Viscera

This project gets to the heart of a question: what does flesh feel like? Not the appearance of the body, but the sensation of being inside it — the tension, the pressure, the warmth and the wetness. Viscera explores skin, fat, tissue, blood and bone through simulated paint surfaces. These aren’t depictions of anatomy but metaphysical studies: an attempt to understand the body as material rather than identity.

The work began with language. Every image was built from words — nouns and adjectives arranged like brushstrokes, prompts written as if they were small poems. I wasn’t describing what I wanted to see; I was describing what I wanted to feel. Each line of text shaped how the paint behaved — how it folded, spread, coagulated or dissolved. What emerged was neither human nor animal, but something in-between — a digital flesh that wanted to move and breathe in silence.

As the series evolved, I kept thinking about how everything that lives has flesh. Human, animal — it makes no difference. We draw endless distinctions between species, souls, and values, yet beneath the skin we’re made of the same trembling matter. Paint became a way to hold that thought still for a moment. It isn’t human or humane; it just exists. In these synthographs, meat becomes metaphor, and metaphor becomes mirror. Viscera is about what connects us when form and function fall away — the shared condition of being made from matter that both lives and decays. Flesh is what we all have in common. It’s not what separates us from nature, but what proves we belong to it.

My influences are clear enough: Jenny Saville’s weight, Francis Bacon’s distortion, Anish Kapoor’s density, Lucian Freud’s light, Willem de Kooning’s chaos. But I wasn’t trying to imitate them. They served as echoes — reminders that flesh has always been a subject that resists definition. For every image you see, many others were discarded. Eighteen remain from dozens, each one part of a single organism: tender, grotesque, and strangely alive. Viscera isn’t really about the body, and it isn’t only about paint. It’s about language becoming material — about what happens when description itself begins to breathe. They say beauty is only skin-deep, but maybe that’s wrong. Maybe beauty hides beneath, waiting to be found in what lies just under the surface.