contact THE ZOO
OF HUMANITY THE
LEGENDARY

“The sweet Dali” This painting has no meaning. As with most of Dali’s work, the absence of meaning is entirely intentional. Still, let’s begin. He knew the value of art. That’s why, instead of paying with money, he’d draw on the check and sign his name. People didn’t cash them — they framed them. Because a scribble by Dali was priceless. He designed the Chupa Chups logo.Placed it on top — so it would always be visible. Even a lollipop, in his eyes, deserved immortality. He used to go to playgrounds with a bag of candy. He’d unwrap one. Lick it. Throw it into the sand. Children cried. He laughed. Or maybe it was just a story from his autobiography — the one full of absurdity. He hated how people lied beautifully about themselves. So he lied ridiculously. What was true? We’ll never know. Dali had no line between life and theatre. He made art out of everything — from his mustache to the spoon he used to catch inspiration. He said there was no meaning. But that was exactly where meaning began.

“The top of the chain” The lines look tilted. But they’re parallel. We think we’re at the top. But of what chain, exactly? Darwin never called humans the pinnacle of evolution. Evolution isn’t a ladder — it’s chaos. Survival doesn’t belong to the strongest, but to the most adaptable. The ones who can live inside the illusion. He kept his theory unpublished for forty years. Not because he doubted it — but because he knew how fragile belief can be. He dismantled divine order — and quietly stepped back. He studied nature. And ate it. Hawks, iguanas, even a puma. The so-called crown of creation — with a napkin in his lap — sampling evolution by taste. So who’s really at the top? The one who observes the chain — or the one who swallows its links?

“Holly marilyn” Marilyn Monroe She wanted to be taken seriously. But they loved her more when she laughed. She pent her childhood between foster homes and daydreams. Changed her name, her smile, her silhouette, until the girl in the mirror looked like someone the world might want. She read philosophy in her trailer. Took acting classes no one believed she needed. Longed not just to be adored — but understood. She carried loneliness like perfume — invisible, but always there. Her beauty became her mask. Her mask became her cage. But behind it lived a woman who felt everything, deeply. ‘Holly Marilyn’ is not a story about a star. It’s about a woman who tried to turn attention into connection, fame into love, and light into something that could warm her, not blind her.

“Karl the king” Karl Lagerfeld He believed in elegance — but never softness. Every morning, he became himself. Gloves. Glasses. High collar. Armor. Not to hide — to dominate. He once said he wore gloves because hands reveal too much. Too much age. Too much truth. He read obsessively. Judged instinctively. Worked like a machine, and spoke like a man who didn’t need your approval. He said: “I am a caricature of myself. ” But no one dared to laugh. He didn’t follow fashion. He bent it to his will. With irony. With cruelty. With genius. ‘Karl the King’ is not a tribute. It’s a portrait of obsession — tailored, masked, untouchable. Because real control never leaves fingerprints.

“My Freud” He said children have sexual fantasies. He said we dream in code, that jokes hide desires, and that behind every “I love you” there’s a battlefield of memory. He wrote about pleasure, guilt, mothers, fathers, lips, hunger, and the terrifying complexity of being human — while smoking cigars and becoming immortal. Some called him a genius. Others, a fraud. He became both. And that’s what made him a legend. The pink rabbit mask? It’s not a joke. It’s what Freud would wear today if he had to walk into the room and say the things no one else dared to say.

“Intelligence” 60 × 80 cm Albert Einstein — the man who changed time, proved that space bends, and played the violin when no one was watching. He redefined reality with equations, but never stopped wondering like a child. He said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge. ” And maybe, just maybe — genius isn’t in answers, but in the freedom to ask impossible questions. In this work, his iconic face breaks into Rick, from Rick and Morty — a scientist of chaos, a rebel of reason, a walking paradox. Because what if genius isn’t about being right? But about having fun in a universe no one fully understands? “Intelligence” isn’t a portrait. It’s a wormhole — between science and silliness, logic and lunacy, Einstein and everything after.

“THE EAR OF VAN GOGH” 38 × 38 cm He cut off his earlobe. Wrapped it in cloth. Brought it to a brothel. Gave it to a woman, as if it were a gesture of tenderness. “With love. Vincent. ” No one listened. His brushstrokes were too restless. His colors — too bright. He sold only one painting in his entire life. The rest were used to cover holes in the walls. He dreamed of becoming a priest — they cast him out. He wanted to be understood — they locked him away. Only his brother believed in him. But even that love wasn’t enough. He painted stars that burned brighter than he did. Drank turpentine. Ate paint. Believed in beauty — even when no one believed in him. Today, they call him a genius. Back then, they called him mad. He died thinking it was all for nothing. And only the ear, sealed in a plastic bag, still listens. In case someone, someday, finally says:
“I hear you. ”

“THE VOICE OF SILENCE” 70 × 70 cm Charlie Chaplin. He never needed words. His silence was louder than speeches, funnier than punchlines, sadder than violins. And yet, he was understood — in Paris, in Berlin, in Buenos Aires, in Cairo, in Tokyo, in Moscow. No subtitles. Just a hat, a cane, and a heartbeat. He filmed the same scene a hundred times to capture a single honest second. He lived between takes and died with a joke in his pocket. He refused to let the Tramp speak. Because once he did, he’d belong to one language, one country, one class. But silence? Silence belonged to everyone. In this painting, he steps out of the frame. Because frames are rules. And he never stayed inside them.

“Behind the fame” 50 × 50 cm Frank Sinatra. A voice smooth as velvet, and sharp enough to cut through decades. He sang like he owned the night — but was terrified of silence. He slept with the TV on, afraid of being alone with his thoughts. He was adored by millions, but once gave a private concert outside a hospital just so a woman he loved could hear his voice again. He had friends in high places. And some in darker ones. Charm was his weapon. Control, his armor. He demanded perfection. Feared irrelevance. Loved deeply. Lost heavily. This isn’t a portrait of the legend. It’s the echo behind the spotlight. The noise inside the silence. The part of the man you couldn’t dance to — but you could feel.

“The sweet Dali” This painting has no meaning. As with most of Dali’s work, the absence of meaning is entirely intentional. Still, let’s begin. He knew the value of art. That’s why, instead of paying with money, he’d draw on the check and sign his name. People didn’t cash them — they framed them. Because a scribble by Dali was priceless. He designed the Chupa Chups logo.Placed it on top — so it would always be visible. Even a lollipop, in his eyes, deserved immortality. He used to go to playgrounds with a bag of candy. He’d unwrap one. Lick it. Throw it into the sand. Children cried. He laughed. Or maybe it was just a story from his autobiography — the one full of absurdity. He hated how people lied beautifully about themselves. So he lied ridiculously. What was true? We’ll never know. Dali had no line between life and theatre. He made art out of everything — from his mustache to the spoon he used to catch inspiration. He said there was no meaning. But that was exactly where meaning began.

“The top of the chain” The lines look tilted. But they’re parallel. We think we’re at the top. But of what chain, exactly? Darwin never called humans the pinnacle of evolution. Evolution isn’t a ladder — it’s chaos. Survival doesn’t belong to the strongest, but to the most adaptable. The ones who can live inside the illusion. He kept his theory unpublished for forty years. Not because he doubted it — but because he knew how fragile belief can be. He dismantled divine order — and quietly stepped back. He studied nature. And ate it. Hawks, iguanas, even a puma. The so-called crown of creation — with a napkin in his lap — sampling evolution by taste. So who’s really at the top? The one who observes the chain — or the one who swallows its links?

“Holly marilyn” Marilyn Monroe She wanted to be taken seriously. But they loved her more when she laughed. She pent her childhood between foster homes and daydreams. Changed her name, her smile, her silhouette, until the girl in the mirror looked like someone the world might want. She read philosophy in her trailer. Took acting classes no one believed she needed. Longed not just to be adored — but understood. She carried loneliness like perfume — invisible, but always there. Her beauty became her mask. Her mask became her cage. But behind it lived a woman who felt everything, deeply. ‘Holly Marilyn’ is not a story about a star. It’s about a woman who tried to turn attention into connection, fame into love, and light into something that could warm her, not blind her.

“Karl the king” Karl Lagerfeld He believed in elegance — but never softness. Every morning, he became himself. Gloves. Glasses. High collar. Armor. Not to hide — to dominate. He once said he wore gloves because hands reveal too much. Too much age. Too much truth. He read obsessively. Judged instinctively. Worked like a machine, and spoke like a man who didn’t need your approval. He said: “I am a caricature of myself. ” But no one dared to laugh. He didn’t follow fashion. He bent it to his will. With irony. With cruelty. With genius. ‘Karl the King’ is not a tribute. It’s a portrait of obsession — tailored, masked, untouchable. Because real control never leaves fingerprints.

“My Freud” “Intelligence” He said children have sexual fantasies. He said we dream in code, that jokes hide desires, and that behind every “I love you” there’s a battlefield of memory. He wrote about pleasure, guilt, mothers, fathers, lips, hunger, and the terrifying complexity of being human — while smoking cigars and becoming immortal. Some called him a genius. Others, a fraud. He became both. And that’s what made him a legend. The pink rabbit mask? It’s not a joke. It’s what Freud would wear today if he had to walk into the room and say the things no one else dared to say. Albert Einstein — the man who changed time, proved that space bends, and played the violin when no one was watching. He redefined reality with equations, but never stopped wondering like a child. He said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge. ” And maybe, just maybe — genius isn’t in answers, but in the freedom to ask impossible questions. In this work, his iconic face breaks into Rick, from Rick and Morty — a scientist of chaos, a rebel of reason, a walking paradox. Because what if genius isn’t about being right? But about having fun in a universe no one fully understands? “Intelligence” isn’t a portrait. It’s a wormhole — between science and silliness, logic and lunacy, Einstein and everything after.

“THE EAR OF VAN GOGH” “THE VOICE OF SILENCE” He cut off his earlobe. Wrapped it in cloth. Brought it to a brothel. Gave it to a woman, as if it were a gesture of tenderness. “With love. Vincent. ” No one listened. His brushstrokes were too restless. His colors — too bright. He sold only one painting in his entire life. The rest were used to cover holes in the walls. He dreamed of becoming a priest — they cast him out. He wanted to be understood — they locked him away. Only his brother believed in him. But even that love wasn’t enough. He painted stars that burned brighter than he did. Drank turpentine. Ate paint. Believed in beauty — even when no one believed in him. Today, they call him a genius. Back then, they called him mad. He died thinking it was all for nothing. And only the ear, sealed in a plastic bag, still listens. In case someone, someday, finally says:
“I hear you. ” Charlie Chaplin. He never needed words. His silence was louder than speeches, funnier than punchlines, sadder than violins. And yet, he was understood — in Paris, in Berlin, in Buenos Aires, in Cairo, in Tokyo, in Moscow. No subtitles. Just a hat, a cane, and a heartbeat. He filmed the same scene a hundred times to capture a single honest second. He lived between takes and died with a joke in his pocket. He refused to let the Tramp speak. Because once he did, he’d belong to one language, one country, one class. But silence? Silence belonged to everyone. In this painting, he steps out of the frame. Because frames are rules. And he never stayed inside them.

“Behind the fame” Frank Sinatra. A voice smooth as velvet, and sharp enough to cut through decades. He sang like he owned the night — but was terrified of silence. He slept with the TV on, afraid of being alone with his thoughts. He was adored by millions, but once gave a private concert outside a hospital just so a woman he loved could hear his voice again. He had friends in high places. And some in darker ones. Charm was his weapon. Control, his armor. He demanded perfection. Feared irrelevance. Loved deeply. Lost heavily. This isn’t a portrait of the legend. It’s the echo behind the spotlight. The noise inside the silence. The part of the man you couldn’t dance to — but you could feel.

“The sweet Dali” This painting has no meaning. As with most of Dali’s work, the absence of meaning is entirely intentional. Still, let’s begin. He knew the value of art. That’s why, instead of paying with money, he’d draw on the check and sign his name. People didn’t cash them — they framed them. Because a scribble by Dali was priceless. He designed the Chupa Chups logo.Placed it on top — so it would always be visible. Even a lollipop, in his eyes, deserved immortality. He used to go to playgrounds with a bag of candy. He’d unwrap one. Lick it. Throw it into the sand. Children cried. He laughed. Or maybe it was just a story from his autobiography — the one full of absurdity. He hated how people lied beautifully about themselves. So he lied ridiculously. What was true? We’ll never know. Dali had no line between life and theatre. He made art out of everything — from his mustache to the spoon he used to catch inspiration. He said there was no meaning. But that was exactly where meaning began.

“The top of the chain” The lines look tilted. But they’re parallel. We think we’re at the top. But of what chain, exactly? Darwin never called humans the pinnacle of evolution. Evolution isn’t a ladder — it’s chaos. Survival doesn’t belong to the strongest, but to the most adaptable. The ones who can live inside the illusion. He kept his theory unpublished for forty years. Not because he doubted it — but because he knew how fragile belief can be. He dismantled divine order — and quietly stepped back. He studied nature. And ate it. Hawks, iguanas, even a puma. The so-called crown of creation — with a napkin in his lap — sampling evolution by taste. So who’s really at the top? The one who observes the chain — or the one who swallows its links?

“Holly marilyn” Marilyn Monroe She wanted to be taken seriously. But they loved her more when she laughed. She pent her childhood between foster homes and daydreams. Changed her name, her smile, her silhouette, until the girl in the mirror looked like someone the world might want. She read philosophy in her trailer. Took acting classes no one believed she needed. Longed not just to be adored — but understood. She carried loneliness like perfume — invisible, but always there. Her beauty became her mask. Her mask became her cage. But behind it lived a woman who felt everything, deeply. ‘Holly Marilyn’ is not a story about a star. It’s about a woman who tried to turn attention into connection, fame into love, and light into something that could warm her, not blind her.

“Karl the king” Karl Lagerfeld He believed in elegance — but never softness. Every morning, he became himself. Gloves. Glasses. High collar. Armor. Not to hide — to dominate. He once said he wore gloves because hands reveal too much. Too much age. Too much truth. He read obsessively. Judged instinctively. Worked like a machine, and spoke like a man who didn’t need your approval. He said: “I am a caricature of myself. ” But no one dared to laugh. He didn’t follow fashion. He bent it to his will. With irony. With cruelty. With genius. ‘Karl the King’ is not a tribute. It’s a portrait of obsession — tailored, masked, untouchable. Because real control never leaves fingerprints.

“My Freud” “Intelligence” He said children have sexual fantasies. He said we dream in code, that jokes hide desires, and that behind every “I love you” there’s a battlefield of memory. He wrote about pleasure, guilt, mothers, fathers, lips, hunger, and the terrifying complexity of being human — while smoking cigars and becoming immortal. Some called him a genius. Others, a fraud. He became both. And that’s what made him a legend. The pink rabbit mask? It’s not a joke. It’s what Freud would wear today if he had to walk into the room and say the things no one else dared to say. Albert Einstein — the man who changed time, proved that space bends, and played the violin when no one was watching. He redefined reality with equations, but never stopped wondering like a child. He said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge. ” And maybe, just maybe — genius isn’t in answers, but in the freedom to ask impossible questions. In this work, his iconic face breaks into Rick, from Rick and Morty — a scientist of chaos, a rebel of reason, a walking paradox. Because what if genius isn’t about being right? But about having fun in a universe no one fully understands? “Intelligence” isn’t a portrait. It’s a wormhole — between science and silliness, logic and lunacy, Einstein and everything after.

“THE EAR OF VAN GOGH” “THE VOICE OF SILENCE” He cut off his earlobe. Wrapped it in cloth. Brought it to a brothel. Gave it to a woman, as if it were a gesture of tenderness. “With love. Vincent. ” No one listened. His brushstrokes were too restless. His colors — too bright. He sold only one painting in his entire life. The rest were used to cover holes in the walls. He dreamed of becoming a priest — they cast him out. He wanted to be understood — they locked him away. Only his brother believed in him. But even that love wasn’t enough. He painted stars that burned brighter than he did. Drank turpentine. Ate paint. Believed in beauty — even when no one believed in him. Today, they call him a genius. Back then, they called him mad. He died thinking it was all for nothing. And only the ear, sealed in a plastic bag, still listens. In case someone, someday, finally says:
“I hear you. ” Charlie Chaplin. He never needed words. His silence was louder than speeches, funnier than punchlines, sadder than violins. And yet, he was understood — in Paris, in Berlin, in Buenos Aires, in Cairo, in Tokyo, in Moscow. No subtitles. Just a hat, a cane, and a heartbeat. He filmed the same scene a hundred times to capture a single honest second. He lived between takes and died with a joke in his pocket. He refused to let the Tramp speak. Because once he did, he’d belong to one language, one country, one class. But silence? Silence belonged to everyone. In this painting, he steps out of the frame. Because frames are rules. And he never stayed inside them.

“Behind the fame” Frank Sinatra. A voice smooth as velvet, and sharp enough to cut through decades. He sang like he owned the night — but was terrified of silence. He slept with the TV on, afraid of being alone with his thoughts. He was adored by millions, but once gave a private concert outside a hospital just so a woman he loved could hear his voice again. He had friends in high places. And some in darker ones. Charm was his weapon. Control, his armor. He demanded perfection. Feared irrelevance. Loved deeply. Lost heavily. This isn’t a portrait of the legend. It’s the echo behind the spotlight. The noise inside the silence. The part of the man you couldn’t dance to — but you could feel.

“The sweet Dali” This painting has no meaning. As with most of Dali’s work, the absence of meaning is entirely intentional. Still, let’s begin. He knew the value of art. That’s why, instead of paying with money, he’d draw on the check and sign his name. People didn’t cash them — they framed them. Because a scribble by Dali was priceless. He designed the Chupa Chups logo.Placed it on top — so it would always be visible. Even a lollipop, in his eyes, deserved immortality. He used to go to playgrounds with a bag of candy. He’d unwrap one. Lick it. Throw it into the sand. Children cried. He laughed. Or maybe it was just a story from his autobiography — the one full of absurdity. He hated how people lied beautifully about themselves. So he lied ridiculously. What was true? We’ll never know. Dali had no line between life and theatre. He made art out of everything — from his mustache to the spoon he used to catch inspiration. He said there was no meaning. But that was exactly where meaning began.

“The top of the chain” The lines look tilted. But they’re parallel. We think we’re at the top. But of what chain, exactly? Darwin never called humans the pinnacle of evolution. Evolution isn’t a ladder — it’s chaos. Survival doesn’t belong to the strongest, but to the most adaptable. The ones who can live inside the illusion. He kept his theory unpublished for forty years. Not because he doubted it — but because he knew how fragile belief can be. He dismantled divine order — and quietly stepped back. He studied nature. And ate it. Hawks, iguanas, even a puma. The so-called crown of creation — with a napkin in his lap — sampling evolution by taste. So who’s really at the top? The one who observes the chain — or the one who swallows its links?

“Holly marilyn” Marilyn Monroe She wanted to be taken seriously. But they loved her more when she laughed. She pent her childhood between foster homes and daydreams. Changed her name, her smile, her silhouette, until the girl in the mirror looked like someone the world might want. She read philosophy in her trailer. Took acting classes no one believed she needed. Longed not just to be adored — but understood. She carried loneliness like perfume — invisible, but always there. Her beauty became her mask. Her mask became her cage. But behind it lived a woman who felt everything, deeply. ‘Holly Marilyn’ is not a story about a star. It’s about a woman who tried to turn attention into connection, fame into love, and light into something that could warm her, not blind her.

“Karl the king” Karl Lagerfeld He believed in elegance — but never softness. Every morning, he became himself. Gloves. Glasses. High collar. Armor. Not to hide — to dominate. He once said he wore gloves because hands reveal too much. Too much age. Too much truth. He read obsessively. Judged instinctively. Worked like a machine, and spoke like a man who didn’t need your approval. He said: “I am a caricature of myself. ” But no one dared to laugh. He didn’t follow fashion. He bent it to his will. With irony. With cruelty. With genius. ‘Karl the King’ is not a tribute. It’s a portrait of obsession — tailored, masked, untouchable. Because real control never leaves fingerprints.

“My Freud” “Intelligence” He said children have sexual fantasies. He said we dream in code, that jokes hide desires, and that behind every “I love you” there’s a battlefield of memory. He wrote about pleasure, guilt, mothers, fathers, lips, hunger, and the terrifying complexity of being human — while smoking cigars and becoming immortal. Some called him a genius. Others, a fraud. He became both. And that’s what made him a legend. The pink rabbit mask? It’s not a joke. It’s what Freud would wear today if he had to walk into the room and say the things no one else dared to say. Albert Einstein — the man who changed time, proved that space bends, and played the violin when no one was watching. He redefined reality with equations, but never stopped wondering like a child. He said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge. ” And maybe, just maybe — genius isn’t in answers, but in the freedom to ask impossible questions. In this work, his iconic face breaks into Rick, from Rick and Morty — a scientist of chaos, a rebel of reason, a walking paradox. Because what if genius isn’t about being right? But about having fun in a universe no one fully understands? “Intelligence” isn’t a portrait. It’s a wormhole — between science and silliness, logic and lunacy, Einstein and everything after.

“THE EAR OF VAN GOGH” “THE VOICE OF SILENCE” He cut off his earlobe. Wrapped it in cloth. Brought it to a brothel. Gave it to a woman, as if it were a gesture of tenderness. “With love. Vincent. ” No one listened. His brushstrokes were too restless. His colors — too bright. He sold only one painting in his entire life. The rest were used to cover holes in the walls. He dreamed of becoming a priest — they cast him out. He wanted to be understood — they locked him away. Only his brother believed in him. But even that love wasn’t enough. He painted stars that burned brighter than he did. Drank turpentine. Ate paint. Believed in beauty — even when no one believed in him. Today, they call him a genius. Back then, they called him mad. He died thinking it was all for nothing. And only the ear, sealed in a plastic bag, still listens. In case someone, someday, finally says:
“I hear you. ” Charlie Chaplin. He never needed words. His silence was louder than speeches, funnier than punchlines, sadder than violins. And yet, he was understood — in Paris, in Berlin, in Buenos Aires, in Cairo, in Tokyo, in Moscow. No subtitles. Just a hat, a cane, and a heartbeat. He filmed the same scene a hundred times to capture a single honest second. He lived between takes and died with a joke in his pocket. He refused to let the Tramp speak. Because once he did, he’d belong to one language, one country, one class. But silence? Silence belonged to everyone. In this painting, he steps out of the frame. Because frames are rules. And he never stayed inside them.

“Behind the fame” Frank Sinatra. A voice smooth as velvet, and sharp enough to cut through decades. He sang like he owned the night — but was terrified of silence. He slept with the TV on, afraid of being alone with his thoughts. He was adored by millions, but once gave a private concert outside a hospital just so a woman he loved could hear his voice again. He had friends in high places. And some in darker ones. Charm was his weapon. Control, his armor. He demanded perfection. Feared irrelevance. Loved deeply. Lost heavily. This isn’t a portrait of the legend. It’s the echo behind the spotlight. The noise inside the silence. The part of the man you couldn’t dance to — but you could feel.