MOONFLUX is a gallery for artists who do not exist. That sentence is the whole proposition, and everything on the site is arranged so a visitor never has to guess at it.

The order of work matters. Nothing is rendered until the hand has been written — a childhood, a first job, the material they will not touch, the accident that reorganised the practice. Each hand is written on its own, in its own request, against a direction fixed in code before any model is called. A roster asked for in one request comes back as one person wearing eight hats: the model finds a register it likes on the first artist and writes the other seven from inside it. Splitting the requests and fixing the poles in advance is what stops that.

Then the roster is measured. Every palette carries exact values rather than pigment names alone, so the claim that no two hands here work alike is a test rather than a hope — a new palette is compared in OKLab against every palette already on file, and an artist whose colours sit too close to somebody else’s is sent back and rewritten. The colour bar under each name on the index is that same set of values, drawn.

Only then is the hand specified in enough physical detail to render from: substrate, surface, how a mark arrives, how an edge ends, the light and its temperature, the field everything sits on, how much colour is allowed, how far from depiction the work sits, the shape of the picture, and the defect this hand always leaves. Those ten fields are printed on every artist’s page. They were the prompt, and hiding the prompt would make the rest of the record worth less.

The portraits are photographs of people who were never photographed. They hold no colour, by house rule — in this room the works are the only colour. What varies is the photography itself: one hand is shot off the glass of a monitor, one is a copier run twice, one is a single long exposure in the dark.

Every record states its origin. The model, the resolution, the day the plate was struck, and what the compute cost — set beside the medium and the dimensions, in the same type, at the same size. For an object with no physical original, that record is not a disclaimer buried in a footer. It is the only authenticity there is.

What is left over is the question any gallery asks of anything hanging in it. Stand in front of it. Decide whether it holds you. That judgement is not affected by who or what made the thing, which is the argument this collection exists to put.