"I'm not getting rid of the monsters," Royce calmly told me at the opening, after I gasped in monster-like exasperation of the very thought of the possibility.
The ghosts are a better subject for canvas, he explained. "The monsters are more for the streets."
The ghost is a fella who died and floats around in the afterlife. He is "just trying to have a good time," Royce said.
The ghosts never seem entirely carefree, though. One fishes in darkened water. Another skates precariously off an edge. Another is merrily jumping off a hopscotch plank.
Tiny skulls bobble around some ghosts. Each skull is a conscience, an uneasy reminder of some unknown concern.
The ghosts seem more tentative than the monsters, but they have to be in their circumstances, I s'ppose. The monsters have 'tude, fighting for your attention in the busy streets. The ghosts drift across expansive planes of their personal solitude.
Surviving in the streets is one thing; outrunning the inner-conscience is another battle altogether.