The Unreachable Yoke A POV shot from JB’s perspective, looking down at his own body. His hands are locked rigidly at his sides by the cocoon. Ghostly, semi-transparent images of his hands are reaching out, trying to "yank, shove, slam" a control panel that isn't there. The image captures the desperation of a pilot whose identity is "unspooling" because he cannot reach the controls. I look down... but the body in the weave doesn't feel like mine anymore. My arms are locked. Pinned to my ribs by the silver vice. But I can see them... ghosts. Ghost hands... peeling away from my skin. Reaching out! They are trying to YANK... to SHOVE... to SLAM the yoke forward! But there is no yoke. There is no control panel. Only the dark. I am a pilot with no hands... and without them... I am unspooling into NOTHING. Be Creative and Innovative with Knowledge John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett , is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger ...
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A Blue Future
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A Blue Future
Melbourne City comes alive under the night sky, with its streets illuminated by artificial lights. The bridge and glowing buildings cut through the darkness, reaching toward a horizon that offers more of the same. Cars move slowly along the roads, each one a small, isolated world heading to unknown destinations. The city, a symbol of human achievement, buzzes with activity yet remains unaware of the silent voices of the individuals it shelters. Each light in every window tells a story of a life being lived, but from a distance, they merge into a pattern of light and shadow. The scene's beauty, with its twinkling lights and lively energy, is undeniable. Still, it is a cold, distant beauty, reminding us of the vast unknown lurking beneath our constructed realities. Faced with such immensity, one can only embrace the absurdity, find comfort in the struggle, and continue the Sisyphean task of pushing the enormity of life to new heights.
A Blue Future Video
Melbourne City comes alive under the night sky with illuminated streets, bridges, and buildings. Cars move slowly, each one heading to unknown destinations. The city buzzes with activity yet remains unaware of the individuals it shelters. Each light in every window tells a story of a life being lived, but from a distance, they merge into a pattern of light and shadow. The scene's beauty is undeniably a reminder of the vast unknown lurking beneath our constructed realities.
This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.
Situation - The Tempest’s Reflection JB , a spaceship pilot, has been placed into a cryo cocoon to revive and transform his life essence. Inside the cocoon, he experiences his mind as a "relentless tempest of clashing thoughts, swirling and churning, mirroring the furious chaos outside of the machine." JB also sees his older self trapped in the same transitory state. The Storm in my Looking Glass A cinematic close-up of JB’s face behind the curved glass of the cryo-cocoon . The glass reflects not the room but a "relentless tempest" of swirling dark clouds and lightning , symbolising his churning thoughts. In the storm's reflection, a ghostly older version of JB is visible, trapped and silent, mirroring the pilot's current state. Cryogenic Rejuvenation Chamber - Night This trapped specter is the true mirror of our pilot's current, suspended state: a mind caught between two ages, the man he was refusing to be silenced, terrified of the man he is about to ...
The Situation - Red Alert JB , a middle-aged mail spaceship pilot . Starship piloting JB is held not by ropes, but by the cryo-unit's nanoweave swaddle —a tight, absolute embrace mimicking paranoiac wrappings. This material presses against him, preventing his shivering flesh from flying apart under the centrifugal force of his panic. He feels a cold burn and constant helplessness sinking in. His anxiety is a crimson klaxon , a "relentless tempest" of warring thoughts. He is mentally back in the cockpit, but the instruments scream in an alien language; every light and warning signifies impending failure. His pure instinct screams ABORT , yet there is no escape route. Confrontation Rising JB is shown the war of impulses tearing him apart—the "lunge and the retreat". His existence is reduced to the strained gasp: "I live for fucks sake, I don't know.” Full Assault a Violet Firestorm JB responds with explosive, automatic violence, his lungs burning from ...
The Struggle for Authenticity in Art I want to speak today about authenticity . And about what we quietly give up to be accepted. We’re told that contemporary political art values autonomy . That artists are free. That inquiry sits at the centre of practice. But autonomy, in reality, is often something we *perform*— not something we’re allowed to exercise. Freedom is celebrated rhetorically, while legitimacy is granted only when work conforms to approved languages , approved theories , approved causes . Autonomy isn’t denied outright. It’s curated. This system doesn’t fail artists by accident. It functions mechanically. It rewards work that aligns with predetermined frameworks and filters out work that doesn’t speak the sanctioned dialect . Many voices are excluded not because they lack skill or meaning, but because they refuse to translate their experience into institutionally legible language. I’m not saying all excluded work is good. I am saying much of it is never heard. An...
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