This thesis documents the survival modes formed under contemporary capitalism, creative forms that emerge not by choice, but as a result of being pushed to the edges of a system that leaves little room to breathe.
In a world where information moves too quickly, technology keeps feeding us more knowledge than we can hold, and capitalism demands constant digestion. Every answer understood one moment can be overturned the next. Thoughts are interrupted by new inputs, leaving us endlessly piecing together fragments while trying to survive inside a field of confusion and unease.
As human beings, we try to slow down, to grow quietly, to return to ourselves. But the system erodes us bit by bit, until what remains is a minimized, sometimes nearly zero, version of staying true to ourselves.
The fragments, breaks, interruptions, hiding, and withdrawal that I leave behind are survival strategies forced into existence by this time. Creation is no longer growth; it is the residue/leftover waste after staying alive inside a structure that does not allow free breathing. These materials are not uplifting, yet they offer a real form of relief, a way to keep from being swallowed whole
THESIS QUESTION
- When capitalism continues to seize a person’s freedom, time, and mental space, what does creation become?
- In a time when free thought is compressed, and feeling is constantly interrupted, how can I leave evidence with only the small amount of time and nervous-system space I still have?
- How does contemporary capitalism shape, pressure, and ultimately alter the creative needs and methods of an individual?
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If creation is no longer growth but residue, how can these leftovers become a way for a person to maintain their existence within the system?
At the beginning of this semester, I carried forward a question leftover from last term:
In what ways can critical music resist its own commodification under late capitalism? And does critical music still have the potential to transform within systems that aestheticize dissent and turn critique into commodity?
During my exploration, I realized that what I was examining wasn’t “music” in the conventional or mainstream sense (I still don’t have the right word for it, but “conventional” or “mainstream” doesn’t feel precise). What I was actually drawn to was subversive sonic textures, the way the sound of a piece itself, beyond the lyrics, can feel rebellious or critical. Things like a fuzzy melody, an uncertain tone, or the way a singer stretches or shakes a note.I began to see this sonic texture as the core answer I had been searching for, so I started expanding my research around that realization.
First, I gathered twelve photos and keywords centered around this idea, trying to better define my design.
In what ways can critical music resist its own commodification under late capitalism? And does critical music still have the potential to transform within systems that aestheticize dissent and turn critique into commodity?
During my exploration, I realized that what I was examining wasn’t “music” in the conventional or mainstream sense (I still don’t have the right word for it, but “conventional” or “mainstream” doesn’t feel precise). What I was actually drawn to was subversive sonic textures, the way the sound of a piece itself, beyond the lyrics, can feel rebellious or critical. Things like a fuzzy melody, an uncertain tone, or the way a singer stretches or shakes a note.I began to see this sonic texture as the core answer I had been searching for, so I started expanding my research around that realization.
First, I gathered twelve photos and keywords centered around this idea, trying to better define my design.
This wide-ranging, energy-draining way of searching—piecing together answers bit by bit—didn’t make me feel grounded at all. But since everyone else was doing it, I figured I’d just follow along for now. I was skeptical; I had no idea what kind of design I would end up making (1). But whatever it was, it had to move me. It had to feel powerful—like the sonic textures in music.
I liked the photo showing the process of making strawberry jam, and I liked the messy-looking picture of all the images and words I had gathered. For about 30–60 seconds, I felt this brief moment of affection and calm. But then I asked myself, why? That question made everything complicated, and suddenly I didn’t like it anymore. I set it aside (2).
I liked the photo showing the process of making strawberry jam, and I liked the messy-looking picture of all the images and words I had gathered. For about 30–60 seconds, I felt this brief moment of affection and calm. But then I asked myself, why? That question made everything complicated, and suddenly I didn’t like it anymore. I set it aside (2).
I began trying to connect my likes, dislikes, and uncertainties through how they made me feel, hoping to sort them into something that resembled an answer.
Inside all of this was a nonverbal stage that I consider incredibly precious, and that’s where everything became complicated. I began asking myself how I could possibly visualize it. What is that switch, the one that makes me feel calm and powerful, the one that feels like resistance? How can I recreate it? I still don’t know. I even suspect there isn’t a specific switch at all. It just appears quietly and disappears just as quietly.
But everyone else says they have one, and they encourage me to keep looking for mine. Maybe I just haven’t found it yet. (3)
I started doing a lot of reading, mind mapping and organizing.
Then suddenly, a new wave of AI appeared out of nowhere, and I see people resisting in their own small ways.
It made me wonder, what exactly are we resisting? Are we really resisting the technology itself? Or are we resisting the instability and the self-fear that this era creates within us? We’re living in a time where technologies amplify one another into something almost chaotic. Do these traditional forms of resistance still hold any real power? (4)
Inside all of this was a nonverbal stage that I consider incredibly precious, and that’s where everything became complicated. I began asking myself how I could possibly visualize it. What is that switch, the one that makes me feel calm and powerful, the one that feels like resistance? How can I recreate it? I still don’t know. I even suspect there isn’t a specific switch at all. It just appears quietly and disappears just as quietly.
But everyone else says they have one, and they encourage me to keep looking for mine. Maybe I just haven’t found it yet. (3)
I started doing a lot of reading, mind mapping and organizing.
Then suddenly, a new wave of AI appeared out of nowhere, and I see people resisting in their own small ways.
It made me wonder, what exactly are we resisting? Are we really resisting the technology itself? Or are we resisting the instability and the self-fear that this era creates within us? We’re living in a time where technologies amplify one another into something almost chaotic. Do these traditional forms of resistance still hold any real power? (4)
I came across an article and realized that our acts of resistance have already been framed as a marketing strategy. I looked into the founder’s background—Harvard graduate. Why am I bringing this up? I’ll explain the significance of this detail later. At that moment, I started to feel that any creative work I produce around this theme would inevitably become another commodity, another thing to be resold.
So I stopped. I chose not to leave any trace.
Then I was thrown into a new challenge: how should I respond with design? For me, this meant figuring out how to use visual design, how to show a story through what can be seen.
This felt strange. I was drawn to Joseph Beuys’ theory of Art = Capital and embarked on a journey, trying to understand it as fully as possible. I did this because I didn’t want to misrepresent what he intended to express—that was my way of respecting the creator. After reading and studying extensively, I thought I might understand what he wanted to convey. I say “might” because I still don’t really understand the responses in his art. I have no experience initiating a dialogue through visual design, and I think that’s why responding with design feels so challenging to me. But maybe I just haven’t found the way yet. (5)
So I tried responding through design to the nonverbal stage I consider so precious, using ambiguity in a scattershot way. I knew I wouldn’t like it because this isn’t really how I work, but I had to produce something.
I also started realizing that what seemed like a space of freedom was actually an illusion because this is how the system views me, and how it only sees tangible final outputs. When I had resources and tried to take on the role my position demanded, I found myself moving from self-actualization at the top of the pyramid, compromising myself, and retreating back to the level of safety needs.
Suddenly, it became clear that all struggles within a system of power and hierarchy were ultimately futile. We can never truly escape this system; at best, we evolve into a mode of mutual conflict. I don’t like this mode. I don’t want to hurt anyone. So, in the stage of safety needs, all I can do is hide and run, try not to let anyone know what I’m thinking, who I am, and keep as quiet as possible.
So I stopped. I chose not to leave any trace.
Then I was thrown into a new challenge: how should I respond with design? For me, this meant figuring out how to use visual design, how to show a story through what can be seen.
This felt strange. I was drawn to Joseph Beuys’ theory of Art = Capital and embarked on a journey, trying to understand it as fully as possible. I did this because I didn’t want to misrepresent what he intended to express—that was my way of respecting the creator. After reading and studying extensively, I thought I might understand what he wanted to convey. I say “might” because I still don’t really understand the responses in his art. I have no experience initiating a dialogue through visual design, and I think that’s why responding with design feels so challenging to me. But maybe I just haven’t found the way yet. (5)
So I tried responding through design to the nonverbal stage I consider so precious, using ambiguity in a scattershot way. I knew I wouldn’t like it because this isn’t really how I work, but I had to produce something.
I also started realizing that what seemed like a space of freedom was actually an illusion because this is how the system views me, and how it only sees tangible final outputs. When I had resources and tried to take on the role my position demanded, I found myself moving from self-actualization at the top of the pyramid, compromising myself, and retreating back to the level of safety needs.
Suddenly, it became clear that all struggles within a system of power and hierarchy were ultimately futile. We can never truly escape this system; at best, we evolve into a mode of mutual conflict. I don’t like this mode. I don’t want to hurt anyone. So, in the stage of safety needs, all I can do is hide and run, try not to let anyone know what I’m thinking, who I am, and keep as quiet as possible.
I was skeptical; I had no idea what kind of design I would end up making (1)
But everyone else says they have one, and they encourage me to keep looking for mine. Maybe I just haven’t found it yet. (3)
What exactly are we resisting? Are we really resisting the technology itself? Or are we resisting the instability and the self-fear that this era creates within us? We’re living in a time where technologies amplify one another into something almost chaotic. Do these traditional forms of resistance still hold any real power? (4)
But maybe I just haven’t found the way yet. (5)
Capitalism is gaslighting me.
It doesn’t matter whether what it sees as valuable is actually wrong; it keeps making me doubt myself, questioning whether I know enough, forcing me to swallow the leftovers it feeds me, and telling myself I’m still too ignorant.
What’s the purpose? What’s the purpose? What’s the purpose?
At my core, I want to help. But saying that this thesis could help others feels like my work must only produce positive effects, so I have to remove anything that might cause harm or misunderstanding. This responsibility feels too heavy and unrealistic for me. I want to return to myself. This is just a story of being gaslit, a story I have no power to change, flowing as it goes.