In the hollowed-out shell of contemporary art, where “pretension” has turned meaning into something that might as well be sold in a shiny showroom, Martin Levinne crashes through, peeling away the usual art-world frills to reveal something that teeters precariously close to actual “authenticity.” Levinne, a Czech-born American, has devoured the hollow promises of commercial success more than once—tasted the sweet poison, and spat it out with the grimace of someone who’s been burned before. He’s not here to play the art game. He’s seen the abyss and knows it’s mostly a “consumerist mirage” designed to keep the sheep grazing. He drifts through the art world with the indifference of someone who’s already seen the emperor’s naked hairy ass. Levinne’s art isn’t here to save the world or fix a thing, it’s here to tear through the world’s gaudy masquerade, rejecting the obedience of normalcy and societal standards, ripping apart the facade to expose what’s still left—human and real—beneath. If it leaves a hickey of sexy memory, an unpolished bruise of beauty that lingers just a little too long, so much the better.

Levinne’s work is a “dissection” of human frailty, an unflinching look under the skin, like staring into a cracked mirror in a dark room. He’s got this way of pulling beauty out of the most unremarkable corners of the human psyche, daring you to face the raw truths you’re trying to outrun. His pieces—fantastical acrylic canvases with disproportionate figures that seem pulled from a twisted, psychedelic fairytale, collages of saints laced with the mischievous whimsy of comic bubbles, and raw, painfully intense monochrome portrait photographs—rip through the “yappy” facade of the gallery scene. They pulse with the intimate poetry of fleeting encounters, human vulnerability, and the sheer mess of life. Each piece hums with an emotional static that refuses to dissipate. The work refuses to play nice with convention. It’s messy. It’s raw. It’s “unashamed.”

Take The Morphing Men, for example —a performance series where queer artist Barry Morse embodies the ultimate icon of our obsession with fame. From Cher to Hitler, he parades through a chaotic lineup of cultural figures, a garish collision of personas that shouts, "These are the masks we wear, and they’re louder than anything else about us." Levinne’s direction doesn’t seek your approval, it doesn’t even try to provoke you. It simply traps you in a “dark room,” hands you the props of your own performative illusions, and commands, “Deal with it.” Morse and Levinne create an astonishing synergy, capturing the essence of each character with a silent, visceral language—the grimaces, the raised eyebrows, the searing energy beneath each gesture. It’s a dialogue of expression and restraint, channeling everything unsaid through the intensity of each transformation.

Then there’s Calling All Angels, a brutal dive into the depths of human vulnerability. Levinne strips away the facades we all hide behind with a black-and-white portrait collection that exposes the rawness of existence. The shots can come within minutes or after hours of conversation, but there’s no search for models—just random souls from the streets of Los Angeles, invited into his studio and told to come as you are. One woman, battling breast cancer, her face a map of struggle and defiance. Another, an actress drowning in ambition, her Oscar dreams hanging like a “funeral shroud.” Levinne doesn’t just document—he eviscerates. His lens is a scalpel, cutting deep into the psyche, exposing uncomfortable truths we’re too afraid to face. In his world, the ordinary becomes visceral, forcing us to confront the mess of shared humanity. Beauty and despair collide, and it’s unclear which is winning.

After sharpening his edge at The Art Institute of California, Levinne spent over a decade gritting his teeth through the fashion industry's soul-sucking cycle in Los Angeles and New York, before throwing in the towel. He saw the art world’s underbelly up close—too much hype, too many promises that evaporate the second they hit the light—and he was exhausted. Tired of the fake flattery and endless back-patting, he cut ties with commercial work, retreating into a private gallery space where he could carve his own path. Twenty shows later, the gallery had ceased being a place for art and become more like a scene, a scene designed to spark uncomfortable conversations, ones that didn’t need the approval of the “right people.” After battling egos, shady deals, and the insidious greed of the art world, Levinne shut it down. Not surprised. Just disgusted.

Now, he’s vanished into the northern Italian countryside,, running Sky&Farm—an art residency on a “rundown farm,” a place for artists who’ve burned out on the fumes of civilization. The farm isn’t some fairy-tale retreat for “healing.” It’s a sanctuary from the shiny, hollow glamour the art world sells. Here, artists slow down, rot if they need to, and find redemption through ancient rituals or whatever catharsis they can find in the silence. It’s a refuge for the weary and disillusioned—a place where art isn’t bought or sold. It just is.

But Levinne’s not just hiding out in Italy. He’s a "Gypsy’s spit in the polished face” in the underground art scene, a figurehead who attracts the disillusioned, the disenfranchised, and anyone tired of the polished, curated disconnection that defines contemporary life. His bleached-blond Romani Jewish mystique draws those searching for something raw, something real—far removed from the hollow pretensions of the mainstream. Through his involvement in underground queer art movements, Levinne has become a beacon for those seeking authenticity and rebellion, a symbol of defiance, curiosity, and intimacy. Levinne isn’t trying to be a punk artist. He is a punk artist—because he never considered being anything else. He doesn’t need your approval. He doesn’t need a label. His work speaks for itself, and it doesn't ask for permission.

One theme runs through Levinne’s work: peeling back the layers of human complexity to expose what’s underneath—past the surface, past the fake smiles, hell, even past the underwear, right down to the raw, beautiful, uncensored truth we are ashamed of. The vulnerability of our existence, stripped bare and unprotected. In an age drowning in noise, his art demands we look beneath the surface and confront what’s real. His latest series, The Secret of the Universe is in Mortadella, is absurd, beautiful, and dangerous all at once—an unapologetic push against everything sanitized and fake. It’s a message that’s blunt, sharp, and unassuming in its execution. Levinne, the painter, the poet, the healer, the reluctant farmer—he’s a rare breed in the contemporary art world. Quiet, brutally uncompromising, and relentlessly real. A reminder that authenticity doesn’t come in a polished package. It comes when you're willing to cut through ''the age of bullshit'' and Levinne’s art does exactly that.