A new series of books I’ve been working on the past few years is now available in the store. Check it out let me know what you think.

Synopsis:

The future didn’t arrive with flying cars or world peace. It came crawling in with blood on its hands.

Years of division tore the United States apart, until the second civil war split it into five fractured territories — the Regional States of America. Out of the ashes rose something worse: a patchwork of corporate fiefdoms where banks and megacorps carved the map like a carcass, and the stock market became the nation’s pulse.

The most profitable business of all was misery. Private prisons swelled to bursting, their ledgers fattened by slave labor and laws designed to make freedom itself illegal. Travel without an elite pass? Life sentence. Speak against an exec? Disappear forever. Eight out of ten citizens wore shackles.

Then came Xi Jin Lee — quadrillionaire, genetic alchemist, and ruler of Region 2. Through his Lee Corporation, he played god, turning men into monsters with Titan serum, and played emperor with Deathmatch TV. The formula was “ancient: gladiator pits reborn for a streaming age, where hundreds of prisoners were thrown into gauntlets until no one walked out alive.

In a year, DTV became the world’s addiction. By the second, the empire spread to all five regions under its new director, Prince Khan — an energy baron who had bled the lithium market dry. Together, they built towering arenas, exported the bloodsport to two continents, and crowned regional champions like warlords over their domains.

For the corporate elite, it was perfect: entertainment and endless profit. For the rest of the world, it was just another way to die.

The following are the journal entries from John Murdoch the prisoner, Zoe Carter the prize fighter and Saul Horton the executive.

You ever notice how the world sometimes feels like a canvas being torn instead of painted on? There’s this undercurrent, this subtle hum, of forces that thrive on keeping us at odds especially when it comes to race and class. I call them the divisive operators, those voices, systems, or even algorithms that seem to have a mission: to make sure we’re too busy fighting each other to notice the bigger picture. It’s like they’re handing out scripts for a play where poor folks, no matter their skin tone, end up battling over scraps while the real feast happens somewhere else.

Picture this: two neighbors, both struggling to make rent, both hustling to keep food on the table. One’s Black, one’s White, but their worries? Pretty much the same. Yet, somehow, they’re nudged into seeing each other as the problem. Maybe it’s a news headline that pits one group against another, or a politician’s soundbite that stokes fear, or even those sneaky algorithms on our screens that amplify the loudest, angriest voices. These divisive operators they’re like artists of chaos, painting mistrust where there could be solidarity.

But let’s slow down, take a breath, and ask: Why? Why is it so easy to get us to turn on each other? I think it’s because division is a distraction. When poor folks Black, White, Brown, whatever are too busy arguing over who’s got it worse, we’re not asking the bigger questions. Like, who’s profiting while we’re all scraping by? Who’s writing the rules that keep us stuck? It’s almost like there’s a playbook: keep the races divided, keep the poor fighting, and keep the system humming along without anyone looking too closely at the gears.

Now, I’m not saying there’s some shadowy figure twirling a mustache, plotting it all out (though, let’s be real, sometimes it feels that way). A lot of this comes from systems that have been around forever economic structures, media habits, even the way we’re taught history. They lean into our differences, amplify them, and make us forget we’re all trying to paint our own little masterpiece of a life. Social media? Man, it’s like a megaphone for this stuff. Algorithms don’t care about truth; they care about clicks. And nothing gets clicks like outrage. So, we end up with feeds full of “us vs. them,” and before you know it, we’re all a little more isolated, a little more suspicious.

But here’s the flip side, the part that feels like a sunrise after a long night: we can choose a different canvas. What if we stepped back, took a deep breath, and saw each other as collaborators instead of competitors? Imagine poor folks across all races linking arms, sharing stories, and saying, “Hey, we’re in this together.” That’s the art of connection, and it’s more powerful than any divisive operator out there. It starts small: a conversation, a shared meal, a moment of listening instead of shouting. It’s like sketching the first lines of a new painting, one where we’re all in the frame.

So, how do we get there? Maybe it’s about noticing when we’re being played when that headline or post is trying to spark division instead of understanding. Maybe it’s about seeking out stories that remind us of our shared struggles, like the way a single mom in one neighborhood and a factory worker in another are both fighting the same bills, the same fears. It’s about creating spaces online, in our communities, in our hearts where we can be real with each other. No filters, no agendas, just humans trying to make it through.

A shadow moves behind the scenes, pulling strings we barely notice. It’s like waking up in a James Bond movie, where hidden groups, call them secret societies, elites, or puppet masters, shape our days. They control the flow of money, news, and power, their hands invisible yet heavy. To them, we’re not far from savages, chasing screens and scraps while they commit crimes in plain sight, daring us to see. Take the Epstein files. Names of the powerful, tangled in stories of exploitation, float in whispers but never fully break the surface. These files, locked away or conveniently lost, point to a network that thrives on silence, where wealth shields the guilty. Meanwhile, in Gaza, a genocide unfolds, homes reduced to rubble, lives erased, yet the world’s stagehands call it conflict, not crime. The same system that buries those files fuels this destruction, profiting from chaos while we’re told to look away. Billionaires multiply, their wealth a tower casting shadows over the rest of us. The gap between them and everyone else widens, a chasm we navigate daily rising rents, stagnant wages, dreams deferred. They live above the rules, untouchable, while voices like Alex Jones or smaller platforms crying out against this script are muted. Deplatformed, demonized, or drowned out, they’re silenced not for lies but for daring to point at the stagehands behind the curtain. I see this play unfold. My work on canvas, raw truth fights to cut through the fog. But the daily grind, the news cycle, the endless distractions pull me to conform, to accept the script. The irony stings: we’re cast as savages in their story, yet they’re the ones writing atrocities, acting as if we won’t notice. Some reject this script. They speak, create, or simply refuse to play along, choosing to see the truth over the lies. In my studio, I fight to paint outside their lines, to make art that wakes us up. This world, scripted by hidden hands, thrives on our blindness. I ask: will we keep playing their savages, or will we rewrite the ending?

A web of code, invisible yet omnipresent, threads through the lives of 95% of the world’s connected souls. Social media algorithms, designed to serve up tailored snippets of joy, news, and distraction, have become the unseen architects of our days. At first glance, they’re tools sorting posts, curating feeds, painting our digital lives with effortless precision. But beneath their surface, they wield a darker palette, shaping thoughts with a subtlety that rivals any drug. These algorithms, fed by our clicks and swipes, learn us intimately. They dangle dopamine in bursts majority of users check their feeds within minutes of waking, chasing the high of a like, a share, a moment of relevance. The mind, caught in this cycle, grows restless, tethered to the next notification. Over time, tolerance builds: we need more posts, more outrage, more validation to feel the same spark. Abruptly stepping away brings its own withdrawal loneliness, unease, the gnawing fear of missing out. Studies reveal the toll: heavy users report heightened anxiety, depression creeping like rust through their thoughts, their sense of self eroded by endless comparison. As an artist, I see this canvas for what it is. My paintbrush demands slowness, intention, the raw pulse of creation but the algorithm pulls me toward its rhythm, urging me to post, to perform, to reduce my art to a thumbnail for likes. The human connections I once sketched in bold, messy strokes conversations, laughter, shared silence fade, replaced by a feed that dictates who I am. The architects of this epidemic? Tech giants, pocketing billions while their algorithms sculpt our minds. Investigations exposed their designs crafted not just to engage but to addict, prioritizing profit over sanity. Yet, glimmers of resistance emerge. Communities are turning offline, trading curated feeds for unfiltered moments. Some, like me, are reclaiming the canvas, using art to disrupt the algorithm’s grip, to remind us what it means to feel without a screen’s permission. This invisible web, spun from lines of code, holds the power to repaint our souls, to trade our humanity for a scroll’s fleeting thrill. As an artist, I stand at the easel and ask: will we let these algorithms define our masterpiece, or will we dare to wield the brush ourselves? The choice, for now, remains ours.

The Elusive Alchemy of Russell Brxwn

By Becky Jensen for Pigment & Prose

In the frenetic ecosystem of contemporary art, where canvases are snapped up by collectors with the fervor of stock traders, Russell Brxwn stands as an enigmatic outlier, a painter whose work is as impossible to purchase as it is unforgettable to behold. At 41, this Austin-based artist has crafted a body of paintings that vibrate with the raw energy of pop culture and the serene discipline of meditative abstraction. Yet Brxwn’s true singularity lies not in his aesthetic but in his defiance of the market’s gravitational pull: he does not sell his original works. Not to billionaire patrons, not to blue-chip galleries, not to the most silver-tongued dealer. Instead, he donates his paintings to auctions for causes he holds dear—climate advocacy, youth arts programs, community resilience and gifts them to friends, fellow artists, and those who share his love for the arts. To own a Brxwn is to be anointed, not by wealth, but by proximity to his vision, a privilege that has made his work the art world’s most exquisite white whale.

Brxwn’s paintings are visual symphonies, built on what he calls “patterning lines” spontaneous, sinuous marks that cascade across his canvases like calligraphy unbound. These lines are both method and mantra, a way, he says, to “silence the overthinking mind and let the hand breathe.” In their fluidity, they evoke the gestural abandon of Cy Twombly or the rhythmic precision of Agnes Martin, yet their context is unmistakably contemporary. Brxwn weaves these lines through fragmented pop culture motifs abstract logos, graffiti scrawls, and the pixelated detritus of digital life, creating compositions that feel like snapshots of a city’s pulse.

To stand before a Brxwn painting is to feel caught in a paradox: the work is both a mirror of the viewer’s world and a window into the artist’s soul. His larger pieces, often stretching 10 feet or more, seem to pulse with life, their lines dancing in hypnotic rhythms that invite prolonged looking. Smaller works, no less potent, carry the intensity of a whispered confession. Yet for all their visual power, these paintings are not commodities. Brxwn’s refusal to sell is not a stunt but a philosophy, rooted in a conviction that art’s value lies in its ability to connect and uplift, not in its market price. “Paintings aren’t trophies,” he’s been quoted as saying, with the kind of disarming candor that makes you want to buy him a coffee and debate aesthetics till dawn. “They’re for sharing, for moving people, for changing things.”

“Cadillac Drive, 2024”

This ethos manifests most vividly in the auctions where Brxwn’s works occasionally surface, always tethered to causes that reflect his social and environmental commitments. Picture a bustling charity gala, the room abuzz with philanthropists and art-world insiders, when a Brxwn canvas is unveiled—a riot of cobalt lines swirling around a fractured, almost recognizable pop icon. The bidding erupts, not just for the painting’s beauty but for what it represents: a chance to support a youth arts initiative in Austin, a conservation effort in the Texas Hill Country, or a community center rebuilding after a storm. The sums fetched are staggering, yet Brxwn remains aloof from the frenzy, his focus fixed on the impact rather than the dollars. These moments are less transactions than rituals, cementing his paintings as objects of both desire and purpose.

Equally compelling are the stories of those who receive Brxwn’s gifts. A fellow artist might find a small canvas left unceremoniously at their studio, wrapped in butcher paper with a scrawled note: “Thought you’d get this.” A curator who championed his early work might open their door to a painting that captures the exact hue of a shared memory. An art lover who struck up a conversation at a dive bar might, months later, receive a work that feels like a continuation of that fleeting encounter. These gifts are not random but deliberate, bestowed on those who, in Brxwn’s estimation, understand art’s deeper currency. To be gifted a Brxwn is to be seen, to be invited into a quiet conspiracy of meaning-making. One recipient, a poet who met Brxwn at a late-night Austin open mic, described the experience as “like being handed a piece of his heartbeat, no strings attached.”

This refusal to commodify his work, places Brxwn in a rare lineage of artists who challenge the art world’s capitalist underpinnings—think of Marcel Duchamp’s subversive readymades or Banksy’s shredded auction stunt, though Brxwn’s approach is less confrontational than communal. His paintings, scattered across auction halls and the private walls of his chosen kin, are like rare manuscripts, their value amplified by their scarcity and the stories they carry. In an age when NFTs and seven-figure sales dominate headlines, Brxwn’s practice feels like a quiet revolution, a reminder that art can still be a gift, a gesture, and a catalyst for change.

"Adventures of Slaveman. 2024”

Yet there’s no sanctimony in Brxwn’s stance, no trace of the ascetic martyr. He’s as likely to be found sketching in an Austin taqueria, trading quips with strangers, as he is to be pondering the metaphysics of line in his studio. His work draws heavily on the city’s eclectic energy—its street art, its music scene, its blend of grit and idealism—infusing his paintings with a warmth that tempers their cerebral edge. He’s a magpie of pop culture, plucking references from vintage album covers, comic book panels, and the glitchy aesthetics of early internet memes, then reweaving them into something that feels both nostalgic and prophetic. A Brxwn painting might remind you of the first time you saw a Keith Haring mural or the last time you scrolled through a feed at 2 a.m., yet it never feels derivative. It’s as if he’s distilled the noise of the world into a single, resonant note.

The art world, of course, is not immune to the irony of Brxwn’s inaccessibility. Collectors whisper about him in the hushed tones reserved for urban legends, trading rumors of who might have snagged one of his works at a recent auction or through a stroke of personal luck. Gallerists, ever hopeful, float proposals for shows that might coax him into the market, only to be met with a polite but firm demurral. Critics, meanwhile, grapple with how to evaluate an artist whose output resists traditional metrics of success. Is Brxwn a visionary or a provocateur? A saint or a strategist? The truth, as always, lies in the work itself—paintings that demand to be experienced, not owned, and that linger in the mind like a melody you can’t quite place.

For now, Brxwn remains in Austin, painting with the same restless curiosity that has defined his career. His studio, by all accounts, is a chaos of half-finished canvases, vinyl records, and dog-eared books on everything from Buddhist philosophy to streetwear history. He’s at work on a new series, though he’s characteristically coy about its details, hinting only that it involves “lines that move like water.” Whether these paintings will end up in a charity auction, a friend’s living room, or some other unexpected corner of the world is anyone’s guess. What’s certain is that they’ll carry the same alchemy that defines all of Brxwn’s work: a blend of heart, hustle, and a stubborn belief that art can still change the rules of the game.

As I write this, I can’t help but imagine stumbling across a Brxwn painting someday, perhaps in a community center or on the wall of a friend who earned his trust over late-night tacos. It would be a moment of recognition, a reminder that the best art isn’t the kind you buy but the kind that finds you. In a world obsessed with possession, Russell Brxwn is painting a different kind of legacy one line, one gift, one cause at a time.

Resources

www.brxwnsville.com

instagram.com/brxwnsville