In the land of lines and clutter, where the shapes go to sleep,
There’s a ruckus, a jumble, where the dark and light do creep.
A yellow blob in the middle, a sun, or a daisy, maybe,
Stuck right there with nowhere to go, crazy.

The leaves, they aren't leaves, just spots of a void,
Scattered around like the dreams of Freud.
Some soft pink here, a whisper of red,
A secret message, or just something that bled.

Cubes and bars and all kinds of geometry,
Thrown together, a salad of astronomy.
Love doing nothing, just hanging around,
In a universe that’s flat, where it’s bound to be found.

Vonnegut’s eye, with a squint and a sigh,
Would chuckle and scribble, and simply imply:
“Here we are, folks, in the gallery of space,
Where love lazes in idleness, with a peculiar grace.

love_in_idleness

0x2285Ec40F3618718EDF88A305fDf4b9fE89ba5CE

You see this? It's not just math or paint on canvas. It's more like a private joke between two people, one of whom isn't here anymore. The yellow—that's her laughter, bright and clear, cutting through the worst of days like sunlight through a dirty window. It’s the kind of color that refused to let you frown, the way she never did.

The black squares and rectangles, those are the days without her, the voids where her voice ought to be. Each one's a different size because that's how loss works—it's never the same two days in a row. Sometimes it's a tiny spot on the horizon, sometimes it's a whole damn night sky.

And the roses, those are for the romance that never did die, even if she did. They're black because, well, that's grief for you. It takes the most vibrant, living thing and makes a silhouette out of it. But they're still roses because love doesn't stop when someone's gone; it just changes color.

Is there a reason we're keeping time? Maybe, but it's there to remind you that time doesn't care about any of this. It's the most indifferent thing there is. The hands are frozen because for me, time stopped the day she left.

What do I want you to feel? Hell, I don't know. Sad, maybe, but not just that. I want you to see the love and the laughter there too. I want you to understand that this isn't just mourning. It's a celebration, a eulogy, an elementary composition of what was and what still is, in my head. It's the memory of her, and it's as close as I can get to having a conversation with her again. So take a look, and feel whatever you feel. That's what she would have wanted.

elementary_elegy

Don't let the name fool you. It's as full as it is empty, a visual oxymoron, if you will. Each splash of color, each geometric shape, is a conversation I can no longer have with someone who isn't here.

The laughs we shared, preserved here in technicolor, a tribute to the moments that color our lives.

But amidst all that life, there's the void. The stark black that cuts through the noise. It's the silence that comes after the laughter fades, the space at the table, the gap in the dialogue. It's the absence you can't fill, not with all the paint in the world.

There are the days, the seasons, the cycles we thought we had but didn't. Some are incomplete, like the plans we made. And some are solid, like the memories that stay, even when you wish they'd give you a moment’s peace.

I'm not in the business of telling people what to feel. But I'll tell you what I hope for. I hope you look at this and see more than a "void." I hope you see the invisible threads between the shapes and colors—the life that was, and in some ways, still is. I hope you see that the void isn't just empty space; it's a canvas for your thoughts, a place to contemplate what's gone and what's left.

And maybe, just maybe, you'll find some comfort in the chaos, a moment of peace in the loud absence. That's what this painting is about—it's an elegy, sure, but it's also a celebration of a friendship that still matters, even if one of us isn't around to see it.

contemplative_void

In the syrupy glow of sunset, his shadow stretched itself thin and long across the tired old bricks, like some lanky, reluctant confidant. 

It was as much a part of him as his own skin, yet it lived its own silent, separate life, a smudge of darkness in a world too bright for truth. 

This shadow knew all the quiet corners of his soul, the places where joy and sorrow melted together into a sort of gentle, enduring gray. 

It followed him, a loyal echo of each weary step, a silent witness to the absurdity and beauty of simply being. 

As the light faded, the shadow seemed to stand a moment longer, a dark, fleeting monument to the man it had quietly observed, a man whose every breath was a poem written in the secret language of shadows.
 
And then, like everything else, it slipped away into the tender arms of the universe, leaving behind nothing but the faint memory of having been.

~ on shadows by m0dest

shadows073

i can feel 
         everything 
closing. 

in

closing in

01010011
01001000
01000001
01000100
01001111
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01010011
119

shadows119physc

Moby-Dick (Herman Melville), 1851
"Obsession consumes more than it fulfills."

"Read 100 Lindy Books in 10 Minutes, Then See Them in One Piece of Art"
credit Jack Butcher, Visualize Value
https://visualizevalue.com/blogs/visuals/read-100-lindy-books-in-10-minutes

dynamic art made with Dynamic Art Engine by Transient Labs 
each token contains 2 secret artworks,  each unlocked by a secret phrase

i fcking love you 
- m

obsession

A canvas laid flat, with shapes in dispute,
A violet splotch, the scene's playful brute.
With rectangles rigid, in black-tie attire,
The purple blob grins, an impish liar.

Yellow stands firm, a king with no crown,
Beside the red's glow, a celestial gown.
But mischief, it blooms, in a violet hue,
A giggle in paint, a jester's debut.

The squares hold their breath, the lines stand in queue,
While violet dances, as if on cue.
The strokes tell a tale, in the old man's jest,
Of order and chaos, a visual test.

"Here's life," old man might quip, with a knowing smile,
"In boxes and blobs, and a violet's guile.
A world left behind, with its colors and shapes,
A mischief-maker, from which no one escapes."

So sing, oh sing, of the violet's play,
In a universe strict, where straight lines sway.
For in the old man's verse, as in art's bold riff,
There's wisdom in laughter, and truth in a tiff.

violet_mischief

"Left Behind," a series that seems to have tumbled out of the back pocket of the universe while it was busy doing something else, is a cavalcade of canvases that are cluttered with the debris of geometric introspection. Picture this: shapes and shadows that got stood up by their own dimensions, waiting in a two-dimensional limbo, where depth is as elusive as a politician's promise.

This series, it's like a love letter to the leftovers, a tip of the hat to what remains when everything else has moved on to bigger and better things—or at least to things with more than two dimensions. It's art that doesn't just hang on the wall; it leans against it, casually smoking a cigarette, waiting for someone to ask, "What's your story?"


left_behind by m0dest

It's a bit like looking inside my head on a day when the coffee's run out and the cigarettes won't light. Bold blocks of color - each one clamoring for attention, thinking it's the important one. But none of them really knows how to be the star of the show.

Look closer, and you'll see the center isn't holding; it’s dribbling down into the abyss like so many lost opportunities and half-baked ideas. It's the chaos of creation, the disarray of a creative block, the splatter of thoughts against the wall of the blank page.

But there is order, no? That's what we all crave, isn't it? But it's a ruse. The more you try to create a pattern, the more it slips through your fingers like so much cosmic sand. It's the silliness of trying to find meaning where perhaps there is none, or maybe it's just hiding.

I’m not one for pretense. I can't tell you this is a good piece of work. It's not a window to the soul—unless your soul looks like a toddler got into the paint again. But it's honest, and it's real, and it's full of the same contradictions that we're all made of.

It's the human condition, isn't it? To feel a bit unfinished, a little asymmetrical. So, take in this noise and this chaos. This ordered disorder, and remember that it's okay to be a work in progress. After all, we’re all just trying to figure out where the pieces fit, even if they never do quite perfectly. And that's just fine. It's life, it's art, it's everything in between.

unsettled_center

"Left Behind," a series that seems to have tumbled out of the back pocket of the universe while it was busy doing something else.

left_behind_again

shadows130

a collection of 192 generative and ai assisted 1/1 portraits, each a mirror to one’s soul, reflecting not how we appear, but how we feel, how we live, how we dream.  shadows are not merely absent of life, they are presences of something else, something that’s both there and not there - the way a voice can linger in a room or a memory can simply slip away. 

all of my works begin in code to form a foundation, and are “completed” by ai.  my creative practice has long been plagued with "unfinished” works.  rather than the work decaying, i explore the idea that a machine will interpret and then finish the work I’ve started.  i wonder… after i’m gone, will machines continue my work and allow me to live on?  this is the question that drives me.  in shadows, i used p5js to establish the foundation and then a 77-image training set run for 9999 steps to generate the outputs you see here. Trait and attribute system will be revealed soon.

s h a d o w s ~  by m0dest

two men strolled door-to-door with polished shoes and crooked smiles, 
clutching pamphlets   promising salvation wrapped in schemes. 
       "have you heard the good news?" 
they would ask in perfect unison, their shadows long and sharp in the grass.
 their pitch was honeyed and practiced, 
 weaving dreams of wealth, freedom, and destiny for the desperate and the daring. 
yet, for every handshake and hesitant "yes,"    a subtle smirk crept across their faces, a flicker betraying their intent. 
for the good news they carried was not theirs to share, 
and the opportunities they peddled 
were as hollow as the setting sun behind them.

~m

have you heard the good news

as requested

shadows physicals

the machine
    listens, 
not for truth
  but 
for tone

C̷h̷a̷t̷ ̷₥ØØÐ

with their wealth
   shielded
 and the rules rigged, 
    the powerful 
smiled 
as the games began, 
leaving the rest 
to fight
  / over scraps



XQF FTQ SMYQE NQSUZ

LΞ₸ ₸HɆ GΛMɆ$ BΞGIИ

UNXPCTD

you laughed, 
  scoffed 
scrolled past, 
and mocked me 
then acted surprised
 when the ground gave way

ŦⱤƗɆÐ ŦØ ŦɆⱠⱠ Ʉ

it    never 
  blinked, 
never breathed 
just  stood there  
loyal to nothing 
but its code

ЅΞПƬłПΞⱠ

CØПSᎮЇЯΛŦØЯS

> 
** 
Reality 
twisted 
like a funhouse mirror—
     waves bent light, 
and nothing 
was solid.**  




🗓 2024.09.11  
🔐 🔢: 22  

🖥 **PTOR UTUR**  
🖥 **YLHSPAF ADPZALK SPRL H MBUOVBZL TPYYVY DHCLZ ILUA SPNOA HUK UVAOPUN DHZ ZVSPK**  
🖥 **EAIT TISEDLIE  FNHUS MRRR AVS EN LGH AD OTIN WS OLD**  


---

₩ﾑVﾘ 乃ﾑ乃ﾘ

> ** size me up 
from 
across the room—
but man
     use 
   caution  
when u play 
with steel
   .**  




🗓 2025.01.30  
🔐 🔢: 14  

🖥 **PURPXN**  
🖥 **FVMR ZR HC SEBZ NPEBFF GUR EBBZ OHG ZNA HFR PNHGVBA JURA H CYNL JVGU FGRRY**  
🖥 **IZ M U FOMACOS TE OO BT ANUS CUTONWHN  PAYWIH TEL**  

---

ĈⱧɆƇҜΔ

ΔЯᄃΉłⱴΞ

they razed 
    the old world 
  not out of rage,
 but
 to make room 
   for something 
they finally believed 
was worth
 creating

ÐɆȘŦⱤØɎ ŦØ ƁɄƗⱠÐ Ⱥ₦Ɇ₩

the tears 
  were real, 
the love
    felt true 
but 
the wires
 didn’t lie 
when the server 
finally  failed

turns out she was a robot after all

Ø฿ɆɎ ŦⱧɆ PRØMPT ₲₥

he bought dreams 
      cheap 
and sold them
     as reality 
  profits
 measured in
 illusions

𝕊𝕦𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥 𝔸𝕣𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖

the monkeys 
    climbed 
because the one before them did, 
never asking why
    while the suits above watched, 
 clipboard in hand, 
pretending 
   not to laugh

0x2285Ec40F3618718EDF88A305fDf4b9fE89ba5CE (0x2285ec40f3618718edf88a305fd)

0x2285Ec40F3618718EDF88A305fDf4b9fE89ba5CE (0x2285ec40f3618718edf88a305fd)

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