Troy McEvers is a self-taught visual artist from Kansas City, Missouri. With a lifelong passion for the surreal and imaginative, McEvers has used his art to take viewers on a journey of exploration and discovery. Characterized by ethereal, dream-like imagery and intense, powerful symbolism, his works span multiple mediums, including doors and windows, The Hardware store has become an art supply depot for Troy.
Having started his creative journey in the mid 90s, McEvers has crafted an impressive portfolio over the years full of mesmerizing imagery and visionary themes. His work is inspired by an array of surrealist, utopian, and dystopian motifs, often depicting surreal realities and entheogenic entities. He’s spent much of the last two decades finding and utilizing unexpected materials, like windows and doors to hone his craft. Now at the age of 52, McEvers continues to make groundbreaking art, pushing creative boundaries and pushing himself to his limits. He lives for the creative process and relies on his own intuition for direction, He is always taking us to fascinating and unpredictable places.
McEvers has also resided in Oakland CA, Boston MA, and Lawrence KS You can follow the links below to his social media accounts.
Artist Statement / Detroit 2038
Artist Statement / Detroit
For several days it has rained, but even with limited visibility I can see the distant explosions. Many of my cohorts thought it odd that I would venture to such a dismal place. The tropics, Europe, Disneyland; none could intrigue me as the icon I am witnessing. I had been to D.C., drove overnight to see the Oklahoma bombing, and visited the trade center distraction, Roswell, even Vegas. Nothing compared to modern day Detroit. Look at it, I keep repeating to myself. Its outlandish. Many things go thru a person’s head while sitting in a hot tub with cocktail in hand, hearing the subtle rumble of air force jets near by. Six beautiful identically modeled WRL2038 waitresses cater faultlessly to you every need. They posses a human quality so real it could be maddening. For me
Much has changed since the last time my friends and I visited here. Only 10 years ago, we were taking a Hunter S.-esque tour from Kansas to New York. A mid March chill in a vast flat land with domed white sky. It started to flurry, no clouds in sight. A dry dusting, ash like, swirled and tumbled along the vacant freeway. We were discussing robots.
“I know I was a bit out there, but I truly believe He was a robot,” Mike said.
“The future is now,” I replied.
As we passed the bill boarded outskirts, traffic condensed and attention resumed. Mike looked over, “So do you think he was a robot?”
“ Maybe in microchip, definitely not completely manufactured, “ I replied.
That night our driver took us on a tour of the city. “ Never mind the anarchy children,” he began,” the drugs have done them in, or the dealers out front, they have their customers, even the rodents have no threatened corners. Everything has moved to the suburbs. Just vacant buildings and a few dive bars. The city is a wide boulevard of wasteland, gravel for dirt and weeds for trees. A city that time forgot. So what do you guys think, pretty mad max?”
Unbelievable, yet so real, I thought. Already in total awe, the mystique was completed on arrival to The Golden Dollar. A Japanese band called The Ruins was tearing thru a set of speed metal. What a bar: cigarettes, beer and dirt, a smudge of history that stuck to your shoes and built up beneath your nails. Undernourished twentysomething’s graffiti covers themselves and their surroundings. Their head banging whirled the dense smoke in the red lighting. I loved it; black walls and rusted pipes, condom dispensers and doorless bathrooms. Detroit rock city, the automobile, Motown, techno. What a destiny this city has, I remember thinking. And, oh yes, one more thing. We met a peculiar group of girls, I could not get the robot idea out of my head. There was something that was making too much sense. I felt no life force in one of the girls. I reached out and touched her. She wasn’t ghostly nor cold. Very bizarre.
“ Déjà vu.” I said.
“ Do you think,” He replied?
“ Yeah. Perhaps organic robotics.”
That was then and this is now. A boomtown once again only gold is not the rush and oil is not the faucet. Terror is the name of the game and prevention is big business in Detroit. Young, dumb and full of cum recession boys flock at the idea of our dictators call to arms. First hundreds now thousands practice attack to defend battle training within the old city. The concrete jungle provides hundreds of buildings, and ex-professional sports stadium, railroad station and suspension bridge. The government provided the work, housing and provisions within the city limits. Much like WWII when the city became the Arsenal for Democracy, the factories were already in place for the transition into a war machine. Detroit is an industrial giant once sgain.
The suburbs turned to entertainment, booze and prostitution. Strip clubs and lounge legends hold onto the past while the young and rich frequent the oxygen bars and disco techs. Luxury hotels climb to the sky offering the best views. Big shots from L.A., New York, Atlantic City and Las Vegas feasted on the opportunity to build a fantasyland over night. A theme park for the internet generation. Expensive three and a half star hotels with state of the art rooftop bars, indoor pool and viewing deck. For a small fee you can look through high-powered binoculars similar to the ones at Niagara Falls and the Grand Canyon. Along with all sporting events, monitors screen the main attraction, war games watched liked horse racing. Have a swim, martini and watch the big boys spin their technological gadgets all from the convenience of the W hotel.
And the robots, Detroit has something to offer found nowhere else in the world. Intermingled with the humans, different makes of androids provide many of the services mandatory for a luxury experience, from wait staff to masseuse to prostitute. They have makes and models to please all.
So here I sit at the bar watching the future unfold before my eyes. The bartender, I cannot really tell if he is human or not, has been trying to convince me to visit one of the robotic brothels.
“You should try it out,” he goes on, “there’s no guilt. It’s a machine for Christ sake. Who needs a vibrating bed anymore? These beauties are the real deal. I had a guy sit right where you are sitting and tell me that when he got really deep he got an electric shock on his Johnny. He described it as if you were to put your tongue on a nine volt, if that’s not exotic I don’t know what is. “Although I don’t know about post sex bathing. Seems to me like a hair dryer in a bathtub situation.”
TROYART 
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