for the ATL Twins
Sidney and Thurman wear full LOURDES.
Ten years ago, Sidney and Thurman Sewell were viral creatures. Bizarre mascots of an American identity quickly becoming enmeshed with the rapidly-evolving internet. The ATL Twins, as they became known, came crawling out of the online swamp during the early 2010s, a pair of identical hedonists who slept with the same girl, shared the same bed, and rode vulgar synchronicity into short-lived stardom. They appeared in Vice, in Harmony Korine’s Spring Breakers alongside James Franco and Selena Gomez, and before they knew it they were living off adrenaline and adoration. Free clothes. Endless parties. Threesomes with strangers in VIP booths. They were invited everywhere but welcomed nowhere. Fame gave them access, but not belonging.
"It felt like everyone wanted something from us, but no one actually saw us," one of them said. Even if it were possible for me to discern which twin was talking, it wouldn’t matter. They operate as a hive mind and finish each other’s sentences.
They were branded as freaks and played the part, but the thrill came with a comedown. It got dark fast. Excess for the sake of excess, a parody of themselves. They couldn’t go back to normal. They were the internet’s own Siamese fever dream. Until one day, they just vanished.
The Twins are more than just siblings; they’re a mirror turned inwards. Raised poor in Chattanooga, Tennessee, they survived a swirl of poverty, paranoia, and problems. They watched their father die when they were 14. A friend was murdered. School was a joke. Drugs were the curriculum. Twinship became a fortress. Sharing everything–beds, girls, clothes, dreams–was simply survival logic.
We pulled off the highway and parked at the warehouse, tucked behind seemingly vacant buildings in a strip mall and facing a wall of kudzu. Sealed off from the world like a sacred shrine. Or a crime scene.
Sidney and Thurman wear their own beanies LOUIS VUITTON and top GIVENCHY with shorts LOURDES and shoes BALENCIAGA.
We entered the warehouse. Dozens upon dozens of pieces stacked against every wall, leaning on rafters, hanging from makeshift rigging. And this wasn’t the only warehouse. It was a cathedral of obsession. I had expected chaos, but was confronted instead with precision buried under grime and melted plastic. For all their talk, all their mythmaking, the ATL Twins were dead serious about their craft. I’ve walked through galleries with less focus, less intensity. They’ve studied relentlessly—art history, technique, and material chemistry. They know their influences and their counter-influences. They switch styles constantly, almost compulsively, refusing to settle on a single visual identity.
“We can’t just do the same thing,” They told me. “Every piece has to burn something off. Every style is a different exorcism.”
The pieces are heavy. Physical. Some look like collapsed Gothic cathedrals or ancient signage from a doomed civilization. Others are clean and minimalist—reflective, machine-slick, painted by a sympathetic body shop mechanic they found after a hit-and-run.
Their influences range from Harmony Korine to Jasper Johns to whatever synthetic opiate was floating through their bloodstream the year they disappeared from public life. They say Harmony opened the portal when they first went to his house.
“We asked him, 'Why is this painting worth anything?' and he just said, 'One day I’ll teach you about art.'"
That one question sparked a ten-year monastic plunge into materials, process, and obsession. Now they work with oil, caustic wax, plexiglass, acrylic, and chemically fused pigment. They carve into GatorBoard, melt plastic blinds, build layered slabs with torches and knives. Everything is physical. Their process is violent, time-consuming, and expensive. They cook wax like junkies in a lab, scrape away layers, stare at things for hours.
"People don't realize your eyes can get strong like your arms," They told me. "But you gotta work 'em. You gotta stare."
And they work on every piece together—passing it back and forth like a conversation, layering over each other’s decisions without hesitation or ego.
“It’s like one of us starts a sentence, and the other finishes it,” They said. “We just know where the other one’s going.”
Ten years. Thousands of photos. Paintings stacked in storage units like doomsday prep. They refuse to show much of it. They hate the market. Hate the money. Hate the galleries. Hate Instagram.
“Everything’s instant and lame. Nothing has mystery anymore,” they say.
And that’s why they vanished. They didn’t fade, they withdrew like monks. There’s talk of a show, but only if it can be done right. No influencer openings. No PR emails. Just paintings. Walls. Light. Space.
“We can’t just do the same thing,” They told me. “Every piece has to burn something off. Every style is a different exorcism.”
The pieces are heavy. Physical. Some look like collapsed Gothic cathedrals or ancient signage from a doomed civilization. Others are clean and minimalist—reflective, machine-slick, painted by a sympathetic body shop mechanic they found after a hit-and-run.
Their influences range from Harmony Korine to Jasper Johns to whatever synthetic opiate was floating through their bloodstream the year they disappeared from public life. They say Harmony opened the portal when they first went to his house.
“We asked him, 'Why is this painting worth anything?' and he just said, 'One day I’ll teach you about art.'"
That one question sparked a ten-year monastic plunge into materials, process, and obsession. Now they work with oil, caustic wax, plexiglass, acrylic, and chemically fused pigment. They carve into GatorBoard, melt plastic blinds, build layered slabs with torches and knives. Everything is physical. Their process is violent, time-consuming, and expensive. They cook wax like junkies in a lab, scrape away layers, stare at things for hours.
"People don't realize your eyes can get strong like your arms," They told me. "But you gotta work 'em. You gotta stare."
And they work on every piece together—passing it back and forth like a conversation, layering over each other’s decisions without hesitation or ego.
“It’s like one of us starts a sentence, and the other finishes it,” They said. “We just know where the other one’s going.”
Ten years. Thousands of photos. Paintings stacked in storage units like doomsday prep. They refuse to show much of it. They hate the market. Hate the money. Hate the galleries. Hate Instagram.
“Everything’s instant and lame. Nothing has mystery anymore,” they say.
And that’s why they vanished. They didn’t fade, they withdrew like monks. There’s talk of a show, but only if it can be done right. No influencer openings. No PR emails. Just paintings. Walls. Light. Space.
Story LIAM KOZAK
Photography WHITE TRASH TYLER
Excerpt from Issue No. 6 (2025). Read the full interview by ordering your copy here.