The characters in my drawings are manifestations of my own psyche: bald and naked. They live in angst, isolation, and complete delusion. Everything in them is a little bit off, they could be anatomically correct, but they are not. They could live inside a concrete space, but instead they float unconsciously on a void of paper.
In my universe, men have no agency, they are a species of soulless, hairy and passive automatons that are handed as Trojan-horses from one woman to the other, generation after generation, always leaving traces of green babies behind. Each woman will be forced to pass the gift ahead at some point, and every woman, without exception, will have a hard time doing so. Because even if the gift is a burden, it is still a clear sign of prestige.
These barely-human, hairless and bald women have all power in my infinite-background society. But that does not matter, because they are, nonetheless, sick, exhausted and withering away. Submersed in self-adulation and enmeshed in futile disputes to prove who is more youthful, who has more knowledge, and who can bear more babies.
All characters are slaves to the morality they have themselves created. And this morality, built as a naive attempt at being an organizing and ideological principle for a better society, has surpassed all human affairs, becoming a reified impersonal entity that hates humanity.
