Prompt:
A dark, surreal full-body illustration rendered in a hybrid style that fuses gritty painterly abstraction with macabre surrealism. The subject is a female reinterpretation of Santa Claus, but stripped of all warmth and festivity — a figure of eerie authority and corrupted myth. Her stance is powerful and confrontational: one leg slightly forward, shoulders squared, chin tilted down just enough for her cold, knowing gaze to meet the viewer with unsettling dominance.
Her face is striking, pale as frost (Pantone 7527 C) with subtle bluish undertones (Pantone 2905 C), sharp cheekbones accentuated by fragmented shadows and splashes of black ink. Her lips are painted deep crimson (Pantone 7622 C), cracked like dried wax, and her eyes glow faintly gold (Pantone 1235 C), illuminated as if by an internal fire. Her expression carries no joy — only the quiet menace of something ancient wearing a human face.
She wears a tattered reinterpretation of the Santa outfit: the traditional red replaced by corroded, desaturated tones of blood-wine (Pantone 188 C) and oxidized copper (Pantone 876 C). The coat, long and shredded, flares open at the hem as if torn by wind or claws, its edges dissolving into inky splatters and frayed textures that blend with the background. Beneath, instead of fur, streaks of blackened soot and ash trace across the fabric, mingling with painterly smears of deep gray (Pantone 431 C). The belt is a rusted strip of metal-like leather (Pantone 469 C) fastened by a jagged, asymmetrical buckle that looks hand-forged rather than crafted.
Her hair is wild and spectral — long, silver-white (Pantone 663 C) tangled with faint streaks of vermilion (Pantone 1797 C) that fade into painterly chaos. It flows outward like smoke, dissolving into violent ink splashes and fragmented brush marks, each strand a gesture in motion. She is barefoot, her feet emerging from swirling textures of shadow and dust, toes stained by the ashen ground beneath her.
The background is a dreamscape of dissolution — a nightmarish wasteland of twisted architecture and skeletal remnants of festive iconography. Faint outlines of broken toys, shattered bells, and burnt wreaths float within layers of ochre-gray mist (Pantone 424 C) and crimson fog (Pantone 7625 C). Sharp calligraphic streaks of black ink (Pantone Black 6 C) slice across the scene, while dripping textures and chaotic splatter patterns bleed from her silhouette, merging her into the ruinous atmosphere.
Faint, ghostly light emanates from behind her — not warm, but sterile and cold (Pantone 663 C), casting fractured reflections across her torn garments and pale skin. The air feels heavy with decay and reverence, as though this “Santa” brings not gifts, but judgment.
The overall tone is haunting, visceral, and provocative: a vision of corrupted mythology where sensuality, menace, and decay intertwine — the spirit of giving transformed into a spectral force of reckoning, rendered through explosive ink, shadow, and painterly destruction.
More about Carol Choirs and Corporate Liars
Every year, the same farce begins again — the so-called “Christmas spirit.” The worst celebration of the year, the grand festival of human hypocrisy wrapped in tinsel and fake smiles.
I mean, seriously — if you’re awful all year, if you treat people like trash, if compassion and empathy are foreign concepts to you eleven months out of twelve, why the hell do you suddenly feel the urge to pretend you care just because it’s December? Why this annual masquerade of fake kindness and shallow generosity?
If greed, selfishness, and indifference define your daily life, why not have the decency to stay consistent? Spare us the forced cheer, the performative love, the hollow gifts, and the nauseating “Merry Christmas” messages you don’t even mean.
Maybe true honesty would be the greatest gift of all — to admit that you don’t care, that this season doesn’t change a damn thing about who you are. At least then, beneath all the lights and glitter, there would be a tiny flicker of truth..
Artist
