Okay, so I'm getting my Master's, and making art that'll get me noticed someday. Be warned. Or something.
I've embarked on a series of musicopolitical portraits intended to make magazines go, "We need this guy ultra!"
This first one's of the Purple One himself... at his dove-cryingest. There isn't at all a sexual subtext to the throbbing trees or popping cherries. None at all.
Get over it, sicko!