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The infected touching antiquity

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  The infected touching antiquity Do you feel divinity when you touch antiquity? Metamodernist art by JJFBbennett Stand before a marble relic, and you find yourself at the threshold of contact. The museum enforces detachment. Do you feel the decay and contamination your hands carry? But what happens when your flesh touches ancient stone? To reach out is an act of somatic friction. Our mortal residue, sebaceous oils and living warmth, ruptures the sterile illusion of the untainted idol. We drag the pristine monument down into the mess of human mortality. Yet, the instinct to touch is an innate longing for connection. Laying bare skin against ancient form collapses millennia, sparking a euphoric link to what came before. Touch restores, renews, and opens an otherworldly portal beyond everyday perception. Touching antiquity infects its distant divinity with our decay, but in that very transgression, it bridges the void—granting the seeker genuine transport into transcendent awe. B...
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The Toxic Weight of Waiting

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The Toxic Weight of Waiting


The atmosphere has thickened. What was once a room defined by walls and chairs has dissolved into a toxic haze, an environmental manifestation of a mind under siege. 

She no longer sits; she kneels, anchored to the floor by an invisible gravity. Above her, the "toxic air" takes shape as a looming, jagged shadow infused with high-velocity greens and burning volcanic reds. It feels less like smoke and more like a predator, a towering silhouette of anxiety that has finally outgrown the space. The colours vibrate with a sickly, chemical heat, turning the very oxygen into something thick and sharp.

In this room, the silence has become deafeningly loud. The fractured light from the previous moment has bled together, creating a suffocating shroud that blurs the line between the physical world and an internal fever dream. The momentum hasn't just stalled; it has been swallowed.

She has diminished, huddled in the eye of this psychic storm, a solitary figure of indigo and shadow. There is no escape through movement, only through endurance. To breathe here is to inhale uncertainty. The stinging emerald mist fills her lungs until the weight of waiting becomes the only thing she knows.

Submission is no longer a choice; it is the only posture left. She remains still, waiting for the toxic clouds to settle or for the figure above to finally speak its name.







John Bennett - AKA JJFBbennett, is an independent artist. You can view and subscribe to my work via Blogger, YouTube, Flicker, Facebook, Instagram and Deviant Art. 

Subscribe to JJFBbennett's private FB hub: https://www.facebook.com/share/g/18ythpSXPZ/

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To support my art, feel free to donate via JJFBbennett through PayPal  



Copyright

This artwork is protected by U.S. and International copyright laws. Distribution and/or modification of the artwork without the written permission of the sponsor is prohibited.

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