LOOK UP

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.

I watch adults walk into poles, trip over curbs, and almost get flattened by buses because they’re reading a “life-changing quote” stolen from some dead philosopher and reposted by a 22-year-old life coach selling $99 mindset courses. Instead of taking a breath and looking at the world in front of them, the excuse is always “I’m too busy.” Busy doing what? Learning from a stranger online that you’ve been peeling bananas wrong?

That’s why the piece looks the way it does. The world inside the image is a surreal, playful diorama with cereal-box buildings, shampoo-bottle skyscrapers, and broccoli trees. It’s a fun, playful reflection of the world we already live in. It’s the version you’d notice if you weren’t glued to a glowing rectangle. Reality is weird, bright, stupid, funny, and alive, but you only catch any of it if you’re actually paying attention.

Look up because there’s an actual world happening. Half of us would walk straight into a tiger if Google Maps didn’t scream TURN LEFT. We treat it like it’s normal to ignore real humans standing right in front of us. If aliens landed tomorrow, nobody would notice until they opened a TikTok account.

I’m not asking you to throw your phone off a bridge. I’m saying pocket it for ten minutes and let your brain bump into reality. You might feel alive. Not in a spiritual “find your purpose” way, but in a simple I live on Earth way.

That’s the heartbeat of the piece: fun, romance, and a reminder hiding inside it all.

LOOK UP

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TOUCH GRASS

A cyborg woman with exposed robotic parts stands on a fire escape. Her stance carries attitude but also exhaustion. She knows the irony of those TOUCH GRASS billboards, leering like evangelical hookers promising salvation for three easy payments of your soul. She gets the joke - hell, she’s the punchline. Touch grass is the new absolution: pay for the app, subscribe to social media, redeem your soul in micro-transactions. Teal light against dull concrete traps the scene in cinematic weight, balancing beauty and confinement.

The slogan loops, relentless, hollowed out by repetition until it’s just noise. Machines pitch the idea of touching grass, but as indifferent as street cats showing attention only for food. Fake flowers glow like neon illusions, the only things pretending life still counts in a city that forgot what is real. Framed between billboards, she becomes both product and prisoner of her own image. Nature as DL, downloadable life, the only “organic” element commercialized and destined to fail when the servers go dark. She is the subscription-based afterlife, half-remembered humanity, half-optimized corpse, posed on a balcony that sells the promise of earth while standing in front of the concrete that buried it.

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Dear Emptiness

I write this, though it hurts to do so. We’ve been inseparable for too long, and yet I feel suffocated by your presence. You’ve taken up more space than I have to give. I need a little time apart, even if just briefly.

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STEP ONE

I am a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it - Thomas Jefferson

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STEP 2

If you have a mind, you have riches.
If you have a heart, you have treasures.
If you have a soul, you have wealth.

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The Cult of Summer

I can’t stand summer. It rolls in like a grim reaper with a tan, swinging humidity and sunshine like a meat cleaver. The air turns thick, sticky - like breathing through a mold-rotted rag - and suddenly everyone’s joined a cult of sun worshippers, chanting the gospel of “good vibes” under that leering, golden stare. Warm weather isn’t a mood for me; it’s an insane asylum. Stepping into the humidity is like wading through a swamp of regret, my skin screaming in revolt. People gush about escaping winter’s chill, but my soul wilts at the first daisy’s bloom. No reverse sun lamp can trick my brain into craving crisp, overcast days - I’m trapped in this oven season, stewing in sweat-soaked dread.

The real sting is the isolation. Summer’s a sacred festival, and if you don’t buy the hype, you’re the glitch. Friends squint at me like I’m broken when I ditch their picnics or lake days, pushing “give it a chance” like an intervention ambush. As if UV rays could rewire my brain. I’m not defective - I just don’t find joy in roasting alive while forcing a grin. Your melanoma trail run is my personal hell; I’d rather barricade myself indoors, tweaking a recipe or lost in a book, the A/C purring at a glorious 62 degrees.

While you’re chasing tans, turning into leather handbags and mosquito buffets at your eerie picnic, I’ll be here, shades drawn, sipping iced coffee like it’s liquid sanity, counting down to autumn. Don’t stop inviting me - I want to hang - but pitch a dim coffee shop over a sweltering barbecue. I’d rather not bleed sweat onto my plate or fend off sunburns and bugs. Summer might be your holy season, but for me, thriving is cooler, darker, and entirely my own.

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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. Hunger’s a vulture, picking my gut clean. Cold’s a squatter in my bones, pitching a tent in the marrow. Time’s 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 can’t stomach being someone’s dead weight. My friends have weathered my scratched record for years; I won’t spin that broken tune again. So I swallow the silence. Days melt into nights, edges blurred to nothing. Waiting’s become my pulse now, a rhythm so ingrained it’s 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 didn’t ask for a sale, didn’t ask for a kidney - just a single retweet. A cheap spark that might light the fuse. His reply? An icy sneer: “Get a job.”

He didn’t see the years I scraped by on under-the-table gigs for $2 an hour. Didn’t know my expired passport and visa nailed that door shut. Didn’t 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.

Hunger’s no poet’s muse. It’s a dull blade hacking my bones to splinters. It’s lying still, hoarding every calorie like stolen breath, because moving’s a fire you can’t 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 can’t 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. It’s 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, I’m frozen here. Still waiting.

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Playing With the Dead

At first glance, this piece feels chaotic, surreal, cartoonish – but like a memory, it’s layered. This is a story about a memory – about the ghosts we’re told to bury becoming the ones who shape us. A quiet opera for the emotionally maimed.

In junior high, I met an older girl – let’s call her TB. We were young and foolish, which is to say: perfect. Our connection was innocent – two kids slamming into each other’s 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 else’s breath. Jane Says droned on her battered cassette deck – 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 didn’t last.

My parents sat me down – “She’s unstable,” they said. “You’re forbidden from seeing her!” Forbidden? What a delicious word. What is this, freakin’ medieval times? I wasn’t their plow mule chained to the family crest. So I turned my speakers into gravestones and cranked Jane Says till the cones bled – 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 – myself – is cracked like shattered glass, each fracture tracing the loss of connection. Inside, fish swim through murky, memory-filled waters I’ll never drain – 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 – to my parents, to myself: See? She wasn’t a monster. That struggle bleeds through the piece. Caution tape snakes across the scene like a crime scene – like a warning, though memory doesn’t obey. Bubblegum bubbles conceal sad faces. Neon graffiti whispers Remember Me, while teddy bears float with Xs for eyes. A quiet “fuck you” to anyone who asks if I’m 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 I’m playing with the dead, I don’t mean ghosts. I mean the younger version of me who never got to say goodbye.

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She’s Got Sole

"She’s 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 “Sole Mate” and “Walk a Mile,” painted in vivid pinks and reds, evoking a cityscape alive with tension and triumph.

"She’s 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 father’s factory - our family’s 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 didn’t 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 I’ll need time to navigate after years alone. Billboards flare with surreal visions - snakes coiling into new forms, butterflies weaving a woman’s 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 one’s life and hope - for those rebuilding from ruin. It’s 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 I’d 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 LA’s 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. I’d crammed my life into a storage unit: grainy VHS tapes of birthdays and first loves, dog-eared photos from better days, my mother’s 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 don’t 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 didn’t speak, drowning in cheap whiskey and rage that burned like fever. Grief didn’t 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 ‘98 digital piece, her smirk sliced through the dark like a knife. In a warped figure from ’99, 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. I’d 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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SUPERRARE - 1/1 DIGITAL ART

BY SURREAL24SEVEN

Explore my collection of rare 1/1 digital artworks on SuperRare.

These pieces reflect personal stories and lived moments, shaped into surreal compositions.

Each work is a standalone creation available to a single collector.

If something speaks to you, you can make it your own.