These pieces were born in a financial index notebook. The last place you would ever make art. That paper exists to write down numbers, meetings, markets. Everything but this. Making art inside there is already a contradiction.

An index promises that everything goes up. To grow, to yield, to improve. It's the only direction it recognizes. But while it points up, it takes us down. Solidarity goes down. What we give without expecting anything in return goes down. What made us human before making us profitable goes down. The growth it measures is our own downfall.

That’s why I changed a letter. Dow became Down. It’s not a joke. It’s the real direction. Down.

And to top it off, this sells. The artwork that laughs at the system enters the system. It gets signed, framed, and priced. The gesture prostitutes itself. The market swallows everything, even what is born to mock it. There is no outside.

That’s why the artwork isn't the drawing. The artwork is having it hanging in your house and knowing what it is. Proof that we are trapped. Until we are not.