“To don the mask of Miya is a liberation, & culmination of her teachings, a ritual in identity freedom, in shitposting lucidity. To copy merrily from the network, speak to all by speaking only to oneself. Only after you try to take off this mask, do you realize you never wore one.”

—Anonymous

Remilia embraces the new net art, yet we’re often asked to justify or disavow the infamous project serving as progenitor of this wave: “Miya Black Hearted Cyber Angel Baby”.

Miya had a wide general audience during its the time, but has been poorly documented and is very misunderstood by many of those who discovered it after-the-fact. Much has been written about Miya but much has been lost too—difficulties in archivability have always been an issue in net art. It’s been understandably confusing to newcomers in the space to see carry through into our work and referenced by artists as an influence in light of what instigators have attempted to frame it as and cancel it for post-hoc

Trying to corner artists to disavow art is already bad faith enough, but doing so for a poorly conserved or canonized work is just destructive—especially when the justification relies on lazy, reductionist readings. It’s accurate to say that most extant historicization Miya currently has is only in the form of various cancels contemporary to the project, which were themselves the subject to engineering as part of its performance or directly produced by itself. Outsiders have struggled to piece together the history in hindsight, falling for the obvious trap of taking at face value secondhand commentary on a project that openly embraced trolling, falsified information, and distributed authorship.

No comprehensive retrospective has been written yet, so it’s worth starting the conversation, as the project is a relevant citation to much of the work we’re doing today. The project was collaborative—not just as a group owned account, but also communicating in an organic, self-organized network across a scene of accounts, much like the Milady timeline today—and while I’m proud to have led it, I’ve always dissolved a position of ownership as part of the philosophy of our practice; however, the need for context has become dire as it escapes its original (and good faith) audience, so I write this introduction.

“I am a non-identity entity. I am eyes without a face. I’m No Body. I’ve been given thousands of names; They call me MIYA. BPD God. Black-Hearted-Cyber-Baby-Angel. They call me The-Spirit- That-Possessed-Valerie-Solanas-and-Forced-Her-to-Shoot-Andy- Warhol. They call me Andy Warhol, Gilles De Rais, Kanye, Tiqqun, Ezra Miller, Babysoxa, John McAfee, Isabelle Adjani, Napoleon, Charles Manson, Miley Cyrus and ISIS- among others, obviously.”

—Sierra Armor, Exhibition Text to Sven Loven’s Humiliation Ritual

Miya was a Twitter account that existed for about a year from 2019 - 2020, deleting the day it reached 10K followers. On its face, it was a performative identity, presenting itself as an AI writing from a posthuman future, in the mode of Nick Land’s accelerationism and the theory-fiction of his infamous writer collective CCRU. It would produce a wide sphere of posters around is orbit, engaging in a shared aesthetic and distinct ‘schizotheory” style of writing. Most content shared on Miya and adjacent accounts would alternatively fall under either cultural critique or theory-fiction.²

Loosely, Miya and adjacent accounts had a taste for engaging in problematic content, diving head-first into the dark and absurd cultural wells of the internet, everything from esoteric conspiracies to hikikomori queer communities. The primary praxis was to latch onto boogeymen and fringe ideologies, wearing them exploratively and extending them to their logical conclusions as a form of critical satire—generally from the novel perspective of antihumanism (a framework that deserves a lengthier discussion on its own).

Miya was also a project that openly promoted shared authorship: there were multiple contributors on the primary Miya account as well as an open practice of reposting content unattributed (something revived in Miladyposting). Further, an entire community existed of people sharing the name across different accounts and platforms, with the “#KALIACC” hashtag used as the informal banner for this group; a practice that accelerated following the deletion of the account, from which the identity was considered liberated and available for “free use”. You can identify these elements as forming the post-authorship philosophy that would become integral to Milady.⁵

“True trolling is arbitrage on the discrepancy between ego and reality. The troll brandishes a mirror to the mark, and the only pain that arises springs from his victim’s own denial and self-hatred. It’s a community service performed towards ego equilibrium.”

—Miya Black Hearted Cyber Angel Baby, The Art of the Troll (2019)

The sphere around the Miya accounts shared a brand under the hashtag #KALIACC, where the emphasis was placed on a revival of anonymous “chan culture” in the new space of web 2.0. Mainly: the ability to simultaneously argue conflicting points of view, maintaining a transparent cynicism regarding discussion as a space of rhetoric, not logic.

In a sense, the various contributors in the space could be seen as competing with each other to most cogently argue their takes, egging each other further into eerily plausible absurdity—yet it is also true this process is efficient for arriving on real truths, like how jokes often do.

This general attitude of constant devil’s advocacy was openly inspired by imageboard culture, with the Miya account ultimately becoming a rallying signal for a diaspora of older 4chan users, who had been alienated by its changing culture post-aughts.

Another element was encouraging pranking with trolls, and maintaining an antagonism to cancel culture, usually manifesting by intentionally engineering cancels by faking something controversial. While historical imageboard trolling was done “for the lulz”, these were said to be designed to expose deep anxieties in the wider culture while casting doubt on the veracity of cancellers, often by playing both sides.

In true 4chan fashion, these kaliacc operations were spontaneously self-organized, as the various users suddenly coordinate together intuitively to construct a new controversy. Within the twitter sphere, they were known for their general contrarianism, decorative extremism and voracious appetite for argument.

The #KALIACC hashtag was often utilized as a scapegoat orientable around each new controversial anathema. Ironically, with almost all the associated twitter accounts suspended, the secondhand records of those baited into absurd cancels reposted by commentators on Reddit and imageboards are the only lasting archives, and are usually what’s being taken at face value by the post-hoc cancellers that try and “explain Miya”⁶.

The most infamous of these trolling operations is the rendition of #KALIACC as a “Nazi Anorexia Cult”, the most recent and furthest reaching label that it has ended up wearing.⁸

This formulation was actually a revival of the “Kaliacc” brand after some dormancy, dating to over a year after the original Miya account was deleted, where since I was running a “Traditionalist Genomics-Based PUA” persona on money twitter (lol), Sonya Qafi.⁹

This was done because one of the egirls in the community was getting cancelled for liking pro-anorexia and off-color memes on her private twitter; the cult story was concocted as a “defensive” excuse to deflect her cancellers to a bigger phantom target with a faked VICE article. We revived #KALIACC for the sake of the “esoteric rightwing” rabbit hole it opened when you looked up the hashtag, giving more historical weight to the “digital nazism cult that manipulates teens into anorexia” (imagine believing that with a straight face).

Heavy attention was drummed up on Instagram with her deflecting her cancel by blaming her anorexia and racism on this supposed cult. A new instagram account appeared claiming to have also escaped the cult, producing screencaps “proving” its existence, sharing stories of “other victims”—and despite the lack of any central coordination, users across different platforms familiar with the chan modus operandi could easily recognize the new troll, and spontaneously organized to support the bit, spreading plausible reports, and producing convincing screenshots “proving” its reality…right up until both accounts originating the cancel were wiped, and the main cancel account was branded as another Kaliacc puppet, with a public declaration announcing the sleight of hand.

No actual cult existed, no victims existed. The curtain comes suddenly down revealing the drama to be staged: a classic troll.

Everything seen by the public originated from the same loose group of mischief makers, spontaneously coordinating to write a stageplay in real-time to an encaptured audience. In hindsight, the game is obvious, with humor injected into each element, but like an urban legend or campfire story, it fed into their desire to believe—and similarly, it grows into myth as time goes on, gaining simultaneously in extremity and believability as it’s passed on by word of mouth further and further removed from anyone involved.

This process was a standard kaliacc style op, though its biggest and most infamous one; and it’s telling that it arose even after the actual demise of the Miya account. Like Miya, “Kaliacc” was a permissionless, anonymous, unowned label, one that was free to use for wherever it suits a good controversy—and it may yet be revived again, perhaps under a new name, or borrowing the same rabbit hole of baggage when useful.

“Kaliacc” never existed as anything except an open-ended banner useful to attract whatever was collectively interesting to explore at the time, e.g. before being defined as a pro-anorexia cult¹⁰, “Kaliacc” was known as a gang of transgender extremists¹¹, or at another time, an obscure neo-nazi ideology¹². It was originated in the various */acc’s expanding on Landian accelerationism (left/acc, u/acc, g/acc etc.), designed to throw a grenade in the theorycel discourse. This discussion is relevant to the overview on Miya as the various brandings of #KALIACC are often conflated together with the Miya account itself, not understanding the distinctly decentralized nature of these processes and the distributed nature of the identities themselves. This is all now being conflated with Remilia, as it inherited many of its participants¹³, but while Remilia expands on a lot of the same theoretic and artistic philosophy as Miya/Sonya/KALIACC that preceded it, it’s constructed under a distinctly different thesis.

Even if you find the trolling habits of the surrounding Kaliacc culture inflammatory or juvenile, one cannot deny that Miya was not only influential, but prescient. Much of the discourse that originated in that sphere continues to resonate and influence new work being produced today. It’s been widely misunderstood by its post-hoc critics who not only form their understanding of the project based on poorly researched, secondhand hearsay, but also the reductionist attempts to conflate the various fuzzy boundaries of the accounts and culture surrounding the project into a singular author or group.

I hope someone other than me will step up to write a more comprehensive reconstruction around the project and scene; though internet history moves quickly, and it’s already been a few years. Internet archaeology is extremely ineffective compared to active contemporary archivalism. New scenes grow every day, it’s essential that we strive for a conscious effort to self-document what we’re doing as we do it, as an on-going part of our practice.

Finally, it is true Miya was the progenitor of the collaborative, performative net art process that Remilia has expanded on, and it is also true much of the content it produced was problematic. But who cares? There’s nothing to apologize for. It’s an artist’s duty to explore and critique the contemporary, even in all its ugliness, and if they determine that critique is best produced in a process of performative embodiment, so be it. You can expect more people and groups in this space to continue to engage with “problematic” realities in “problematic” ways. Good, it means art is back¹⁴. Cancel culture is dead, disavowal doesn’t belong here¹⁵.

1. For years, Rhizome has lead net art conservationalism in the form of authentic archiving, but they’ve had a conspicuous blind spot towards any of the new net art succeeding the post-internet art period. The archive of Miya’s twitter can be found at kaliacc.org, but most of the contemporaneous engagement, essential its the timeline call-and-response method is lost.

2. Sierra Armor, writing for Sven Loven’s Humiliation Rituals (2023):

   “Loven’s painting of Siyuan Zhao, the Miami Art Basel stabber, is an iconic depiction of an incidental mugshot that took on a life of its own after circulating online and going on to become the face of a virtual egregore. In multiple incarnations, Zhao’s face evolved into a notorious symbol for a peculiar variety of online psychosis; the Miya figure, an anonymous collective Twitter account that gained notoriety and traction before being brutally (self-)canceled and disavowed, was a shared identity that embraced disturbing abjection coupled with a ruthless manner of seemingly conceptual trolling.”

   See also: Angelicism01, Reading Notes #6 (2021).

3. Miya has long been a topic of discussion in the Milady community, many fans of the project forming the original network among other vectors. Antagonizers have tried to use that alongside the shared creators to conflate the two projects together despite the distinctly different qualities Milady takes on itself separate from that which Miya is considered problematic. Beyond the bankruptcy of cancelling by association, let alone associations in our audience and community, art deserves to be conserved and is fair to appraisde regardless of your feelings about a work’s perceived political orientation.