W.A.R. II
(we are right too)
"We Are Right Too" (W.A.R. 2) is a project that dissects the mechanisms through which ideologies, social structures, and personal beliefs become instruments of manipulation and conflict. It explores how the conviction of holding the 'absolute truth' can distort reality, turning victims into aggressors and perpetuating a cycle of dominance and collective blindness.
At the core of the project lies the deconstructed human figure, stripped of its eyes, hybridized with elements of childhood—such as teddy bear ears—juxtaposed against expressions of rigidity and dissolution. These figures exist as both leaders and amorphous masses, entities who claim righteousness yet lose their humanity in the process. The absence of eyes becomes a symbol of dogma, of the inability to perceive beyond one's own perspective, to acknowledge the complexity of the other.
Scissors, repetitive geometric structures, and rigid compositions emphasize the oppressive nature of ideological and institutional frameworks. The act of cutting—present throughout the series—evokes both censorship and self-inflicted blindness, a voluntary surrender to systems that promise clarity but impose control. In this visual language, the interplay between sharp, mechanical forms and organic distortions speaks to the tension between external authority and personal resistance.
At its core, W.A.R. 2 is an autopsy of conviction—a dissection of the certainty that fuels wars, whether political, social, or personal. Through this series, I invite the viewer to question the narratives they inherit, the truths they defend, and the consequences of being "right." Where does belief end and coercion begin? When does the pursuit of justice turn into oppression?
This project does not provide answers. Instead, it acts as a distorted mirror, compelling the audience to confront their own role in the intricate machinery of ideology and power.
"The Plush Parliament"
Lucian Radu
180 x 300 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
In a tense interplay between strength and fragility, The Plush Parliament questions the illusory nature of power. The imposing structure of an institution—symbolizing authority and decision-making that shapes destinies—is reimagined as a soft, plush-covered entity. This material inversion raises a fundamental question: is power truly solid and unshakable, or merely a comforting facade that conceals its inherent vulnerability?
The building's windows resemble hollow eye sockets, evoking a sense of absence, as if the structure itself is blind to its own function. In some places, they take on the appearance of caves—dark voids that suggest something hidden, eroded, or even primitive beneath the polished exterior of governance. Atop the building, two enormous teddy bear ears loom over the facade, an unsettling juxtaposition of innocence and control. They transform the institution into something almost sentient yet infantilized, as if authority itself is trapped in a state of unresolved duality—both protector and manipulator, both comforting and oppressive.
This work confronts the viewer with a visual dissonance: a monument once rigid and impenetrable is now an organic, almost playful form—seemingly harmless, yet unsettling in its softness. It suggests that institutions, despite their imposing presence, are malleable constructs shaped by perception, collective memory, and fear.
In this contrast, the relationship between the individual and the system is also reflected. We lean on its apparent strength, yet if we were to physically rely on it, we might find nothing but a yielding surface, incapable of supporting our weight. The Plush Parliament thus becomes a meditation on political and social illusions—an invitation to reassess what we perceive as stable and unshakable, only to uncover the fragility hidden at the core of all authority.
"S.H.E. (See Her Eyes)"
Lucian Radu
45 cm / cley / 2025
S.H.E. is a sculptural exploration of absence and identity, where the missing eyes become an open wound, a silent testimony to a lost gaze. The figure of the woman, seemingly serene yet deeply fractured, is adorned with teddy bear ears, a recurring motif that alludes to the fragile persistence of childhood within the adult self. She has no eyes, but within her hollowed-out core, a teddy bear’s stuffing is exposed—soft, raw, and unsettling—a direct embodiment of the inner child, vulnerable and ever-present.
This contrast between the external form and the hidden interior speaks of duality: the adult who carries the remnants of innocence, the strength that masks unresolved wounds. The missing eyes are not just voids; they are invitations. An invitation to wonder: What has she seen? What does she refuse to see? What has been taken from her?
By integrating the teddy bear’s stuffing inside the hollowed bust, the work confronts the notion that childhood is something we leave behind. Instead, it remains within us—sometimes buried, sometimes torn open, always shaping our perception of the world. S.H.E. is both a statement and a question, urging the viewer to look beyond what is absent and into the delicate, unspoken realities of memory, trauma, and resilience.
"Descent into Memory"
Lucian Radu
180 x 180 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A colossal teddy bear, blind and weightless, tumbles from the sky—its body surrendered to gravity, its wings of scissors failing to hold it aloft. It is not falling, nor is it flying. It is descending—slowly, inevitably—into something deeper than earth itself: memory.
Its elongated arms stretch beyond the frame, breaching the limits of the painting, as if reaching for something just out of grasp. But there is nothing to hold onto. Its eyes are absent, its purpose unclear. Once a symbol of comfort, the bear now feels abandoned, untethered, caught in a silent freefall between past and present.
The horizon burns with uncertainty—dawn or dusk, arrival or departure, birth or burial. The cosmos above remains indifferent, a vast, star-strewn expanse that neither pulls it upward nor softens its fall. Is this the end of something, or the beginning?
Descent into Memory is a meditation on nostalgia, loss, and the weight of things once cherished. What happens when the symbols of childhood no longer belong to us, when they drift away, heavy with time, too distant to retrieve?
They do not crash. They do not disappear. They simply descend, forever falling, forever remembered.
"Cutting Peace"
Lucian Radu
30 cm / Resin / 2025
A white sculpture, stark and silent, yet filled with tension. A hand emerges, fingers curling into the universal gesture of peace—two raised digits, a symbol of hope, unity, and resolution. But here, peace is not intact. The fingers are not fingers at all, but the serrated blades of a toy scissor, jagged and unnatural.
The transformation is unsettling, yet deliberate. What should be a sign of harmony is now an instrument of division, a fragile imitation of peace shaped by childhood trauma. The toy-like appearance deceives at first glance, yet the zigzagged edges cut deep—not into flesh, but into memory, into the psyche, into the unseen wounds that form in the earliest years of life.
The smooth, polished surface of the sculpture contrasts with the violent implication of its shape. It is a monument to a distorted innocence, a symbol of how early wounds reshape our understanding of peace, of touch, of human connection. Is this a hand offering peace, or one warning of the scars left behind?
"Zelensky’s suit"
Lucian Radu
80 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
This painting is a visual critique of the absurdity of political and media discourse in times of war. Inspired by a journalist's question about why Zelensky doesn’t wear a suit, the painting juxtaposes a luxurious suit hanging on a metal hanger—its hook twisted into a question mark—against the brutal reality of the Ukrainian battlefield. The suit, a traditional symbol of authority and decorum, is rendered useless and hollow in the face of war, where survival eclipses all notions of formal appearance.
The twisted hanger, forming a question mark, emphasizes the sheer absurdity of prioritizing etiquette in the midst of destruction. It reflects how distant and tone-deaf political and media narratives can be when addressing war. The empty suit becomes a metaphor for the detachment of power from the lived experience of those on the ground, reducing leadership to a mere performance rather than an active fight for survival. Within W.A.R. 2: We Are Right Too, this piece serves as a critique of institutional blindness and the way war is framed by external observers. While people fight and die, discussions remain fixated on irrelevant symbols, exposing the hypocrisy of a world that struggles to reconcile reality with its preferred illusions.
"Structures 0.1"
Lucian Radu
80 x100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
Structures is a visual exploration of the social and political systems that shape, control, and sometimes dismantle individuality. The scissors, repeated as a central element, are not merely tools for cutting but symbols of the power to divide, define, and censor. In this composition, the rigid blades become architectures of authority, representing structures that claim to bring order but ultimately fragment both collective and personal identity.
Through this work, the spaces between the blades and the shadows they cast become just as significant as the object itself, suggesting the absences, silences, and voids created by systems that impose invisible boundaries. What remains when structures define existence too rigidly?
“Imperator Descindes (the king who divides) ”
by Lucian Radu
120 x 180 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
Elon Musk appears not as a man, but as an emperor of the technological age—exalted, disfigured, and descending into history as both a visionary and a force of disruption. His missing eyes erase identity, leaving only influence, myth, and control.
His right hand is no longer flesh but a scissor-like appendage, a cold, mechanical extension of power—cutting, dividing, shaping industries, ideologies, and human autonomy. Behind him, the ghostly echo of the Nazi salute lingers, a symbol that scandalized the world, now woven into the composition as a haunting reflection on leadership, allegiance, and unchecked influence.
The scene oscillates between progress and collapse, with celestial ambitions, technological wreckage, and ideological specters merging into a singular vision. Is this the fall of an empire or humanity’s surrender to the myth of singular power?
"Confetti Rain (Distorted celebration)"
Lucian Radu
150 x 300 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
Confetti Rain is as a reflection on power, blindness, and the unsettling theater of leadership. A faceless politician stands at the podium—his eyes removed, his hands unnaturally elongated, his ears resembling those of a teddy bear. He speaks to a crowd just like him: sightless, uniform, absorbed in the spectacle. Confetti rains from the sky, turning the scene into a distorted celebration.
Who truly leads when no one can see? Are we celebrating progress, or are we blindly following into the abyss? This work is my exploration of conformity, manipulation, and the illusion of authority—an invitation for the viewer to question who holds power and why.
"Insectarium (butterfly 01.)"
Lucian Radu
150 x 300 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
Three canvases. Three children. Three silent specimens pinned in place. Each child, stripped of their gaze, devoid of eyes, stares into nothingness—an unsettling presence that refuses to meet the viewer, yet demands to be seen. Their ears, soft and round like a teddy bear’s, hint at innocence, but the sharp steel of the scissors embedded in their backs tells another story.
They hang like insects on a collector’s board, their bodies frozen, cataloged, and displayed. The scissors, symmetrical and rigid, mimic the delicate yet brutal anatomy of pinned butterflies or beetles—fragile creatures preserved in a state of permanent stillness. But these are not insects. They are children. And the question lingers—who pinned them here? Who decided that they must remain motionless, silenced, objectified?
The triptych is a confrontation with the unseen forces that shape childhood—the systems that extract obedience, the traumas that go unnoticed, the invisible hands that frame and fix identities before they have the chance to form freely. The absence of eyes is not just blindness, but an erasure of autonomy, while the teddy bear ears hint at a childhood that has been reshaped, manipulated, controlled.
INSECTARIUM is not just an exhibit—it is an autopsy of innocence, a museum of lost agency, a stark reminder that not all specimens belong behind glass.
"Codependency"
Lucian Radu
70 x 120 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A paradox sculpted in steel and softness—a scissor with a teddy bear’s fur wrapped around its handle, a tool of division disguised as comfort. At first touch, the plush material evokes warmth, safety, the remnants of childhood. But the illusion is fleeting. Beneath the softness lies cold, sharp metal, a tool meant to sever, to cut, to divide.
From one of the blades, a second blade emerges—unnatural, intrusive, like a wound that has learned to grow. This new edge is not just an extension, but an evolution—a mutation of past pain, a visual metaphor for how trauma, left unhealed, continues to develop, feeding on itself, transforming into something larger, sharper, more consuming.
The contrast between the materials is suffocating: the softness traps, the sharpness wounds. The teddy bear fur, once a symbol of comfort, now clings, wrapping around the instrument like an attachment that refuses to let go. It is the embodiment of codependency—where protection and harm become indistinguishable, where what once nurtured now restrains, where the very thing that provides comfort is also the thing that cuts deepest.
Does the hand grip the scissor, or does the scissor grip the hand? Codependency asks where the line is drawn—between care and control, between attachment and entrapment, between love and the wounds it sometimes leaves behind.
"Untill War Do Us Part "
Lucian Radu
70 x 120 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A woman stands, shrouded in a black veil that cascades to the ground, enveloping her like a mourning dress. Her hands shield her face—not just from view, but from history, from judgment, from the weight of loss. The veil, a symbol of widowhood, of grief, of separation, is not merely worn—it consumes her, binding her in silence.
Her bare shoulders, exposed beneath the heavy fabric, whisper of vulnerability, of forced visibility in a world that has already defined her. She is both the widow and the offering, the one left behind and the one claimed. Atop her head, teddy bear ears sit incongruously—a fragile relic of childhood, of innocence long lost, distorted by the weight of survival.
The veil is not untouched. Along its edges, the marks of scissors remain—sharp, jagged, merciless. A reminder that womanhood, grief, and identity are often shaped by hands that do not belong to her. This is not just mourning—it is a war-torn existence, a grief imposed by forces beyond her control. The veil does not only mark the loss of a partner; it marks the loss of self.
Until War Do Us Apart is not just a depiction of widowhood—it is a meditation on the way war, whether personal or political, claims women as its collateral. It asks: Is she grieving a person, or the parts of herself that have been cut away?
""S.H.E. (See Her Eyes)"
Lucian Radu
180 x 180 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
S.H.E. is a sculptural exploration of absence and identity, where the missing eyes become an open wound, a silent testimony to a lost gaze. The figure of the woman, seemingly serene yet deeply fractured, is adorned with teddy bear ears, a recurring motif that alludes to the fragile persistence of childhood within the adult self. She has no eyes, but within her hollowed-out core, a teddy bear’s stuffing is exposed—soft, raw, and unsettling—a direct embodiment of the inner child, vulnerable and ever-present.
This contrast between the external form and the hidden interior speaks of duality: the adult who carries the remnants of innocence, the strength that masks unresolved wounds. The missing eyes are not just voids; they are invitations. An invitation to wonder: What has she seen? What does she refuse to see? What has been taken from her?
By integrating the teddy bear’s stuffing inside the hollowed bust, the work confronts the notion that childhood is something we leave behind. Instead, it remains within us—sometimes buried, sometimes torn open, always shaping our perception of the world. S.H.E. is both a statement and a question, urging the viewer to look beyond what is absent and into the delicate, unspoken realities of memory, trauma, and resilience.
""Screenbound""
Lucian Radu
100 x 150cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A child with teddy bear ears and scissor wings has fallen—crashed against the cold, flickering surface of an LED billboard. Their delicate, metallic wings, meant to carry them, have instead cut through the air, leading them straight into the artificial glow. Like a moth drawn to the flame, they were lured in, hypnotized by the light, only to be consumed by it.
The LED screen beneath them pulses, shifting between advertisements, images, and fragmented messages—a digital sun in a world where mass media is both attraction and destruction. The child, once full of movement, is now still—absorbed, erased, claimed by the glow. Soft teddy bear ears contrast cruelly with the rigid neon beneath, a quiet reminder that what seems warm and inviting can just as easily be a trap.
The scissor wings, sharp and skeletal, are not true wings of freedom but false promises of flight, fragile tools that offer movement but not escape. They echo the inevitability of self-destruction, the way we chase the very things that undo us, blinded by spectacle, by screens, by the curated narratives of a world that thrives on attention.
Moth Into the Flame is a meditation on media, obsession, and the slow, inevitable pull of artificial light. Is the child still falling, or have they already become part of the screen?
"Translucent"
Lucian Radu
70 x 120 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A figure barely there—a woman, frail and spectral, as if drained of all sunlight, all warmth, all presence. Her skin is pallid, almost translucent, stretched over a fragile frame that seems to waver between existence and disappearance. She is not a body, but a radiograph of one—a ghostly imprint of what was once whole.
Her eyes are missing, erased, leaving only emptiness where perception should be. Above this void, teddy bear ears sit like an echo of childhood—an innocence that lingers even as the body withers. But innocence does not protect; it merely remains, haunting, clinging to what is left.
Her arms, impossibly long, extend beyond human proportions, their contours shifting from flesh to something else—thick, heavy, fur-covered limbs that no longer belong to her. They are not human, not entirely animal, but something in between—a transformation, a distortion, a burden inherited from forces unseen.
The entire figure feels as though it is fading, dissolving into the background, caught in the moment between being and vanishing. Translucent is not just an image of a body—it is an image of absence, of deprivation, of something slowly becoming less and less real.
"The hole in my country (1989)"
Lucian Radu
80 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A flag, soft yet wounded—Romania’s tricolor, not woven from fabric, but from the plush, nostalgic texture of teddy bear fur. At its center, a gaping void: a heart-shaped hole, a symbol both of loss and defiance.
This is not just a tribute to history, but a reinterpretation of it. In 1989, revolutionaries cut the communist emblem from Romania’s flag, leaving behind an absence that spoke louder than any symbol ever could. That absence—the hole—became the purest representation of both liberation and trauma, of what was removed but never fully replaced.
In this version, the flag is not made of harsh fabric but of something meant to comfort—a teddy bear’s fur, a material of childhood, of safety, of memory. But even this softness is torn, revealing that even the most innocent things are not untouched by history.
The heart-shaped void is deliberate. It speaks of a country that lost something more than just a symbol—it lost people, time, and a sense of certainty. It asks: what remains when a wound becomes part of national identity? When does absence stop being a reminder of the past and start shaping the future?
The Hole in My Country is not just about 1989. It is about the lingering space left behind, the tenderness of memory, and the question of whether a nation can truly heal when its wounds are woven into its very fabric.
"He was biting his lower lip "
Lucian Radu
70 x 120 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A fragile, spectral scene—two children suspended between memory and oblivion, their figures as insubstantial as echoes. Rendered in stark black and white, the painting feels like a radiograph of loss, a silent testimony to history.
The composition draws from a real photograph of wartime Japan—an image of a boy carrying his lifeless younger brother, standing in dignified stillness, his lips pressed together, biting his lower lip in an unspoken act of restraint. In this painted reimagining, however, the children are no longer fully human—they are ghosts, shadows, remnants of an unbearable past.
Their eyes are gone, erased, hollow, as if grief itself has stolen their ability to see. Yet, on their heads, the soft, rounded ears of a teddy bear remain—an eerie vestige of childhood clinging to bodies already claimed by war. Their hands, unnaturally elongated, morph into plush, bear-like limbs—an unsettling transformation where comfort and horror become indistinguishable.
The entire image dissolves at the edges, as if time itself is eroding the memory, leaving behind only a faint imprint of suffering. Like an X-ray, it exposes not only the bones of the past, but the weight of what was lost—the innocence, the dignity, the unbearable silence of war's youngest casualties.
He Was Biting His Lower Lip is not just a painting—it is a fractured mirror reflecting the ghosts of history, a meditation on war, grief, and the quiet endurance of those left behind.
"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth"
Lucian Radu
80 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A book once meant for salvation—now marked by something colder, something altered. A Bible, its sacred weight undeniable, but its cover rewritten. The cross is gone. In its place, a scissor—a tool of precision, division, control. Across its surface, a single word: W.A.R.
This is not an attack on faith, nor a rejection of belief. It is a reflection on history—on how the spiritual has been reshaped by the political, on how faith has been wielded as an instrument, a mechanism, a means to govern rather than to guide.
Religion, in its essence, was meant to offer hope, to connect humanity to something beyond itself. But power has always seen belief as an opportunity. Kings and emperors, regimes and institutions—through centuries, faith has been trimmed, edited, repackaged to serve structures of control. Not destroyed, but redirected. Not erased, but weaponized.
The scissor on the cover is more than an absence of the cross—it is a symbol of selective truth, of spiritual narratives shaped to maintain order, of words turned into tools for governing minds. The political has used the divine not to liberate, but to dictate.
And so the title remains: The Truth, the Whole Truth, and Nothing But the Truth. An oath. A promise. A paradox.
How much of truth has been kept whole? How much has been cut away? How often has faith been a bridge—and how often has it been a blade?
"Structures 0.2"
Lucian Radu
80 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A composition of sharp precision and unsettling softness—foarfecele, rigid and cold, stand as towering structures, monuments of control, of division, of imposed order. But amid this landscape of mechanical rigidity, traces of fur linger—a haunting remnant of humanity, fragile yet inescapable.
Here, fur is more than texture. It is a symbol of warmth, of organic life, of something once untouched by structure. Yet, it clings to the blades, caught between metal, between mechanisms designed to shape, to cut, to govern. It is humanity constrained within the frameworks of war, of politics, of ideologies that dictate existence.
At the heart of the piece, a vaginal form emerges—a portal, a threshold, the origin of all systems. It is the place from which life enters the world, yet also the space where power structures are first imposed. From birth, we inherit not just life, but the systems that will define, limit, and direct it.
This is not a passive birth—it is the creation of conflict, the beginning of cycles that repeat. The portal does not merely bring life; it ushers in the birth of ideologies, of nations, of structures that will shape the world into war, into order, into something beyond the individual.
Structures II confronts the paradox of existence—that from the most intimate, organic beginning, we are thrust into systems far greater than ourselves. That from softness, structures rise. And that from the moment of creation, the machinery of control is already in motion.
"Perpetual trauma"
Lucian Radu
80 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
"Perpetual Trauma" is a testimony to a past that refuses to disappear. Ceaușescu no longer looks—his eyes have been removed, for true power does not need to see but to be seen. In place of his gaze, there remains a void that absorbs, an absence that becomes heavier than presence.
His suit transforms into scissors—an instrument of silence, censorship, control. A garment that cuts down any opposition, any dream, any unspoken word.
Ironic and tragic at the same time, the teddy bear ears betray the child he once was. Not a dictator, not a leader, but a child—a product of a system that shaped him so he could, in turn, shape fear. The teddy bear, a symbol of innocence, here becomes a defiant relic, a contrast between what could have been and what he became.
This work does not accuse. It does not redeem. It exposes. Trauma does not die with tyrants—it survives in those who lived it, in those who inherited it, in every corner of rewritten or denied history. "Perpetual Trauma" is about the cyclical nature of fear, about how the past seeps into the present and demands its tribute.
The question remains: who wears the scissors suit now?
"Rising"
Lucian Radu
100 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
What does it say about us, as a society, that we raise our traumas like towering idols, sculpting them into symbols of our collective pain and reverence? Have we, in our search for meaning, turned our wounds into monuments—censorship, fear, and oppression elevated as if they hold divine power over our lives? Do we venerate these shadows out of a need to remember, or have we unknowingly become their worshippers, trapped in an endless cycle of honoring what oppresses us?
"Do You?"
Lucian Radu
100 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A statement, an accusation, a challenge. You don't care about wars, let alone art. The words stand alone, stripped of embellishment, demanding attention. There is no image to soften them, no figure to distract—only text, direct and unfiltered.
It is both a reflection and a provocation. Do you care? Or has war become just another passing headline, another distant reality that flickers across screens before being forgotten? If destruction itself cannot hold attention, what chance does art have?
The phrasing is deliberate—not a question, but a statement. A confrontation with the viewer’s own apathy, their own detachment from the grand narratives of conflict, from the suffering that exists beyond the edges of their own world. The omission in the title, Do yo?, leaves an open space, a fractured sentence—forcing the viewer to complete it, to take responsibility for how they engage, or refuse to engage, with the world.
This is not just a piece about art or war. It is about the hierarchy of importance, about what gets to matter. If war itself cannot hold value, then where does that leave creation? If destruction is ignored, then what space is left for expression?
Do yo? is not simply read—it is answered. Whether consciously or unconsciously, every viewer leaves with a response.
"I VOTE"
Lucian Radu
100 x 100 cm / acrylic on canvas / 2025
A zombified hand rises, fingers forming the peace sign—but this peace is jagged, broken, and deceptive. The flesh is decayed, unnatural, as if drained of autonomy, as if it moves not by its own will, but by the invisible forces behind it. Where there should be fingers, there are blades—scissor-like, precise, cold.
The graffiti aesthetic is deliberate—raw, urgent, like a message sprayed in defiance on a crumbling wall. Born as a stencil, this image was meant for the streets, meant to be replicated, meant to exist in spaces where authority cannot dictate its presence. But instead of pure rebellion, the final version is painted over the stencil itself—layered, altered, manipulated, just like the systems it critiques.
The costume sleeve, formal and precise, reveals the figure beneath—the politician, the businessman, the entity that promises choice but delivers control. Democracy, leadership, authority—all wrapped in an image of peace, yet holding the sharpest edges beneath the surface.
The title, I Vote, is almost ironic. What does a vote mean when the hand that casts it is already compromised, already hollowed out, already shaped by something larger than itself? Is voting a choice, or a ritual performed by hands that have long since lost their agency?
Graffiti is rebellion. Stencils are mass-produced resistance. But when even these are co-opted, painted over, reworked—what remains? I Vote is not just about elections; it is about illusion, about the spaces where power disguises itself as freedom, about how control persists even in the act of choosing.
