In "Quack Collapse," Mihai Mârza unravels the theatrical bravado of Donald Duck into a frenzied spectacle of duplication and disarray. What begins as playful recognition quickly spirals into psychological vertigo—a Technicolor meltdown where identity dissolves into performance, and expression becomes noise. The canvas teems with overlapping Donald Ducks, their features stacked, twisted, and spun into a dizzying vortex. Beaks gape open in silent shouts, eyes bulge in perpetual alarm, sailor hats and bowties blur into rhythmic symbols of collapsing coherence. Mârza’s repetition is deliberate, obsessive, and near-hypnotic—turning the character into both motif and mantra, both signal and static. The palette, saturated with electric blues, acidic yellows, and feverish reds, mimics the aesthetic intensity of mid-century animation while simultaneously pushing it to the brink of breakdown. Each figure feels caught in the loop of its own emotion—rage, confusion, silliness—trapped in the very identity it was designed to perform. Beneath the surface humor, the composition reveals something more fragile: a portrait of emotional overload, a commentary on the pressure to remain composed while falling apart. The familiar image of Donald Duck, once a symbol of comic tantrums, becomes here an avatar of psychic collapse—one that no longer amuses, but resonates. With "Quack Collapse," Mârza continues his excavation of pop culture’s emotional undercurrents, turning a cartoon icon into a mirror of human unraveling. It is a work of saturation and silence, of too much and not enough—a visual stutter that asks: when performance is all that’s left, what remains of the self?