SUPERRARE - 1/1 DIGITAL ART
BY SURREAL24SEVEN ON ETHEREUM
Dive into my rare 1/1 digital art collection on SuperRare, the elite platform for NFT visionaries.
Each piece channels surreal stories - moments of joy and struggle reborn in vivid, unfiltered transformation.
Collectors can claim a singular work by Surreal24seven, where every creation dares to unravel the surreal.
The Waiting Room
Most of my art oozes from old wounds long scabbed over, but this is the relentless present - no romantic haze, just bare-knuckled truth.
Hungerās a vulture, picking my gut clean.
Coldās a squatter in my bones, pitching a tent in the marrow.
Timeās a sadistic jester - the clock frozen mid-tick, grinning at me with its wordless accusation.
When life crumbles to ash, I burrow into myself - not from spite, but because I canāt stomach being someoneās dead weight. My friends have weathered my scratched record for years; I wonāt spin that broken tune again. So I swallow the silence. Days melt into nights, edges blurred to nothing. Waitingās become my pulse now, a rhythm so ingrained itās second nature. The swagger I once wore? Ground to dust beneath the slow erosion of survival.
In a rare stab at hope, I reached out to a collector I once admired. I didnāt ask for a sale, didnāt ask for a kidney - just a single retweet. A cheap spark that might light the fuse.
His reply? An icy sneer: āGet a job.ā
He didnāt see the years I scraped by on under-the-table gigs for $2 an hour.
Didnāt know my expired passport and visa nailed that door shut.
Didnāt sense the desperation in my last lunge from the pit.
To him, I was just another whiny artist groveling for crumbs - pissed on and kicked aside.
Hungerās no poetās muse. Itās a dull blade hacking my bones to splinters. Itās lying still, hoarding every calorie like stolen breath, because movingās a fire you canāt feed. One meal a day fades to one every three, then two weeks of nothing but water and bitter thoughts. It dulls your edges. Slows your blood. You stop feeling human - turning from a living soul into a drifting shadow pacing frozen rooms.
As fifty looms, my body howls with fatigue and warning. Through frost-crusted glass, I watch families laugh, glasses clinking over steaming plates - warmth I canāt touch. Not envy, but the jagged awareness of the rift between their world and mine, a life flickering just out of reach.
Yet I still create. Itās my last anchor - the one thread I can twist and tame. I weave my stories into surreal, jagged shards, praying someone tears the veil to see the bleeding heart beneath. Maybe then the tide will turn.
Maybe everything will shatter and rise anew.
But for now, Iām frozen here.
Still waiting.
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Playing With the Dead
At first glance, this piece feels chaotic, surreal, cartoonish ā but like a memory, itās layered. This is a story about a memory ā about the ghosts weāre told to bury becoming the ones who shape us. A quiet opera for the emotionally maimed.
In junior high, I met an older girl ā letās call her TB. We were young and foolish, which is to say: perfect. Our connection was innocent ā two kids slamming into each otherās loneliness. We filled the empty spaces with cigarettes, belly-laughs, and endless conversations. The kind of words that melt hours, that stitch you into someone elseās breath. Jane Says droned on her battered cassette deck ā our unofficial anthem. The soundtrack to dirty mall pizza, ashtray afternoons, and the reckless hope only adolescence can invent. Like all beautiful things cursed by youth, it didnāt last.
My parents sat me down ā āSheās unstable,ā they said. āYouāre forbidden from seeing her!ā Forbidden? What a delicious word. What is this, freakinā medieval times? I wasnāt their plow mule chained to the family crest. So I turned my speakers into gravestones and cranked Jane Says till the cones bled ā played it for a year straight. Loud enough to make the walls remember her, even if no one else would.
In the artwork, the central figure ā myself ā is cracked like shattered glass, each fracture tracing the loss of connection. Inside, fish swim through murky, memory-filled waters Iāll never drain ā symbols of emotion left unspoken, still drifting. That grief shaped me, and it shaped the art. Later, as the years thickened and I became the kind of man who walks with his eyes half-closed, I kept chasing her shadow in the bodies of other women, trying to prove something ā to my parents, to myself: See? She wasnāt a monster. That struggle bleeds through the piece. Caution tape snakes across the scene like a crime scene ā like a warning, though memory doesnāt obey. Bubblegum bubbles conceal sad faces. Neon graffiti whispers Remember Me, while teddy bears float with Xs for eyes. A quiet āfuck youā to anyone who asks if Iām okay. And behind the main character, a young cartoon version of me stares out, wide-eyed and broken, forever marking the moment I was forced to let TB go.
When I say Iām playing with the dead, I donāt mean ghosts. I mean the younger version of me who never got to say goodbye.
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Sheās Got Sole
"Sheās Got Sole" springs from the intersection of necessity, creativity, and humor. When new shoes were out of reach, my worn sneakers - toes poking through their holes - became a symbol of endurance and unexpected inspiration. This piece reimagines that daily struggle as a surreal, spirited celebration of making do.
Through collage, photography, and digital painting, I meticulously captured the essence of my weathered sneakers, adding hand-painted details and layering AI-generated tattoos - playful designs and cheeky phrases that bring a rebellious, lighthearted voice to the foot. The background pulses with life - a collage crafted in Photoshop with AI-generated elements and graffiti phrases like āSole Mateā and āWalk a Mile,ā painted in vivid pinks and reds, evoking a cityscape alive with tension and triumph.
"Sheās Got Sole" invites you to find beauty in adversity, transforming the ordinary into a story of resilience and imagination. It stands as a tribute to how creativity can take bold steps forward, even when the path is worn and humble.
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SHED YOUR SKIN
"Shed Your Skin" is a tapestry of storytelling and symbolism, woven with hope and defiance. I am Surreal24seven, born in the vibrant pulse of New York City, where its rhythmic energy and beauty shaped my soul. But life shattered when my fatherās factory - our familyās livelihood - was violently seized by thieves in Guatemala. Stranded, I survived on $2 an hour working in a hostel, confined to a cockroach-infested room the size of a closet, its faint WiFi my only lifeline. For six years, I didnāt leave that windowless space, strangers drifting past like shadows. There, in isolation, art became my rebellion - a surreal cry against a world that tried to break me.
"Shed Your Skin" mirrors my story in a woman whose skin bears butterfly and caterpillar tattoos - each etched line a wound of survival, a map of rebirth. She sits in a glass box, echoing my years of seclusion, her laptop casting a soft glow of plans for a new life in Chicago. Suitcases beneath her pulse with the promise of that move - a chapter yet to unfold. A cat on her lap, fierce and untamed, embodies the spirit that defies confinement.
Outside, a restless street hums with strange, unfamiliar faces - a world Iāll need time to navigate after years alone. Billboards flare with surreal visions - snakes coiling into new forms, butterflies weaving a womanās dress, their vivid imagery murmuring transformation, urging her onward. Above, a vast starry sky unfurls, its shimmering expanse a beacon of hope beyond her walls.
A surreal anthem, echoing the relentless fight to reclaim oneās life and hope - for those rebuilding from ruin. Itās about confinement, yes - but more about escape. "Shed Your Skin" reminds us: even in the darkest box, transformation is possible. And sometimes, that spark of change is all we need to begin again!!!!
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Neon Diaries
Neon Diaries is a visual metaphor - every artwork I create is born from a personal story, much like ink spilled in a private journal. But unlike hidden pages, my art lays bare my deepest thoughts for all to see. In Neon Diaries, she is surrounded by floating electric monitors. Each glowing screen reveals a distinct futuristic journal entry - a metaphor for the way all my artwork tells stories. And this piece, in particular, explains how I came to that style of creating.
Los Angeles was my cage at 32 - a hollowed-out wreck clawing through a divorce that carved me raw. I woke with too many teeth clenched, like Iād been chewing glass in my sleep. My insides screamed like a kid locked in a hot car. Fraud. Failure. Not enough. My digital canvases became battlegrounds - surreal fever dreams where I bled jagged truths too sharp for words. Not with brushes, but with wounds. Each piece a confession, a cracked map through my madness, glowing like a pulse in the dark.
Then life tore the frame apart. I was ripped from LAās neon hum and dropped into the sweating, broken heart of Guatemala - a backwater hell that stank of sour earth and lost hope, where every alley felt like a trap. Iād crammed my life into a storage unit: grainy VHS tapes of birthdays and first loves, dog-eared photos from better days, my motherās things - recipes scrawled on napkins, coffee-stained journals, Spanish textbooks laced with her penciled notes, like soft whispers trying to reach me. She was torn from me in my late 20s, taken in a violent, shattering way I still donāt speak about. Those scraps were my last hold on her.
Then came the call. A freak accident. A cruel twist. The unit - gone. Erased. Losing it was like watching her die again. In Guatemala, I was an uninvited permanent visitor, stranded in a language I didnāt speak, drowning in cheap whiskey and rage that burned like fever. Grief didnāt arrive like a poem. It came like a riot.
One night - half-drunk, half-dead - I cracked open a crate of dusty old laptops. And there she was. In the neon glow of a ā98 digital piece, her smirk sliced through the dark like a knife. In a warped figure from ā99, I heard her humming - off-key, over a pan of burnt meatloaf. Every surreal pixel pulsed with her: the late-night talks while she meal-prepped, her laugh - loud, reckless, enough to light up a room. Iād been painting her all along. Not to escape the pain - but to keep her breathing.
Like this story, I can transform myself back in time without photos or videos - just by looking at an older piece of work. Neon Diaries expresses those ideas in an abstract, surreal way. Each screen, each image, each color is a timestamp burned in memory - a way back
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