APOLLO: Divine Prophecy… Unleashed
Here it is: the FIRST PIECE of Series III • MYTHOS: UNITED.
Not all mirrors reflect an exact image. Some show you what you deny, what you hide, what you suppress—what you are when you stop pretending. APOLLO is that kind of mirror.
This piece doesn’t simply represent a deity: it reveals the mask of human perfectionism. That uncontrollable and addictive urge to shine, to stand out, to impress… and to control.
The light of the Apollo painting doesn’t just warm the eye that beholds it… it Burns.
From the first visual impact, yellow becomes intellectual lava—liquid magma that doesn’t decorate but devours everything in its path. It’s a surge of energy spilling across the canvas. It’s the gold that crushes mediocrity, the excellence that elevates us to the highest level. It’s what happens when we finally stop pretending to be what we’re not and embrace our essence—our authenticity.
What if we stopped merely illuminating… and started burning as if there were no tomorrow?
Like the wild gesture of the amber sphere melting in a vertical blaze, like the sweat of a god. It’s Apollo’s signature written in his own solar blood, dripping like liquid light into a sea of blue. It’s the desperate desire to be free from oneself. It’s the sun spilling over the lower surface bathed in apparent calm blue. But as we move closer, we discover that sea is cracking… A mirage shattering. Splitting. Collapsing. Because no surface—no matter how pure—can withstand the pressure of truth. Just like humans, with their psychological fractures.
The craquelure represents no flaw: it is divine language tearing through the skin of the canvas.
Each fissure is a scream miraculously calculated, designed not by human hands, but by a divine one. These fractures live within a sacred logic. It’s not chance. It’s code. The GOLDEN RATIO, the DIVINE NUMBER: 1.618.
That number, which vibrates in galaxies, seashells, bones, flowers, and even our DNA… governs PRECISELY the lower portion of the canvas.
Here, on this canvas, the cracks do not arise by accident. They respond to an ancestral code, to divine architecture residing in the ordered-chaos of creation. Each fissure on the canvas reveals the interior of the human mind—the same mind that cracks when the soul is out of harmony with the body. Each crack is a suppressed thought. A censored emotion. Subconscious confessions… in the form of luminous wounds. And at the same time, each one reveals golden threads—like synapses of a cosmic mind obeying a secret mathematical dance. They are infinite knowledge. Divine imperfection scattered in a labyrinth of unanswered questions. Veins of light… open, naked, exposed.
And just when you think you’ve deciphered the work, a new dimension emerges: the white wing. There’s only one. No balance. No full ascent. It’s the fragmented will of someone trying to rise while dragging their shadows. It is the human condition: the desire to be light, while carrying the weight of darkness.
One wing doesn’t fly: it spins in circles, repeats patterns, rises halfway.
That single wing represents the longing to soar with a single truth, with a single version of oneself. And that is impossible.
The abstract strokes are not decoration, nor aesthetic impulse. They are psychological residues, liminal zones. Inner battlefields. Together, they don’t form a color palette—they form a map. An emotional map of all we try to contain beneath the perfect surface demanded by the Sun God. They are the traces of a mind waging war between what is repressed and what is revealed.
When you stand before this work, you feel the tension of a GOD trying to break free from the prison of the canvas… provoking pulses of PURE ENERGY, impossible to explain—only to be felt.
In the end, you’ll realize that when the Myth is NOT a Myth… the soul trembles.
The question is…
Do you dare look at your own cracks?
Only then will you truly SHINE.