Pull

Screenprinting is a process of pressure, resistance, and chance. Ink is dragged across mesh. Colour leaks through a stencil. Pull is a series of male portraits and figure studies with a shamelessly queer aesthetic: not camp, but coded; not theatrical, but stylised. These are not photographs. They are not reproductions. They are images created entirely with artificial intelligence, designed to feel physical, tactile, and printed by hand. Simulations of printmaking itself—where muscle becomes geometry, colour becomes gesture, and each figure emerges from a collision between language and code. What remains is not the body, but a record of its conversion. Bold, layered, colourful, and modern. Or maybe postmodern. Either way, it is no longer possible to rely on previous ways of depicting the world. Serigraphy is still very much alive, but Pull is nostalgic for a process that is no longer necessary in the age of digital reproduction.

The visual language of Pull draws heavily from twentieth-century silkscreen practices—stripped of kitsch and cliché, and reframed through a contemporary lens. Fluorescent overlays, halftone textures, and misregistration are used deliberately: not as decoration, but as artefacts of the process. The figures are often isolated—reduced, faceless, dehumanised—transforming the motif into icon, object, or surface. One image might recall a nightclub flyer, another a test print never meant to be seen. Some figures shimmer like ghosts, printed too many times or not enough. At other times, the figure is confrontational: buttocks centred like punctuation. A backside turned toward the viewer—not in invitation, but firmly in control. This is not eroticism for the sake of it. It’s an engagement with the history of art.

Screenprinting once belonged to commerce: posters, packaging, protest, and pop. Here, it becomes a fiction of itself. Synthetic ink pulled across an imaginary screen, rendered not with mesh and squeegee, but with prediction. AI is not a camera. It’s not a printing press. It reconstructs the body—piece by piece—hallucinating idealised forms from the debris of visual culture. These images do not aim for truth. They aim for presence. Hallucinated digits, extra toes, and marginalia—numbers, false signatures, marks that mimic editioning—are left intact. They are not mistakes. They are part of the medium—evidence not of failure, but of simulation. Pull doesn’t document the body—it guesses. These aren’t men. They’re impressions: idealised, erotic, fractured, and wrong. They don’t pose for approval. They declare presence. They demand to be looked at—then pull you closer.