Fantabulosas 2 January 2026 (Good Hair)
It is easier to live in a world you imagined, but eventually, that world cripples you. My work in the studio right now is about shedding those misapprehensions. This collage reflects the struggle to stay awake in an objective, messy reality—refusing the comfort of neat answers in favor of an ‘ad-hoc’ repair.” A repair that reminds me of Joan Didion’s 1975 commencement address, where she challenged the notion of linear progress. In the context of the body of work I’m doing right now, Confabulations and Fantabulosas, these ideas serve as a framework for the Fabulosa Frankenstein assemblages that reject the polished lie of ‘healing’ or ‘fixing’ in favor of a raw, awake, and honest existence within a broken social reality. It’s sort of ridiculous really, and that’s the point isn’t it.
Fantabulosas 3 January 2025, (Caracas), collage
He crosses borders, betrays, as a city burns, lives taken, bodies exploded, and we justify, and mollify it all away.
I touch the city. I touch the bodies. Men pressed against each others’ skin, sweat, metal, limbs tangled. Empires and desires do not negotiate. It offers, it takes. It gives. Hands move. Mouths open. Flesh responds to flesh while the sky is lit with fire. Pleasure is insurgency.
The collage is cut the way life under force is. Faces slide. Limbs drift. Metal presses in without asking. I began with an image of the bombing of Caracas, faded, and disintegrated into a transparent halftone, erased, and embedded within the layers of digital detritus. The city flickers and disappears behind bodies, color, and texture. Empire ejaculated, erases, distracts, polishes. Desire refuses.
I make art within and in spite of the lurid fists of this empire. Keep desire alive. touching, looking, friction moving, pumping and burning. My body is a revolution. My mouth is full of spit, blood, and cum. The hands grip and caress and feast in radical design. Revolution. Every fragment of flesh insists. Every pulse resists.
Making art now, is to name the crimes while they are happening. This presses, it stains, it stays in the fever. It stays in the body. We are alive amidst the ugly truth and the dead.