A human in their final uprising.

Trapped in the cycle of life –

faith, consumption, pain, birth, and death.

  
They reach into the void of the cosmos,

but the cosmos doesn’t answer.

  
The figure rises from a sinking mass.

Surrounded by relics of our species:

a candy being eaten, an eye watching,

a melting clock reflecting back what time no longer holds.

  
This is not dystopia.

This is diagnosis.

Last Act: Human is not a painting.

  
It is a scream.

Last act: Human

A skull.

Etched in copper and dust.

Stripped of glamour, yet surrounded by it.

A silent reminder:

Value and violence walk hand in hand.

The system speaks softly.

But its cost echoes loudly –

for those made to pay.

Every empire writes its own invoice.

Every lie waits quietly –

until someone is forced to pay the price.

EVERYTHING HAS ITS PRICE

What if your life had no meaning?

How do you know you exist at all?

  
Absurdity is not a theory —

it’s the fracture between experience and explanation.

  
You search for answers because it’s easier

than admitting there might be none.

You believe in structures,

because confronting the void demands too much.

  
But those who look closely will notice:

even the deepest thoughts can become unstable.

Freedom begins where this illusion ends.

When nothing remains,

no judgment can hold.

  
That is where you might finally be free.

Think again. And finally become

  
YOU.

Absurdity

A world in upheaval - where diversity and energy are suffocated by an encroaching, all-consuming blackness.

  
From the vibrant layers beneath, new ideas try to rise - but they collide with barriers. 

These obstacles take shape as bodiless, distorted entities, feeding on power, greed, and systemic constraints.

  
The sculptural elements appear like slogans, like cries - vivid, yet choked. 

The dark mass creeps through the intellectual landscape. 

  
_"Corruptions"_ is a mirror of how systems suppress hope, feed off it, and ultimately extinguish it.

A work about destroyed potential. About truth.

  
And about the question: What still grows when everything is poisoned?

Corruptions

Fragment by fragment –

a face without identity.

Undefined 425 is a portrait of a fractured present:

digital, damaged, pixelated like a fading memory of real humanity.

Every square bears weight.

And every gap speaks.

425 wooden cubes.

425 decisions.

Not a single unit is accidental.

Undefined // 425

She is not the first.

She is what remains when history turns into flesh.

  
A modern Eve –

entwined with temptation,

crowned by the mechanical collapse

of our decaying civilization.

  
In her hand: the pomegranate.

Fruit of origin. And of downfall.

This sculpture is no symbol.

  
She is weight.

A human remnant.

A warning, cast in chalk, wire, and silence.

A heart does not heal like skin.

It remembers.

Every wound.

Every loss.

Every promise that turned to dust.

  
This piece is a body of memory –

a fragmented surface of silent pain,

held together by what remains unspoken.

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Robin Steven Moné

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