The painting looms like a wound on velvet walls, a brutal mirror for those who sip champagne beneath it. The ruins of Gaza—fractured concrete, red painted smears, mechanical drones circling like carrion birds—are frozen in thick strokes of oil, yet alive with the silence of absence. The collectors toast their good fortune in front of it, turning atrocity into décor, war into asset.
This work is not simply about destruction—it is about the theater of consumption. It asks: what does it mean to celebrate in the glow of catastrophe? What does it mean when the market takes rubble, drone, and blood and reframes them as a luxury commodity? The canvas is an indictment, but it is also a confession: that even horror, once gilded, can be traded, adored, and hung above velvet couches.
It whispers the existential truth of our age: nothing escapes commodification—not suffering, not memory, not even the end of a city.
