Rkw takes us by the hand and leads us to a place that never really existed, except within us. It’s the place of first visual instincts, of crooked drawings filled with soul, of a time when we looked at the world without needing to understand it. His creatures feel like they’ve stepped out of a forgotten coloring book, one we left tucked inside a drawer of the mind. And yet, if you look closely, they aren’t just echoes of the past, they are living presences, emotional archetypes still speaking a language made of silence, imperfect lines, and wide, wide eyes. The artist doesn’t ask us to interpret, only to feel.

The line, intentionally essential, is not a lack but a radical choice. Here, simplicity is not a naïve aesthetic,it’s an inner grammar. There are few lines, flat colors, reduced forms. It’s a language of restraint, of breath, of letting go. Rkw puts it plainly: “Simple isn’t easy.” In fact, it is the rawest and most difficult form of honesty. Like a salmon swimming upstream for no clear reason, or a cat living slowly with nothing to prove, each creature is a gesture of subtraction, a return to the essential, to the emotional root of things. And this subtraction does not empty the work,it intensifies it.

In a world where art often shouts to be noticed, Creatures whispers. It doesn’t resist through confrontation, but proposes another path: that of gentleness. It is quiet work, but never weak. In fact, it is in the refusal of spectacle that it becomes powerful. At a time when everything must be spectacular, rkw reminds us that even a thin line can carry weight, that even invisible things,like bacteria lovingly drawn—can live loud lives. There is no irony or nostalgia in these works, but a new form of presence. A tender presence, slightly offbeat, but utterly sincere.

Childhood here is not just subject—it’s method. The gesture with which the artist draws is fast, instinctual, undomesticated. Mistakes remain, strange forms are left as they are. It’s a practice nourished by freedom, one that protects the most fragile and authentic part of art, making: the part where we play, experiment, feel joy without fear. And it’s also a kind of care. Because in these creatures, we recognize something of ourselves, a part we’ve often stopped listening to. Creatures, then, becomes an act of emotional resistance, a way to keep alive the fragment of us that stubbornly refuses to grow up entirely.

And what remains, after encountering these works? Not a fixed meaning, not a message to decode. What remains is a sensation: an involuntary smile, a soft ache in the throat, a pause in the day’s noise. And maybe that’s the rarest gift Creatures offers, a small, silent space where we can feel again. A gentle corner where everything is slightly off, and perfectly right. Where even the smallest thing, if listened to, can become deeply human.