Join my secret game—it’s a game where the only way to win is by losing.

When society collectively decides something is toxic, that's precisely when I want to celebrate it. Not to be contrary, but because these moments of cultural rejection expose the bullshit of our time.

I'm drawn to things at the exact moment they go from cherished to contemptible. The car model everyone had to own, now embarrassing to drive. The fashion trend that defined an era, now marking you as hopelessly out of touch. The cultural icon whose work remains brilliant even as their name becomes unspeakable.

What changes in these moments isn't the thing itself—it's us.

The toxicity transfers to me. That's the point. While others rush to perform their public rejections of whatever we're supposed to hate this season, I move closer. While they scrub their histories clean of condemned associations, I create new works immortalizing them. My celebration of the rejected thing marks me as rejected too—a voluntary contamination that proves how arbitrary our cycles of moral outrage really are.

Camp becomes my perfect weapon—not just embracing what's deemed "wrong," but choosing subjects whose excellence remains unchanged even as their acceptability collapses. I'm not interested in future redemption arcs or historical reassessment. I want to capture the precise moment when undeniable quality collides with maximum cultural hysteria.

This isn't about blind contrarianism. It's about exposing the mechanics of how we collectively decide what to value and what to condemn—often overnight, often without reason. When society performs its ritual rejections, I perform my ritual celebrations. The more my work gets condemned for celebrating the condemned, the more it proves its point.

The joy is in the rejection. That's the entire point.