Hey Joe, Let’s Go

22/02/2026

23/01/2026

“Houseguests With Very Strong Personalities”

I have so much fun at home with a whole cast of my friends, which is remarkable because I did not invite them, audition them, or run a background check. They simply appear, peeking around doors, smiling far too hard, waving as if this is completely normal behavior. And I accept it. Because when you open a door and discover an enthusiastic ensemble with impeccable branding and zero sense of personal boundaries, you don’t panic. You lean in. You smile back. You think, Well, this beats silence.

They’re always cheerful, always camera-ready, and always just one inch too close. It’s comforting, really. Some people live alone. I live with an ever-present parade. And frankly, I’ve had quieter thoughts in bus stations.

23/01/2026

Watching the Shape of Sound

This vibrant abstract composition speaks in cuts and contrasts, where bird-like forms, human geometry, and modernist rhythm collide.

Rendered in a bold woodcut/linocut graphic style, the piece balances primal texture with digital precision: concentric eyes that seem to observe and echo, angular beaks that slice through space, and a human face reduced to elemental color and form.

A high-contrast palette of black, white, orange, yellow, blue, and red animates a field of interlocking shapes, faux woodgrain, stippling, and hatch marks.

The result is a minimalist yet kinetic visual language, part ancient printmaking, part contemporary installation—charged with motion, tension, and quiet narrative.

23/01/2026

10:07 (I’m Sitting on It)

It’s 10:07. Not noon. Not lunchtime. Not late enough to be interesting. Just 10:07—the Switzerland of moments. The clock is floating, because of course it is. Gravity has been laid off. The design is pristine, minimalist, smug. And there I am, a fully grown adult man reduced to the size of a novelty chess piece, sitting on the minute hand like I meant to do this.

I’m not falling. I’m not climbing. I’m waiting. The minute hand is horizontal, which is the only reason I’m not dangling like a metaphor. The hour hand looms nearby, shorter, thicker, more confident, clearly management.

This is a portrait of modern timekeeping: clean, exact, and emotionally unhelpful. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is happening. And yet, somehow, everything feels late.

23/01/2026

Absinthe at the Edge of Evening

A vibrant re-imagining of a Parisian café, seen through the confident, early-Modernist eye, where the impressionistic hum of conversation is distilled into geometry, rhythm, and restraint.

Bistro chairs lean into dynamic diagonals, cobblestones tilt with intention, and the entire scene quietly obeys the golden ratio, guiding the gaze toward a luminous absinthe glass that glows like a held breath.

Light drifts between soft atmospheric haze and sharp chiaroscuro, casting prussian-blue shadows that slice the terrace into moments.

The result feels tactile and deliberate: a café not merely observed, but constructed, where Paris becomes pattern, evening becomes structure, and leisure flirts with abstraction.

23/01/2026

This is the egg from which I hatched.
Now time has tarnished it.

At the time, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable egg. Sturdy. Dependable. Slightly too large to be practical, but we all make compromises in youth. I emerged optimistic, underdressed, and without instructions.

Years passed.

The egg aged poorly. It cracked. It dried out. It developed opinions. Now it sits half-buried in the dirt like a forgotten promise, which feels personal.

Here I am again, climbing out of it, again, because apparently one hatching was not enough. Life has decided this is a recurring theme. The universe keeps saying, “You’re not done yet,” and I keep replying, “Couldn’t we just talk about this?”

I push the broken shell outward. Dust rises. It looks dramatic, which is fortunate, because internally I am mostly thinking about my knees. This is not rebirth. This is re-emergence. There will be no applause. Possibly a pamphlet.

The egg no longer fits me. That’s the important part. It once held everything I was, and now it’s just clay and history and something I have to climb out of carefully so I don’t pull a muscle.

Time tarnished it.
But it also proved I’m bigger than the shell.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve hatched enough for one lifetime, and I’d like a chair.

18/01/2026

“Breakdance”
Liquid Sculpture

When the beat drops, gravity taps out.
One frozen moment where balance, motion, and impact collide—
liquid energy, street control, and raw flow suspended in time.
This isn’t just a move.
It’s a statement. 💥

18/01/2026

18/01/2026