Somewhere between vanishing and survival, Jay Jackal was born.
Not out of triumph.
Not out of ambition.
But out of the thin, aching space between despair and decision — on the day I almost chose to disappear forever.
It was there, in the absolute stillness of surrender, that a thought arrived.
Buckminster Fuller’s experiment: “to find what a single individual could contribute to changing the world and benefiting all humanity.”
If the world offered no more sanctuary, perhaps it could still offer a mission.
From that edge, Jay Jackal emerged — not as a persona, but as a promise.
A forever-female protagonist, stitched together from fragments of memory and myth, named after a favorite book: The Day of the Jackal.
Born in 1994 — as marked by an MTN spray can — Jackal carries the spirit of the ready-made, a living gesture drawn from the provocations of Marcel Duchamp and the radical authorship of Claire Fontaine.
An artist-as-idea.
A storyteller without a face.
A ghost who speaks in paint paint and a paintbrush.
Authorship is deliberately scattered — like dust across abandoned streets.
Jackal belongs to no one and everyone: a being carried forward by unseen hands, shaped by the winds of necessity and rebellion.
Anonymity, for Jay Jackal, is both a tactical necessity and a poetic rebellion.
A refusal to become product.
A refusal to trade truth for applause.
In disappearing, she becomes louder.
In remaining nameless, she names the fears we would rather not face.
The Why was written long before the Who.
“ A profound climate sadness…
A realisation…
To do climate nothing is a sin…
Our kids’ future…
The birth of an anonymous loner…
The Jackal…
Deeply flawed…
A street storyteller…
Lyrical fragments…
That narrate the mournful climate lament…
A hopeful dialogue…
Writ small on the abandoned midnight street…”
Jay Jackal fights for all that is fragile and sacred:
• Climate survival
• Artistic integrity
• A future for the next generation
• The fractured, forgotten connection between humanity and nature
Each work — whether whispered in chalk, painted with a brush, stitched into cloth, or driven across cities — is a wound and a wonder.
Each fragment calls out across the noise, asking: What will you stand for? What will you save?
Jackal does not expect to save the world.
But she knows that silence is a form of surrender.
She knows that to mourn without acting is to consent.
And she believes — fiercely, irrationally, beautifully — that there is still hope.
Hope that with the wild leaps in technology now unfurling, with human ingenuity sharpened by necessity, we can yet turn back from the brink.
That new dialogues can emerge from the ruins.
That tomorrow’s children might breathe a freer air because someone, somewhere, chose to rebel with paint a brush.
Jay Jackal vanishes so the message can survive.
The art is the voice.
The message is the movement.
The story is still being written — in secret, in sunlight, in storm
