The title says it all: Homo Electus — a chilling reflection on the evolutionary dead-end of post-human and post-stability politics. The leaders of our age — Putin, Trump, Musk, Kim — are not depicted as men, but as warped data-puppets, slick with pixelated sheen and recycled through the endless churn of the media feed. They are less figures of authority and more manifestations of a culture in which visibility, influence, and performance are the ultimate currencies.

As you enter, you're met by twin monoliths—Putin and Trump, rendered as grotesque heirs to Mount Rushmore. Their mouths, reproduced ad infinitum as wallpaper, form a chorus of synthetic oratory. In their echo, reality is remixed as farce, satire bleeds into truth, and power becomes a meme. Rather than creating art in the traditional sense, Carnariu samples and remixes the malaise of our times, crafting a collage of spiritual collapse and surveillance aesthetics. His works present a brutal collision of broken mirrors and data-saturated forms. In a harrowing reimagining, Robert Indiana’s LOVE is gutted and reconstituted into a guttural cry of ZERO, TOXIC, LIES. Pop sentimentalism is hollowed out and reassembled with the raw materials of irony, dread, and cultural decay.

Further down, a representation of a digital curtain unfurls—an endless social media feed. It functions as both veil and reveal, concealing substance behind spectacle, and exposing the feed as the new sovereign infrastructure of truth and belief.

In a separate room: a hybrid statue—Demi-Putin / Demi-Trump—part deity, part dictator, crowned atop a glowing plinth: a cyber pig pulsing with code. It is grotesque, comical, prophetic—a monument to the Homo Electus, the algorithmically elected, memetically engineered post-human sovereign.

This is not a neutral space. It is a schizotopic zone, where borders dissolve, ideologies glitch, and the real is overcoded by the virtual. We are witnessing a technopolitical hallucination, a prank staged on a global stage, where the boundaries between governance and theater, leader and influencer, war and simulation blur into an immersive psychopolitical feedback loop.

Carnariu’s work operates within the murky zone of algorithmic judgment, where authorship, participation, and viewing are no longer distinct. The paintings (if they can even be called that) move beyond traditional imagery and into a post-digital crisis of the senses. The exhibition is not a destination, but a negotiation: between platform and user, meme and state, propaganda and parody. What emerges is an aesthetic experience caught in the overflow of semiocapitalism, where visual language dissolves, recodes, and ultimately becomes a weapon.

Szhizotopia is a space where post-internet anxiety collides with ornate nihilism, and where memes are summoned from the grave to haunt us. In Carnariu’s world, identity itself is fractured and flickers, caught in the ceaseless churn of engagement and visibility. Authenticity is no longer something to be found, but something to be fabricated, performed, and monetized. There are no stable personas, only the relentless feedback loop of the feed.

Surveillance, once an external threat to resist or critique, is now an internalized, aestheticized experience. The panopticon no longer looms above; we willingly offer it a front-row seat to our own collapse. The artist, once the creator, has become both the assistant and the saboteur of the algorithm. It is often difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins.

In Szhizotopia, the exhibition is no longer just an event — it is a visceral broadcast, a collective mood-board for a society in psychic meltdown. This sensory overload is not an exhibition for passive contemplation. It is a climate, a space where the viewer must confront not just the art, but the systems that generate it. The future has already arrived — and we are all complicit.

Carnariu’s practice is not merely a critique of the digital condition; it is the condition itself, laid bare. Szhizotopia is less an exhibition and more an algorithmic psychosis, a space where we are all performers in the theater of collapse, trapped in the systems we have built.

Curator, Maia Círíc