This canvas is an accident. Not a planned expression, not a controlled piece – it’s the fever-spawn of a shared nightmare. The mute echo of a dream where sex mutates into a ritual of dehumanization and it crumbles. No erotica. No love. Just the panting of something that no longer knows if it’s human or just an animal. The bodies here – torn, twisted, locked together like meat scraps in a rusted grinder. A rhythm of force, spit, scratching, choking. The dream always starts the same: you’re in the middle of it. Naked. Strangers’ hands on your skin. Everything too close. Everything smells like sweat, metal, and fear. No face is whole. Mouths without language, eyes without light. And somewhere between the legs – that scream: wet, hot, shamefully honest, broken. This canvas wasn’t painted – it was vomited. A retch in acrylic. A psychosexual earthquake on linen. Look at it, and you’ll feel it – a tingling deep in your belly, a crawling under your skin that doesn’t turn into pleasure – but into panic. And yet, you can’t look away. This canvas is wet. It screams. It reeks. And it wants to be seen. Those who look at it see something – maybe too much. Maybe themselves.
All of My Pieces come with a very unique Story, written on the back of it, Printed and signed!
