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Digital Undeground @slshdsh

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Catharsis

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The Blue Abyss

One of them.

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Long-Exposure-Collection

Smeared- In space- Fucking- Ash. Available on objkt.com

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Moody Whip

We all sell a little something that we don't own in exchange for things that no one needs.

1//22 part of FAUST Collaboration by @saintmtfckrman

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Not Yours. Diptych

Munch's "Kiss" is a very witty non—verbal manifesto of the dissolution of lovers in each other. A fused face. A fused tenderness. Munch clearly appreciated this human opportunity to fall in love.

I appreciate it too, but I miss the times when people didn't disgust me. Not even like that. Rejection and boredom. It's softer. Refusal is neither good nor bad, I was taught that way as a child. They probably tried to transmit something else, but so far only this has surfaced.

So, love for others is a body horror in the bloody light of a smoky den with mannequins in the main roles. Something unnatural. Something alien. Grotesque. These are the petrified corpses of the inhabitants of scorched Pompeii, woven into the embrace. This is a disaster. And you can only run away from the disaster and forget yourself, hoping that someday it will end.

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Crescent

Children's counting: A month has come out of the nightmare, I put on the darkness like a blanket. Hide the joy, hide the laughter, The light of death will overtake everyone.

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Ashkeeper

For almost two decades, year after year, he has been patiently fulfilling his duty. What does he do? Keeps the ashes. Does not collect, does not archive, and does not even guard — just stores. Maybe sometimes he uses some of the handfuls at his discretion, but mostly not.

Because it's not his ashes. It's mine.

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Crawler

I was left alone in the cold forest. A strange forest. A forest in which, instead of trees, stumped twisted pillars with the likenesses of branches stuck out of the ground. The black sky was streaked with white threads, and ash was pouring endlessly from above, covering everything around it like dead snow.

Demons prowled everywhere between the nightmarish trunks. I didn't see them, but I always felt them. Even before I was there. Sometimes I heard their screams, more like a whisper from a mouth full of saliva.

Without weapons. Without protection. The only rag I had on went to the balaclava so that it would be harder for the monsters to track me down. Lost, I crawled through this gloomy desert or grove, sometimes switching to running, taking the rustle of my own footsteps for a chase.

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Angler

Never be led into the light of blind people from the bottom.

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Dormant

I do not know why I decided to call this work that way. In general, she appeared very strangely: unexpectedly and quickly. I didn't plan to create this model. I didn't plan anything at all. But as a result of some of my chaotic and not very conscious actions, which I could hardly remember, this sculpture acquired its final form.

Almost immediately after that, a word popped up in my head, perfectly describing what happened — dormant. From the outside, it may seem different, but this mysterious figure, like the very state of sleep, without eyes and mouth, as if it is in a state between sleep and reality. And these convulsive convulsions remind me of the movements of a bound person who is stuck inside his own body and is desperately, though not too actively, trying to get out.

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Macabre Unit (Drafts)

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Macabre Unit

What happens every moment is a Macabre. This is our common hangout. We dance as we can. We're not dancing to the beat. But the harmonies of this bit are not afraid of resonances.

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Phantom Moment

Every moment of time splits and burns into oblivion, falling to dust. And only thin lines of memories connect the moments together, creating a phantom web of the past. A spider web hanging somewhere between the trees in the eternally cold night forest.

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Overthinking If I were a writer and had an exquisite command of the word, I would write a whole epic about the art of overthinking — a thing known to very, very many people living in this ultra-fast era, where Information rules the roost. But I'm not a writer, I'm a digital artist, so instead of a book, I created a sculpture, draining that image out of my tortured soul. Or out of my mind. Never mind.

Failure and success. Problems and comfort. Idleness and hard work — it seems, almost all things on earth lead to overthinking. Apparently, this cocktail of anxiety, desire and intelligence, based on absolute egoism, is nothing more than a payment for self-consciousness, inaccessible to anyone but us — people.

But maybe I'm overthinking this.

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What's Wrong With Your Face, Bro?

One day I was walking down the street and someone called out to me from behind. I turned sharply to see the one who was yelling my name all over the street, and at that moment I said to myself: "God, you must have an incredibly stupid face, brother, when you twist it in space".

It really is.

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The Prince of the Skyscraper

The artist is interesting for his differences. The instinct of truth. Scarlet eyes. He gets hysterical sometimes. Sometimes he forgets the words.

Here it is for you.

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Oldman

Just a quick sculpture. Just a quick render. It's just that a man who has become an old man so quickly is probably insulting.