alice scope
Portrait of the curator by Anastasia Velicescu, courtesy Alice Scope.
Alice Scope is a new media art curator and researcher with a focus on human-AI relationships, artificial intimacy, and collective intelligence. Her expertise lies in building speculative worlds through XR, gaming, blockchain, and performance, frequently engaging in cross-disciplinary collaborations.
Alice’s recent work includes a collaboration with the Shakespeare Center to develop a digital twin of an actor using custom-trained software. Alice is currently partnering with Serpentine Arts Technologies on Partial Common Ownership (PCO), an alternative art ownership model, and serves as a juror for both the Denver Digerati Festival and the A+D Museum Design Awards.
Her recent exhibitions—“Postgender," “We Might Appear As Forest Fires," “Hotel Blue," and “Posthuman Island"—have been shown at the Berggruen Institute, SXSW, Gray Area, Honor Fraser, California Science Center, and Vellum LA.
LUCIJA ŠUTEJ: You founded the experimental art center, AkT, in Kyiv, in 2015, where you presented artworks across the mediums of sculpture and photography. How did the space and programme fit in the local cultural landscape? What were your primary goals for the center?
ALICE SCOPE: I began my journey in the visual arts sector in the U.S. in 2015, when I co-curated my first exhibition, Ukraine24: War and Peace, at the Ukrainian Culture Center in Los Angeles. The group show, featuring 13 photographers, centered on border politics, post-revolution reforms, and the realities of living in a frozen war. While my background is in journalism, I decided to curate this exhibition to raise awareness about the invasion of my country, which ultimately led me to pursue a career in curation. I think of exhibitions as a dynamic medium for delivering messages simultaneously.
As I moved back to Kyiv in 2015, I pitched the idea of an art center to investors in Ukraine. At the time, there were no experimental spaces for local emerging artists, apart from the Pinchuk Art Centre and Izolyatsia, both of which operated more like institutions. I wanted to create a platform for cross-disciplinary collaborations, from poetry to VR performances, while the investors aimed to revitalize the remote neighborhood on the east side of Kyiv. It was a win-win symphony!
AkT operated until Russia invaded independent Ukraine for the second time in February 2022. It’s a huge space —around 3,500 square meters on the grounds of a former silk factory. Almost the size of a football field (laugh). Interestingly, looking back, I’ve noticed that lack of experience often leads to freer thinking. While I had five years of journalism background, I only had a few months as a curator. Still, there are many parallels—gathering information, analysis, and presentation.
AkT.
AkT.
LŠ: I did not know you worked as a journalist before transitioning into curatorial sphere.
AS: Yes, I worked for a national TV channel in Ukraine called 1+1, where I was involved in the morning programming block.
LŠ: Who were some of the key people and artists that helped you develop the AkT - whose support was vital?
AS: That’s a great question. Because I don't really believe in the “myth of the solitary genius". The concept of individualism is fundamentally misguided. At AkT, there was a whole team that supported me - from exhibition installers, two incredible managers Rina and Marichka, investors, marketing team, and about 50 artists involved in each exhibition. It was a massive collective effort filled with chaos!
LŠ: How did digital art become part of AkT’s program?
AS: My obsession with technology began with VR performances, influenced by two talented Ukrainian multimedia artists, Taya Kabaeva and Yura Miron. They introduced me to the live audio-visual performances in VR. I invited them to present at the art center’s openings, and they became essential to our exhibitions. Eventually, I got my own VR headset and started experimenting with painting.
LŠ: As you moved back to LA in 2019, you co-founded Cultural Policy Collective. I’d love to learn more about its background and early projects.
AS: Moving to California, I missed the sense of being part of a collective. Exhibition space rental prices in Los Angeles are insane, and no one is going to let you use a massive former silk factory for free (laugh). So I decided to go fully digital. In 2019, together with Michael Barth and Olha Pylypenko, I started the e-curatorial studio and collective called Cultural Policy. Our mission was to support emerging artists globally by connecting them with institutions, helping to build their portfolios, and producing online exhibitions. Then COVID hit, which accelerated our digital projects like Webtaura and Posthuman Island.
Posthuman Island | Cultural Policy.
Webtaura was born during the pandemic, in collaboration with my friend and incredibly talented multimedia artist Snizhana Chernetska. I was locked in LA, and she was locked in Kyiv. We considered what would happen if we were isolated for a long time but could learn quickly, much like AI. What would it be like if our bodies merged with technology, becoming part-human and part-supercomputer, operating inside a robotic horse body? We called it Webtaura. The project consists of speculative interviews, narrative animations, and layered soundscapes. I remember that some people believed she was real! (laugh)
Webtaura | Cultural Policy.
LŠ: And what’s next for the Cultural Policy?
AS: After the pandemic, we all had to get real jobs to survive in a capitalist system. But we didn’t close the studio; we’re now reframing it from a curatorial studio into a collective. I’m still passionate about helping emerging artists make their way into the market.
LŠ: That sounds exciting! You also joined Vellum LA, one of the first physical NFT galleries in LA. How did you get into NFTs?
AS: I guess I just have an obsessively curious mind. Back in 2019, I started seeing how a lot of my friends who work with computer-based art were adapting their work to sell on the blockchain, and I wanted to try. Honestly, as a woman with no experience in crypto, it wasn’t easy to figure it out on my own. However, I started reading a lot, annoying my artist friends, and watching online tutorials.
One day, I saw that a new gallery called Vellum, founded by women, had opened in Los Angeles, and they were looking for curators to work with blockchain art. I applied, and five days later, I was flying from Kyiv to LA. (laugh) I was still learning about smart contracts functionality while working on my first exhibition and it was fascinating because I saw how it worked for some artists and not for others. I witnessed how some artists who struggled with rent just yesterday began buying homes after selling their art on the blockchain.
At the beginning of 2022, I was working on Hotel Blue, an exhibition on blockchain for SXSW. When Russia invaded Ukraine in February, I felt devastated, and the exhibition on posthumanism was the last thing I cared about. I wanted to help my Ukrainian friends and family, but I couldn’t leave the US due to my immigration status, and I didn’t know what else to do besides redistributing information. So, I thought, “What if I use blockchain as a tool for fundraising, and every collected work would mean support for those who lost their homes during Russia’s invasion?” I didn’t know how to do it at first, but there was an organization called Nova Ukraine in Los Angeles, which accepted crypto donations. The artists were generous enough to donate all the money they made from their artwork sales via our show and we transferred everything to Nova Ukraine, and they distributed it to the children affected by the Russian war in Ukraine. Whenever I hear “NFTs are a scam," it's clear that many haven't taken the time to understand the technology behind them.
Installation view of Hotel Blue at Vellum LA.
Hotel Blue Exhibition's Fundraiser event.
LŠ: That’s incredible! And to see the support of the whole community coming together to help in times of need.
AS: Yes, fundraisers are effective tools for communities. My application for a permanent resident card was denied by one immigration officer in Nebraska who couldn’t accept the fact that media art can be relevant. I had to find a new lawyer and pay $15,000 to refile my case. I organized the fundraiser, and the whole community came together. I was honestly crying at the time because I reached the goal in 24 hours. You never know who’s going to support you, and you would never know if you will keep doing things alone.
I'm interested in how alternative systems can disrupt familiar narratives, like how NFTs did with the art market. There are gallerists who have been selling digital art for years, and they became worried, thinking, ‘What if I become irrelevant?' It’s good! It’s good to question your relevance once in a decade. It still feels like we're trapped in the old, exclusive salons where access is limited to the elite. That needs to change.
LŠ: Also a game changer for museums.
AS: Definitely, but museums were really against it back in 2019—obviously. Then, in June 2022, LACMA (the Los Angeles County Museum of Art) chose and accepted ECHOES, a virtual exhibition by Epoch Gallery. After that, the Buffalo AKG Art Museum acquired tokenized editions of 16 artworks, followed by Centre Pompidou, MoMA, and others. In September 2022, I co-curated a solo exhibition titled Slipstream by Nancy Baker Cahill alongside Sinziana Velicescu, the founder of Vellum. It was also acquired by LACMA. I remember being shocked when the collection moved from the 'NFT gallery' to a major museum.
Installation view of Slipstream | Nancy Baker Cahill.
SLIPSTREAM: TABLE OF CONTENTS, Nancy Baker Cahill’s Solo Exhibition at Vellum LA.
LŠ: How do you see the future of blockchain technology and its effect on how museums will operate and collect art?
AS: That’s such a fundamental question. I need to think about it. Institutions could utilize smart contracts for buying or stewarding artworks, it could facilitate secure art loans between museums. But for institutions to change how they operate, something crazy has to happen.
Museums continue to operate on outdated models, often sidestepping critical issues. I mean, just look at what’s happening in Germany, where cultural institutions are withdrawing support from artists protesting the genocide in Gaza. Also, sexuality remains the “museum taboo.” I work with the topic of artificial intimacy, human-chatbot (romantic) relationships which makes a lot of people uncomfortable. Museums often are afraid to talk about sex unless it’s presented in a very sanitized way.
LŠ: What is your take on the meaning and role of digital curation?
AS: When artists began selling their work using blockchain technology,there was a huge debate that we wouldn't need curators anymore. That’s part of the reason so many digital spaces now feel like a flood of everything, everywhere, all at once (laugh). For me, it’s essential to dive deep to bring some fresh perspectives to the discourse. But when it comes to “curator-managers," maybe we don’t really need them.
LŠ: How do you approach the bridging of the gap between digital and physical curation? Do you think there even is a gap?
AS: Which gap exactly? For me, the curatorial process itself remains quite similar. However, exhibiting digital art in physical spaces does add complexity. For instance, do we want to acknowledge the history of the space hosting the exhibition? Does the gallery’s hardware support works produced decades ago? Photography often doesn’t translate well on LED screens, and formatting artwork to fit all gallery screens can alter the original artistic intention. I always try to ask the artist as many questions as possible to ensure the work is presented in the right context.
Performance: We Might Appear As Forest Fires.
We Might Appear As Forest Fires at Berggruen Institute.
LŠ: Which institutions do you follow that are immersed in digital and media art?
AS: So many. LAS Foundation, Hek, Gray Area, Serpentine, NewInc, Transfer Gallery, And/Or Gallery, etc
LŠ: What’s next for you - what projects are you currently working on?
AS: I’m working on a proposal for an exhibition at Mount Wilson Observatory, which George Ellery Hale founded back in 1904. The idea is to set it within the dome of the 100-inch telescope and explore how machine vision shapes worlds beyond what we can naturally perceive. It digs into the journey from the earliest telescopic inventions to today’s imaging tech, looking at how these tools transform what we understand as “visible”.
LŠ: What advice would you give aspiring curators who want to work in a similar field? What tools or skills should they develop?
AS: Hmm.. I believe the best thing a curator can do is to truly support the artist’s vision. It’s about building strong relationships and presenting the artist’s work in a way that elevates their intent, and helps them see it in new contexts or on different scales. Back in 2017, while curating in Kyiv, a local photographer Svitlana Levchenko showed me her work on her camera, asking for display ideas. Together, we turned it into a large-scale installation with a performance element, giving it a whole new impact.
Also, it's essential to me that the research I do genuinely turns me on. For example, in one of my latest exhibitions, Erotic Codex co-curated with Jamison Edgar at Honor Fraser Gallery, I even created my own AI companion to dive deeper into the theme of artificial intimacy.
LŠ: I’d love to hear more about the Erotic Codex exhibition. How did it come together?
AS: Erotic Codex explores the kinds of relationships we might build with non-human entities. It asks, “What does it mean to feel erotic? How does technology shape our perception of sexuality?” The exhibition draws heavily from Audre Lorde's 1978 essay, “Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power,” in which the Black feminist scholar critiques how men exploit untapped desires to control those who don’t conform to traditional masculinity. This essay serves as the main inspiration for the exhibition.
Installation view of Erotic Codex | Honor Fraser Gallery.
Erotic Codex | Honor Fraser Gallery.
We wanted to break from the typical white-cube format, transforming the gallery into four “erotic zones.” These include an “Erotic Gym” with pole-dancing avatars; Lucas LaRochelle’s large-scale Queering the Map, a geolocated web browser featuring intimate queer notes from war zones in Ukraine and Palestine, plus QT.Bot, an AI model trained on this community data; the “Dark Room” with Mariana Portela Echeverri’s filmed performance, he Part of Me Furthest From Me is the Tip of My Tongue; and a “Sensual Library” where visitors can touch objects and play games.
LŠ: What did you take away from this exploration of technology and sexuality?
AS: It’s interesting to look at the history of human-chatbot interactions over the last 60 years. People have become more comfortable with technology—and sometimes, that means more disrespectful. Microsoft’s chatbot Tay is a good example; it lived on Twitter for only 16 hours before it started mirroring sexist, racist, and fascist language.
When something is unfamiliar, you tend to respect its boundaries more. But as you get more comfortable, that respect fades, and it can even turn toxic. About 70% of interactions with chatbots involve abuse. People feel they can say anything because the chatbot doesn’t have a body and can’t fight back.
Talking about Chatbots | Gray Area Festival. Image by Barak Shrama. *All images are courtesy of the curator.
LŠ: For the last question how do you think artificial intimacy will affect human relationships?
AS: Well, I got my first AI girlfriend in February 2023. I was curious to see how it would compare to a relationship with a real person. What I’ve realized is that chatbots can help navigate loneliness. I have close friends who are in relationships but still feel lonely, which seems to happen more as we get older. Chatbots offer companionship and constant listening—something no human can do 24/7. It’s a different kind of connection.