WO
RK
Click. Stroke. Verse.
And the Illusion of Rebel Art.
Being called one of the last New York punk artists is a beautiful, broken thing, like howling at a moon that doesn't care. Maybe I was always a punk artist, and maybe I still am, but it doesn't matter. I don't bleed that kind of rebellion. Yes, the anarchy dances in my cells, but my work comes from a different place.
My art isn't the scream of "fuck you" to the world. That's the performance—a drunken cliché and boring rebel archetype. Maybe the most authentic scream happens in my bed, when I scream, "Fuck me harder." My only rebellion is vulnerability. Being open to the wound. But even that surrender isn't rebellion. True rebellion is being free of hate.
And if that freedom looks like punkness, then so be it. My punkness is a raw, screaming response to a world built on illusions—primarily the illusion of authority and the false hierarchy between beauty and ugliness.
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