l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet) 🔊 [ ON ]
the quiet moments we don’t talk about—the ones where everything feels heavy, but the world around you keeps glowing. the monobloc becomes a witness to it all. the weight of being human in a place that feels alive. it’s not flashy, just honest—like sitting with an old friend who doesn’t need to say a word.

l’edizione 21. ombre. 🔊 [ ON ]
this is straight-up dark souls energy—like you just stumbled into the boss arena, and the health bar hasn’t even loaded yet. the tower’s towering (duh), shadows are glitching out like npcs with bad pathing, and you’re standing there, controller in hand, thinking, “do i even have enough potions for this?” bro, but this isn’t a game—this is real. the tower’s right there, crumbling but alive, like it’s been waiting for you.
then the voice booms, deep and cursed: “rise up! make the earth full and be masters of it.”
and you’re like, “nah, this is some final questline type beat,” but the tower? it’s already got you locked in. no pause menu, no hud, no map, no save point. gg.

l'edizione 13. persona. 🔊 [ ON ]
this piece is also rhythm—like a freestyle session where every bar hits different. it’s the block and the dream all in one. the hoodie’s the armor—quiet, steady—but the world around it? that’s the noise we grew up in. toys, cartoons, and chaos, but also survival, hustle, and holding onto what made us. this is flowin’ through memories, remixing the past into something alive. it’s not just nostalgia; it’s a reminder that even in the madness, we find our calm and ourselves. so, what’s your verse in all this? wassup.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine. 🔊 [ ON ]
the nexus forge @ eon spire, new lagos.
this isn’t the grand, world-saving quest you’d expect. it’s smaller, quieter, but no less important. a single task that could change everything for someone, somewhere. there’s a life at stake.
she looks at you, her voice calm but firm. “it’s time to say goodbye, friend.”
you feel the weight of her words. this isn’t about glory or recognition. it’s about doing what’s right, even when no one’s watching.
her voice is calm, steady, but there’s something heavy in it. she turns, the glow of her suit lighting the path ahead.
“follow me,” she says, already moving forward. “we’re on a mission now.”
you don’t hesitate. you never do—not with her.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine. 🔊 [ ON ]
the nine elements are all about finding ways to connect and get along, whether it’s with others or yourself. momentum is that push to start something, like reaching out first. dual domain is about balance—knowing when to speak and when to listen. sacred geometry? it’s the structure that keeps things steady, like the unspoken rules of a good friendship.
illumination is those “aha” moments when you finally understand someone’s perspective. ecosystem reminds you that we’re all part of something bigger, like how every little action affects the group. synergy is teamwork at its best—when everyone’s strengths come together.
foundation is what keeps things solid, like trust and honesty. core is about staying true to who you are, even when things get messy. and ascension? it’s the growth that happens when you learn from each other and come out stronger.
these elements aren’t about being perfect—they’re about figuring out how to work together, one step at a time. which one feels like your vibe?

l’edizione 12. new world magazine. 🔊 [ ON ]
this piece feels like unlocking a mid-tier skin upgrade—sleek, detailed, and just enough to make you pause and appreciate the grind. "myth.exe" drops you into a world where gods are avatars, and every detail feels like it’s pulsing with lore. It’s not the final form, but it’s a solid flex. The energy here is all about progression: who you were, who you are, and who you’re about to become.

l'edizione 14. darwin files. 🔊 [ ON ]
she said she was meeting someone late near her office at byward market area in murray street—something about "settling it once and for all.
you get this clip from your friend at 2 a.m., no text—just this. she’s in this parking garage, right? the camera’s kinda shaky, footsteps echoing, and the car’s headlights glare like they’re staring right at you. you hear their breathing, heavy and uneven, and then that scream—distant, sharp, like it’s coming from somewhere deep in the garage.
the engine roars, but the car doesn’t move. your friend’s breathing gets faster, and then, just before the clip ends, there’s a click. unmistakable. a gun being loaded.
you text back: “where tf are you??”
you stare at the answer: “come over.” your stomach twists. the clip is still playing in your head—the scream, the engine, the click. you type back, “what’s going on??” but no reply.
wyd?

l’edizione 18. trippin’ 🔊 [ ON ]
yo, welcome to my brain on a canvas. every detail invites reflection: what do we hold onto, and what do we let go of? it’s a world where rules took a vacation, and vibes run wild. come get lost—i already am.

voyage temporel introspectif. l’edizione 19. epoche
this piece is personal—it’s about the moment you realize you’re both the one breaking and the one being broken. the figure is me, or maybe it’s you. i was thinking about how we all move through life, leaving cracks behind us, but also carrying them within. the forest is also a metaphor for the mind—dense, tangled, impossible to escape.
the cracks are deliberate. i shattered a piece of glass and placed it in front of the lens because i wanted to capture that feeling of looking at yourself through damage. the handwriting? it’s fragments of thoughts i wrote down during a sleepless night, things i couldn’t say out loud.
this is about the tension between control and surrender, about how we try to hold ourselves together even when everything is splintering. it’s inspired by jon rafman’s digital surrealism and the raw vulnerability of francesca woodman’s photography.

shot deep in epping forest near the loughton camp, early morning on november 12, 2023. I used a sony a7r iv with a 24-70mm f/2.8 lens. post-processing in lightroom and photoshop to enhance the cracks and add depth to the shadows.

l’edizione 15. installazione
this piece is chaos and control colliding—literally. it’s like your childhood dreams got hijacked by your adult obsessions with speed and destruction. it’s not just a jet; it’s a metaphor for ambition crashing into the mess we build around ourselves.
i wanted it to feel like a moment frozen mid-explosion, where you’re not sure if you should laugh, cry, or start digging through the rubble for something you lost. think tom sachs meets mike winkelmann, but with a little more existential dread.

contemporary arts center (cac) cincinnati, april 2024

l’edizione 21. ombre 🔊 [ ON ]
it’s 2:47 a.m. and you’d just left that weird house party on the edge of town—the one you weren’t even sure how you got invited to. the vibe was off all night: too quiet, too many locked doors, and that one guy who kept staring at you like he knew something. well, just somehow northamptonshireish.
you bailed, but the streets were empty, and the fog rolled in fast, swallowing everything. by the time you got to kettering station, it felt like the world had shrunk to just you and the platform. no trains, no people, just the sound of some distant trains and of your own breathing.
scrolling your phone, when you glance up. there’s someone on the bench across the platform. no big deal—until you realize they don’t have a head. -h-h-h-h-headless. your heart stops. you blink. nope, still headless. the fog swirls.
and then, in the distance, something passes through the fog. not a train. not a person. just... something.
you should’ve stayed at the party.

l’edizione 21. ombre. 🔊 [ ON ]
it was the end of a brutal night shift, and i was running on fumes. the tunnels under city hall station always messed with me—too many turns, too many gates. i swore i took the right one, but the air felt... wrong. heavier. the hum started first, low and steady, like it was coming from the walls.
then i saw it. at the edge of the platform, where no one should’ve been. a figure, black as a shadow, but it wasn’t just standing—it was growing. roots or wires or something were crawling out of it, twisting into the tiles.
“come closer, mate,” it said, like it knew me, like it had been waiting. my head was spinning—was i too tired? dreaming? but the hum got louder, vibrating through my chest. the walls seemed to breathe. this wasn’t the station anymore. it was something else. and somehow, i knew—this was where my shift really started.

l’edizione 21. ombre. 🔊 [ ON ]
they came when the sky cracked open, from the horizon, where the earth splits, dragging the weight of centuries with them. their steps are slow, deliberate, like they’ve walked this path before—maybe in another life, maybe in all of them. no one knows them, no one seems to remember something about them. it’s not fear they bring, but a reckoning, a reminder that nothing stays buried forever.

l’edizione 10. surreal. 🔊 [ ON ]
this one’s pure fun in the best way, dolphin is straight vibin’. like, who needs a yacht or surfboard when you’ve got a pizza? the energy is immaculate—rubber ducky entourage, shades on, living its best life. it’s giving cosmic “i’m him” energy but make it aquatic.

l'edizione 9. warzone 🔊 [ ON ]
the rain hit harder than the steel, but he didn’t flinch. the city below was chaos—kaneda’s streets meeting kurosawa’s storms. his blade hummed, still warm from the last fight. this wasn’t about justice or revenge anymore. it was survival, and the storm wasn’t waiting.

l’edizione 0. pixels
this is about contradictions—the kind that live inside all of us. it’s a portrait, but it’s also a mask, a reflection of someone who lived between ambition and failure, brilliance and scandal. i wanted it to feel like a moment caught between pride and regret, like the weight of choices made and unmade. the gaze isn’t just looking out—it’s looking back, questioning, searching.
it’s inspired by a life that was as layered as it was flawed. a man who rose to the heights of power, only to fall, who sought truth in science but lived in the chaos of politics and personal struggles. it’s not about judgment—it’s about humanity, raw and unfiltered.

l’edizione 10. surreal
this is where i go when the world gets too loud. it’s not just a place—it’s a feeling, a breath i can finally take. the light here doesn’t just fall; it moves, it listens. the reflections shift like they’re alive, like they’re holding pieces of me i’ve left behind. it’s quiet, but not empty. it’s full of something i can’t name, something that feels like home but also like a secret i’m still learning to understand.
this spot has seen me at my best and my worst. it doesn’t judge, doesn’t ask for anything. it just is. and when i’m here, i feel like i can just be too. it’s sacred to me and it feels like it belongs to something bigger, something i can’t quite name.

voyage temporel introspectif. l’edizione 19. epoche
this is a moment, a feeling, a whole world wrapped in soft light and handwritten words. the kind of memory that smells like summer air and sounds like laughter you can’t quite place. you hold it in your hand, but it holds you too, pulling you back to a time when everything felt golden, like the best days of your life were happening right then and there.
but look closer. it’s not just the photo—it’s her, behind it, holding it, becoming part of it. the lines blur, and suddenly, you’re not sure where the memory ends and the present begins. it’s beautiful, but it aches, like all the best memories do.
shot on a sony a7r iv with a 50mm f/1.4 lens for that dreamy depth and soft focus. post-processed in lightroom with warm tones, subtle grain, and delicate highlights to give it that timeless, nostalgic feel.

l’edizione 10. surreal
it feels like a nod to the glitchy, chaotic energy of artists like rafael rozendaal or felipe pantone. it’s got that same digital-meets-analog vibe, where movement and distortion collide in a way that feels alive. the layered colors and sharp angles echo pantone’s obsession with gradients and motion, but with a more frenetic, almost rebellious edge and with a little bit of rave energy thrown in. it’s like a visual remix of the digital age, where nothing stays still, and everything demands your attention.

l’edizione 18. trippin’
bro, this is what happens when skittles overdose and start having existential crises. the drip gods are watching, and they’re not judging—they’re just vibing in their gooey chaos. it’s like the universe hit ctrl+z on reality and said, “let’s make it weird.” you’re the tiny astronaut, lost in a candy-coated fever dream, and every squishy eyeball is lowkey asking, “u good?” spoiler: you’re not, but neither are they.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine
it’s a bench, sure, but it’s also a question. a pause. a space carved out for the in-between. it’s not just for waiting for a train—it’s for waiting for anything: a decision, a sign, a moment to pass. it holds the weight of all the people who’ve sat there, carrying their hopes, their fears, their boredom, their silence. it’s a witness to transitions, to arrivals and departures, to the lives that brush past it without a second thought.
its essence? it’s a threshold. a liminal space. it doesn’t belong to the past or the future—it’s the now, stretched thin. it’s a reminder that even in stillness, something is always moving, even if it’s just the thoughts in your head. it’s not just a bench—it’s a mirror, asking you what you’re waiting for.

l’edizione 21. ombre. 🔊 [ ON ]
this is the moment when everything unravels, but instead of fear, there’s clarity—like the chaos was always leading here. she’s holding it: fragile, personal, inevitable. the world behind her is wrecked—but her stillness says it all. it’s not an ending; it’s a beginning. messy, raw, but somehow... right.

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet)
bruh, sitting here wrapped in my red blanket, i’m anon. and this wall? it’s giving main character energy. like, who even thought, “let’s build a giant stone snake through the mountains”? for what?? the vibes are insane, but the logic? nonexistent.
this place is so extra, it’s almost funny. the wall’s out here flexing like it’s eternal, but the mountains and the mist are like, “lol, you’re just a guest.” makes you think—humans really thought they were that guy, building this, and now we don’t even know why.
there’s this saying: “高山仰止，景行行止” — “the lofty mountains inspire awe; the great path calls us forward.” but honestly, did they think this wall was the great path or something to stop us? or just a flex that the universe would laugh at?
lowkey, it’s humbling. the wall’s big, but the universe is bigger. we’re just tiny specs out here, trying to leave a mark, and the universe is like, “cute, but no.” what we build will always be outlived by what we can’t.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine
the stones are not just a monument—they are a mechanism, built with precision but meant to be used with chaos. dragged from distant lands, aligned to the stars, they were designed to impose order on the world. but their true power came from the markings, the human touch. every generation added its own layer, not to preserve the past but to keep the tool alive.
it was a ritual as old as the stones themselves. the geometry of the formation was perfect, but the markings were wild, unpredictable—a reminder that humanity’s strength wasn’t in precision but in creativity.
he added his own marks, not to deface but to contribute, to keep the tool working. the stones didn’t demand perfection; they demanded life, chaos, and the messy beauty of human hands. as his dogs barked, he stepped back, knowing the work was never truly done.

l'edizione 6. moments
so, here’s the deal: one of you waited. all day. and the other one didn’t show. this is love that arrives late, but not too late—love doesn’t run on clocks. it’s the kind of love that stumbles, that forgets the date, that shows up messy and flawed, holding a heart that’s been through all the mess and chaos. it’s not wrapped in ribbons or dipped in sugar—it’s raw, rusted, real and stitched together with everything you’ve been through. and somehow, that makes it more beautiful.
standing here, waiting, not for perfection but for truth. the heart isn’t perfect, but it’s honest. it’s built from the pieces of who you are, the parts you thought were too broken to matter. love isn’t about timing—it’s about seeing the beauty in the imperfections, the soul beneath the surface. love is not perfect, but it’s real.

l'edizione 13. persona
so, this is the version that lives in the spaces between the gold and the grit. i wanted to capture that tension, you know? the rawness of being human but wrapped in something luminous, like you’re trying to shine through the chaos. yeah, the patterns are wild, but they’re not random. they’re the pieces of life that stick to you—memories, dreams, fears—all stitched together into something that almost makes sense.
the colors are loud because life is loud. the gold? it’s not about wealth; it’s about fragility, like how something so beautiful can also be so breakable. the hat is a little ironic, a little defiant—like, i’m here, but i’m not playing by the rules. it’s about standing in the middle of the storm and still finding a way to glow. thanks for seeing it. maybe you’ll find a piece of yourself in it too.

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet) 🔊 [ ON ]
she stands in the water deep within the sundarban near kalash island, where the ganges, brahmaputra, and meghna rivers meet the bay of bengal. still but not at peace. she ferries memories. the mangroves are her domain, a labyrinth where the past and present blur. the fish glows in her hands, its light rippling across the surface like a heartbeat. the glowing fish isn’t a creature; it’s a vessel, holding fragments of lives long forgotten. it’s not hers to keep—she knows that.
the boys rise from the depths, their faces calm, their movements slow, like they’ve been waiting for her. they are the lost ones, innocent souls who wandered too far into the mangroves and became part of them. they rise from the water to remind her of what’s at stake. they are the memories she couldn’t save, the ones that slipped through her fingers.
she doesn’t look at them. her gaze is heavy, focused inward, as if she’s carrying the weight of a decision. the fish carries something forgotten, something to remember. but taking it comes with a price. the mangroves don’t let anyone leave unchanged. she turns slightly, her hands shifting, as if she’s about to pass it on. not to you, but to someone who carries a burden of their own, someone who’s lost something or someone and needs to find their way back. it’s not a gift—it’s a responsibility. the glowing fish chooses its keeper, and she’s the intermediary, the one who ensures it goes to the right hands.
the air is thick with questions, but she doesn’t answer.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine
this image dives beneath the dna level, into the quantum fabric of life itself (yeah, we’re talking quantum tech here). it’s a visualization of subatomic interactions—the dance of quarks, gluons, and energy fields that form the foundation of existence mid-edit. the flowing, interconnected loops represent quantum entanglement, where particles remain linked across space and time. the glossy, fluid textures symbolize the constant flux of the quantum realm, where nothing is fixed, and everything is possibility.
this is the level where our „bioweave engine“ operates—not just editing dna but interacting with the quantum forces that shape it. the soft gradients of light reflect the resonator’s ability to manipulate energy fields and light frequencies to interact with molecular structures, guiding the very building blocks of matter into harmony. it’s not just biology or physics—it’s the intersection of both, a glimpse into the code beneath the code.

l’edizione 15. installazione
this is what happens when precision, play and obsessions collide. i wanted to build something that felt like a memory on overdrive—supercars dripping in lego chaos, like they just sped out of a kid’s imagination and crashed into reality we chase as adults. every brick, every curve, it’s all about you finding your own story in the mess. it’s a space to rethink that balance. are we building something, or are we just breaking it down? is it nostalgia? is it speed? maybe both. either way, it’s your turn to take the wheel.
october 2019, the hole nyc, bowery

l’edizione 18. trippin’
hey, so here’s the thing—picture this: you’re wandering through a glitchy corner of the metaverse in a back alley in the heart of synth-prague, where the cobblestones—littered with forgotten code—glitch under your feet and the air smells like burnt circuits and old rain. you stumble into this alley, and boom—this chaotic pile of characters is just there. they’ve gathered here, all these little misfits. like a secret council of forgotten dreams. they’re not just sitting still, though. they’re expecting something. one of them hands you a key (or was it a wrench?), and suddenly you’re sucked into their world—a place where time and space got tired of following the rules. this is an invitation to lose yourself in the madness. are you in?

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet) 🔊 [ ON ]
just got back clubbing from ‚the quarter‘ in novi sad, serbia. stumbled on an old playground, tucked between crumbling high-rises. there it was—a creepy little figure on the swing. felt like a fever dream, or maybe i was still tripping. the swing creaked, almost laughing at me. graffiti whispered stories, and the cracked pavement felt alive. snapped a short movie, but it’s all a blur. left with chills, and no way i’m coming back. this place is a whole vibe, but i’m out.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine. 🔊 [ ON ]
hey, zora explorer. ever vibed with the universe's energy? my profile is your portal, where tech dreams and ancient vibes collide. it's like a mirror to your own epic journey. dive in, feel the glow, the pulse of a future intertwined with myth. it's not just art; it's a shared vibe, a secret between worlds, a connection. let's stand on this edge together, where imagination meets the infinite. accept my invitation to find your place in the story.

psa: you know i’m a multidisciplinary creator. have a story, wish, or idea in mind? share it with me—i’d love to craft a unique artwork inspired by you. let’s create something meaningful together, blending your vision with my imagination. comment here or on any other platform.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine 🔊 [ ON ]
this is the temple of ash, a place hidden for centuries somewhere in penampang sabah, known only to those who carry the mark.
she brought you here. her black lace dress clinging to her like shadows, her tattoos telling stories of battles and oaths. the cracks of gold on her face shimmer in the firelight, a sign of her bond to this place.
this is their ritual, their reckoning. the men, bare-chested and solemn, walk toward the flames, each carrying a fragment of a shattered relic they’ve sworn to return. they disappear into the fire one by one, their steps steady, unafraid. the flames roar higher, the temple trembling as if it’s alive. she turns to you, her voice steady: "short as a breath, or as long as eternity. it’s time." and in that moment, you realize this isn’t just their place—any moment, it will be yours too.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine
my time-warp vintage street shot, like if your fave indie photog glitched out.
it’s a time capsule within a time capsule. i shot it in the heart of manhattan, 7th avenue near times square looking south toward the paramount building, blending the 1950s and today.
it’s about how memory and reality overlap, how the past feels so close yet untouchable. i used a nikon z6 + 35mm f/1.8 lens for that creamy depth of field, then layered subtle vintage tones in lightroom to echo the polaroid’s vibe. it’s a nod to street photographers like saul leiter, but with a modern twist.
this one’s for anyone who’s ever felt like they’re living in two timelines at once.

l'edizione 13. persona
so, this piece is a tribute to the absurd, the eccentric, and the unapologetically bold. the man? he’s larger than life—those eyes, that mustache, the hat that feels like it’s seen a thousand stories. i wanted the colors to feel sun-soaked and surreal, like a dream you can’t quite shake. he’s not just staring; he’s daring you to look closer, to find the cracks in reality. it’s a tribute to the kind of mind that bends the world just by existing.

so this piece is kind of my quiet nod to artists like guy billout and his surreal simplicity, or even the way digital creators like pascal campion capture those fleeting, everyday moments. it’s about the pause—the kid on the slide, the stillness before the rush. i wanted the texture to feel tactile, almost like an old-school illustration but with a modern, digital twist. if it reminds you of something you’ve felt but can’t quite name, then we’re on the same wavelength.
at first glance, it feels like a simple playground scene, but there’s something subtly off. the shadows are unusually sharp and elongated, almost too precise for the soft, hazy light. the slide’s texture looks weathered, like it’s been there for decades, yet the rest of the playground feels untouched. the boy’s posture is oddly still, almost contemplative, like he’s not just sitting but waiting for something. it’s a moment frozen, but it hums with quiet tension.

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet)
found this pic in this old, crusty journal i picked up at marché aux puces de la porte de vanves flea market near my new apartment in paris. the guy selling it barely looked at me, just mumbled something about the catacombs and shoved it in my hands. i thought it was a joke at first, but nah—this feels off. the figure? it’s like it’s part of the stone, holding that candle like it’s been waiting down there forever.
the catacombs are already creepy—6 million skeletons (more than double the current population), endless tunnels (more than 200 miles), people getting lost and never found. but this? swear i’ve seen rocks like this before, way back in a blocked-off section i snuck into. the air was heavy, like the walls were breathing, and i noped out fast. now i’m wondering if i should’ve stayed.
the candle’s glow doesn’t even make sense—it’s too alive, too steady, like it’s feeding on the dark. whatever it is, it’s not just a photo. it’s something else. something waiting.

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet)
not even 100% sure whether this was in hk's mong kok or shinjuku near kabukichoa. either way, a place where the ordinary and the extraordinary blur. anyways, she pulled it out. it’s like the ball wasn’t just an object—it was a trigger. the moment she pulled it free, her chest ignited, not with fire, but with something alive, something foregone. maybe the ball holds a piece of her, or maybe it’s the other way around. the glow feels raw, untamed, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment. the city around her doesn’t even notice, but she knows everything’s changed. whatever this is, it’s not just power—it’s a reckoning.

l’edizione 10. surreal
hold your breath—his is the first image sent back from the aether probe, a device launched into the void between dimensions. the structure you see isn’t just a physical object—it’s a living conduit, a bridge between realities. our lab scientists speculate it’s a form of interdimensional architecture, built by an intelligence that doesn’t perceive time or space as we do. the glowing patterns? they’re thought to be a language, a kind of universal code, constantly rewriting itself to adapt to our understanding.
the reflection isn’t just light—it’s a mirror of the probe’s own reality, distorted by the interaction. some believe this is a gateway, a threshold to a parallel existence. others think it’s a warning, a sign that we’ve reached too far. whatever it is, this image marks the beginning of a new era, one where the boundaries of our universe are no longer fixed.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine 🔊 [ ON ]
this wall feels like a relic from a lost civilization—ancient yet advanced, blending art, science, and faith. maybe this wall isn’t just a relic—it’s a tool. the glowing symbols could be keys, unlocking knowledge or technology we’ve barely begun to grasp. imagine it as a map, guiding us to something hidden, or a machine waiting to be activated. perhaps it deciphers itself when the right questions are asked, or reacts to touch, sound, or thought. it could teach us, power us, or even warn us. the real question: are we ready to use it, or will it use us?

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet)
it's not a place you can walk to, not somewhere on any map. you only find it in dreams. it’s ancient, older than anything you can imagine. you weren’t supposed to see this place, but somehow, you found it. this is their place—the sacred retreat. when serpents know their time’s up, they come here, but they don’t really die. something still burns inside, like embers refusing to go out.
the air is thick, humming with something ancient, something alive. the ground beneath you feels warm, pulsing like thousand heartbeats. their massive bones glowing faintly, coil endlessly.
and she’s standing there, like she belongs, calm but unyielding, like she’s part of the earth itself. her gaze locks with yours and it’s not unkind, but it’s a warning: this place isn’t for you. she’s the guard, the keeper. her ink isn’t just art—a mark of her duty and it’s alive, a story older than time itself and a bond with the ones who came before. the weight of it all—the history, the magic, the sacredness—presses down on you.
it’s not just a place; it’s a memory you’ve never lived. this place isn’t just seen; it’s felt. and it’s changing you my friend.

l’edizione 21. ombre
booked an airbnb because it was cheap and “quirky“, left to vibe, came back late, and now…this.
bro, i walked in, and i swear the room’s alive. the air’s thick, like it’s choking me, and the lamp’s throwing this gross yellow light that makes everything look worse. the bed? trashed, stained with something i don’t even wanna think about. i’m still buzzing from the drinks—or whatever else—and it’s hitting me all at once. then i see it. that painting. that face. it wasn’t there before. its eyes are shut, but it’s looking at me, i swear. the mirror’s cracked, and my reflection looks wrong, like it’s not even me. i can’t breathe. i can’t think. what the hell is this place? i’m losing it. i need to get out, but suddenly…

l’edizione 21. ombre
ok, so here’s the vibe: it’s 3 a.m., this is the common laundry room in the basement of the old hanover apartments, berlin. the kind of place that smells like detergent and regret. It’s dead quiet except for the hum of machines and she’s just there. soaked, scratched up, wearing what looks like a ripped jacket and nothing else, blood streaked on her legs—but it’s not hers. the machines keep spinning, oblivious, while the floor tells a story no one wants to hear. idk, but the neon light makes it all feel too real. it’s not just a scene—it’s a question: what happened here? i painted it, but the answers are yours to find.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine 🔊 [ ON ]
calculated by an enormous supercomputer [btw, the answer is the ascii code for the symbol * also known as the asterisk. this symbol is often thought to translate to anything or everything. In this instance, the answer = everything, the meaning of life.]

l'edizione 9. warzone
bro, this is straight-up terrifying. the eyes? they’re giving “i saw something i shouldn’t” vibes, and now i’m stressed. it’s so real, like it’s about to blink or something. idk what’s going on, but it’s uncomfy in the best way. fr, i can’t stop looking. what’s the tea here?

l’edizione 10. surreal
on the surface, this image feels so ordinary it’s almost mundane: a woman framed by a window, soft golden light spilling out. the colors here are deceptively simple, this popular style is clean and minimal, with a focus on precision and clarity. the warm, golden light inside feels inviting at first, it’s the kind of scene you’d pass by in a quiet suburb, a snapshot of stillness. but then you look closer, and everything starts to feel... off.

first, her size. she’s too big for the window, like she’s been scaled up. it’s subtle, but it throws you off balance. she’s not relaxed. her posture is stiff, her shoulders squared, like she’s bracing for something. the light behind her is warm, but it doesn’t feel comforting—it feels staged, like a spotlight on a scene that’s too perfect to be real.
then there’s the doll, it feels like more than a toy—it’s a stand-in, a silent witness, or maybe even a reflection of her. its blank, unblinking stare and posture mirrors her own, amplifying the tension. it’s not playful; it’s unsettling.

so here’s the thing: this piece is about that split-second moment when you’re caught between being seen and staying hidden. this is edward hopper meets gregory crewdson, but with a twist—less loneliness, more tension. is she waiting for someone? hiding from something? the house, with its clean lines and suburban calm, feels like a stage set, ready to crack open.

i wanted you to feel like you’re trespassing, like you’ve stumbled into a story mid-scene. it’s not about answers—it’s about that itch, that unease, that pull to keep looking.

l'edizione 14. darwin files

this is a story of light and darkness, but not the kind you can simply see—it’s layered, tangled, alive. physically, the light is harsh, cold, and distant, spilling from above like it doesn’t belong here, while the fire below rages, wild and untamed, casting shadows that stretch and twist. the serpent coils in the middle, its glowing eyes cutting through the haze, a force that feels both ancient and eternal. the darkness isn’t just absence—it’s alive, creeping, filling the cracks, swallowing the edges of the scene.
poetically, this is about the eternal dance between creation and destruction. the fire burns, consuming everything in its path, but it also illuminates, revealing the intricate carvings, the forgotten stories etched into the walls. the light above feels like a judgment, cold and unfeeling, while the darkness below is raw, primal, and honest. she stands in the middle, her silhouette a quiet defiance, caught between the two forces, embodying the tension of being human—torn between chaos and clarity, instinct and reason.
in the mind, this is a confrontation. the serpent isn’t just a creature—it’s a symbol, a manifestation of fear, power, and the unknown. its glowing eyes pierce through the haze, forcing you to look inward, to face the parts of yourself you’d rather leave buried. the light above feels like a fleeting hope, something you can’t quite reach, while the fire below is the weight of your own destruction, the things you’ve burned to get here. the darkness isn’t just around you—it’s inside you, and the question is whether you’ll let it consume you or use it to grow.
dramaturgically, this is a moment of reckoning. the scene is a stage, the serpent the antagonist, the fire and light the opposing forces, and she—the lone figure—is the protagonist, standing at the center of it all. her stillness is deliberate, a choice to face the chaos rather than run from it. the others around her are caught in motion, reacting, but she remains, embodying the quiet strength it takes to confront the unknown. the serpent looms, its presence overwhelming, but she doesn’t flinch. this is the climax, the moment where everything hangs in balance, where the light and darkness collide, and the outcome is uncertain.
this piece isn’t just about what you see—it’s about what you feel. it’s about standing in the middle of destruction and creation, chaos and clarity, and realizing that both are necessary. the light and darkness aren’t enemies—they’re two sides of the same coin, and the question isn’t which one will win, but how you’ll navigate the space between them.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine 🔊 [ ON ]

a doorway, but not just to the past—it feels like a warning from the future. a reconstruction of something lost to time but still alive in fragments. the carvings and symbols are too precise, too deliberate, like they weren’t made by human hands alone, like a map of belief systems we can only speculate about. the figure inside stands at the threshold. it isn’t just standing—it’s waiting, caught in some kind of stasis, like it’s been there for centuries or maybe hasn’t arrived yet. the glow feels alive, like energy we can’t measure, something ancient but eerily advanced. it’s a study of the forgotten and a question of what’s coming.

this is another version of me, broken down and rebuilt, piece by piece. the hair stands loud, defiant, like it’s got something to say before i even open my mouth. inspired by neo-expressionism, it’s messy, loud, and unapologetic. the colors fight, they scream, they bleed into each other—raw, like life, like truth. the face is stripped bare, but it’s still holding secrets, still daring you to look closer. it’s messy, it’s human, it’s alive. this isn’t about being clean or perfect—it’s about being real. if you feel it, then maybe you’re part of it too.

l’edizione 21. ombre

I stepped into the elevator to escape the rain,, my mind elsewhere and there she was. soaked, her wet hair framing her face, lips slightly parted, eyes sharp enough to cut through the dim light. she was stunning, magnetic, the kind of presence that makes you forget where you’re going.
my gaze dropped to her chest—at first, i thought it was just some edgy fashion statement, a glowing red skull on her shirt. but then it moved. the skull moved! the eyes flickered, alive, burning into me. my stomach dropped. i knew that face. i’d seen it before, on a night i swore i’d forget. my chest tightened, my legs felt weak.
she stepped closer, her gaze locking onto mine, daring, almost playful. her lips curved into the faintest smirk, and her hand brushed the edge of her coat, like she was inviting me into something dangerous, something i couldn’t name. my pulse raced, torn between the pull of her and the terror clawing at my chest. i couldn’t move. couldn’t decide. her eyes held mine, waiting, daring me to make the next move. i didn’t. i just stood there, drowning in the weight of her presence, the hum of something i couldn’t escape.
then... nothing. i don’t remember what happened next. i woke up outside, the rain still falling, my clothes soaked through, but something felt... wrong. my chest ached, like something had been carved out of me, or maybe put in. my hands trembled as i touched my skin, but there was nothing there—no wound, no mark, just this strange, hollow sensation. her face was burned into my mind, her eyes, that glowing skull. i couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened in that elevator, something i wasn’t supposed to remember. but my body knew. it knew.

l’edizione 21. ombre

this place feels like the edge of the world, everything feel suspended in time, where the fog swallows sound and the cold and distant sun barely remembers to rise. she stands there, quiet but commanding, like she’s part of the fog itself. her hair hangs in damp, dark strands, framing a face that’s pale, almost otherworldly, with eyes that burn red, like they’ve seen too much but refuse to look away. her dress, once white, clings to her like a ghost of something pure. she’s not just standing there; she’s waiting, but for what? down to the left, just beneath the reeds. is that a body, half-submerged, lifeless in the murky water? is this a swamp? a forgotten field? it doesn’t matter—it’s hers now, a liminal space where something ended, or is about to. the scarecrows saw it all coming, but they’ll never tell, in the distance they seem less like guardians and more like silent judges, watching her, watching you. her torn dress, her unflinching stare, the eerie calm in her posture—it all feels like a warning. she’s not just part of this place; she is this place, and whatever happened here, it’s not over.

l’edizione 18. trippin’ 🔊 [ ON ]

speechless...

l'edizione 14. darwin files

my little lab accident in visual form. it’s about cellular loops of energy gone rogue caught mid-mutation. think mitochondrial malfunction meets digital decay. the background black-and-white tones, interspersed with streaks of color, suggest a breakdown in order—like data corrupted mid-sequence or a microscope lens catching something it wasn’t meant to see. it’s messy, clinical, and alive in its own way. don’t touch—contamination risk.

l’edizione 15. installazione

this is "monument to excess." it’s playful at first glance, but it’s heavy. every piece of plastic here once had a purpose, a story, a moment of joy or utility, now abandoned and piled high. it’s a reflection on the weight of consumption—bright, playful, yet crushing. the truck, stranded atop a mountain of discarded dreams, feels both triumphant and defeated. i wanted to capture that tension: the bright, almost childlike colors against the cold, industrial weight of the truck. it’s chaos, but deliberate. what’s left when the fun is over? step closer; it’s your story too.

london, zabludowicz collection, november 18, 2023

l'edizione 4. crew

welcome to my little dinner party—don’t mind the guests, they’re quiet company. this piece is about hunger, not just for food, but for connection, for something raw and real. And it’s about family, kind of. the kind you can’t escape, even when the world rots around you. shot in a foggy field, fueled by late nights and too much coffee. pull up a chair—if you dare. stay as long as you like, but don’t look too close.

l'edizione 13. persona

the overgrown yard, the peeling siding, and the figure—fragile yet defiant—tell a story of decay meeting resilience. shot with a sony a7 iii + 85mm f/1.8 for that soft, isolating depth, the focus pulls you into the stillness. edited in lightroom with muted greens, desaturated tones, and a touch of shadow to amplify the eerie calm. it’s a moment caught between the mundane and the haunting, where the ordinary feels just a little too alive.

l'edizione 14. darwin files 🔊 [ ON ]

made this on a night when the moon felt too close, and the silence had teeth. the couple? they’ve been here forever. ‚the reverent’s watch’ is about what lingers when no one’s looking. spooky, sure, but isn’t life? step closer, if you dare.

you know i’m a multidisciplinary creator. have a story, wish, or idea in mind? share it with me—i’d love to craft a unique artwork inspired by you. let’s create something meaningful together, blending your vision with my style and imagination. comment here or on any other platform.

l’edizione 20. arte performativa 🔊 [ ON ]

'behind the scenes’ is a little love letter to the chaos of pretending. the glossy, distorted surface? i wanted it to feel raw, like catching yourself in the mirror and not quite recognizing who’s looking back. It started as a joke about perfection—how we sculpt, melt, and reshape ourselves to fit some idea of ‘nice.’ it’s absurd, but isn’t that the point? we’re all just patching things together, trying to make it work, even if it’s a little messy. it’s part parody, part self-reflection, and maybe a little too real. it’s also a question: how much of what we show is real, and how much is just... props? but hey, if it makes you laugh or think, i’ve done my job.

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet) 🔊 [ ON ]

cat made this on a night when the city felt too loud, and it just wanted to escape. it’s a place that doesn’t exist but kinda does, you know? the cat? yeah, that’s me—watching, waiting, listening, dreaming. maybe it’s you too. let’s get lost here together.

l’edizione 11. places visited (and not yet) 🔊 [ ON ]

built this from tonight’s venue where the stairs never ended, and the colors wouldn’t sit still. it’s a glitch in paradise—calm, chaotic, alive. step in, get lost, or just vibe with it. what’s waiting at the top? maybe you already know. loop on.

l'edizione 13. persona

there was and is something about the west—lonely figures on the edge of time, chasing horizons they’ll never quite reach.it grew out of a quiet ache, a longing for the good old days that feel so close yet so far. each pixel holds a memory—some sharp, some blurred, all bittersweet. the face stares back, caught between a smile and a sigh, like it’s remembering something it can’t quite touch anymore. it’s about time slipping through your fingers, about the weight of nostalgia, and the beauty of what’s been lost. maybe it’s sad, but there’s comfort in the remembering, don’t you think? it’s a quiet reflection, a pause to remember, and maybe to mourn, just a little.

voyage temporel introspectif. l’edizione 19. epoche

this is where the track bends, where the trees whisper secrets, and the mountains dare you to keep going. it’s not just a path—it’s a moment, a pause, a question. you’ve been here before, haven’t you? or maybe you’re just about to arrive. either way, it’s waiting for you.

imagination. sony a7r v and fe 12-24mm f/2.8 gm lens, digital post editing, collage, handwriting, re-printing polaroid, hi-res scan.

l’edizione 12. new world magazine

this is a gate, but not just any gate—it’s a question, a memory, a challenge. i built it for the curious, the wanderers, the ones who feel time slipping but still reach for more. step closer.

l'edizione 14. darwin files

you know that feeling when everything’s too much, but also kind of hilarious? yeah, that’s this. it’s absurd, but it’s real. i wanted to capture that mix of terror and humor—like staring into the jaws of something bigger than you, but you can’t help but laugh. it’s wild, it’s messy, but it’s honest. maybe it’s a cat, maybe it’s just life. either way, we’re in it together. you feel it too, right?

l'edizione 13. persona

ever feel like you're plugged in but still... buffering? yeah, me too. this piece is my love letter to chaos—nostalgia, noise, and a little rebellion. it’s messy, like life, but it’s ours. let’s sit in it together. you good?

l'edizione 4. crew

they say pixels don’t breathe, but this one does—heavy, electric, and just a little feral. lama wrangler is a glitch-tamed beast, staring right through you, asking: who's really in control? i don’t paint; i wrangle light, distort echoes, and ride the chaos until it whispers back. this is balance on the edge of noise—organic yet synthetic, sacred yet unstable. take it, if you dare. but know this: it’s already watching you.

l'edizione 13. persona

'jmb self duo' is a glimpse into a fragmented self—bold, imperfect, alive. it’s a conversation between layers, between us. look closer; maybe you’ll find a piece of yourself here too.

l'edizione 2. gen art

'g-scope' is chaos finding rhythm. it’s a dive into the kaleidoscope of a brilliant mind—layered, shifting, vital. stare long enough, and maybe it’ll show you something you didn’t know you needed.

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最高の人生を送っている黄色いカメ

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mars, jupiter, uranus, neptune, venus, and saturn will align in the sky. tsunamis, earthquakes, and other global disasters? no, but...

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and here we go with teaser two. happy to announce that you'll get to enjoy something within the next days - and hopefully for the long run. stay tuned!

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$trump 🇺🇸

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l’edizione 10. surreal

a personal take on chaos and transformation. i imagined a world where everything is breaking apart yet coming alive at the same time—a fiery collision of emotions and textures frozen in motion.

i wanted it to feel like you're staring into something ancient yet alive, like it holds secrets waiting for you to discover. does it pull you in?

l'edizione 11. places visited (and not yet)

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happy to announce that you'll get to enjoy something within the next days - and hopefully for the long run. stay tuned!

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#turbotoadtoken #memecoin @TurboToadToken

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prototype X Æ A-XXX

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you want to expand the territory and need more and adequate land for your lovely pets of the collection? this one is for you: paperworks jungle

original paperworks land for your lovely pets of the collection.

Special edition, paper rhino. Comment below!