neo basquiat

This canvas isn’t just a painting, it’s a slap in the face, a neo-expressionist punch throwing two figures straight into your line of sight. Skeletons, yeah, but not the neat, comforting kind. These are Basquiat-style specters, sharp-edged, punk, battered faces, like something ripped from the gut, dripping with color, refusing to stay quiet.

They stare you down, straight in the eye, two sides of the same coin, right there in front of you. There’s this wild halo of spikes around their heads, hair exploding in a mess, an aura of rebellion and chaos.

Behind them, yellow bursts like a sick sun, oranges that grind, reds screaming in the clothes and details, with flashes of turquoise and icy blue, just to keep you off-balance. And those black streaks? Like tears, like scratches, dragging everything downward, pulling you into the plunge.

The brushstrokes? Raw, no mercy. They bleed, drip, splatter, a layering of paint piling up like open wounds. You feel the street, the urgency, the graffiti shouting its rage at the city.

The skulls are smiling, but don’t get it wrong—it’s no friendly smile. It’s a defiant grin, a dark sneer, like they’re saying, “We’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.” Their eyes? Just deep, empty holes, somewhere between a morbid joke and a serious threat, like a middle finger to good taste and propriety.

It radiates raw energy, crude intensity, something dirty and alive. It carries the neo-expressionist spirit in all its grit, a heavy nod to Basquiat and his way of making colors talk, like a burst in the dead of night.

the prodigy : ” firestarter “

Prodigy was a clenched fist in the guts of New York. Born Albert Johnson, he hit the Queens scene in 1974, already carrying a rage sewn into his skin, a fire in his gut that made him a survivor before he even knew what he’d have to fight. With Havoc, he formed Mobb Deep, and they struck hard, no warning. No glamour, no glitter, just asphalt and grit. The street rumbling and life throwing punches.

His raspy voice cut through the air like a knife, and his words—his words didn’t sugarcoat anything. Every syllable reeked of truth, survival, that metallic taste in your mouth when life pushes you to the ropes. The Infamous, Hell on Earth, titles that didn’t leave room for illusions. The street was there to eat you, or you had to eat it first. Prodigy knew what it was like to be devoured, his body never on his side, sickle cell anemia tagging along since he was a kid. He hurt, but he turned that pain into art, spit it into the mic. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to.

In 2011, he released My Infamous Life, a raw scream pulling back the curtain on his life in tatters, his relentless fight. He lays it all out for you: the music, the streets, the struggles, the hate, and the rest. It’s not a book for the faint-hearted. It’s his life, bare and unfiltered, a middle finger to an industry that loves everything polished and hates the grime.

Then, on June 20, 2017, the curtain dropped. Prodigy left, just like that, no warning, leaving behind memories, scars, and a loaded silence. He was never out to please anyone. He was here to tell the truth, the kind that doesn’t shine, the kind that hits you deep and leaves an extra scar. A guy like him? He doesn’t really die.