There is no about page.
No origin myth.
No artist’s statement to soften the blow.
Art of FACELESS exists in the glitch between systems — where names are dropped, masks worn backwards, and meaning is forged in friction.
This is not a platform.
This is a crack in the concrete.
What we want is not pity. Not even praise. Just recognition:
That art made with limits is still art.
That art made through disability is still full of force.
That the artist doesn’t fade just because the body falters.
That age adds weight, not rust.
I’d go further. What we see here is the last gasp of Authorial Romanticism. Hargrave’s opponents believe themselves to be vessels of divinity—touched by something sacred. Hargrave, in contrast, is chaos. They reject the sacred. They say: “Make bad art. Make spam. Make weird shit.”
