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The art of futility

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  The art of futility A spoken monologue I don’t make art because it matters. I make it because consciousness produces excess.  And excess demands release. That’s the first lie we’re taught—that art points toward truth.  Truth doesn’t need us.  It existed before our gestures and will remain after our silence. Art isn’t revelation.  It’s a regulation. An overdeveloped mind can’t remain idle.  Thought accumulates.  Pressure builds.  Expression becomes a discharge—not a message. This isn’t noble.  It’s biological. Paintings. Texts. Sounds. Images.  All variations of the same maneuver. Not transcendence.  Containment. Once you see this, ambition collapses. Influence.  Legacy.  Relevance. These are metaphysical debts art can no longer pay. The work is finished the moment it exists.  Everything after that is clerical. Futility isn’t failure.  It’s accuracy. Art doesn’t fail to redeem us—  Redemption was never ava...
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All The Devils Are Here

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All the Devils are here


Hell is empty


Foul's bane



Westernization and institutionalization
And the outlawing of traditional customs







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