Art is generally considered an act of creation. But for me, painting is increasingly becoming a war. A war with that which cannot be seen, yet which I feel in every cell of my body.
I am a bridge between worlds. A portal through which energy flows into matter. The doors are open in both directions, and through my hands, both high and low, dead frequencies attempt to seep into this world. My primary task is to be the guardian of these gates.
The Trap for Visions and Empty Vessels
As I mentioned before, my visions last no longer than three seconds. To catch this impulse, I began using neural networks. Artificial intelligence became the perfect tool for me: it allows me to instantly extract the visual code from my head with great precision and lock in the proportions.
But a digital mind has no soul. And I began to notice a terrifying phenomenon: sometimes the machine generates a sketch that has already been inhabited by an alien, demonic energy. An ordinary person would see just a beautiful picture. But as a conduit, I instantly read this low-frequency radiation.
The Incident: The Boy with the Crystal Heart
Today, this invisible conflict reached its peak. I had a canvas that had been waiting for its moment for over six months. It was meant to depict a boy looking at a crystal heart—a visualization of myself. I felt the impulse and approached the easel.
I painted the first eye. There was almost no life in it, but I continued. The moment my brush began to form the second eye, the reality around me collapsed.
It hit me physically: blood began to pound in my head, nausea rose in my throat, and my chest tightened as if all the air had been drained out of it. There was not a single drop of my energy in this canvas. From the eyes of this boy, an absolutely dead, low-frequency world stared back at me. Darkness.
I grabbed a cloth and, in one motion, wiped away his eyes. At that moment, I physically felt as though I had ripped off his mask. I saw the true parasite hiding inside this image, waiting for me to give it life in this world with my own hands.
Destruction Instead of Purification
My first thought was to light a candle and cleanse the painting with fire. But intuition struck my hands: fire is life. Fire is an activator. By performing a ritual with a candle, I might not burn the entity, but rather awaken it completely.
Therefore, I chose physical destruction. I took a blade. I cut this infected piece of matter from the stretcher. I shredded it with scissors, shattering the geometry of its form so the portal would close forever. I packed the remains into a separate bag and carried them out of my space into the trash. I aborted this entity.
Evolution and the Shift of Forms
This is happening more and more often. My work has turned into an exhausting process of filtration. I am forced to control every movement so as not to let this contagion into our world and pass it on to my collectors.
This responsibility is crushing. It restricts me, and sometimes it feels as though it might make me drop my brushes altogether. But that will not happen. Painting is my organ, my function in this reality.
However, I must change the vessels. While I search for a way to seal the gates permanently when working with human images, I will paint them less often. I will channel my energy into other forms—into animals, insects, into silent landscapes. Nature does not succumb to demonic possession as easily as the human face.
I am searching for a way to control this flow. But until then, every canvas of mine will undergo the most brutal test for purity. I only allow into this world what is meant to be here. The rest, I cut out with a blade.