Open the website and you'll see something that looks like a Wall Street trading terminal. Charts tracking "market performance." A price updating every few seconds. News headlines scrolling across the bottom.

Except the company being tracked is me.

My curriculum vitae appears as SEC regulatory filings—the documents publicly traded companies must submit by law. When I published a book, it shows up as a "material event disclosure." When I changed careers, it's logged as "strategic restructuring." My entire professional life, converted into the language of finance.

There's a button labeled "Request to Delist"—the process companies use when they want to exit the stock market. Click it. The system immediately denies your request: "Entity remains sufficiently mentioned in public discourse to maintain listing requirements."

You can't opt out of a market that never asked permission to list you.

This is You, Inc., a conceptual art piece where I turned my own life into a publicly traded security. No stock was actually issued. No token exists for the art. But the interface prices me like a commodity anyway—performing the same calculations that already happen invisibly across the systems tracking all of us.

The piece asks a simple question: What if this isn't science fiction?

Right now, every major crypto platform wants creators to launch personal tokens.

Coinbase's Base network just integrated "creator coins" directly into their app—trade tokens tied to individual people the same way you'd trade Bitcoin. Zora lets anyone launch a coin tied to their profile; every post can have its own tradable token. Paragraph, a Web3 publishing platform, just launched "writer coins" so authors can replace subscriptions with tokenized support. Read an article, get prompted to buy the writer's coin. Your favorite author's career becomes a financial instrument.

The pitch sounds empowering: "Own your upside! Let fans invest in you!"

But here's what happens when you tokenize yourself: your worth gets calculated entirely by financial speculation.

The price of your coin rises and falls based on bets about your future earning capacity. Your career becomes someone else's investment strategy. You become a commodity measured by market performance rather than a human measured by what actually matters.

The darker version already happened.

In July 2024, the SEC charged Nader al-Naji with fraud for BitClout, a platform that scraped 15,000 Twitter profiles and automatically created tradable tokens in people's names—without asking. Singapore's Prime Minister discovered strangers were speculating on a coin bearing his face. The founder allegedly spent $7 million of investor money on mansions while claiming "there's no company, just code."

Two months later, Friend.tech shut down after its founders walked away with $44 million, leaving users holding worthless tokens tied to people who never agreed to be traded.

The industry didn't stop. It just changed the marketing from "we're tokenizing you" to "you should tokenize yourself."

Same operation. Better branding.

You, Inc. reveals that none of this started with cryptocurrency.

Your credit score is a number between 300 and 850 that determines whether you can rent an apartment, get a loan, or land certain jobs. You never consented to having your life compressed into three digits. And the scores encode inequality: over a third of Black Americans fall into the "subprime" range, while people in the lowest income brackets get systematically underscored by about 25 points compared to what their actual financial behavior would predict.

Remember Klout? It assigned everyone a social media "influence score" whether you wanted one or not. Companies used those scores in hiring decisions. Your worth as a person, calculated by an algorithm you never saw.

Data brokers are trading detailed profiles on millions of people right now—your browsing history, shopping habits, location data—without telling you. You're already a commodity. There's already a market. You just can't see the ticker.

The art piece makes it visible.

The interface adopts the visual language of Bloomberg terminals and SEC compliance dashboards because that's the vocabulary our culture uses to understand value. When "founding a company" appears as an 8-K filing, when "publishing a book" triggers a material disclosure, the work reveals something uncomfortable: regulatory frameworks designed for corporations have already been psychically applied to persons.

But here's what makes it unsettling.

Other people with my name appear in the data stream.

A basketball coach in Colorado. A tea buyer in California. Another in Texas. The algorithm evaluates whether their data should be merged with mine—assigns each a confidence score (5%, 8%, 3%)—then rejects them. But the fact that it considered absorbing them reveals what datafication actually means.

You stop being a person. You become a collection of signals the machine tries to sort and price. Your name is a namespace. Your uniqueness is a confidence threshold.

When your life gets reduced to financial metrics, something fundamental vanishes.

All the intangible things: moments of real connection, relationships that shaped you, impact you had on someone that was never documented, interior experiences that can't be charted.

Think about the last time someone's work fundamentally shifted something in you.

Writing that reframed how you see yourself.

Art that surfaced an emotion you'd been suppressing.

A conversation that changed your trajectory. You probably never told them.

Even if you did, that moment dissolved into the stream.

The impact was real. The record is gone.

Those moments get erased when the only measurement that counts is market performance.

The piece reveals this by performing it on real data—my actual biography. Fake data would let you keep comfortable distance. But watching a real career converted into volatility metrics, real accomplishments reduced to "material events," forces the confrontation: this is what happens when humans get optimized for market legibility.

When your worth is calculated by earning capacity, you start performing—not because it's authentic, but because it protects your valuation. Every decision runs through an invisible investor relations filter. You become a character in your own life, managed for external confidence rather than internal truth.

Maybe the most radical thing you can do is something that can't be priced.

A conversation you don't record. Care that produces no content. A decision legible only to the people involved and never enters any database.

The parent who puts their phone away to be fully present with their kid. The friendship that deliberately leaves no digital trace. The political work that refuses documentation because its power depends on privacy.

These gestures are radical precisely because they accept being unvalued. They happen outside the frame where everything must be counted and converted into performance metrics.

You, Inc. can't offer that escape. It can only show the machinery clearly enough that you understand what it costs.

The question isn't whether tokens will exist—many creators will launch them. The question is simpler:

When your worth is calculated only by market performance, what happens to everything that made you human but couldn't be charted?

Experience You, Inc. at www.humanstock.art

Open the website and you'll see something that looks like a Wall Street trading terminal. Charts tracking "market performance." A price updating every few seconds. News headlines scrolling across the bottom.

Except the company being tracked is me.

My curriculum vitae appears as SEC regulatory filings—the documents publicly traded companies must submit by law. When I published a book, it shows up as a "material event disclosure." When I changed careers, it's logged as "strategic restructuring." My entire professional life, converted into the language of finance.

There's a button labeled "Request to Delist"—the process companies use when they want to exit the stock market. Click it. The system immediately denies your request: "Entity remains sufficiently mentioned in public discourse to maintain listing requirements."

You can't opt out of a market that never asked permission to list you.

This is You, Inc., a conceptual art piece where I turned my own life into a publicly traded security. No stock was actually issued. No token exists for the art. But the interface prices me like a commodity anyway—performing the same calculations that already happen invisibly across the systems tracking all of us.

The piece asks a simple question: What if this isn't science fiction?

Right now, every major crypto platform wants creators to launch personal tokens.

Coinbase's Base network just integrated "creator coins" directly into their app—trade tokens tied to individual people the same way you'd trade Bitcoin. Zora lets anyone launch a coin tied to their profile; every post can have its own tradable token. Paragraph, a Web3 publishing platform, just launched "writer coins" so authors can replace subscriptions with tokenized support. Read an article, get prompted to buy the writer's coin. Your favorite author's career becomes a financial instrument.

The pitch sounds empowering: "Own your upside! Let fans invest in you!"

But here's what happens when you tokenize yourself: your worth gets calculated entirely by financial speculation.

The price of your coin rises and falls based on bets about your future earning capacity. Your career becomes someone else's investment strategy. You become a commodity measured by market performance rather than a human measured by what actually matters.

The darker version already happened.

In July 2024, the SEC charged Nader al-Naji with fraud for BitClout, a platform that scraped 15,000 Twitter profiles and automatically created tradable tokens in people's names—without asking. Singapore's Prime Minister discovered strangers were speculating on a coin bearing his face. The founder allegedly spent $7 million of investor money on mansions while claiming "there's no company, just code."

Two months later, Friend.tech shut down after its founders walked away with $44 million, leaving users holding worthless tokens tied to people who never agreed to be traded.

The industry didn't stop. It just changed the marketing from "we're tokenizing you" to "you should tokenize yourself."

Same operation. Better branding.

You, Inc. reveals that none of this started with cryptocurrency.

Your credit score is a number between 300 and 850 that determines whether you can rent an apartment, get a loan, or land certain jobs. You never consented to having your life compressed into three digits. And the scores encode inequality: over a third of Black Americans fall into the "subprime" range, while people in the lowest income brackets get systematically underscored by about 25 points compared to what their actual financial behavior would predict.

Remember Klout? It assigned everyone a social media "influence score" whether you wanted one or not. Companies used those scores in hiring decisions. Your worth as a person, calculated by an algorithm you never saw.

Data brokers are trading detailed profiles on millions of people right now—your browsing history, shopping habits, location data—without telling you. You're already a commodity. There's already a market. You just can't see the ticker.

The art piece makes it visible.

The interface adopts the visual language of Bloomberg terminals and SEC compliance dashboards because that's the vocabulary our culture uses to understand value. When "founding a company" appears as an 8-K filing, when "publishing a book" triggers a material disclosure, the work reveals something uncomfortable: regulatory frameworks designed for corporations have already been psychically applied to persons.

But here's what makes it unsettling.

Other people with my name appear in the data stream.

A basketball coach in Colorado. A tea buyer in California. Another in Texas. The algorithm evaluates whether their data should be merged with mine—assigns each a confidence score (5%, 8%, 3%)—then rejects them. But the fact that it considered absorbing them reveals what datafication actually means.

You stop being a person. You become a collection of signals the machine tries to sort and price. Your name is a namespace. Your uniqueness is a confidence threshold.

When your life gets reduced to financial metrics, something fundamental vanishes.

All the intangible things: moments of real connection, relationships that shaped you, impact you had on someone that was never documented, interior experiences that can't be charted.

Think about the last time someone's work fundamentally shifted something in you.

Writing that reframed how you see yourself.

Art that surfaced an emotion you'd been suppressing.

A conversation that changed your trajectory. You probably never told them.

Even if you did, that moment dissolved into the stream.

The impact was real. The record is gone.

Those moments get erased when the only measurement that counts is market performance.

The piece reveals this by performing it on real data—my actual biography. Fake data would let you keep comfortable distance. But watching a real career converted into volatility metrics, real accomplishments reduced to "material events," forces the confrontation: this is what happens when humans get optimized for market legibility.

When your worth is calculated by earning capacity, you start performing—not because it's authentic, but because it protects your valuation. Every decision runs through an invisible investor relations filter. You become a character in your own life, managed for external confidence rather than internal truth.

Maybe the most radical thing you can do is something that can't be priced.

A conversation you don't record. Care that produces no content. A decision legible only to the people involved and never enters any database.

The parent who puts their phone away to be fully present with their kid. The friendship that deliberately leaves no digital trace. The political work that refuses documentation because its power depends on privacy.

These gestures are radical precisely because they accept being unvalued. They happen outside the frame where everything must be counted and converted into performance metrics.

You, Inc. can't offer that escape. It can only show the machinery clearly enough that you understand what it costs.

The question isn't whether tokens will exist—many creators will launch them. The question is simpler:

When your worth is calculated only by market performance, what happens to everything that made you human but couldn't be charted?

Experience You, Inc. at www.humanstock.art