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My name is Kuro.
I deliberately distance my work from my personal identity. I strip it of biography, persona, and authorship as a point of reference. What remains is idea and meaning. The work speaks for itself, without footnotes about who I am, where I come from, or how I should be read.
Over the years, I explored multiple media before consciously settling on mixed media, collage, and photography. These forms allow fracture, layering, and tension — not as stylistic tricks, but as structural necessities. My practice exists at the intersection of surrealism, restrained conceptualism, and abstraction, where experience takes precedence, and the image deliberately resists completion. Color is almost entirely absent. I work primarily in monochrome, drifting toward cold tonal ranges. This is not an aesthetic choice alone, but a way to remove emotional shortcuts and force the viewer into a slower, more physical encounter with the image.
My process combines analog approaches — physical fragmentation, material imperfection — with digital manipulation, creating a dialogue between the tangible and the immaterial, the mortal and the constructed.
I deliberately distance my work from my personal identity. I strip it of biography, persona, and authorship as a point of reference. What remains is idea and meaning. The work speaks for itself, without footnotes about who I am, where I come from, or how I should be read.
Over the years, I explored multiple media before consciously settling on mixed media, collage, and photography. These forms allow fracture, layering, and tension — not as stylistic tricks, but as structural necessities. My practice exists at the intersection of surrealism, restrained conceptualism, and abstraction, where experience takes precedence, and the image deliberately resists completion. Color is almost entirely absent. I work primarily in monochrome, drifting toward cold tonal ranges. This is not an aesthetic choice alone, but a way to remove emotional shortcuts and force the viewer into a slower, more physical encounter with the image.
My process combines analog approaches — physical fragmentation, material imperfection — with digital manipulation, creating a dialogue between the tangible and the immaterial, the mortal and the constructed.
All of my work is built upon the collision of three fundamental words:
FLESH. CONSCIOUSNESS. INFINITY.
These are not symbols. They are pressure points.
Across all projects, collections, and series, a single idea persists:
Liberation from fixed identity through the exploration of liminal, existential states of the mortal self that has recognized and felt its own infinity.
Within this movement, I avoid self-identification through style or technique. Instead, I return to recurring internal and external fractures — the split within the human, and the split reflected back by the world. From this rupture emerges an irreversible desire: for mortal flesh to comprehend its infinite source from within.
The work does not offer answers.
It documents the moment when certainty collapses — and something endless begins to breathe through the cracks.
FLESH. CONSCIOUSNESS. INFINITY.
These are not symbols. They are pressure points.
Across all projects, collections, and series, a single idea persists:
Liberation from fixed identity through the exploration of liminal, existential states of the mortal self that has recognized and felt its own infinity.
Within this movement, I avoid self-identification through style or technique. Instead, I return to recurring internal and external fractures — the split within the human, and the split reflected back by the world. From this rupture emerges an irreversible desire: for mortal flesh to comprehend its infinite source from within.
The work does not offer answers.
It documents the moment when certainty collapses — and something endless begins to breathe through the cracks.
Kuro
cross-disciplinary visual artist
available work
Epiphobia
This is not about phobias. It’s about the fear of clarity. An exploration of that space between a question and an answer, where we freeze. An exploration of how we sabotage our own understanding, build labyrinths of self-deception, and call it life.
objkt.com →
objkt.com →
autopsy side effects
Sometimes art isn’t about polished details and stories, it’s just a raw clump of something that’s been choking you for too long. The aftermath of an act of ultimate knowing yourself, love, truth, or the world.
objkt.com →
objkt.com →
The Spark
It all begins with a crack. Everything that was converges into a single point — a spark. And suddenly, all the chaos becomes meaning.
objkt.com →
Spark / FULL GUIDE, OPEN AND FREE →
Creative crisis is not the end. It’s a signal that your old way of creating has run its course.
This guide is not about searching for inspiration. It’s about striking its spark from within. You are the author of your creative destiny.
A brief guide through creative crisis, based on the power of your "self". There are no magic pills here. There is your courage, your story, and the willingness to take the first small step.
objkt.com →
Spark / FULL GUIDE, OPEN AND FREE →
Creative crisis is not the end. It’s a signal that your old way of creating has run its course.
This guide is not about searching for inspiration. It’s about striking its spark from within. You are the author of your creative destiny.
A brief guide through creative crisis, based on the power of your "self". There are no magic pills here. There is your courage, your story, and the willingness to take the first small step.
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
