Martino Levinne longs for nothingness. Erased. From systems. Not remembered. His ashes packed in a cracked plastic Coke bottle. Duct-taped to a junky homemade rocket. Fired into the void.

American artist. European artist. Romani artist. Jewish artist. Queer artist. None of those labels stick. Not rebellion. Just refusal to be boxed in.

Most people call him a punk artist hiding in obscurity. He doesn't care. He makes art for himself. Shared or not. Seen or not, it's the same.

The artist he knew in school and early career collapsed under its own clichés. Punk is more a relic and a source of nostalgia than anything real. Levinne never played the full game. He's here because he refused to belong.

Early career: shows in LA, Tokyo, New York, São Paulo. Photographed presidents and actors. Gone now. He left the elite circles.

He walked away from well-paid campaigns — Prada, Guess, Speedo — burned out on glitter and commerce. He barely talks about it.

Then came the reinventions—a fancy art gallery dead within a year. Bankrupt. Levinne became an art teacher but left after a few months. He opened a tiny vinyl shop. Closed it, kept the records. Then launched The Bourgeois Pig. The punk music club that really mattered. Covid killed it. He fails. He rises. Outlives every fuck-up.

He now splits his time between New York and a farm he bought near Milan, Italy. Restoring the soil. Building Sky&Farm — a healing sanctuary for artists. Chickens roam. Wild boars wander. Wine ages in the cellar. No escape plan. Just presence. Levinne is already ready for the end of the world.

When he wants a show, he calls galleries. Sometimes they answer. Mostly they don't. He despises the mainstream art world. He despises the so-called underground just as much.

Morphing Men. Barry Morse dissolves into Cher, Hitler, Jesus, Lennon. Not impersonation. Disappearance. Levinne's camera catches the blur.

The Saints. Collages from abandoned Catholic iconography found at flea markets. No blasphemy. No worship. Just refreshed existence with a comic bubble.

His poems. Unstructured. Charged with gay eroticism and estrangement. Dark rooms. Whispered love. Men. Longing. Distance. No punctuation. No closure. He calls them Zero-Point — unsent love letters to partners, lovers, life. Left to fall where they may.

No scene. No movement. No status. No manifestos. No outreach. No myth.

In a culture hooked on noise, he offers silence. Notice or not. No explanation.

He just is. Rare soft poet. Rough scratching painter. Soul-exorcist photographer. Called one of the last New York punk artists. He isn't. Mostly because he never claimed to be one.

No last. No punk. No artist. Just Levinne. That’s freedom.