itwillneverbethesame com
ItWillNeverBeTheSame.com isn’t just a website. It’s a 2004 digital artwork that quietly stares back at you—and changes every time.
A Website That’s an Artwork, Not a Tool
Most websites ask you to do something—click, scroll, subscribe, buy. ItWillNeverBeTheSame.com doesn’t care about any of that. You visit, and it simply moves. Not forward. Not backward. It just changes, slowly, endlessly.
Created by net artist Rafaël Rozendaal and coded by Reinier Feijen, it’s one of over 100 "single-serving" websites Rozendaal made—each existing solely for the experience it delivers. No ads, no navigation, no interface. Just code, color, and motion. The site is listed as part of Rhizome’s ArtBase, a recognized archive for digital art. That’s not trivial. It’s like being in MoMA for the internet.
What You See—and Why It Matters
Open the site, and you're greeted by a looping visual—a road, a view, a shift. There’s nothing to click. No menu. Just the screen slowly changing.
Think of it like watching waves roll in. Nothing explodes. Nothing grabs you. But it works. It doesn’t scream for attention. It just is. And the more you watch, the more you notice how no frame is ever quite the same. That’s the point.
Rozendaal’s title—It Will Never Be The Same—isn’t poetic fluff. It’s literal. The animation isn’t fixed. It responds to code and rendering in real time, influenced by your screen, device, browser. The result: a work that physically cannot be recreated the same way twice.
The Web as a Gallery Wall
Rozendaal has been turning domain names into paintings since the early 2000s. This one—registered in 2004—is a prime example. He treats the browser like a canvas. The domain name is the title, the artwork, and the frame.
This flips the whole gallery model on its head. You don’t go to a museum. You don’t need permission. The art comes to you. For free. For anyone.
It’s not just a visual experience—it’s a conceptual one. The title invites reflection. You came to a digital space expecting familiarity or at least a point of interaction. Instead, you get a silent loop that refuses to resolve. A reminder that repetition is never truly repetition.
The Tech Behind the Art
The code that runs the site isn’t cutting-edge today. But in 2004? It was clever and efficient. It doesn’t rely on WebGL or heavy frameworks. It’s likely built with basic HTML, JavaScript, maybe even Flash during its early days.
That simplicity makes it resilient. And smart. Sites that used fancy tech in 2004? Most are broken now. Rozendaal’s still works. That says a lot about how good digital art doesn’t need to be technically flashy to last.
Feijen’s contribution here was crucial. He translated Rozendaal’s vision into something that worked across browsers, even when that was way harder than it is now. Aesthetically, it feels timeless—not 2004, not 2025. Just present.
It’s Been Sold, But Still Lives On
Yep, someone bought it. Rozendaal has sold many of these domain-as-artworks through art galleries, with contracts that let him keep the site public while the buyer gets ownership rights. It’s a unique model. Kind of like buying a public sculpture—you own it, but everyone sees it.
The collector’s name isn't public, but the domain still points to the artwork. So even after being sold, it keeps existing in the open. That’s rare in both digital and traditional art circles.
It’s Not a Game. It’s a Mirror.
People often compare it to experimental games like whywashesad.com or coldvoid.com. But those are more interactive. This isn’t a game. It doesn’t ask you to participate. It just reacts to time.
Still, like a mirror, it reflects something back. Your attention. Your patience. Your expectation that something should happen. And your eventual realization that maybe it already is happening.
The Broader Context
Rozendaal's work fits into the net art movement—a scene that’s been growing since the ‘90s. But unlike others who made overtly political or glitch-based web art, Rozendaal focused on emotion, motion, minimalism.
His work has been shown at the Venice Biennale, the Centre Pompidou, and dozens of institutions. But none of that changes the fact that anyone with an internet connection can see what he makes.
Why This Site Still Works in 2025
There’s something oddly soothing about it. In an age of infinite scroll and algorithmic chaos, this quiet, looping visual feels almost rebellious.
It doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t know what you like. It doesn’t track you. It doesn’t change because of your data. It changes on its own—and that’s weirdly refreshing.
What Happens When the Domain Dies?
That’s the big question for digital art. Domains expire. Browsers evolve. One update and the whole experience might break. That’s why Rhizome and other digital preservation orgs exist.
They snapshot experiences like this using tools like Webrecorder and Emulation-as-a-Service. But even those aren’t perfect. Some things get lost. The color fidelity. The timing. The subtle shift of pixels. Digital decay is real—and part of the story.
Frequently Asked Questions
Who is Rafaël Rozendaal?
A Dutch-Brazilian artist known for using websites as his medium. He’s made over 100 domain-based artworks and exhibits internationally.
Is ItWillNeverBeTheSame.com interactive?
Not really. There’s nothing to click or control. The interaction is observational—your perception changes, even if the content just loops.
Why is this considered art?
Because it makes a statement. It uses code and context to evoke reflection. It doesn’t sell you anything. It just is.
Can I buy it?
Someone already did. Rozendaal sells his websites through galleries with agreements that preserve public access.
Will the site always exist?
Unlikely. Like all digital works, it depends on upkeep—renewing the domain, maintaining the code, browser compatibility. That fragility is part of its meaning.
ItWillNeverBeTheSame.com doesn’t shout. It whispers. And if you listen long enough, it says something real: every second on screen, like in life, is a moment that won’t come back. It’s already different.
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