My work lives where paint and code meet, and the exchange is bodily. I stretch canvas until it moans; it bleeds and oozes. I work at gestation tempo: washes wick inward, soaking dilates the membrane, and clots coagulate to seal it. I hand make every asset and scan it into the engine so my body’s trace persists as ridges, seams, and grain. I keep those marks so the carrying body, the mother, stays central, not flattened to a void; they testify to holding, labor, and care. This counters clinical ultrasound and anti-abortion posters that isolate a fetus in blankness and erase the body that carries it. Inside code the brushstroke remains evidence, not ornament. Each pass loops material into code and back again, keeping the body’s marks visible on screen.
Womb World is a game environment without enemies, wins, or waypoints. Yet violence persists; it targets bodies, physical and digital alike, often encoded in “neutral” source code that smuggles ideology. I invert controller mappings so the player’s agency stutters and slips. The point is to inhabit, not to conquer. The opening scene tethers you to a giant hand in a bloodied bathroom. You remove a tampon and drop it into a toilet that refuses to flush. The refusal becomes suction and draws you through the vaginal opening into the first biome. Disorientation, not dominance, advances the experience. You arrive in a village of womb figures watching a candle drip white wax into a pond; on closer inspection, a figure milks a condom of the same substance into the pool. Approaching the flame, you become a human-faced sperm “smelling” for eggs, drawn toward two ovarian figures cradling a cave with a copper IUD. Contact kills you. Copper is poison to your kind.
You spill into a yeast feast of bread and wine. A figure gnaws at bread as your motion dilates outward into another party: a waterpark of cum where bodies dive and dance through viscous pools while a spinning vibrator churns the liquid. With each dilation, the womb discloses another layer: stone huts and castles; miners drilling the uterine wall; blood sheeting into a lake. You lift a tampon through the liquid mouth and return to the bathroom, blood pooling in the tub beside the teabag tampon, cycle renewed. The system loops, syncing narrative to menstrual rhythm. You navigate by being navigated: tugged, rebuffed, redirected by a living system that refuses linear progress.
