Matt Franks
The world styled by Franks is a wonderfully scary place. Nuclear annihilation in all its day-glo glory, clouds bursting like ripe hairy testes, implodes as failed monuments of beta-male ego. Caught somewhere between total geekville and 80s cocaine chic, Matt Franks is engineering utopia. Will imposed, fantasy unchecked, desire fulfillment is sometimes slightly cringe-worthy.

Franks’s sculptures are brazen in their exposure: weirdly infantile and pseudo-sexual, his forms billow and stretch in tantrums of self-assertion. Incubating as stillborn threat, Franks offers cartoon hyper-violence as an extension of conscience, mini-explosions of Napoleon complex bursting forth with expansionist fervour.
The first rule of decadence is ego. After humiliation and impotence, self-depreciation and wound-licking, there is nothing left but the naked self. Tapping into his inner litter-runt, Matt Franks finds a universal demographic. A culture of commodity anxiety, trendily garbed in metrosexual chic and tv-fuelled slapstick. As self-styled despot, Franks turns this lurking sensation of inadequacy to glee, a frothy sugar coated fix compressing the daily dose of panic into fun filled bites fuelling lifestyle progression.


Franks doesn’t sell product, but the package itself. Nightmare-desire carved in styrofoam, the squeaky toxic stuff that insulates department store dreams. Light-weight, durable, and buoyant emptiness, flocked in a plethora of designer colours, propounding a personal choice of manufactured identification. For Franks, formalism is comprised of the shapes of social order.
His sculptures are apartment-sized, his sci-fi urban planning ergonomically accommodates the darkest drives. Offering a wholesale catalogue range of emasculated menace, Franks embraces style over content as the ultimate nihilist statement. Utterly personal and totally synthetic, Franks recruits a new world order, born of a closeted, nurtured, and neurotic fetishism made entirely new and improved.