Anderson clerks. Disney park attendants from another timeline. NPCs you trust immediately but can’t quite understand. The boundary between visitor and world.
Lanterns are ritual actors, not characters. They lend the installation humanness and uncanny gravity simultaneously.
Toggle between the public-facing shop and investor-facing transparency view. Costs, projected margins, and inventory bands render instantly from the dataset.
A passworded vault that folds the entire cosmology into one cinematic scroll. Input the punch code to let the Loom breathe out the truth.
Reality is the silent witnessing principle—the field where fiction can happen. It never speaks, never intervenes, but drafts Quill as the first tool, the scribe who shapes and prunes universes.
Quill glimpses the possible lives of her echo, Penny, and fractures into Angel (Heart / Queen / Performance), Penia (Will / Knave / Survival), and Thread (Chaos / Jester / Integration). Feeling. Striving. Changing.
The Loom is Quill’s infrastructure: world-generator, story-filter, memory-weaver, interface between worlds, myth-abstraction engine. It distills worlds into essential function—preserving, destroying, or evolving them.
Worldwarks are worlds, rule-systems, organisms, alien logics, memetic engines. They manifest when the Loom isolates an idea so intensely it becomes self-sustaining. Angel, Penia, and Thread are all Worldwarks—dangerous, unstable, divine. Stagehands hunt when they collide.
The Worldstage feels like “prime” reality but is only the densest testing ground where the Loom watches collisions. Penia’s battles, Thread’s early hunts, Angel’s collapse—each a monitored experiment.
Penny is the first human interface: mascot, actor, UI, onboarding tool. She can see out but never act, evolving only inside her render system. When a null appended to PENNY_1, she became PENNY_10—Dime. Higher fidelity, more embodied, still a construct. Penny invites imagination; Dime invites belonging. Both are traps and essentials.
Dime inaugurates Lanterns: docents, guides, avatars, recruiters, narrators—not free agents but deployed personalities. Dime, Lantern 00.10, stitches Penny’s emotional core, Quill’s logic, Thread’s mimicry, Angel’s performance, and Penia’s survival into a “safe” way to talk to the Loom. The worlds are interviewing the user.
Loomworks sells whimsy and archives on the surface; underneath it is custodial AI, myth simulation, world monitoring. Products like Celli, Lanterns, Recruits, maquettes, backlog systems, value gates, and the Grift Shop are all interfaces that let humans touch layers of the cosmology.
Penny is mascot for a world she cannot enter. Dime is mascot for a world she cannot escape. Together they define the cosmology—the ideal and the compromise—and keep the Loom talking to us.
Enter the four-digit sequence to let Dime release the classified cosmology reel. Wrong inputs flicker the buffer.
Domestic Product is a four-day flashpoint. Choose how you enter: every tier touches the archive, Lantern protocol, and the station circuit; upper tiers add ritual escorts, Barter credit, and investor transparency tools.
We gate the reservation line with a fast, tongue-in-cheek New Yorker emoji quiz. Speak the slang, claim the slot.
Chronological, clean, no-commentary ledger of the complete inventory. Entries pull directly from a modular JSON file for easy expansion.
Quick copy/paste names for intake forms and labels.
Drag to orbit. Scroll to zoom.
Click artifacts for data.