manifest oh.

manifest oh.

Art based Truth. 
We are the guts of truth.
Our creations are representative of the
intestinal creativity between
systems of shit. 

We do not sell. We take what you have & inspire. 
We care not for absurdity even if our vision is absurd. 

We are against nothing. 
We are only the glue of the fragmentation
which our conditioning inhibits us from experiencing. 
That glory of wholeness under you eyelids, the grit beneath your fingernails. 
Fear of death is the infinite flow of ink which fills our pen. 
Death is the reflected image of your eyes off the glare of your phone. 
As you placate this game of comatosia. 
We walk and play freely
our spontaneity tripping on the hallucination of time. 

We express our emotions in the moment. 
We hope it scares your social constraints into the arms of
the black and blue authority. 
We have laughter to loosen his hand cuffs. 

We use all our strength when lifting the burdon
of human traumatic history. 
We'll need it, every amperage of electrical charge
to toss it, trauma into the void of nothing and everything. 

We are simple people of which our imagination
guides our gaze beyond the myopia of science. 
Our collective cataracts responsible for creativities cancer. 

Your science can numb illness
It can do nothing for the pain
we endure living in the disconnection
between i & it, me & you
Science & nature
Stupidity & simple

We see through -it-
Our imagination took us in & around the hypnosis of
your standardized education system. 
Our heart ate us out of sickness and the
sterilization of your medicine. 

Did you really think that you could keep the truth from us?
We were born awake, & remain that way. 
Everything is transparent.
We leave our bodies and dance inside
of dimensions outside the outer
within the womb of the blackest part of your belly button. 


We are not characterized by the problems you
educate us into believing we have inherited. 

We are not anchored by an organization of belief. 

Our anger is speaking to us & we are listening our
self into a frenzy of freedom. 

We find innovation - focused -efficiency
In a time when people know not how to use time. 

We reject words like genius, savior, god, master. 
As they only blind us, stop us, from the obviousness of infinity. 

We want to be disturbed, shaken, and fucked by real honesty. 
Our time & age
are bored by our conditioned dishonesty. 
Dishonesty is the dope our age. 

Dave Mutnjakovic, Transfiguration #13, 2016

If someone told me I would be making clothes, dyeing fabric, screen printing, breathing life into paper and drawing. I probably would have said, Shit, fuck, yeah, what?

Photos : Sarah Eve Tousignant

Dave Mutnjakovic, Transfiguration #13, 2016, acrylic washes, ink, screen-printed on cotton, wood frame, wire and nails, 30 by 24 in.


Looking at Transfiguration #13, Dave Mutnjakovic’s love of detail is immediately evident. With a BFA in Animation, Mutnjakovic is continuing his studies in the context of the Concordia Art Education Program. He uses an array of fine ink drawn lines to create his illustrations of humanoid creatures. Having been inspired by Jane Martin’s Transfiguration #19, 1991, in the CCCA website,   he was surprised to learn that Martin had not woven the work but had drawn it with Prismacolour pencils. His plan was to replicate Martin’s style of meticulously drawn lines, but within a fiber textile production.  Mutnjakovic executed his artwork on cotton, the textile he most appreciates, incorporating the weft and warp threads of the screenprint process as an added dimension to his technique.

Mutnjakovic’s close brush with death has had a profound influence on his art. His scar on his abdomen marks his very painful “collision with reality”, as he refers to it.  His works deal with his out of body experiences, which are the basis to his imagination. The importance of the inner and outer self, for Mutnjakovic, is clearly shown in this piece with his use of the wires and nails: he wants the viewer to be aware of the ribs giving the creature an added dimension. The humanoid, which occupies the full length of the canvas, gives the viewer a sense of metamorphosis with the many organic allusions to be found: an angel, a bird, an elephant, a human being. The unnatural colours enhance its android state. All of these factors prevent the humanoid from being monster like: the viewer awaits its transfiguration.

-Barbara Tekker M.A. Art History Concordia University

Gutted Exhibtion : Windsor, Ontario


It is something to live a dream realized. I remember sitting at a bar in Windsor maybe 10 years ago with a friend of mine. Three whisky's in I had the idea of a professional life which allowed me to work with my friends. Returning to that same town where the dream originated, I once again find myself marveling at coming "full circle".

The people in Windsor are a special, tough, loyal, and loving bunch. I'm proud to have been raised there. Thank you to everyone who came out and took an interest, there will be many more shows to come.

Much love.

GUTTED Poster v3 FINAL.jpg

When There is Nothing Left to Burn, You Set Yourself on Fire.

What an amazing experience. To share a moment in time
that is transformative, with friends, is a dream I have realized.
Thank you to my compatriots in this journey Damaris Baker, and Maddie Stein-Sacks
and Maff Leslie.
It will be a week I will not easily forget.


Photos - Damaris Baker

The Sigh of the Times.

It has been a few days,
that I have been picking at
the source of my itch.
When something happened!

I stopped thinking. 
I knew I stopped because
I hadn't any more problems. 
Everything was simple. 

Huh. Simple things
are the most interesting thing.
"Thinking is kind of complex"
common sense suddenly said. 

I wasn't getting closer, I was there. 
In nothing. 
If words were keys, words
could not unlock nothing. 

Only nothing can unlock nothing.

It is peaceful here, 
I am happy here. 
Not thinking, doing. 
It's going, and I am
going with. 

Imagine trying to consume nothing!
I thought this to hear the sound
of a laughing nothing. 
A sound I chose to be born out of. 

This whole
time I had to
sit and wait. 
To let it come,
for life to
be simple. 


The influence of the Dead on Destiny.

its gold.

what a grand adventure.  what giant leaps toward wisdom. what a joy to share my life with you. deja-vu (wink).

I am speeding by a field of white flowers. the sky is littered with monarchs. wheels rolling with the still beating echo of a fearless little bird i call (courage).  when one boards the train to nowhere, one cannot help but let the imagination drift. am I the baby bird? maybe we? Lets' see!

"let-go!" it sings. casually tossing it off the tongue.  unaware of the reverberations sent down to the soul. just as color spills onto the floor. all eyes wild within the everything change.

the baby bird does not hesitate to jump. it is caught cautious by time. a curious concept conceived within the whirl. "the whirl" yes. the gap between what was(the known) and what is(the unknown).

there are two tracks running in parallel.  one leads into the careful hands of (protection).  whilst the other. death, lurks under the guise of 37 flowers. counting off patience 20, 19, 17 waits... until...??? how many more?

who knows? 
I wonder.

as the baby bird flutters toward the sky. his minute life has already livedmuch within the timelessness of the pristine adventure. the little heart ingrained within another; larger, scarred, matured pulmonary pumper. the undecided life changing trajectories of other lives, eating at instinct,  loving every instant. love answering courage,  via trust, flying high above, the enigma of the horizon.

as protection wanders. the little heart is undecided. it has learned much now, from what was. it sits above watching what is. find. form from formlessness. it understands choice. sees with its own eyes the journey through death, into life. yet something new has entered the equation. what is this hesitation? what is the magnetism drawing me toward death?

all is silent. only the beat of his own heart now to keep company. face to face with the train, the tracks, and the adventure which will lead him either back to the pain of the known. or the jubilation of the unknown.