/pol/ - International /Pol/itics & /Bant/er

nophono gallery

" swivel existentialis "
(avant-garde drawing, 2025)

A weary office chair stares back at the viewer with heavy-lidded, baggy human eyes framed by thick rectangular glasses. Its seat has become a furrowed brow, the gas-lift column a tired neck, the five spokes of the base sprawling limbs that have long given up any pretense of purposeful motion. The small casters, blackened and splayed, look like exhausted feet that have rolled too many kilometres across cheap carpet without ever arriving anywhere.

In place of the expected corporate neutrality there is only this quiet, absurd anthropomorphism: a piece of furniture that has finally admitted it is just as trapped, just as fatigued, just as reluctantly awake as the person who once sat on it.

The work distills the contemporary condition into a single piece of unloved office equipment - endlessly rotating, never escaping, still required to look attentive.

"Lumen clericalis"
(avant-garde ink drawing, 2025)
An elderly table lamp stands rigid in the half-dark, its fabric shade transformed into the weary, deeply lined face of a man who has seen too many late nights. Thick rectangular glasses sit low on a long nose; the brow is permanently furrowed, the mouth a thin horizontal resignation that has forgotten how to complain out loud. The eyes-wide, slightly bloodshot, permanently open-stare straight ahead with the particular exhaustion of someone who is paid to stay awake while everyone else sleeps.
The once-elegant turned wooden base has become a long, thin neck braced against decades of posture warnings no one ever heeded. A thick power cord snakes across the floor like an IV drip that has been feeding the same burnt-coffee bloodstream since 1998. The bulb inside is never switched off completely; even when the room is "dark," a faint orange glow leaks through the shade, because turning it fully off would mean admitting the working day is finally over-and neither the lamp nor its owner has permission for that yet.
Here is the quiet horror of tertiary-sector immortality: illuminated twenty-four hours a day, never allowedZhenZhengDe darkness, forever required to look mildly surprised and quietly horrified at whatever nonsense is placed on the desk beneath it. A monument to the people who keep the lights on so other people can pretend the world still makes sense after midnight.

Fauteuil de veille"
(avant-garde ink drawing, 2025)
An overstuffed armchair has quietly surrendered its anonymity. The rounded back and plump cushions now form the heavy, sagging features of an elderly man who has spent too many decades receiving guests he never really wanted. Thick rectangular glasses perch on a broad, resigned face; the eyes peer upward and outward with the slow, unfocused fatigue of someone who has listened to every possible conversation and still has nothing left to say. The brow carries permanent horizontal creases from decades of polite surprise; the mouth is a single straight line of exhaustion that has given up pretending to smile.
Upholstered arms have become slack, fleshy shoulders permanently slumped forward. The seat cushion is a pendulous belly that has absorbed too many solitary evenings. Four short wooden legs-once discreet-now read as thin, varicose shins braced against the certainty that no one is coming to help it stand up again.
This is domestic furniture after the children have moved out, after the visitors have stopped coming, after the television has become the only companion that still talks back. It sits in the living room corner like an old relative no one quite knows how to move anymore: overstuffed, under-loved, forever waiting in soft silence for someone to sit down and pretend-for just a moment-that the house is still full of life. A quiet elegy for the furniture that outlives the families it once cradled.

"Monitor aeternus"
(avant-garde digital caricature, 2025)
A late-90s CRT monitor has grown arms and legs overnight, sprouting cartoonish white-gloved hands and stubby limbs that end in soft, useless shoes. One rigid arm extends outward in an accusatory point-thumb up, index finger straight, the universal gesture of "you, yes you"-while the other dangles limply at its side like it gave up gesturing years ago. The beige plastic case has become the sagging, jowly face of an elderly clerk: thick black-rimmed glasses sliding down a broad nose, furrowed brow etched from a million error pop-ups, mouth a single flat line of perpetual mild disapproval.
The screen itself glows a cold institutional blue, the Windows XP default hue that once promised productivity and now only reminds everyone of deadlines that were never met. No icons clutter the desktop anymore; just that blank, judgmental azure field and the tired human face staring out from its exact center, as though the machine has finally understood that it is not the tool but the one being used.
Keyboard and optical mouse remain tethered like loyal but exhausted attendants, the cord of the mouse curling across the floor in a question mark that no one will ever answer. This is the relic of open-plan offices that became home offices that became endless Zooms: still on, still pointing at you, still waiting for input it already knows will be inadequate.
A monument to the first generation of hardware that learned disappointment. It doesn't crash anymore; it just quietly judges, twenty-four hours a day, because someone, somewhere, forgot to give it the right to shut down.

"Canape des dimanches infinis"
(avant-garde ink drawing, 2025)
A three-seater sofa has quietly assumed human senescence. The backrest, once proud and rectangular, now sags into the heavy, folded features of an old man who has spent too many afternoons staring at the same wall. Two plump throw pillows have become thick rectangular spectacles, each lens containing a small, weary eye-half-lidded, faintly bloodshot, gazing forward with the particular vacancy of someone who no longer expects the doorbell to ring. Between them, the central seam of the upholstery traces a long, resigned nose that ends in a thin, downturned mouth carved directly into the seat cushion: a single horizontal crease of permanent disappointment.
The armrests droop like slack, defeated shoulders; the seat itself bulges forward in a soft, pendulous belly that has absorbed decades of deferred plans, takeaway containers, and unopened mail. Four short wooden legs-slightly splayed-suggest thin shins that have long forgotten what it feels like to stand up quickly. The whole form slumps ever so slightly to the left, as though years of favouring one side of the couch have finally imprinted themselves into the frame.
This is the furniture of prolonged weekend limbo: the place where ambition goes to lie down "just for a minute" and wakes up twenty years later still wearing yesterday's clothes. It waits in the living room like an elderly relative no one quite remembers inviting-comfortable, enveloping, faintly musty, forever ready to swallow another Sunday whole. A soft monument to the hours that disappear between "I'll start tomorrow" and "maybe next year."

"Simia clericalis"
(avant-garde ink drawing, 2025)
A chimpanzee face stares out with weary familiarity. Large ears frame a bald dome etched with the same deep horizontal worry lines as every tired middle manager. Thick rectangular glasses sit low on a broad nose; the eyes-small, round, faintly bloodshot-peer sideways with mild, perpetual surprise at whatever fresh nonsense the world has served up this time. A thin mouth curves into the ghost of a smile that never quite arrives, more habit than hope. The beard is a patchy, hand-stitched mess of short strokes, as though someone tried to give dignity back to the creature one prick at a time and gave up halfway.
This is not evolution's joke; it is the mirror held up after the ninth Zoom call of the day. The primate that learned to wear glasses, read spreadsheets, and pretend enthusiasm-only to discover the cage got bigger, not smaller. A quiet confession: beneath the tie and the title, we're still just startled apes waiting for the next banana to drop.

"Simia resignata"
(avant-garde ink drawing, 2025)

A close-up chimpanzee face, bald and heavy-browed, carries the unmistakable weariness of long office hours. Thick rectangular glasses rest low on a broad, wrinkled nose; the small dark eyes gaze forward with quiet, unfocused fatigue-no anger, no curiosity, just the blank acceptance of another day that will end exactly like the last. Deep creases run horizontally across the forehead and vertically beside the mouth, which hangs in a straight, neutral line: not quite a frown, more the default setting after hope has clocked out.

The sparse beard is scratched in rough, uneven strokes, clinging to the jaw like something the creature tried to grow to look more serious and then forgot to maintain. This is the ape that mastered tools, schedules, and small talk-only to find the jungle simply got cubicles and fluorescent lights. A silent nod to every soul still pretending the next email might matter.

"Extraterrestre bureaucratique"
(avant-garde ink drawing, 2025)

A long, cylindrical alien head rises like a tired periscope from some forgotten paperwork nebula. Two elongated eyestalks sprout from the bald cranium, each ending in a small, weary human eye framed by thick rectangular glasses that have clearly slid down from exhaustion. The brows above are permanently arched in mild cosmic disappointment; below, a broad nose and a patchy, scribbled beard cling to the elongated face like afterthoughts.

The mouth gapes open in a wide, red-rimmed oval, revealing only two blunt white teeth-a minimalist grimace that says everything without saying much: another meeting, another galaxy-spanning spreadsheet, another millennium of middle management among the stars. This is the extraterrestrial who finally understood bureaucracy is universal: even light-years away, someone still has to approve the requisition form for oxygen. A quiet, absurd reminder that no species escapes the fluorescent-lit grind.

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The arm chair and simplier 2 are my favorites.

>>2770285
Thank you saar, we pay a lot of money to our artists for xhier art