If one’s understanding and connection with an artist is solely informed by interactivity or successful engagement of a public virtual audience—I would rather have not existed in their gaze at all.
There is nothing personal—and absolutely everything impersonal—in resonating with pixel-accounted personas. Living is not virtual. Making is not virtual— no revolutionary artistic making was contingent on interface responsiveness. If pre-internet Artists had so severely relied on articulating an entire colossus of making through a virtual interface, by the same religious standard my generation of contemporaries do—there would be no Art History.

And when my body enters into a state of decay, a system of decay that is imposed upon me by medical diagnosis, critical theorists— philosophers— long before I am even conceived, will I have failed to have existed? Had I even existed then in the repressed filing cabinet, a paper identifying my body with a state? Writings. Chicken scribbles.
Is this not my body?

All of my body, is not actually all of my body.

Body is what the state permits me access to—to control, to put into, to produce. Capital.
But, even then— that is not a body.
Agency exists concurrently within a governed-state.