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My name is Kuro, and for the last twelve years I have dedicated myself to hauling into the light what others prefer to ignore.
But let’s get one thing straight from the start: my persona is irrelevant here. Forget who I am, where I came from, or what I had for breakfast. My art exists separately from me; it doesn’t need my explanations or my biography. The works must hit you in the solar plexus on their own, without the crutch of my authorial identity.
I’ve tried my hand at everything: painting, music and poetry, experimenting with video — but I eventually realized that my primary language is mixed media, collage, and photography. These techniques allow me to tear reality to pieces and glue it back together by my own rules.
Color? To hell with color. I’ve scorched it out of my work, burned it to a crisp. I’ve skinned it off, exposing the raw, monochrome flesh of the image, which slips into icy tones. Color lies; it distracts. It makes you admire when you should shudder.
I take analog materials — photographs, clippings, textures — and run them through digital meat grinders. I mix the physical with the virtual until the line between the real and the fabricated is completely erased. In the collision of analog and digital, surrealism and minimalism, black with black, something alive and dangerous is born — art that does not ask for permission to exist. I create a dark, empty mirror that reflects the world not as it’s sold to us, but as I feel it.
All my work rests on one principle: THE DARK AESTHETIC OF SCHISM. Not a society, not a club, but a method. It is the practice of violently intruding upon the smooth surface of reality. These aren’t just pretty words for gallery catalogs — this is a manifesto, a philosophy, a way of existence. Darkness as a rejection of pleasant illusions. Aesthetics as the study of beauty in its ugly forms. Schism is the central theme of all living things.
I explore that inner schism that runs through each of us, and the external chaos of a world that pretends to be order — the crack between who we believe ourselves to be and the horror we hide beneath our masks; the chasm between our hopes and our wounds.
My art doesn’t ask for love or seek approval. It bursts into the room, overturns the furniture, and leaves — leaving behind only questions and the smell of burning. If you’re looking for pretty pictures for your interior, go to IKEA. Here you will find only a door to the basement of your own consciousness. Descend, if you are not afraid to find out what lives down there.
But let’s get one thing straight from the start: my persona is irrelevant here. Forget who I am, where I came from, or what I had for breakfast. My art exists separately from me; it doesn’t need my explanations or my biography. The works must hit you in the solar plexus on their own, without the crutch of my authorial identity.
I’ve tried my hand at everything: painting, music and poetry, experimenting with video — but I eventually realized that my primary language is mixed media, collage, and photography. These techniques allow me to tear reality to pieces and glue it back together by my own rules.
Color? To hell with color. I’ve scorched it out of my work, burned it to a crisp. I’ve skinned it off, exposing the raw, monochrome flesh of the image, which slips into icy tones. Color lies; it distracts. It makes you admire when you should shudder.
I take analog materials — photographs, clippings, textures — and run them through digital meat grinders. I mix the physical with the virtual until the line between the real and the fabricated is completely erased. In the collision of analog and digital, surrealism and minimalism, black with black, something alive and dangerous is born — art that does not ask for permission to exist. I create a dark, empty mirror that reflects the world not as it’s sold to us, but as I feel it.
All my work rests on one principle: THE DARK AESTHETIC OF SCHISM. Not a society, not a club, but a method. It is the practice of violently intruding upon the smooth surface of reality. These aren’t just pretty words for gallery catalogs — this is a manifesto, a philosophy, a way of existence. Darkness as a rejection of pleasant illusions. Aesthetics as the study of beauty in its ugly forms. Schism is the central theme of all living things.
I explore that inner schism that runs through each of us, and the external chaos of a world that pretends to be order — the crack between who we believe ourselves to be and the horror we hide beneath our masks; the chasm between our hopes and our wounds.
My art doesn’t ask for love or seek approval. It bursts into the room, overturns the furniture, and leaves — leaving behind only questions and the smell of burning. If you’re looking for pretty pictures for your interior, go to IKEA. Here you will find only a door to the basement of your own consciousness. Descend, if you are not afraid to find out what lives down there.
Kuro
cross-disciplinary visual artist
available work
Black Sun on the Wings of Black Birds
These black birds tear the sky apart. With their claws, their cries, sometimes with their silence. They carry on their wings a sun that has long since decayed, yet still burns within. It does not shine — it devours. It does not warm — it sears to the bone. This is not a metaphor. This is a diagnosis.
You know it. We all know it. It’s the tremor in your fingertips, the void behind your ribs, the weight that grows heavier with each passing day. These black birds — they are us. We are flying, not knowing where. We are screaming, but muffling ourselves. We are breathing, but long dead. And we feed this sun. With pain. With fears. With the lie of "I’m still holding on." But one day, it will become too heavy.
Look at these faces. Do you see? That’s you. The one you’ve hidden. The one you’re running from. The one you’re afraid to love.
And this sun… It won’t let you rest, will it? It whispers the truth you’ve always been hiding from. You’re not a saint. You’re not pure. You are the darkness that wants to be light. That is your tragedy. Your beauty.
So look. Look if you dare. Feel. But don’t expect to turn away. Don’t try to understand. To understand is to kill. To kill the mystery. To kill the pain. To kill your true self.
Welcome to a world where the black sun on the wings of black birds carries your story. Where every shot is you. The one you’re afraid to see. The one you’re afraid to become. But maybe now — just maybe — is the time to try.
You know it. We all know it. It’s the tremor in your fingertips, the void behind your ribs, the weight that grows heavier with each passing day. These black birds — they are us. We are flying, not knowing where. We are screaming, but muffling ourselves. We are breathing, but long dead. And we feed this sun. With pain. With fears. With the lie of "I’m still holding on." But one day, it will become too heavy.
Look at these faces. Do you see? That’s you. The one you’ve hidden. The one you’re running from. The one you’re afraid to love.
And this sun… It won’t let you rest, will it? It whispers the truth you’ve always been hiding from. You’re not a saint. You’re not pure. You are the darkness that wants to be light. That is your tragedy. Your beauty.
So look. Look if you dare. Feel. But don’t expect to turn away. Don’t try to understand. To understand is to kill. To kill the mystery. To kill the pain. To kill your true self.
Welcome to a world where the black sun on the wings of black birds carries your story. Where every shot is you. The one you’re afraid to see. The one you’re afraid to become. But maybe now — just maybe — is the time to try.
KATYA TSOY X KURO
Looking for Love on Jackals’ Hills
You are drawn to where the ringing emptiness resides, where the cold of the night bites into your skin. To where the predatory faces emerge from the torn pages of the past. Where every step is on a path of others' expectations, and the air is saturated with the sharp, almost metallic taste of inevitability.
She looks straight at you through the fragments, lines, brushstrokes, and shreds of herself. Not naive. Not weak. Not broken. She knows: amidst the torn paper and wild reality, something genuine can be wrested. Or you might simply burn to ashes in this search.
This is a story about finding yourself amidst chaos. About beauty born from destruction. About learning to love, even if all around you are jackals and an icy wind.
She looks straight at you through the fragments, lines, brushstrokes, and shreds of herself. Not naive. Not weak. Not broken. She knows: amidst the torn paper and wild reality, something genuine can be wrested. Or you might simply burn to ashes in this search.
This is a story about finding yourself amidst chaos. About beauty born from destruction. About learning to love, even if all around you are jackals and an icy wind.
Sarah's Silent Teatime and a Dream of Schism
A fierce chaos simmering beneath the gentlest gestures. A gathering of fragile details sharp enough to tear worlds apart and shatter illusions. Here, calm and despair strut hand in hand, like lost lovers who refuse to fade.
Here, grotesque isn’t a genre
It’s the moment you stop lying to yourself
GR0T3SQU3
Body spilled across the frame.
Seduction with smudged mascara.
A gaze that seizes your throat and whispers: 'Look further.'
Here, grotesque isn’t a genre.
It’s the moment you stop lying to yourself.
When it’s too late to turn away.
And you stay.
Seduction with smudged mascara.
A gaze that seizes your throat and whispers: 'Look further.'
Here, grotesque isn’t a genre.
It’s the moment you stop lying to yourself.
When it’s too late to turn away.
And you stay.
Body spilled across the frame
GR0T3SQU3
Nah, I’m not done yet
In every frame — less reality, more fracture. She’s chewed through hundreds of gods. She’s spat out all the venom that soaked their veins. She remembers their taste.
And only one question remains:
Is she the one drowning — or is it you?
And only one question remains:
Is she the one drowning — or is it you?
He Who Remains Watching Over Megiddo
This dawn bathes the world in the last light of a fading star. I am still here. Still watching. The days blur into a haze devoid of flesh and blood, the nights seep into the cracks of the earth, as if bleeding from the veins of an exhausted giant. And I stand — a sentinel of a dead kingdom, a ghost among charred ruins.
Once, there were universes here. Footsteps echoed, voices laughed, life pulsed. Now, only the wind licks away their last traces. This world breathed as long as it was allowed. Now it lies here, on the torn ribs of buildings, beneath the broken fingers of streets. It did not die instantly. It groaned in agony. But no one listened. No one returned to bury it. They left. They all left. But I remained. A witness to the decay of eras, hopes, lives, and love.
I stand and watch. Because someone must. With my gaze, I mark every new crack on the gutted earth, every shard of the shattered sun that lies among the wreckage of days when everything around us mattered.
Do you see it? Stop. Do not hide your face. Do not look away. Let your eyes see it, let the ash fall from your lashes. When the last fire dies, when the last scream fades into the void, we will still be here. Watching. Feeling. Remembering.
on @objktcom via @fakewhale_xyz
Once, there were universes here. Footsteps echoed, voices laughed, life pulsed. Now, only the wind licks away their last traces. This world breathed as long as it was allowed. Now it lies here, on the torn ribs of buildings, beneath the broken fingers of streets. It did not die instantly. It groaned in agony. But no one listened. No one returned to bury it. They left. They all left. But I remained. A witness to the decay of eras, hopes, lives, and love.
I stand and watch. Because someone must. With my gaze, I mark every new crack on the gutted earth, every shard of the shattered sun that lies among the wreckage of days when everything around us mattered.
Do you see it? Stop. Do not hide your face. Do not look away. Let your eyes see it, let the ash fall from your lashes. When the last fire dies, when the last scream fades into the void, we will still be here. Watching. Feeling. Remembering.
on @objktcom via @fakewhale_xyz
ANGER
Do you feel it, yes? That slight tingling beneath your skin. Like a thin, delicate knife with a peculiar tenderness runs its blade along your ribs — not cutting, but promising. Like invisible fingers tugging at the threads inside you, testing how tightly you're stitched together.
He breathes your breath, beats with your heart, laughs with your laughter. He waits patiently, like a lurking beast. You're afraid to even look at him — because you know he'll become your mirror. And what will you see there? A beast? Or yourself?
But come on, be honest. How much longer are you going to tremble? How much longer will you suppress this fire, pretending it's not burning you from within?
And here's the main question. Do you have the courage to release him? To tame him? To subdue him? To make him bow his head before you?
Or will you remain a puppet in his hands?
a piece created live during an event by @XLab2dA
He breathes your breath, beats with your heart, laughs with your laughter. He waits patiently, like a lurking beast. You're afraid to even look at him — because you know he'll become your mirror. And what will you see there? A beast? Or yourself?
But come on, be honest. How much longer are you going to tremble? How much longer will you suppress this fire, pretending it's not burning you from within?
And here's the main question. Do you have the courage to release him? To tame him? To subdue him? To make him bow his head before you?
Or will you remain a puppet in his hands?
a piece created live during an event by @XLab2dA
In the Blur of the Bathroom at the Party
The party’s chaos seeps through the thin door, loud and relentless. Shadows slide down the walls, the smile reflected is a damn lie. Everything here reeks of fake, except maybe me. Or maybe I’m just as lost.
Fingers on cold tile, thoughts bleeding into the water, no rules, no escape. This isn’t about the party. It’s about what’s cracking inside while the laughter outside never stops. Am I going back out? Who knows.
6 chapters of one personal story.
Fingers on cold tile, thoughts bleeding into the water, no rules, no escape. This isn’t about the party. It’s about what’s cracking inside while the laughter outside never stops. Am I going back out? Who knows.
6 chapters of one personal story.
REGICIDE
It’s the rejection of everything that held me back. The ashes of old delusions are left behind, and all that remains in my hands is freedom — the freedom I always feared. Freedom to live for myself, not for someone else.
objkt.com →
objkt.com →
Kuro
cross-disciplinary visual artist
a visual expressionism diary
