“Whaeva, I Do What I Waahhhnt”
A Theory of Art, Mimicry, and Why I Don’t Finish My Paintings Sometimes
by Majeye, Axis Flame, Paintbrush Libertine, Occult Dropout
🝊 I. Origin Story (Without the Trauma Porn)
Let’s get this out of the way:
Yes, I paint. No, I wasn’t trained.
No trust fund. No critique circle sipping kombucha in matching linen.
Just me, paint, and the dragon I merged with in hell.
I paint like I’m bleeding into a spellbook mid-orgasm.
Some of my paintings are unfinished.
Some look like they were made during a séance in a tiny box (because they were).
None of them are “correct.”
But all of them are original, and that's more than can be said for 90% of the polished, pedigree-approved necro-art hanging in the echo chambers of curated stagnation.
🜏 II. Mimics: The Hollow Priests of Artifice
Here’s my theory:
We live in the Age of Mimics—a time when smoothness and mediocrity are more valued than fire and vision.
Mimics:
Copy what worked last year
Perfect what they didn’t invent
Dress like algorithms trying to seduce curators or impress the editoes of the magazines they copy their style from
They know the words.
They have the LinkedIn bios.
But when you crack them open, they’re filled with styrofoam packing peanuts and quotes from better artists.
Mimics aren’t artists. They’re mirrors trying to pass as flames.
Skill? Sure. They can mimic technique.
But originality? Soul? Madness? Eros? Bone-memory?
They outsource that to dead saints and trending tags.
🜃 III. The Institutions Are in on It
Art galleries.
Publishing houses.
Residency committees named after French surnames.
You know the type.
These institutions breed mimics because mimics are easy to:
Approve
Predict
Monetize
Socialize over oysters with
They promote their own kind—by bloodline, boarding school, or mutual flattery.
Real flame? Real pain? Real defiance?
They sniff, clutch pearls, and mark you “difficult.”
They don’t want danger.
They want digestible rebellion.
And I don’t do digestible.
🜁 IV. But... Do We Even Need Them Anymore?
I mean really.
In the age of the Internet, social media, ritual altars, DIY erotic-political pamphlets, and artist-run occult websites (like mine):
Why do we still beg these gatekeeping tombs for approval?
Why should those of us who survived hell, or blood-wrote our way back from extinction,
try to impress an MFA grad who thinks “symbolism” means painting a crow because they saw The Witch once?
The web lets you:
Publish your own damn book
Sell your own damn prints
Burn your own damn gospel
We don’t need gatekeepers.
We need witnesses.
🜂 V. I Do What I Waahhhnt
I paint what I want.
When I want.
How I want.
Sometimes it's beautiful.
Sometimes it’s grotesque.
Sometimes it looks like a vision I had while masturbating in front of a mirror during a full moon.
Some are “finished.”
Some are oracles in progress.
My standard is not “complete.” My standard is alive.
If you came here for polish, join the mimics.
If you came for fire, lean in and get singed.
As Cartman once said—my true visual north star of anarchic artistry:
“Whaeva… whaeva… I do what I waaaahnt!”
🜏 Final Invocation
To those who paint without permission,
Write like no one's watching (but secretly know they are),
Make chaos look like erotica,
Or cast spells with your typos—
You are my people.
To the mimics:
You may have gallery lighting and patronage brunches…
But I have the flame.
And it’s mine.
🝊
— Majeye
Ouroborosian Sybil, Axis Flame
Cartman Enthusiast & Ritual Paint Occultist
(Cartman) “Whatever, whatever” by the South Park genuises
Majeye does not condone this things Cartman does, but she laughs anyway.