In the hollowed-out shell of contemporary art, where “pretension” has turned meaning into something that might as well be sold in a shiny showroom, Martin Levinne crashes through, peeling away the usual art-world frills to reveal something that teeters precariously close to actual “authenticity.” Levinne, a Czech-born American, has devoured the hollow promises of commercial success more than once—tasted the sweet poison, and spat it out with the grimace of someone who’s been burned before. He’s not here to play the art game. He’s seen the abyss and knows it’s mostly a “consumerist mirage” designed to keep the sheep grazing. He drifts through the art world with the indifference of someone who’s already seen the emperor’s naked hairy ass. Levinne’s art isn’t here to save the world or fix a thing, it’s here to tear through the world’s gaudy masquerade, rejecting the obedience of normalcy and societal standards, ripping apart the facade to expose what’s still left—human and real—beneath. If it leaves a hickey of sexy memory, an unpolished bruise of beauty that lingers just a little too long, so much the better.

Levinne’s work is a “dissection” of human frailty, an unflinching look under the skin, like staring into a cracked mirror in a dark room. He’s got this way of pulling beauty out of the most unremarkable corners of the human psyche, daring you to face the raw truths you’re trying to outrun. His pieces—fantastical acrylic canvases with disproportionate figures that seem pulled from a twisted, psychedelic fairytale, collages of saints laced with the mischievous whimsy of comic bubbles, and raw, painfully intense monochrome portrait photographs—rip through the “yappy” facade of the gallery scene. They pulse with the intimate poetry of fleeting encounters, human vulnerability, and the sheer mess of life. Each piece hums with an emotional static that refuses to dissipate. The work refuses to play nice with convention. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s “unashamed.”

Take The Morphing Men, for example —a performance series where queer artist Barry Morse embodies the ultimate icon of our obsession with fame. From Cher to Hitler, he parades through a chaotic lineup of cultural figures, a garish collision of personas that shouts, "These are the masks we wear, and they’re louder than anything else about us." Levinne’s direction doesn’t seek your approval, it doesn’t even try to provoke you. It simply traps you in a “dark room,” hands you the props of your own performative illusions, and commands, “Deal with it.” Morse and Levinne create an astonishing synergy, capturing the essence of each character with a silent, visceral language—the grimaces, the raised eyebrows, the searing energy beneath each gesture. It’s a dialogue of expression and restraint, channeling everything unsaid through the intensity of each transformation.

Then there’s Calling All Angels, a brutal dive into the depths of human vulnerability. Levinne strips away the facades we all hide behind with a black-and-white portrait collection that exposes the rawness of existence. The shots can come within minutes or after hours of conversation, but there’s no search for models—just random souls from the streets of Los Angeles, invited into his studio and told to come as you are. One woman, battling breast cancer, her face a map of struggle and defiance. Another, an actress drowning in ambition, her Oscar dreams hanging like a “funeral shroud.” Levinne doesn’t just document—he eviscerates. His lens is a scalpel, cutting deep into the psyche, exposing uncomfortable truths we’re too afraid to face. In his world, the ordinary becomes visceral, forcing us to confront the mess of shared humanity. Beauty and despair collide, and it’s unclear which is winning.

After sharpening his edge at The Art Institute of California, Levinne spent over a decade gritting his teeth through the fashion industry's soul-sucking cycle in Los Angeles and New York, before throwing in the towel. He saw the art world’s underbelly up close—too much hype, too many promises that evaporate the second they hit the light—and he was exhausted. Tired of the fake flattery and endless back-patting, he cut ties with commercial work, retreating into a private gallery space where he could carve his own path. Twenty shows later, the gallery had ceased being a place for art and become more like a scene, a scene designed to spark uncomfortable conversations, ones that didn’t need the approval of the “right people.” After battling egos, shady deals, and the insidious greed of the art world, Levinne shut it down. Not surprised. Just disgusted.

Maybe if Levinne had never been suffocated by the gallery circus, we wouldn’t have The Secret of the Universe Is in Mortadella, a sharp slap in the face to life’s basic, unvarnished truths. He’s not wasting his time with Tesla cars, AI, or any of the overpriced distractions people pretend to care about these days. No, he’s got a single slice of cold cut salami in front of him, and that’s all he needs. It’s absurd, grotesque, and down-right mysterious, all wrapped in one—a human celebration of simplicity that rips apart everything we fake like it matters. In a world obsessed with complications, technology, and the constant chase for something that feels like approval, Levinne strips it all down. He shows us that sometimes, the only thing you need is a slice of salami, a quiet moment, and the brutal truth of being alive. His art doesn’t need to be prettied up. It’s blunt, sharp, and doesn’t care if you get it. There’s no need for fancy explanations or delicate framing. Levinne’s work is raw, unapologetic, and brutally real. It’s a reminder that we’ve been drowning in bullshit and the truth has been sitting right in front of us all along—just a slice of salami away.

Levinne doesn’t care about boring perfection, nor does he concern himself with premeditated brush strokes or rules. Nor does he care which medium he uses to bleed his truth—whether painting, photography, poetry, or mixing them all with metaphorical blood or semen. It exposes raw beauty, rough and strangely gentle at the same time. With his bleached-blond Romani Jewish aura—mystic, hustler, and spirit of half-buried memories—he seduces those sick of the mainstream’s empty chase for visibility. His art exists in another dimension, uncompromising, a symbol of defiance, curiosity, and intimacy. Levinne isn’t trying to be punk—he is punk. No approval, no permission, no validation. He doesn’t ask for it. He doesn’t need it. His work is a savage howl, tearing through art in the age of bullshit—unapologetically, relentlessly, and standing entirely on its own with a beauty of vulnerability nobody’s brave enough to face in the commercial art scene.