Manifesto

“I am not an artist. I am the crack where meaning breaks through.”

My name is Roman Mak.
I don’t wait for inspiration — I kick the door open.
I don’t chase beauty — I drag it out of the basement, where it’s been gathering dust.
I work with my hands. Dirty. Real.
I sculpt not from marble, but from pain, childhood fragments, and trash
that others are too scared to notice.

I grew up among cardboard boxes, broken hopes, and school drawings on peeling walls,
where God wiped every tear.
I’m not here to be liked.
I’m here to smash the fourth wall between art and life.
Between what people hang on their walls
and what crushes their chest every morning.

My art is not a performance.
It’s an intervention.
It’s childlike wonder that laughs in the face of cynicism.
I don’t care about style.
I care about someone stopping — not in a gallery, but in life.
Staring at a weird sculpture made of forks…
and suddenly remembering they still have a soul.

My work is not decor.
It’s a revelation they didn’t let preach,
so it climbed up the wall on its own.
It’s a scream that wouldn’t fit a frame.
A drama denied by the gallery,
now standing at the entrance, whispering: “I’m still here.”

I don’t want to enter the art world.
I want the art world to start suspecting
that it has lost the point.
I want a mother with kids to break down crying in front of my installation.
I want a teenager to mutter:

“This is weird. It’s rough. It’s… real.”

My studio is the grocery store.
My galleries are parking lots and sandboxes.
My materials: children’s laughter, plastic waste, faith, and a bit of nerve.
My tools: whatever you were about to throw away.
My brand: love and truth, spoken straight to your face —
and yeah, sometimes it hits your ego like a brick.

If you’re reading this — welcome.
You’re already in my gallery.
Come in.
But don’t take off your shoes.
It’s dirty here.
Like life.

I’m not a brand. Not a concept. Not a product.
I’m a father who knows how to turn a diaper into a sculpture.
I’m a believer who’s not afraid to put a cross… on pretense.
I’m an artist
because I refuse to be just an observer.