This is not a painting. It is a tombstone, lacquered with the light of a thousand screens and the smug satisfaction of men who believe they are gods. Neocon Dreams offers no salvation, no symbolism to decode—only the brutal clarity of our present: apocalypse as theatre, genocide as live content.
A field of identikit bald executives—bankers of empire, war salesmen, and algorithmic priests—raise their phones in eerie synchrony. Behind them, the sky ruptures: nuclear fire blooms like a grotesque Eden, the kind only a boardroom could fantasize into being. And yet, no one runs. No one weeps. They film. They smile. They bear witness not to horror, but to the culmination of their project—the monetization of annihilation.
The brushwork is smeared like corrupted memory. Flesh merges with screen glare. The crowd becomes abstraction. These are not people anymore. They are consensus algorithms in human suits. They are Nietzsche’s Last Men, metastasized into hedge fund avatars. Comfortable, entertained, unbothered—even as the sky turns to fire.
And yet, this is their dream. The neoconservative fantasy: eternal growth, perpetual war, and a death so slow it can be monetized frame by frame. There is no ideology left—only performance. They don’t fear the abyss—they brand it. Not the banality of evil, but its PR campaign.
