This is the cry. The last breath. The text that doesn't explain: it affirms. It's not an article, it's raw material. A block of words to place on the floor, to hang on the wall, to shout in an empty street. This is my manifesto, me, Arson. It resembles me: it doesn't need permission.

Art doesn't need a license You don't wait for someone to let you create: you create. The art world is often a private club—you came to dynamite it with a clay hammer. Reject aesthetic authority, that of galleries, academic standards, tie-wearing critics. Your work is a beating against conventions.