IN NO CLONE IS CREATED EQUAL, MIHAI MARZA MOBILIZES THE INSTANTLY RECOGNIZABLE FIGURE OF HOMER SIMPSON INTO A QUIETLY HAUNTING MEDITATION ON IDENTITY, CONFORMITY, AND THE TRAGICOMIC FAILURES OF MASS CULTURE. ROWS UPON ROWS OF HOMERS—IDENTICAL AT FIRST GLANCE IN THEIR WHITE SHIRTS, BLUE PANTS, AND VACANT STARES—STRETCH ACROSS THE CANVAS IN A PARODY OF ASSEMBLY-LINE HUMANITY. BUT UPON CLOSER INSPECTION, FRACTURES EMERGE: SUBTLE DIFFERENCES IN GAZE, POSTURE, AND OUTLINE. THE SAMENESS IS AN ILLUSION, AND THE ILLUSION IS EVERYTHING. A LARGE, INFLATED HOMER LOOMS ABOVE THE CROWD—BLOATED, ABSTRACTED, MELTING INTO AN ALMOST FORMLESS BUBBLE OF SELF-REPLICATION. THIS FLOATING FIGURE BECOMES BOTH ICON AND ERROR: A GLITCH IN THE CLONING MACHINE, OR PERHAPS A DREAM HOMER HAS OF HIMSELF. SUSPENDED AWKWARDLY, IT MOCKS THE VERY SYSTEM THAT CREATED IT. MARZA’S MUTED PALETTE OF YELLOW, GRAY, AND FADED BLUE ENHANCES THE SENSE OF EMOTIONAL NUMBING. THE GRAY BACKGROUND FUNCTIONS AS A PSYCHOLOGICAL VOID—A CORPORATE NOWHERE—AND THE HOMERS BECOME DRONES IN A CULTURE OF SELFCOPYING, WHERE INDIVIDUALITY IS BOTH ERASED AND INESCAPABLY HINTED AT. THE TITLE, NO CLONE IS CREATED EQUAL, OFFERS A PIERCING CONTRADICTION. IT SPEAKS TO BOTH THE FUTILITY OF STRIVING FOR UNIQUENESS WITHIN MASS PRODUCTION, AND THE STRANGE POETRY THAT ALWAYS LEAKS THROUGH THE CRACKS. THESE HOMERS ARE FACTORY-ISSUED, YET NOT QUITE RIGHT—EACH ONE MALFUNCTIONING IN HIS OWN QUIETLY HUMAN WAY. WITH SURGICAL HUMOR AND MELANCHOLIC PRECISION, MARZA ELEVATES A SITCOM ICON INTO AN EXISTENTIAL SYMBOL. IN A WORLD OBSESSED WITH REPLICATION—OF CONTENT, PERSONA, SELF—HE ASKS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THE COPIES START TO NOTICE EACH OTHER. OR WORSE, WHEN THEY DON’T. NO CLONE IS CREATED EQUAL IS NOT JUST A PAINTING. IT IS A PARADE OF PARADOXES: FUNNY BUT SAD, IDENTICAL BUT UNIQUE, FLAT BUT INFINITELY DEEP. THROUGH IT, MARZA CONTINUES TO USE THE GRAMMAR OF POP CULTURE TO WRITE A LANGUAGE OF SUBTLE REBELLION.