THIS FAMILY DOESN’T POSE, IT PROTESTS.

“Family Portrait” is a distorted frame around a truth no one wants to admit. This isn’t about smiles and matching outfits—it’s about silence, tension, and all the things we don’t say but always feel. The characters wear their wounds like badges, drawn with raw, crooked lines that speak louder than any polite pose. Love here isn’t clean—it’s messy, coded, uncomfortable, and real.

The piece explodes with overlapping voices, fragmented figures, and twisted symbols. Scribbles of “truth,” “fuck,” “no rules,” and “don’t look” interrupt any sense of comfort. Faces merge with noise, names dissolve, and identity becomes collective chaos. It’s not a memory—it’s a confrontation. This family doesn’t pretend to be whole; it declares itself broken, and that honesty becomes its power.

This portrait doesn’t capture belonging—it captures survival. In this world, the frame doesn’t hold people together—it traps them. And yet, there’s something beautiful in the way everything spills out, overlaps, and still stands. “Family Portrait” is not nostalgia—it’s raw documentation of emotional inheritance, where bloodline meets rebellion, and dysfunction becomes the real tradition.