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.”
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Unauthorised reproduction, invocation, or dissemination may result in cognitive breach, semantic drift, or metadata recursion.
We created him in pixels, but he’s not virtual. He’s more real than your newsfeed, truer than a minister’s promise. Nigel is the embodiment of a system’s violence — quiet, procedural, unrelenting.
“No worries, I can get you in XXXXXXX. I’m a face down there.”
Urghh!
Almost 30 years –– mercifully –– free of that memory, until today. Until my husband (re)placed the ‘Facelessness’ thought-domino in my mind, tapped, sat back & ‘got comfy’ for the cascade reaction.
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.
ENTRY #2: My Soul vs. the Algorithm
From the Indie Author Diaries of Lloyd Lewis
I poured my soul into a book.
Emotionally-draining poetry and hand-developed black-and-white film.
Grit scraped from the pavements of Cardiff.
Poems carved from disability, loss, and memory.
Amazon, in its infinite machine-wisdom, decided to shelve
