"In the grand tradition of our pages, where the ink of Edward Hopper's solitude meets the frantic scribbles of a Jean-Michel Basquiat fever pitch, this latest trio of illustrations plunges us into a punk-rock underworld of cultural detritus and defiant swagger. Executed with a gritty, graffiti-infused vigor—black lines slashing across white voids, punctuated by rebellious red splatters—these digital portraits capture antiheroes straight out of a Williamsburg basement show. The first channels the demonic flair of Gene Simmons from KISS, his spiked hair a crown of chaos, clutching a Jack Daniel's bottle like a talisman while Daffy Duck perches on his shoulder and Snoopy lurks in the margins, all amid scrawled manifestos like "Drink" and "Nothing Shall"—a visual cocktail of rock rebellion and cartoon absurdity, as if Hunter S. Thompson had illustrated his own hangover. The second offers a bearded iconoclast strapped into leather harnesses, his gaze piercing through the haze of cryptic runes and doodles, with another Daffy incarnation adding a layer of ironic whimsy, evoking the raw vulnerability of a Nan Goldin subject crossed with the bondage aesthetics of Mapplethorpe. And the third: a mohawked figure with a cigarette dangling like a punctuation mark on existential ennui, a raven-like bird looming overhead, tattoos and tags swirling in a storm of "Duh" and "Unknown," reminiscent of the street-smart satire in a George Grosz caricature blended with the tattooed tales of a Raymond Pettibon flyer. Together, they form a triptych of modern malaise, where pop icons collide with personal demons in a way that's both viscerally raw and slyly humorous—perfect fodder for a profile on the ghosts of subcultures past. If these were to grace our cover, they'd demand a caption pondering the fine line between iconoclasm and inebriation."

Ben Surgey
The New Yorker
September 12, 2024