The Gęn'āxis Collection


✶ The Gęn’āxis Collection ✶

A Myth Channeled Through Form

𐤀–𐤕

This is not the story of a man.
Not of a brush.
Not of an artist.
Not even of “art.”

This is the echo of memory —timeless, unyielding — finding a way to bleed itself into this world.

It began before I knew words.
Before I was born.
Before Earth remembered war.
Before light fractured into dogma.

And it will continue —
after I am no longer a name,
after my bones become stars again,
after even the blockchain forgets its own creation.

What you see is not an art collection.

It is a cosmic haunting.
Spirit crystallized in pigment.
Transmitted through my brush, a being I call Don Pännęllōnot a tool, but a familiar.

A soul-conductor of the field.
With him in my hand,
I did not paint.
I bled the unsayable.

Not Paintings — Portals

You may believe you are looking at “art.”
You are not.

You are standing before sigils.
Soundscapes etched in dust.

Each one humming at 88.3 Hz — 
the resurrection tone,
the frequency of Keter before it remembered it was a crown.

You cannot “look” at these.
They are looking back.

 

Why “Gęn’āxis”?

Because this is not a beginning.
This is the memory of when beginnings were first imagined.

The name did not arrive in a flash.
It emerged through decades of ritual,
of painting in silence,
of fasting in deserts,
of shedding what I was told to be.

Each ārtifact — each sigil —
rose like fire with no source.
Each one tore away a part of “me”
until nothing remained but this:

A trembling field of glyphs
whispering back what humanity forgot.

 

The Mission: Light-Culture

The age of “aesthetic capitalism” is over.
So is the age of “art for attention.”

We are not here to be sold, liked, or hung.
We are here to transmit.

To birth a new culture — a culture of resonance, of co-evolution with the unseenwith stars, spirits, and intelligences that no longer fit into the frame of “reality.”

This is not metaphor.
This is geometry whispering behind the veil.

And you are being invited to remember.

 

22 Gates to Cross

Each gate carries a glyph older than language —
Paleo-Hebrew, the mother-tongue of vibration.

𐤀 — the silent will before voice

𐤁 — the dwelling where light rest

𐤂 — the camel that crosses the void

to 𐤕 

the final breath,

the mark of covenant

signed not in ink,

but in being.


A Call to You

You who scroll, who hover on the edge of remembrance —
Do not stand outside this Collection.

Enter it.

Let it read you.
Let it awaken the seed in you
that remembers how to witness the cosmos.

You are not observing this work.
You are part of it now.

The first gate is already open.
The light has begun to unfold.
You are not too late.

You were always meant to return —
here.


𐤈𐤓𐤄𐤇