This is what happens when a throwaway Canva graphic gets invited to speak at a panel. Or when you join a Discord server as a joke and leave 14 years later bound by a blood oath. Or when your star chart is just a JPEG of Mariah Carey and a rotating knife.
There’s a version of me that only speaks in early-2000s CW show dialogue. Another that files taxes under the name “ambient panic”. I once described my aesthetic principles as “if a Hot Topic were legally ordained.”
Every gallery needs a scam. Every museum has its forgery wing. Every archive has a ghost drawer. Mine is a collection of receipts from bad ideas that refused to die.
A gallery of my many deaths and rebirths—each portrait a hymn; an evolution in bitmap.
One might be a mascot for an energy drink accused of poisoning three kids in 2004. One looks like a Craiglist flyer for an orgy stapled to a daycare bulletin board and another like an STD awareness poster designed entirely in Microsoft WordArt. One looks like it’s trying to get comped at Red Lobster by yelling “Do you know who I am?”
This is what happens when identity is put through the pop culture blender until it’s scrambled into something more genre than human.
