I was born Daniel Ben Bouker. I inherited the name Ben Bouker and the madness from my father, a Berber, Moroccan painter. His house wasn’t arranged; it was overtaken. Plants in every height and shape pressed against windows and walls, every inch that wasn’t stacked with canvases. It felt like a quiet revolt against the dark, cold concrete jungle of Oslo. The air was oil paint, turpentine, and cigarettes. You didn’t walk through it. You moved through it. The kitchen cabinets held VHS tapes instead of plates. Mostly horror. Camarón de la Isla on cassettes. My father tattooed me at six. The ink became part of me. Darkness wasn’t something to avoid. It was already there. Around that time, Pushwagner came through the window. He never used the door. That was normal. Art wasn’t sophisticated. It was raw. Unfiltered. The mark comes first. Structure follows, if at all.