Echoes of Funland - SOLD
“Echoes of Funland” is a surreal reflection of a childhood memory that lingers like a half-forgotten dream - a traveling carnival I visited at eight years old, a place where wonder curdled into fear. Under the neon glow of a crescent moon, the fair seemed alive with magic: the Ferris wheel spun like a portal to the stars, carousel horses pranced in endless circles, and music drifted through the air like whispers from another world. But beneath the flashing lights and painted smiles, something felt off. The rides groaned with age, carnival prizes were tattered and forgotten, and laughter had an eerie, hollow ring.
Then, in a single moment, wonder turned to terror - I lost sight of my family. The crowd became a sea of unfamiliar faces, the dazzling lights blurred into disorienting streaks, and the cheerful music twisted into an unsettling tune. I wandered through the fair clutching a broken doll I’d won, its limp form the only thing anchoring me to reality. Every joyful sight now felt sinister - the spinning Ferris wheel loomed like an unblinking eye, the carousel’s painted horses grinned too wide, and the Funland sign flickered like a cruel joke. The carnival, once a playground of dreams, had transformed into a nightmare I couldn’t escape.
In this piece, the girl on the cracked rocking horse is me, frozen in that moment of realization. Her hollow eyes reflect the fear and isolation I felt, surrounded by discarded, broken toys - symbols of childhood promises that crumbled to dust. Above her, the “Funland” sign drips with neon irony, its artificial glow a mocking contrast to the decay below. The Ferris wheel, still spinning, represents the endless cycle of nostalgia, its red lights bleeding into the darkness like an open wound. A lone piano player atop the pile plays a ghostly melody, her notes unraveling into memory, lost in time. Glowing robots and eerie dolls litter the scene, scattered remnants of my imagination trying to make sense of the chaos - each one a fragment from the countless AI-generated images I layered in Photoshop to reconstruct that fractured night.
No one looks up from their phone anymore. We live inside our screens until something finally snaps us out of them. In the artwork, that “something” is a surreal woman dropping small glowing orbs from the sky, giving a gentle cosmic shove that forces a couple to glance up at the same moment and actually see each other. It’s a love letter and a warning wrapped into one.