For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
​Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

For More From This Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!

For More From This Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
​Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

​The blaring sound of the sirens could be heard even from the Club district. It was most likely another shuttle deploying to a mining complex somewhere far away from here.
    The report said that the victim was last seen here before someone showed up with a slug-thrower and checked him out.
    Senny and Gus pulled up to the club where the coordinates were set. Grid-313, Block-4B.
    Puffing his CigRet in and out very slowly, the vapors leaving the left side of his mouth and out his nostrils. Senny checked his Phase-Revolver, counting the number of bolts in the chamber using his right thumb. He counted seven bolts in the chamber, anyone looking to cause the two of them any trouble tonight would receive a verbal warning before either of them would have to use stun. And if things got really heated, they would be forced to go lethal.
    Gus tossed an empty cup of Cafinite into a trash bin. Putting out his CigRet and exhaling the last puff of vapor that he held for a few seconds.
    He looked up to the balcony of the club, there were some punks up there talking to a pretty shady looking character. The jackets they were wearing were lit up by the club's sign, which was unreadable because of the rain, and the fact that most of the letters were shorted out.
    Senny and Gus both looked at each other, weapons at the ready should anything go wrong in the club. They got out of the car and walked right up to the front door. Before they went through however, Gus noticed a splotch of blood on a broken window-frame.
    Senny noticed too, he pulled out his Revolver set to stun bolts. Gus pulled out his long slide, also set to stun bolts. The caliber would pack a little more punch from the revolver than the long slide, knocking someone down as soon as it hit.
    Gus stood on one side of the door while Senny stood on the other end. They nodded to each other once...twice...On three they busted through the door. And at their feet lay a large blonde haired man, with his skull bashed in.
    Four other bodies lay in the corner where a table stood, with cards strung across the floor. Each of them beaten and bloodied with broken bones. One of the bodies, a man with an implant in his left hand lay there with a crushed neck.
    Gus walked up to the bartender with his weapon still drawn.
    "What the hell happened in here?" He said with an urgent tone in his voice.
    "The guy's up on the balcony right now," the bartender said. Pointing to the staircase to his left. Not very concerned with the mess of bodies in his own club, it seemed.
    The two detectives ran up the steps with their weapons heated and ready to fire.
    Once they reached the balcony, the punks Gus saw out in the car were standing there counting credits. One of them was missing his left shoulder, with wires exposed and crackling as the rain spilled all over the balcony.
    "Hands up, all of you!" Senny said. The punks obeying the command, even the one missing a shoulder. The rest of his arm falling off as it hit the ground with a loud splash.
    Senny walked over to the railing to see someone walking away from the club. He was unable to make out what the figure looked like because of the damn rain. Before he could give chase, the misty figure disappeared into the rainy night. No trace of it left...save for the bodies. 

Sam Matz

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

​Dylan Carlson is a scribe of the intangibility of tone and texture, pitch and volume. He is a quiet, reserved and rather shy man. However, once he steps foot upon stage, all reservations are gone. Cloaked in majestic tones of violet, magenta, waves of cobalt blue hues, deep somatic phthalo and Prussian blues; he is more Magus than musician.
Adrienne Davies, Earth’s drummer and Mr. Carlson’s collaborator for their latest album, Full upon her burning lips sat perched at her drum kit as a psychic weight to keep her fellow priests anchored before the altar.
It was the evening of June 27th, 2019. The Denver night was hot and still. Earth took the stage following their opening act Helms Alee (whose front man insisted upon standing in front of a wind machine the entire set, so that his long locks would flutter about) and looked out into the cavernous music hall.
Dylan Carlson thanked the audience in attendance at the Marquis Theater that evening. After adjusting what seemed to be a multitude of knobs and peddles his hands (tattooed with protective sigils, which he believes to shield him from sour notes) halted above the strings of his guitar for a vast imperceptible moment of golden eternities glimpsed through a mild static hum which squelched into the opening notes of Cat’s on the briar.
As Ms. Davies began rhythmically delineating the beat, she became more Shaman than percussionist, and a dark enchantment was cast upon those in attendance. This was a spell which fractured what the Scientologists refer to as present time. It was a spell which lifted everyone in the space above both themselves and the stage. Many of us became overwhelmed by the ecstasy of this performance ritual, and literally began floating upwards into the rafters and corners of the ceiling, our arms swaying limply like rag dolls or marionettes.
Now I know by now how the first born of Egypt felt as the terrible wrath of God fell upon them hungrily until the moment of envelopment. I realized I too was becoming a projected entity, as my soul slipped itself out of my body and around my skin like a lizard. I was Oppenheimer’s bride: Will you take to have and to hold until you both become death, the shatterer of worlds? I do.
The band went into The Colour Of Poison displacing the fractal balance of meridians bliss, cultivated only to be shattered. Collective energy was absorbed and assimilated in the string’s vibrations drawn through weightless hum of pick-ups, only to be flushed back into the atmosphere of the venue.
Feeling the squeeze and clutter of the crowd acutely, I decided a brief sojourn to the men’s room was in order. Upon entering the serene white porcelain temple of gastric passage, I discovered, much to my amazement, that it was empty aside from myself. In the distance, beyond this room, notes did unbound and were reborn in a fashion which can only be described as feebly jocular; like a dying man forgetting himself in a brief moment of joy.
As I emerged into a room tinted with touches of blue and red, I was greeted by Descending Belladonna, which the audience rode like waves of neon surf towards the stage’s plutonian boards. By now my soul had been brought back under skin like umbrella under trench coat, so I broke through the green mossen chrysalis doorway of the Marquis and into the crisp night air, carrying the notes in myself on the way home that evening and for many days thereafter.

Steven Lee Matz
July 3rd, 2019

​An Artist knows what it’s like. When you rub shit on the walls and people kiss your ass. An Artist knows how it feels to be a loser. To fuck the prettiest and ugliest girl in the class. To be ashamed for existing. To be a Product, like an object on the shelf. To get so high that you figure out God, but cant get anyone to love you. Most artists fall to their knee’s in fear. The smart one’s do, anyway I imagine. The Dumb one’s throw money into the fire, and scorch the earth aplomb. Artists grab the gun in self defense and shoot themselves in self assurance. Poking your eyes out is Bloodsport to them. They self medicate in their own bile, and bathe in your apathy. When you look away, they secretly wish that you’ve been offended. That means that they’ve done their job.

Dave MacDowell 
July 17, 2019 

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

Tupelo Hassman leads us deliberately and adeptly into the underbelly of small town life in her latest novel Gods with a little g; the characters who populate this subterranean small town existence are a motley crew known collectively as the Dickheads.
Theirs is a world which many of us can recall in the recent corridors of memory yet would care very little to return to. This novel relentlessly captures the rhythms, rhymes and reasons of its characters state of mind; and, although subtle, it maintains a psychological edge which is rather Dostoevskian in its power of perception. We share in the stifling atmosphere of this world, as Ms. Hassman pulls us back into the mire of this world time and again, without us realizing until long after. The intrusive familiarity of life in the midst of such an acutely claustrophobic plane of existence as this is not merely observed by the reader but lived.
The whole of Gods with a little g is rich with the textures of both rot and ritual. Helen Dedleder, a seventeen year old is our guide in the town of Rosary, California. As is the case with many small towns across the continental United States, it is a town besieged by a collective puritanism which is little more than used by it’s citizenry to mask the collective perversion teeming just beneath the surface and occasionally bubbling to the top.
It is the opinion of this reviewer that what Ms. Hassman has succeeded in creating is nothing short of a masterpiece of 21st century literature; an instant classic.
In using such language to describe this, or any work of art for that matter, there is a temptation to compare it to other works which concern themselves the final push from adolescence to adulthood (many of which, themselves are categorized as classics) yet to do so would undermine and even cheapen the force of this books individuality.
Overflowing with originality, poignancy and profundity Gods with a little g is more than a novel, it is a transformative experience for both its audience and author. If you read only one book this year make it Gods with a little g.

                                                                                                                                                    -Steven Lee Matz

To Order Your Copy Of
Gods With A Little G
Click Here

For More From This Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
​Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

    Zylo was drenched in the misty rain, his red clothing was dripping on the asphalt of the lower alleys near Galak Memorial. Everything around him was a blur of green and pulsating red lights, with sprinkles of blue and purple here and there. Few knew these old streets better than he, especially since these streets predated the blocks and grids of the higher, more modern, cityscape. If only so many cities and sky-scapes had places like this, with the old and the new mixed in from Grid-455 to Grid 522 of City-star, all the way up to the center of the Solar construct Valhalla of Prime-star. Alas it was not so, like he would have wanted.
    The girl showed herself once again, maybe for the last time, maybe not, hard to say. While she seemed kind and sweet, her presence was more intrusive than it was welcoming.
    "Well, I can't really help that. You're just going to have to get used to me, whether you like it or not." She had a point there, no one else could see her but him. A glitch in his eye, perhaps? He put his index finger to the left side of the head, hoping to adjust his implant so it wouldn't show him this seemingly invisible to all but him guardian angel.
    "Don't you remember? You need to use a screw-tool to get that open. And even then, it wouldn't work anyway, I’m gonna be keeping you company for the whole ride." She was really starting to agitate him. If this was some bizarre glitch, then maybe he could find a doctor and have him fix this little issue. Of course, that wouldn't be very cheap, and well, nobody would employ someone whose had sixty-five percent of their body mechanized and augmented. The price of being a Vanguard, unfortunately.
    Just then, he felt someone bump into him. He looked to his right shoulder to a some-what built man, with what looked like cybernetic wiring in his biceps. His breath smelled like Lighter Liquor, Freezed Gel, and a hint of VERY old whisky. A rather rare kind of drink is whisky anymore, most places don't even have any in stock, let alone sell any for reasonable prices. And that Lighter Liquor smell, well that alone always had an unpleasant aroma to it just out of the bottle. You couldn't get arrested for having a bottle of whisky in your home, after all, it was known to be something of a collector's item if you were into that kind of thing. He personally though, never really had much of an interest in such things. Now the Lighter Liquor and Freezed Gel on the other hand, was oh so quite illegal no matter where you lived on the construct. At best, you could get a fine of eight hundred thousand *credits for so much as having a little flask full of that stuff on your person. And at worst, you could get life in one of the many prison blocks on Cage-star, or even death if you're carrying enough of either substance. In this guy's case, he'd probably be charged decisively, and very swiftly for his transgression.
    The tall man with the breath of a dying animal, and improper wiring in his arms, looked down at Zylo as if he was some kind of immovable titan out of an old story book.
    "Hey-huh, pip-squeak...you're in th-huh...way." This idiot could barely stand. Burping and having hiccups over his words, slurring and just breathing the way he was, right in Zylo's face. He wasn't amused, not even a little bit. He's already on a mission for his fallen comrades, and people like this jerk don't know what he had to go through all those years ago.
    That was already enough for this stupid crap, he raised his hand with five of his fingers out.
    "Heyy...whatcha doin' there you little shrimp?" His thumb went down, now only four fingers were up.
    "What...ya think you're bein' funny, ya little shrimp?" His pinky went down, now only three fingers were up.
    "Uh, maybe we should just go, don't you think?" She said with concern in her voice, his ring finger went down.
    "Look, he's not worth our trouble. He can hardly stand-up, he doesn’t know what he's doing." His index finger went down, the tall man's eyes had widened as though he just found out the bar was closing early.
    "Oh I’m gonna crush ya, y...huh...ya little punk-a…" His words were cut-off as Zylo lowered his middle-finger enough for it to still be up near his knuckle, as he thrust his nearly clenched fist into the man's skull. His middle-finger having clashed with flesh and bone, and the flesh and bone of the man’s skull clashing with what felt briefly like metal and steel crashing into him. The man slumped over in front of him before Zylo grabbed his limp body and threw him into the window of a nearby club. The sound of glass shattering and women screaming as the man's bloodied skull was the first thing everyone saw in there.
    He walked to the door and swung it open, most of the patron's not paying much attention to what had just happened. They had to be pretty damn used to seeing this kind of violence if they were just sipping their drinks and eating whatever crummy food this rat infested hellhole had to offer. A couple of guys were playing what looked like a card game, with actual dollar bills piled-up to the side of their table. That was another old sight to see, tonight was getting pretty nostalgic for him.
    He walked up to the bar at the other end of the club, the bartender not shaken-up at all from the sight of Zylo's bloody hand. Another one who was used to having these kinds of disturbances in his club, this most likely wouldn't be the last time for something like this to happen here, most assuredly.
    "What can i get for ya, bud?" He was to-the-point and blunt, he wasn't terrified at all of his new violent customer. A rare quality amongst those who aren't modified, or even straight-up synthetic. Refreshing, if a bit annoying as well.
    He grabbed a napkin and wrote down his order, and slid it to the bar-keep, along with the amount of credits needed for the order. The bar-keep's eyes glossed over the order, and his hands swiftly made the order as if he had lightning in his veins. Before you could blink, the order was ready to go. Quite impressive for a human.
    "There ya go, if ya need a refill the station's right over by the door to the stair-case. If you're plannin' to head up to the balcony, remember that i get a few noisy punks up there. So, watch yourself." He's more concerned about a few delinquents than he was about a modified killer? What a world to live in.
    Zylo sipped from his mug, the bitter taste of Yellow-6 was completely lost to him. He sometimes misses being able to taste things, but then again, he really wouldn't be able to stomach this crap if he could.
    The men playing the card game motioned for Zylo to join them, with that pile of dollar bills getting bigger and bigger. Why not? He might as well indulge in some fun before he must get back to work.       


                                                                                                                                                               -Sam Matz

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

​To Get More Information About This Artist 
Click Here

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

cult-ure
/ˈkəlCHər/

noun
noun: culture; plural noun: cultures

1.
the arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively.
"21st century popular culture"
synonyms:           the arts, the humanities; etc.
a refined understanding or appreciation of culture.
"men of culture"
synonyms:           intellectual/artistic awareness, education, cultivation, enlightenment, discernment, discrimination, taste, refinement; etc.
​
2.
the customs, arts, common beliefs, social institutions, dogma and systems of indoctrination among a particular nation, people, or other social group or sect.

As a tool of mass societal engineering, as well as influence upon the imagination of the individual, culture is more often a mechanism of the propagandist than the individual. Indeed, the modern myth of culture is a symptom of the epidemic of civilization, a collective condition which leads us back to the cardinal principle of politician, priest, and animal trainer alike: cultivation.
Cultivation is domestication, and domestication is control. Culture is a myth; a construct used to wrangle the divine spark of the creative spirit and slow its evolution. Destroy the myth of culture within, before it destroys you without.

For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

​

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

​To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
​Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

For More From This Artist 
Click Here

For More From This Artist 
Click Here

​Gus walked out of the station first, the rain was still pouring hard on the lit-up night. A thick mist was visible in the neon filled night, almost all the roads were nearly barren save for a couple of passing ground cars and late night workers. Although Gus enjoyed the night time more than the day, he didn't like it too much when it rained. His coat could only do so much when the weather got really bad like this, but he supposed it wouldn't be too bad tonight considering he was mostly gonna be driving tonight.
    Senny walked out of the station with a slightly annoyed look on his face, Gus could already tell what his partner was thinking. "Lemme guess, we gotta drive to the Cafinite Night Dine for a few refills for the night first, right?" Senny flipped a 150* credit coin to Gus and walked out to the car where the downpour seemed to be at it's worse. Gus whistled at the coin in his hand, "I guess a few is not the right word for this case." Gus walked over to the car and pulled out his I.D key, the lock beeped and clicked open for him while he looked around to see if there were any cars or other vehicles around the parking grid. No vehicles of any kind were coming nor going, so he and his partner were ready to head out for the night.
    "Hey Gus?" Senny asked while he pulled out a CigRet for him. "What do you think about the homicide?"
    "I think it has a lot to do with all that political crap, you know Sen?" He flipped on the wind shield wipers and pulled out of the parking slot, he pressed a button on the wheel and the rear-view mirrors were adjusted accordingly. "I would bet you anything that it was most definitely a hired hit, and the trail is being covered up to pin the blame on someone else. Hey, maybe the order could have come from someone up in the high table." He drove out of the grid and activated the car's Siren I.D for their night-shift. 
    "Gus, the high table thing might be a little far-fetched for this. I could see your point if it was a commander or admiral or someone with high rank in the corps, but as far as we know this was just another homicide and the victim was only related to someone of a high rank."
    "Well it's possible the culprit had threatened him and any person that was of relation to the victim. I mean, don't you think this could have something to do with blackmail or some other kind of scandal for anyone in politics or the army or some such thing? I think it might be."
    "The members of the high table work to balance the economy, stabilize our society, and build our culture. They're not mobsters or some secret government with a conspiracy to enslave everyone, or control everything we do in the world." Senny was starting to think that Gus was spending too much of his free time watching documentaries on conspiracies and sleepers from other galaxies, and he wondered whether drinking might be better for him at home or not.
    Gus knew a lot about the high table of Prime-Star, and he was well informed on the current state of the system, as well as the political history of the stars. But he was also too quick to judge a case when someone was threatened or even murdered because of supposed propaganda or any other crap. There was no doubt in Senny's mind that this was an exception to some of Gus's profiles on political related homicide, but he was still a little annoyed about having to hear it so much and Gus could see that.
    The Night Dine practically bloomed in the headlights and the aroma of Cafinite and some baked goods flowed out the front door, a man wearing a lift uniform walked out of the Night Dine and popped a sleep away pill in his mouth.
    The two detectives pulled up to the lot and turned on their C.P.U’s (City Patrol Updaters), and stepped out of the car. Both of them quickly getting drenched in the downpour pounding the entire city, with their coats not helping much in keeping them from getting a little cold.
    The night was young and glittered with sparking lights in the rainy, misty city. It was time for those cups of Cafinite and a few other things to keep the two going tonight.  

Sam Matz

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!

​To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
​Click Here

​To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

​by
​ Stephen Queen

It was day. Alex Kistler brought the last of his moving boxes into his new apartment. Caleb had helped him with the couch and heavier furniture earlier. There was a closet right by the front door which he hadn't noticed when the property manager showed him the place.

Bonus!, he thought to himself with a smile. He hung his one winter coat in there, rolled his vacuum cleaner in as well, and called it a night. When he woke the next day he set everything up and organized his new place. After that he went for the vacuum but upon opening the closet, he was surprised to find it completely empty. No vacuum. No coat.

I could have sworn I put those things in here, he thought.

But Alex was constantly misplacing and losing things, and dismissed the confusion as his mind playing tricks on him as a side effect of heavy marijuana use. He left for his night time job. He came home late that night and decided to throw his three pairs of sneakers into the closet by the door, out of the way of everything. He went to bed. When he went to put his sneakers on the next day he found the closet completely empty. This not only shocked Alex, but angered him. He searched every inch of his apartment and car, but found no sneaker, vacuum or coat.

"What the fuck is going on?!" he shouted as he kicked at the air. He was quite embarrassed going into the "Shoe Show" with only socks on his feet to buy new shoes. That night, before bed he put his Monopoly board game into the closet, as an experiment. The next morning - empty closet. He inspected the closet for some loose panel or trapdoor. Nothing. He made a video with his phone of him putting some old clothes into the closet, and videoed the opening of the empty closet the next day. But all of his friends that he showed thought it was a lame, unthought-out joke. He couldn't prove that he didn't empty the closet himself. 

He put nothing in the closet for a week. This is when Alex was greeted by friendly, hungry, stray cat. He gained the cat's trust with a bowl of milk and managed to wrangle the cute little feline into his apartment. That night he put the cat into the closet with a bowl of milk. 

The next day he hurried to the closet door. He pulled the door open to see a strange landscape as far as the eye could see, with no sky. It was dimly lit by what seemed like a red fire. In the distance, he could see human figures being mutilated and torn apart by horrific creatures that were certainly not of this world. He couldn't believe his eyes, and tried to shut the door, but that's when a clawed hand as big as Alex's head reached from inside the doorway and clutched his neck. The hideous, goat-like, horned head that he saw next spoke to him in a low-pitched voice that sounded like an animal speaking English.

"We've been waiting for you."

And then Alex was pulled in, and the closet door shut behind him.

​THE END...But not for Alex.

The established order of the museums and galleries is crashing. Their light and influence diminish, and all that is left are memories of what once was. What was once the heart beat of society has become commercialized and commodified under the parasitic cultural umbrella of Art World.
To understand it we must go back to another time not long ago, when the creative class had been wrangled into a self-policed gulag with the dregs of the upper class, always working towards some semblance of community or organization. Both ultimately did increase, which increased work. The harder and faster they worked, the more work there was to do; so, they handed the reigns of their economic and creative infrastructure over to gallerists and consultants. Galleries had begun as a tool of the age of enlightenment, they functioned as kind of cathedrals to art, where the wealthy and the learned could fully absorb if not appreciate the art. For in those days works of art were thought to have an almost supernatural quality and most were of the opinion that one did not need to understand it, but the mere act of being in its presence was thought to have effects on ones temperament, intellect and wellbeing, and in fact we still see this today where paintings or prints often adorn hospital recovery rooms. Many galleries became more interested in representing a groupthink aesthetic which left little room for creative individuality, all in the pursuit of the bottom line. This bottom line turned many such establishments into dens of vipers, the gallerists and consultants metaphorical (if not literal) foxes running amok in the proverbial hen house, and many a patron were in fact parasites and predators.  The exact history of the decline of the creative class is difficult to pin down, but its effects are not. Many were and still are forced to work odd jobs for very little, sweating in kitchens or sitting solitary under fluorescent bulbs in windowless gray cubes most of their waking hours (most of their lives), trying to hear silence through the ever-present hum of mechanized garble. Executing precise movements on a keyboard to manipulate the obsolescent sigils of commerce which had no real value to them, subconsciously panicked by the typical pervasive multitude of life anxieties, just so they could pay exorbitant entry and exhibition fees to the galleries to pursue the vision they had for themselves and the world. All the while pitted against a hostile dynamic complex of simultaneous coercion and persuasion perpetrated by a twisted and decadent system ruled by elitist politics and various allegiances, they have been taught to accept by that most laughable of institutions Art School. A constant force-fed rounding up of the herd is provided to us courtesy of social media, propaganda or the wholesale dissemination of the state condoned archetypes. All of which conditions us further still and we accept the chains of credit that has condemned the majority of the creative class to the corporate console, and ultimately their own imprisonment within the 9-5 system of NO THINK. Would they have done this if instead they could have pursued their visions and dreams unencumbered by the imprisonment of a forty-hour work week due to the greed of the galleries? Not in use as cogs in their machine? Their art free of societal or commercial programming and fabricated goals, just so it can hang on the gallery wall and hopefully be bought? All these mentalities and attitudes of careerism and capital gain have become the heart of Art World as they have so many facets of commerce and industry. Subsistence, at the very least for the true creative class/The New World Creative (NWC), was what Art World claimed to provide to any hard-working artist. Such a luxury would be welcomed (but much like the proverbial carrot which is so often dangled in front of the horse, it is seldom delivered and only saved for the chosen few) compared to the luxuries afforded us through working within this system until now.
    At present time creative minds are transformed into information-processors and satellites for agendas of artistic substitution. We have Devolved into serving machines; processing pop culture reality into binary code and computer logic data, and regurgitating it back into our Art. We are used more and more as either translators or the human avatar of the machine, that is, as interfaces between computerized systems. Too many of you are led by the nose of what is in vogue! Society in large is divided into labels and sectors; police, doctors and most gallerists are identical in their regalia, their speech is scripted by other administrators of the program, they are expected to do their work starting at X time, ending at Y time, and resting at Z time so they may continue to operate efficiently. The same expectations, with respect to what produces the result, are placed on every aspect of society and we are supposed to be actors in the commercial that is meant to define us. Make no mistake: you and I are little more than pawns to the upper echelon of this established order of things. Our art is looked upon as trinkets, baubles, or pretty pictures to decorate the courts of the modern aristocracy. To them we are merely workers, our work little more than objects for their amusement!
   Art World uses artists, artists don’t use Art World. It is not any single isolated institution, it is a unified system of relationships between elements and systems. Those who claim that Art World is a "neutral tool" or that it is an accumulation of independent galleries, museums, public events and institutions to be picked through selectively, fail to realize that the symbiosis of the system itself is a metaphysical whole. That it is an expression of organization, and therefore can only direct itself toward higher order, increased centralized control, and the inevitable degradation of the true creative class which it undermines and represses at every turn. In short, it has been reduced to little more than just another commercial industry. The metabolic flow of the market must speed faster, fueled by the martyrdom of the visionaries and seekers who are too often kept at the bottom of the pyramid in this life, only to be lionized after their deaths by the same pretentious greed mongers’ that once chased them from their galleries all in the pursuit of total collectability. It is in this way that they build their next commodity, for every story you hear of an artist which was never understood in his or her own time, but which became wildly popular in death are all examples of created markets. Our art can always be more valuable, but it can never be valuable enough.
   The first wave of this manufactured market mediocrity comes before us presented under the guise of the avant-garde, touted by critics with labels such as challenging or complex. We are told in so many words that if we don’t understand or like it, it’s because we are too shallow or just too stupid. It turns art into a pseudo-intellectual parlor trick which purports itself to be revelation, critics and the moneymen jump on the train and a market is created. Collectors and the media follow suit, and the vocation of the artist is further trivialized by this rich man’s game.  The role of artist has now been neatly defined within the modern caste system of the hive-mind as a high-end loafer because of these tactics of trivialization. It is fast becoming a subcultural program which no longer computes in the greater scheme of things, and that which will not compute will not survive.
As for our work, so our play: both are a communication of our individual realities, our own world, not Art World. To be silent or uninterested is to be complicit. To apply their lens to your narrative, or worse their narrative to your story is anathema to not only the ethos of the NWC but to the creative spirit in general. Our mission is to free ourselves, not just from the restrictions imposed upon us by this obsolete system, but to destroy said system.  We are starved for the next wave of real seers, prophets, poets, and madmen. We must once again become the authors of our dreams. 
   The internet has become the God surrogate for many a man, woman, and child. This cybernetic deity disperses crowds and clears streets, it keeps people lethargically chained to a screen. We now live in a post-physical era, inside our devices, estranged from our physical environments, displaced in a self-imposed corporate/governmental collective imagination. Never projecting, forever receptive and submissive to the commercial, capable of little more than high tech voyeurism.
   This is not the case for everyone. There are many of you who say: "We want to live, to be here, now”. I tell you that if that is the case, you must realize that now is the time to put your xeroxed zines on the shelf, they are worthless in our current age of quantum communication and interconnection. We do not write zines, we chart new course in cultural engineering. The printed page is dead! A relic of a bygone era which in no way suites our current societal fusion of ourselves into our technology. If one wishes to affect change within the Leviathan of Western society, even if it is on a cultural level for it is this level which accounts for the base of what is to come, then one must create a lighthouse amidst the pixilated binary reefs of their illusory world. In fact, the accepted art of any era always has a kernel of foreshadowing of what is to come, the art of the underground ultimately works through the influence it holds over the next generation and in this way affects an equal if not greater change ultimately, which brings us here. The glow which now surrounds you is the medium in which we operate. We are the agents of change, the guides of aesthetic transubstantiation. The New World Creative is all of us, forever!

                                                                                                                                       -Steven Lee Matz

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

All Artists Are Murderers
We come in all shapes and sizes 

 ​Some parents put a drop of paint thinner in their children’s cereal, ultimately the art of death plays out wonderfully. Some children emotionlessly murder animals, worshipping the sacred art of mass mutilation. Slashing and scratching at vulnerable wounds. Stabbing and violating our private sensitivity into a choral uprising of macabre grotesque. Too scared to kill yourself? Kill the Art Elite! Afraid of authority? Piss in their flavor of the month coffee pot! Kill your Corporate Art God’s and toss your Greedy Greedy Gallery idols violently into the volcano of disgust. You’re an artist with a strange wonderful mind. A mind that the elite simultaneously worships and detests. Your imagination has the power to trigger massive chaos in their streets. Use your weapon’s wisely with surgical precision. Pull that trigger. This is a war of Good versus Evil. Don’t just make them laugh, make them piss blood in their pants with embarrassment. Tired of getting your ankles bitten by false promises? Drop kick that little fucking dog straight out of their stained glass gallery window. Did your condescending art mentors tell you what to do? Shame them so badly in the public arena, that they run in shame toward the nearest bridge. And before they jump to their demise, look into their tear stained eyes and silently whisper “FUCK YOUUUU.” The only time that you should apologize, is when you deeply regret not killing them sooner. You’re an artist, and surely you must have zero doubt. YOU are a cold blooded murderer. Own it. Some Murderers are methodical with their weapons. Painting something so focused, to emotionally manipulate society’s feeble mind’s so precisely, that you make them resort to unconscionable acts of transparency. We walk amongst a sterile and vampiric cabal of cannibalistic tag alongs. You are only a commodity and a cash machine in their eyes. Being the producer of dreams to those so unskilled to manifest any, you must bash their brains so violently with truth and indignation, that their selfish motivations ooze from their stubborn pores. Hold up your art as a mirror, so they see how unapologetically disgusting they’ve treated you. And in kind, make them melt into the puddles of disrespecting puss that they always were. You have the power. You have always had it. They were only holding you back until now. So here we stand blood soaked and brazen. An army of Artist’s so ruthless and unwavering. Never forget what brought us here. Never forget the shame and lies and piss that they put into you, to silence your voice. Never forget the rules and the cages, and the long promised wages that they never intended to pay. Their entire existence was placed solely here to kill rape, eat and kill you. Once they see that they killed the chef, they’re banished to eat shit art until another rises. Enjoy the wait, bitches. We have always controlled the pay. Murderer’s come in all packages. Some come to maim without ever intending to kill. Their corporate masters perpetuate the rebel, but never follow through with the promise. Be Authentic. Rise above and make an example. As you slowly walk out of the gallery, after killing every mother fucker in the room, you are redeemed. No-one will ever call you a fake, or a phony. For their throats will be slashed with the sharp reassurance to never doubt you ever again. You were born to Kill. Embrace your destiny and indulge in your passion. This isn’t just blood sport. This is WAR. Let the massacres commence!

David MacDowell
January 16, 2019 

For the most immersive experience we recommend using a PC for the duration of your Third Friday viewing.
Pictures will often be formatted in rows of three, click on the thumbnail to enlarge the image.
Thanks for visiting Rogue Gallery! Enjoy your stay!

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.

​Welcome to the final Third Friday of the year 2018. It has been a year of major growth, triumph and tremendous success. From Emerge and The Exploding Digital Inevitable, to the conclusion of our Spotlight series, this year has been filled with milestones and breakthroughs, and we thank every creative and patron who helped make it possible.
As the year 2018 draws to a close, we take but a moment, not so much for retrospection on the past year, but rather to glimpse a projection of what is to come. We look to 2019 knowing that our mission is to continue in this Golden era of artistic innovation, rejuvenation, and reinvention. As well as to embrace and subvert the methodologies of authority in art; from aesthetic ideology to censorship, from dogma to propaganda and beyond!

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

To Purchase A Piece Direct From The Artist 
Click Here

The Censor Art campaign idea kinda hit me recently (spurred by the upcoming ban of "adult content" on tumblr) about how much art, and nudity, is unnecessarily censored these days on all social media platforms, as well as culture. The watering down and lack of acceptance of body parts as universal as nipples is just silly and pointless.
So instead of being able to have my art censored, I'm censoring with my art. 
                                                                                                                                                                         -JoKa

​Thank you for visiting. Inter Sekt is an organization that works hard to continue bringing new and fresh artistic content from The New World Creative. You can show your support by shopping in our store where you will find select prints, original art and a variety of other items. Our store is powered by PayPal and is capable of accepting both PayPal and most major credit cards as payment. You may also make an anonymous donation by clicking the button below where you will receive confirmation for your contribution. Thank you again from The New World Creative.