(A controlled explosion in my style for someone who needed the madness)

This one’s different. It wasn’t born out of one of my usual chaotic meditations. It wasn’t the result of some cosmic download in the middle of the night. This was a commission, but more than that—it was a gift. For a close friend who doesn’t just like the movie Bronson, he is spiritually tethered to it.

If you’ve seen the film, you know: it’s not really about prison. It’s about performance. Identity. Transformation through destruction. It’s about the man who became myth because no other story could contain him.

So I painted Bronson in my own way—raw, geometric, vibrating like a man trapped inside himself but refusing to sit still. The figure is loud, almost screaming, arms out like a cross between a performer and a prisoner. It’s theatrical, it’s violent, it’s alive. Just like Tom Hardy’s portrayal. Just like Charles Bronson, the man himself.

The lines don’t flow like my usual work—they stab, they slice, they wrap like tension around muscle. The color palette is war paint: white for the madness, red for the blood he doesn’t regret, blue for the strange peace he makes with his cage. The patterns? That’s the rhythm of isolation. Of reputation. Of becoming more than a man by being too much of one.

This painting isn’t meant to be understood. It’s meant to be felt. Like a punch. Like a monologue shouted into a padded room with no one listening—except maybe God, and even He’s not sure what to do with it.

This was a departure for me. But sometimes, stepping outside your style lets you bring someone else’s story into the room. And in this case, it brought Bronson in with fists swinging.

N Mokashi
MokashiArt.com