In Sons of Man, a monstrous bio-mechanical jet—part crucifix, part war machine—rips through the sky, piloted by two faceless, storm-trooper-like figures fused to its alien frame. Below, an ocean of humanity gazes upward in dread, their fear swallowed by the vastness of the spectacle. The scene reads like a modern apocalypse, merging the iconography of salvation with the machinery of annihilation. It recalls mythic visitations of divine wrath—the flaming chariots of Ezekiel, the winged steeds of the Valkyries—but here the messengers are not saviors, only heralds of domination. In its fusion of the sacred and the profane, the work becomes a grim prophecy of humanity’s own creations ascending to rule over them.
Reverse: Sketch for a future painting of a nightmarish steam-engine.
