Some commissions come with a story, but Meth Jesus came with a myth.
A reenactment group, JR/IR-459 — equal parts World War One history buffs and long-lunch legends—frequented a no-name café somewhere on the edge of Pennsylvania obscurity. Above the counter, watching over greasy burgers and chipped mugs of coffee, was a portrait of Jesus. Not the solemn Nazarene or the glowing Redeemer—but something else entirely. They dubbed him Meth Jesus, affectionately. Nobody knew who painted it. One day, they returned, and the image was gone. The café had been repainted, sanitized. The myth erased.
They contacted me to resurrect the image.
At first, I leaned into the divine—regal tones, a reverent expression.
It wasn’t right. So I pivoted. I don’t do meth, but I do drink. I acquired my favorite rum, got loose, and painted. In that altered state, something clicked.
The line between irony and sincerity blurred, and the figure returned—not the original, but a faithful spiritual successor. The next morning, sober, I corrected my oversteps and sealed the result.
Meth Jesus now lives in a bunker off the Central Power Lines, watching over reenactors, spare parts, and stories yet to be told.
Conservation Note:
Though currently housed in what is essentially a fortified shed, the piece was sealed with two coats of professional varnish over high-quality acrylic. While temperature fluctuations and humidity can accelerate deterioration in uncontrolled environments, this painting should endure reasonably well for years to come. For best results, avoid prolonged direct sunlight, moisture exposure, or placing it against uninsulated exterior walls. Periodic dusting with a dry microfiber cloth and eventual re-varnishing (once every 10–15 years) will help keep Meth Jesus looking just as he appeared after that inspired bender—slightly haunted, but strangely holy.