Preparing for an attack on the playground
Behind the stone - crooked and porous, as if it had been hewn from the fossilized liver of a forgotten god - it lurks.
The alien.
Its head - an elongated sphere, encased in skin like a rotten latex glove pulled tightly over a skull. The eyes - two black oval cavities in which the light does not reflect, but only implodes and engulfs the world. They do not blink. They inhale.
And if you stare at them too long, the darkness in them stares back - not at you, but through you - and peels away layers of reality like wet wallpaper.
Their mouth - a slit sewn shut with threads of their own flesh - pulses faintly, as if something behind it is chewing at the seams.
The air around it thickens, warps like a veil of heat over a corpse. You can almost hear the sound of his thoughts - not words, but the dry rustling of insect wings trapped in a glass jar.
And then he bows his head.
Not to look at you.
But to show you that you were never the observer.
You were the specimen.
Acrilic on a canvas. 900 x 600 mm
The alien.
Its head - an elongated sphere, encased in skin like a rotten latex glove pulled tightly over a skull. The eyes - two black oval cavities in which the light does not reflect, but only implodes and engulfs the world. They do not blink. They inhale.
And if you stare at them too long, the darkness in them stares back - not at you, but through you - and peels away layers of reality like wet wallpaper.
Their mouth - a slit sewn shut with threads of their own flesh - pulses faintly, as if something behind it is chewing at the seams.
The air around it thickens, warps like a veil of heat over a corpse. You can almost hear the sound of his thoughts - not words, but the dry rustling of insect wings trapped in a glass jar.
And then he bows his head.
Not to look at you.
But to show you that you were never the observer.
You were the specimen.
Acrilic on a canvas. 900 x 600 mm