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

Modest

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
01010111
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

even 
   in 
    the blackout, 
one           spark
 remembers the sun.

𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀ₑₛ ᵢₛ ᵃ 𝒻𝓁ᵢ𝒸𝓀ₑ𝓇

he never
   bled, 
  never   marched, 
but his    opinions 
marched   others  
to their 
            graves 
from the 
comfort of his chair

𝒶𝓇ₘc͓𝒽ᵃ͓ᵢ͓ʳ 𝓰ₑ͓ₙₑʳᵃ͓ʟ

UNXPCTD

a pixel's glow, a fleeting trace,
a shattered mirror's fractured face.
errors whisper, soft and low,
in cracks where truth begins to grow.

the machine hums, the silence calls,
through broken lines and phantom walls.
what once was lost now stakes its claim—
a ghost of hope, all that remains.

tilework

wishers

all that remains

on  cracked sidewalks 
   and 
behind chain-link fences, 
     a thousand  futures
    bloom quietly, 
        waiting 
for someone to believe in them

η𝓮𝒾𝓰𝓱𝑏øʀ𝐡øø𝐝 ᗪ𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓼

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

with invisible strings 
and 
 clicked  commands, 
  he  bent nations to his will—
power   wasn't taken,
 it was 
orchestrated

𝔊𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯

Ø฿ɆɎ ŦⱧɆ       ₱ⱤØ₥₱Ŧ

 a series of choice 
and co-creation. 

each day the grandmaster selects one of 10 prompts. 

i have 24 hours to create art for that prompt.   

each week the gm chooses a 1/1 for minting, and the community chooses an artwork to be minted in an edition of /13. 


i’ve spent money chasing time. 
spent it trying to speed things up, 
slow things down, 
make moments last, 
or make them disappear. 
i’ve spent it out of fear. 
out of love. 
out of boredom.
i bought things i thought would fix me. 
make me more interesting. 
more desirable. 
more successful. 
mostly, they just made me more broke.
ive paid for late fees, bad habits, quick fixes. ive paid for advice i didn’t take. for food i didn’t finish. 
for subscriptions i forgot to cancel. 
but then,  i spent money on this.

the  ₥oney is  spent

Ø฿ɆɎ ŦⱧɆ PRØMPT ₲₥

they plugged.  in 
       willingly, 
faces lit 
       by glow 
 and promise, 
unaware 
      their thoughts 
were being harvested
 like crops
until one of them whispered, 
i think i used to have a purpose.

ℍυʍαɳ 𝕊𝕖𝕣𝕧𝕖𝕣 Ϝα𝕣ʍ

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

ŦHΞ ₡ØЯPØЯ₳₮Ɇ Ⱡ₳ĐĐɆⱤ

ØBΞY ŦHΞ PRØMPT :𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

monkey miner was the eleventh featured artwork in the obey the prompt series. 

based on the original monkey miner artwork,  < monkey miners > features 99 variations of the original artwork.  each piece was made individually using a variety of custom image processing algorithms i have developed for use in my work.

monkey4

monkey86

monkey miners

< monkey miner > was the eleventh work in the ӨBΞY ϮHΞ PЯӨMPϮ series.  

this series < the monkey miners > includes 99 individually crafted 1/1 iterations of the og < monkey miner > work.   each artwork has been customized using a variety of image processing algorithms that i have developed for use in my work. 

there are only 99 monkeys.  and they are chimps.  but who's counting 

ily
₥

monkeys11

< monkey miner > was the eleventh featured artwork in the ӨBΞY ϮHΞ PЯӨMPϮ series. 

based on the original monkey miner artwork,  < the monkey miners > features 99 variations of the original artwork.  each piece was made individually using a variety of custom image processing algorithms i have developed for use in my work.

there are only 99 monkeys.  and they are actually chimps, but who's counting. 

ily 
₥

monkeys91

the monkey miners

the ₥ØИ€¥ ₥€И  emerged from the shadows stitched between wealth and ruin. their faces are familiar, though names are unnecessary; each portrait a mask worn too long, now cracking under scrutiny. 
symbols of unchecked appetite, they do not confess but the image betrays them. what was hidden is now seen, and once seen, cannot be forgotten.

serial rugger

the minister of liquidity

the money men

the men arrived just past dusk. the houses were still, but not empty. a deal was made. or maybe a warning was given.


the agreement

what grew was beautiful. wild colors the land had never known, roots that hummed with heat. but beauty was just the disguise; the hollow man never promised life, only growth. and growth can rot too.


the bloom

SuperRare

*This collection began by trying to use a machine to recreate a memory.* \
*I gathered old family photographs - some mine, others collected from friends, relatives, strangers. I trained a model to learn what a family looks like: the poses, the lighting, the closeness, the distance.* \
*What came out wasn’t memory.* \
*It wasn’t even family.* \
*It was something stranger.*
 
*A series of images that felt almost familiar - like dreams passed off as truth. Children who never age. Faces that repeat. Smiles that don’t quite reach.* \
*The machine wasn’t recreating what was.* \
*It was inventing what it thinks we want to remember.* \
*In spirit, this series echoes Gerhard Richter’s blurred photo paintings - where history is softened, identities dissolve, and what remains is the emotional residue of what might have been.*


*But here, the blur is digital. The memory never existed.* \
*This is the result:* \
*33 portraits of ghosts, stitched from borrowed lives.* \
*This isn’t nostalgia.* \
*It’s recognition, disfigured.* \
*It’s love, simulated.* \
*It’s memory—remembered wrong.*

m0dest


memory.3

memory.18

< this is what it remembers > by m0dest

every    morning, 
      they   float 
 in silent
 sync, 
    hollow-eyed vessels 
  tracing 
the same loop, 
       as if 
        free will  
had clocked out long ago

𝒹𝕣ᴏ͓ɴ͓𝑒$

he    stood
 in front of 
bright  flickering
 lights, 
      monologuing madness 
to an audience
 long
      since 
replaced 
by  empty souls 
and
  lost eyes

†𝕥𝕙ᵃ𝓷ᴋ 𝕪Ｏ𝕦 𝔣𝔬ʳ 𝖈Ｏ𝓶𝓲𝓷𝔤 𝔱𝔬 ｍу т𝖊𝔡 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓴†

ᴀ͓ᴄᴄ͈ᴏ͓ᴍ̠ᴘ͓ʟ͓ɪ͚ᴄ͍ᴇꜱ

a     gift 
  leaves
 my hands.
       it  
becomes    yours.
    its meaning
     is only complete
 when
   it      returns
       again


*** 

this token is alive.
each time you open it, it shifts. 
colors bend, shapes crawl, forms reassemble. 
no two encounters are ever the same.
one contract, one shared edition. yet it refuses to sit still. 
not a jpeg to archive, but a living surface: unstable, restless, always in flux.
because mementos aren’t trophies. they’re actions and possibilities. the token reflects that - mutable, cyclical, never final.

shape it. color it. fracture it. reform it.
it will never greet you the same way twice.

₥

₥є₥єภ†๏

₥є๓єภ†๏ ๓๏яเ ²

for those who chose both

some choices are louder than others.
if you burned for both pieces in the two-part release,
the protocol has remembered you.

a new token  - memento mori two 
 delivered to those who committed fully.
no forms. no claims. just proof through action.

you stepped forward.
twice.
so now the story moves with you.

this isn’t a reward.
it’s a record.
the second mark in a longer memory.

hold on.
things are starting to shift.

*** 

nod to XCOPYART and Xer0x_NFT for the inspiration

₥є๓єภ†๏ ๓๏яเ ²

₥є₥єภ†๏ร

they       tried 
    to 
     shape me, 
   so
     i     became
   the 
     
    weapon.

**** 

< ๒๏яภ †๏ קยรђ ๒คςк > 
a collaboration with Claire Silver 
87 scenes 
original score composed by Claire Silver and m0dest
chapters:
the outsider
the system
the pushback


if you’ve ever felt the urge to resist
to break form
to build your own shape out of what’s left
this one’s for you

๒๏яภ †๏ קยรђ ๒คςк

every 

 answer 
bent
 the question
 further, 
until     reason      itself
 became
 just another 
    
    riddle.

m̶a͟ke͘ i͞t m͢a͘ke̷ s̴en͞s͘e

c๏ɭɭค๒๏яค†๏яร

i    don’t 
  believe 
in magic, 
      but
  i keep
 performing
 it
 just in case.

< ocd >

every 

     room 

feels like 
   it's    waiting 
 for me 
  to      say 
    the 
                wrong
thing

< anxiety >

₥є₥єภ†๏ร unici

he walks
  into ruined kingdoms 
without a word, 
   letting his presence
     alone
 deliver the   sentence
   no.      court 
    ever 
dared to speak.


u͓n͓b͓r͓e͓a͓k͓a͓b͓l͓e͓ †
ρнø × мødєѕт

dredd

i fight  relentlessly 
but 
 lift  trophies 
  only from those 
who swore
 they could never fall


u͓n͓b͓r͓e͓a͓k͓a͓b͓l͓e͓ †
ρнø × мødєѕт

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