A realm assembled by hand and held together with precision, obsession, and images sliced from the glossy underbelly of mid-century America.

Nothing here is accidental. Each fragment—every figure, every shadow, every smirk—has been cut with intent and arranged to seduce, disturb, or quietly unravel.

This is a timeline obscured by cigarette smoke and soft lighting while drinking privilege on the rocks. Where masculinity is performed out of the issues of Playboy and plays through expensive hi-fi stereos. Where the suits are pressed. Where nostalgia wears a negligee. Where women can either be quiet—or be killed.

The compositions are polished. The tension is deliberate. And the scissors? Always sharp.