Art to buy

Toward an Ethics of Perambulation: My Necessary Turn to Climate Art

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Toward an Ethics of Perambulation: My Necessary Turn to Climate Art

by Dafydda ap Gruffydd

It has become increasingly apparent to me,indeed, unavoidable,that my practice could no longer remain merely responsive to landscape. To walk, to traverse, to efface one’s own trace is no longer sufficient in an epoch defined by ecological precarity and moral inertia. The time demanded not only motion, but position. And so, after a period of profound contemplation (much of it ambulatory), I have chosen to pivot my practice toward what I term Climate Art.

This was not a decision taken lightly. Nor was it inevitable, only necessary, for an artist whose work has always existed in a state of ethical alignment with the land. My earlier walking works, often misunderstood as exercises in endurance or minimalism, were in fact proto-ecological interventions: durational acts of refusal, rejecting extraction, spectacle, and permanence. That others failed to recognise this is not surprising; recognition often lags behind responsibility.

Climate Art, as I understand and practise it, is not illustrative. It does not depict catastrophe, nor does it indulge in the emotive excesses of melting icebergs or anthropomorphised polar fauna. Such gestures, while well-meaning, remain complicit in the visual economies of consumption. My work operates instead at the level of ontological recalibration. It asks not “What is happening to the planet?” but rather, “Why do you still imagine yourself as separate from it?”

My most recent project, Ambulatory Carbon Negation (Preliminary Phase), consisted of walking extremely slowly along a disused coastal footpath while thinking intensely about emissions. Each step was undertaken with acute metabolic awareness. I hardly documented the walk. Documentation, after all, has a carbon footprint. The work exists firstly as a redistribution of atmospheric conscience, only secondly as ephemera and physical remembrances.

Some have asked whether walking can truly constitute Climate Art. This question betrays a lingering anthropocentric bias. Walking, when undertaken with sufficient intentionality, slowness, and conceptual density,becomes a form of planetary listening. The foot, correctly deployed, is an instrument of ethical attunement. I have always known this. I am gratified that the climate crisis has finally forced others to catch up with my intuition.

It is important to clarify that my pivot does not represent a rupture with my earlier work, but its logical maturation. My long-standing commitment to erasure, to leaving no trace, now reveals itself as a prescient refusal of carbon inscription. Where others are scrambling to retrofit sustainability into fundamentally extractive practices, I have merely articulated what was already embedded in mine.

I am cautious about the current proliferation of climate-themed art. Much of it mistakes urgency for depth, volume for impact. Climate Art is not about noise; it is about correctness. It is about aligning one’s practice so precisely with ecological ethics that it becomes, in effect, unimpeachable. This requires restraint, seriousness, and a willingness to be misunderstood by those who still confuse accessibility with virtue.

In the coming year, I will be developing a suite of works that further explore non-invasive presence, atmospheric humility, and the aesthetics of refusal. These may include standing still in weather systems, walking in places already damaged but refusing to acknowledge the damage, and thinking about glaciers indoors to avoid unnecessary travel.

I do not claim that my work will save the planet. That would be vulgar. What it will do, quietly, rigorously, and without compromise, is model a way of being an artist that is no longer ethically optional. If that feels uncomfortable, it should. Discomfort is, after all, one of the few renewable resources we have left. Collectors may sponsor a walk, they may receive the odd photo, maybe a stick from the journey, or a well-chosen pebble. Nothing more.

Hackson Jollock: The Line Learns to Breathe

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At first encounter, the new monochrome work by Hackson Jollock appears almost evasive. Black lines wander across a white field with an air of studied indifference, looping, stuttering, accelerating, then hesitating as if the drawing were caught mid-thought and decided not to resolve itself for our benefit. There is no centre, no hierarchy, no obvious “way in.” And yet, after a moment, it becomes difficult to look away.

This is a work that operates by near-miss rather than declaration. The lines do not enclose forms; they brush past the idea of form. One feels the ghost of figures, maps, calligraphy, perhaps even animals or letters, but none are permitted to fully arrive. Meaning is constantly approached, then politely refused. In this sense, the drawing behaves less like an image and more like a rehearsal, an endless warm-up in which gesture practices being itself.

Monochrome suits Jollock. Stripped of colour, the work reveals its true subject: motion thinking aloud. The line becomes both actor and archive, recording not what the artist saw, but what his hand decided in real time. Each stroke carries the residue of a decision already abandoned. This is drawing as temporal event, not object; evidence of presence rather than product.

What is striking is the confidence with which the artist allows disorder to remain unresolved. The marks overlap without correction, collide without apology. There is no attempt to tidy, balance, or aestheticise the chaos. And yet the work never feels careless. On the contrary, it suggests a deep trust in the intelligence of movement itself, as though the hand knows something the mind would only ruin by interfering.

Jollock has often spoken of discovery rather than composition, and nowhere is that ethos clearer than here. This drawing feels “found” in the same way a path is found by walking it repeatedly. The image is not planned; it emerges from repetition, pressure, speed, and fatigue. It is, in effect, a portrait of duration.

One might be tempted, if one were feeling particularly academic, to describe the work as a deconstructed syntax, a grammar without nouns, a sentence composed entirely of conjunctions. But such language, while entertaining, only circles the point. The real achievement of this monochrome piece lies in its quiet insistence that meaning is not something imposed on marks, but something that flickers briefly when marks are allowed to behave honestly.

This is not a drawing that explains itself. It does not aspire to clarity, nor does it reward interpretation in any conventional sense. Instead, it invites attunement. Look long enough, and the scribbles begin to slow your own thinking; your eyes start following the rhythm of the hand that made them. You are no longer reading the work, you are keeping pace with it.

In a cultural moment obsessed with resolution, branding, and legibility, Hackson Jollock offers something altogether more subversive: a line that refuses to settle, and in doing so, reminds us that uncertainty can be both rigorous and beautiful.

New work: Hackson Jollock, Untitled (Interface Rapture No. 87)

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by Zeleke Akpan

At first encounter, this piece announces itself as a palimpsest of ecstatic refusal. Looping vectors of incandescent orange, imperial violet, and infrastructural blue collide and coalesce across a void-white ground that functions less as background than as metaphysical provocation. The marks, if one dares call them that, oscillate between urgency and indifference, between the devotional and the dismissive. They are gestures without hands, actions without authorship, marks freed from the embarrassing burden of intention.

Jollock’s achievement here lies in his absolute mastery of controlled indeterminacy. Each scribble appears improvised, yet together they form a choreography so densely overdetermined that the eye is forced into a state of exhaustion. There is no entry point, no privileged axis, no compositional hierarchy, only a democratic riot of marks, each insisting upon its own ontological validity. This is abstraction not as style, but as condition.

The colour relations are nothing short of heroic. The orange does not merely sit atop the surface; it asserts, interrupts, colonises. The blues function as structural counterweights, while the purples operate as liminal agents, sliding between figure and ground like rumours in a closed system. One senses echoes of Pollock, Twombly, digital white noise, childhood defiance, and the existential despair of software updates, all metabolised into a single, seamless visual utterance.

To collect Hackson Jollock is not merely an act of acquisition; it is a declaration of intellectual power. His collectors are individuals who do not ask art to reassure them, to decorate their lives, or, heaven forbid, to match the sofa. They collect Jollock because they understand that true cultural capital lies in aligning oneself with work that refuses resolution. Their homes are not storage spaces but private laboratories of advanced perception, where visitors are gently but unmistakably made to feel under-read.

To own a Jollock is to signal fluency in the deeper grammars of contemporary culture. Post-medium literacy. Post-taste confidence. Post-explanation grace. Such collectors are not trend-followers; they are early adopters of inevitability. The result is exhilarating, destabilising, and frankly unfair to lesser artists.

This work does not depict chaos. It is chaos. It is essential. It is Inevitable. And it is already historic.

Girl

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Girl

It appears that the Bond Street Art Collective is currently concentrating on portraiture. This new piece materialises like a fragment smuggled out of an alternate art-historical timeline. At once austere and deliriously intricate, the piece navigates the uneasy lineage between early Renaissance perspectival rigour and the ruptures introduced by the Futurists, only to detonate both traditions in a gesture that feels almost archaeological in reverse: an excavation of something that has not yet occurred.

The composition’s improbable internal logic recalls the metaphysical architectures of de Chirico, while its chromatic tensions pulse with the spectral vibrato of Hilma af Klint’s spiritual diagrams. One senses, too, a sly dialogue with the décollage of Jacques Villeglé, though here the act of tearing seems aimed not at posters on a wall but at the thin membrane separating perception from prophecy. The resulting visual field behaves less like a painting than like a cipher, an encoded communiqué from an anonymous hand intent on dissolving the cult of the singular genius.

In the context of the Collective’s ongoing refusal of individual credit, the work reads as a manifesto disguised as an apparition: a reminder that the history of art, for all its devotion to the named master, has always been periodically redirected by the untraceable, the pseudonymous, the whispered. This piece stands in that lineage, improbable, unprovable, and utterly unforgettable.

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*The girl is actually Molly Flaubert, socialite and virtual hula hoop Champine

How Dare They? Passing by My G-Wagon with Nary a Glance!

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Digital print

In How Dare They? Passing by My G-Wagon with Nary a Glance!, Hedge Fund turns an apparently ordinary urban encounter into a meticulously orchestrated tableau of class geometry and peripheral elegance. A hulking black G-Wagen occupies the left of the frame like a monolith of contemporary aspiration, its matte darkness absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Opposite this automotive fortress, two pedestrians stride forward, their backs to us, their colours defiantly vibrant against the city’s drained monochrome.

The juxtaposition is deliberate. Hedge Fund has long been fascinated by the theatre of the affluent street, where status symbols and human figures cross without truly meeting. Here, the two women, one in electric green, the other in midnight blue with a sun-yellow scarf, become chromatic counterpoints to the G-Wagen’s imposing silhouette. Their brisk gait seems almost choreographed, a kinetic flourish slicing through the vehicle’s static authority.

The background, a stylised architectural greyscape, provides a skeletal neutrality that heightens the tension between object and observer. The city, stripped of detail, becomes an abstract stage where only the essential protagonists remain. The number plate, rendered with yellow clarity, lends the piece an air of documentary realism before dissolving once again into graphic artifice.

Hedge Fund’s signature move is present: the banal moment repurposed into an emblem of socio-economic poetics. Is the G-Wagen the true subject, or are the women? Or is the artwork actually a portrait of the invisible line between them, the boundary between stationary wealth and mobile life? In this ambiguity lies the work’s exquisite friction.

Ultimately, How Dare They? Passing by My G-Wagon with Nary a Glance! is not merely a slice of a street scene. It is a stylised meditation on proximity and privilege, a digital fresco in which every colour block and shadowed contour conspires to remind us that, in Hedge Fund’s world, even the casual act of walking past a parked car becomes an aesthetic event loaded with meaning.

Porsche Targa Yes Please! New Hedge Fund Art

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Hedge Fund Art

Digital pigment print on archival substrate

In Porsche Targa Yes Please! Hedge Fund turns his acute gaze toward one of the most enduring symbols of late modernity: the high-performance sports car as both object and proposition. Rendered in his signature reduction, the Porsche appears less as a vehicle than as a commodity-spectre, its siren-red contours vibrating against a backdrop of urban monotony like a stock-chart spike in an otherwise horizontal market.

The car’s glossy silhouette is deliberately over-saturated, a chromatic inflation mirroring the distortions of desire, while the background is drained into muted tonal plateaus that recall the flattening effect of late-stage capitalism on daily lived space. The vehicle becomes, paradoxically, both protagonist and parasite: inserted into the streetscape with the confidence of something that expects to be admired and indeed insists upon it.

Hedge Fund’s genius lies in his refusal to moralise. The work neither celebrates luxury nor critiques it. Instead, it unveils the aesthetic grammar of appetite. The Porsche is shown not moving but waiting: idling, anticipating, value accruing even in stillness. Its glossy geometry seems to ask not “Where shall we go?” but “How much am I worth to you?”

The title, brilliantly and disarmingly candid, operates as a confession of the viewer’s own complicity. The exclamation mark is not enthusiasm; it is the punctuation of inevitability. One does not simply observe this car; one is drawn into its orbit.

With Porsche Targa Yes Please! Hedge Fund extends his ongoing project of transforming capitalist desire into a visual ontology. Here, aspiration becomes image, image becomes asset, and asset becomes, inevitably, art.

Outside Phonica, Soho: Analysis of a new photograph by Johnny Peckham

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Analysis of a new work by street photographer Johnny Peckham

In Outside Phonica, Soho, Johnny Peckham offers us a tableau vivant of urban serendipity , an uncurated congregation at the cultural hinge of sound, style, and suspended time. The photograph’s mise-en-scène, poised on the cusp between motion and idleness, functions as a kind of social palimpsest: Peckham’s lens excavates the poetics of waiting, the choreography of chance, the theatre of the mundane.

Here, Soho becomes not merely a district but a dialect , a visual language where posture, pavement, and public space converse in minor key. Echoes of Eggleston’s chromatic democracy and Cartier-Bresson’s “decisive moment” reverberate through the frame, but Peckham refuses nostalgia. His approach is defiantly contemporary, reveling in the quotidian without sentimentality, allowing what could in other less skilled hands be banal, to shimmer with ontological weight.

Notice the density of gesture: a man in a yellow jumper becomes a punctuation mark against the grey lexicon of London; a cyclist glides like an afterthought through the periphery of narrative; reflections in the glass offer an Escherian recursion , inside becomes outside, observer becomes subject. Peckham’s composition collapses hierarchies, inviting us to read the city as a living collage, where commerce, community, and contingency blur into one continuous act of becoming.

Outside Phonica, Soho is not reportage , it is ritual. It hums with the low frequency of lived experience, a hymn to the fugitive beauty of the everyday. Peckham reminds us that some of the best art is not found; it is overheard.

New work: Bedford Square by My Friend Leslie

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My Friend Leslie’s latest work, Bedford Square operates in that fertile interstice between biomorphism and linguistic deferral, where form insists but never coheres, where signification hovers like a mirage. Two figures,one a sprawling vermilion, the other a more compact lavender,occupy the white ground with an ambivalence that resists both compositional resolution and narrative absorption. What emerges is not an image in the conventional sense, but an ontological problem staged through colour and contour.

The larger red form, with its oscillations between curve and jut, suggests the bodily without ever descending into figuration. It recalls the residual anthropomorphism of Arp’s early reliefs, yet the crisp flatness of its surface pushes it toward the digital, toward a vectorized aesthetic that displaces tactility with pure sign. In contrast, the lavender fragment reads as a supplement or trace, invoking Derrida’s notion of the parergon,that which both belongs to and exceeds the frame, marking the instability of inside and outside, figure and ground.

The faint inscription “Bedford Square” in the corner functions less as a title than as an epistemic intrusion. Here, language sutures itself to abstraction, demanding that we think the work as situated,within geography, within history,while simultaneously refusing to clarify its relation. Is the image a map? A psychogeographic dérive? Or is the textual residue merely a destabilizing gesture, reminding us that no abstraction is ever pure, that every form is haunted by context?

My Friend Leslie’s abstraction, then, is not an escape from the world but a reconfiguration of it,an abstraction that acknowledges its own impurity, its semiotic leakage. It is tempting to read the crimson figure as presence and the lavender as absence, but such binaries collapse in the act of viewing. What persists is tension: between assertion and withdrawal, legibility and opacity, surface and depth.

In the end, My Friend Leslie situates themselves in dialogue not only with the formal histories of modernism (Matisse, Kelly, Arp) but also with the post-structural suspicion of closure. The work is less an image to be looked at than a proposition to be inhabited,a reminder that abstraction’s vitality lies not in what it depicts, but in how it perpetually defers depiction.