Bunny Bones

There's something profoundly honest about tearing something soft wide open and showing what's inside. Rocky Asbury's Bunny Bones began, like so much of his work, with a feeling — the strange duality of things that appear innocent on the surface but carry something much weightier within. The bunny, that universal symbol of childhood comfort and tenderness, is laid bare here. Its stuffing replaced by ribs and bones. Its button eyes gone wide with something between panic and peace. And yet — right there in the center of all that exposure — a small red heart, still whole, still beating. Asbury built this canvas the way he builds all his work: without a net. Layers arrived in waves — the deep charcoal and crimson ground, the chaotic graffiti energy of cyan and pink scrawls, the white bones scratched in with the confidence of someone who trusts the process completely. Stars and stripes bleed into the upper register, grounding the figure in a cultural moment that feels both timeless and urgently now. The scattered bones, the dripping marks, the raw visible gestures — none of it is accidental. All of it is felt. What Bunny Bones ultimately asks is the question Rocky has been asking since he walked away from everything to pick up a brush: what are you really made of when everything else is stripped away? The answer, at least on this canvas, is simple and stunning — just a heart. Still beating. Still here.