Simon Stålenhag changed everything with a few digital brushstrokes. You’ve probably seen it—those giant, rusting husks of retro-futuristic tech looming over a grey 1990s California landscape. It’s haunting. It’s "The Electric State" artwork, and it’s basically the gold standard for how to tell a story without saying a single word.
Honestly, the first time I saw one of these pieces, I felt a genuine shiver. It wasn't just the "cool robot" factor. It was the vibe of a world that had already ended, but everyone was too plugged into their VR headsets to notice.
The book is a narrative art book, a medium Stålenhag practically pioneered. It follows a girl named Michelle and her yellow toy robot as they trek across a dystopian United States. But the art is the star. It captures a specific brand of "low-life, high-tech" that feels way more grounded than Blade Runner or Cyberpunk 2077. It’s muddy. It’s messy. It looks like a photo your uncle took in 1997, except there’s a massive, pulsating neural-link tower in the background.
The Aesthetic of Decay in The Electric State Artwork
What makes the electric state artwork so effective is the contrast. Stålenhag doesn't give us shiny chrome. He gives us rust. He gives us plastic that looks like it’s been sitting in the sun for twenty years.
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The tech in this world is chunky. It looks like it was designed by Sony or Nintendo in a timeline where we prioritized escaping reality over fixing it. You see these "neurocasters"—the VR helmets—and they aren't sleek. They’re covered in wires and grime. People are slumped over in diners, tethered to machines, their minds somewhere else while their bodies rot in the physical world. It’s a literal representation of digital addiction taken to its most horrific logical extreme.
The lighting is what really does the heavy lifting. Stålenhag uses a palette of muted greys, hazy oranges, and that specific, sickly blue light that comes from a CRT monitor. It feels damp. You can almost smell the wet asphalt and the ozone.
Wait, let's look at the scale. That's the secret sauce. In one famous piece, a massive, multi-legged structure walks across a suburban neighborhood. It’s taller than the trees, taller than the power lines. But the houses in the foreground are just normal, boring American homes. That juxtaposition creates a sense of "cosmic indifference." The world is ending, or has ended, but the mundane reality of a suburban street persists. It’s eerie because it feels possible.
Why This Specific Style Is Dominating Our Culture
We're seeing a massive resurgence of this "Stålenhag-ian" look. It’s everywhere now. From the aesthetic of the Tales from the Loop Amazon series to the upcoming Netflix adaptation by the Russo Brothers, "The Electric State" artwork has become a visual shorthand for a very specific type of melancholy.
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It taps into "Anemoia"—nostalgia for a time you never actually lived through. For those of us who grew up in the 90s, seeing those specific car models (like the Volvos or the old Wagoneers) mixed with alien-looking drone technology creates a weird cognitive dissonance. It feels like a memory that turned into a nightmare.
The Swedish influence is also undeniable. Even though The Electric State is set in the US, Stålenhag’s Swedish roots bleed through in the composition. There’s a Scandinavian minimalism to the emptiness of the landscapes. The vast, open spaces make the characters feel tiny. Vulnerable.
Unlike most concept art that feels like it’s trying to sell you a movie, this art feels like it’s documenting a crime scene. There’s a coldness to it. It’s clinical yet deeply emotional.
The Technical Wizardry Behind the Scenes
People often ask if these are paintings or photos. They’re digital paintings, usually done in Photoshop, but Stålenhag uses brushes that mimic the texture of gouache or oil. He doesn't over-render. If you zoom in, you’ll see that a lot of the details are just suggestive strokes. He knows exactly where to put the detail and where to let your brain fill in the gaps.
He uses a lot of "atmospheric perspective." That’s the fancy art term for how things get fuzzier and bluer the further away they are. By cranking this up, he makes the massive machines feel truly gargantuan. They aren't just big; they are distant and massive, which is much harder to pull off than it looks.
Let's talk about the "Neurocasters" for a second. The design is genius. They look like a cross between a diving helmet and a 1980s computer. By hiding the eyes of the characters, Stålenhag removes their humanity. They become part of the machine. When you see a group of people sitting on a porch, all wearing these helmets, it’s more frightening than any monster movie. The monster is the thing we chose to plug into.
From Canvas to the Big Screen
The transition of the electric state artwork into a live-action film is a massive undertaking. How do you capture that specific "painterly" haze in a high-budget Hollywood production? The Russo Brothers have a hell of a task. The early promotional images suggest they are leaning hard into the scale, but it’s tough to replicate the soul of a single artist’s vision with a crew of thousands.
The film stars Millie Bobby Brown and Chris Pratt, which gives it a more "blockbuster" feel than the quiet, lonely atmosphere of the book. Fans are skeptical. And honestly, they should be. The magic of the artwork is the silence. It’s the stuff that isn’t happening. In a movie, things have to happen. You have to have dialogue and explosions.
But if they can capture even ten percent of that lonely, atmospheric dread, it’ll be something special. The drones we’ve seen in the trailers look the part—they have that signature Stålenhag "kitbashed" look, where they seem like they were built out of spare tractor parts and experimental military hardware.
How to Experience This Vibe Yourself
If you’re obsessed with this look, don't just look at the JPEGs on Twitter. You need the physical book. There is something about the way the ink looks on the paper that digital screens can't replicate. It feels like holding a dusty artifact from a parallel 1997.
The book isn't just a collection of images. It has text snippets—first-person accounts that are just as bleak as the art. It talks about the "Sifer" and the war that led to this mess. It’s a masterclass in world-building where the gaps in the story are just as important as the details provided.
To truly understand the impact of "The Electric State" artwork, you have to look at how it treats technology. In most sci-fi, tech is a tool or a weapon. Here, it’s a parasite. It’s something that grew out of control and just... stayed there. The giant "Shipwrecks" of tech in the desert aren't being cleaned up. They’re just rotting. It’s a very honest look at human waste.
Final Insights and Actionable Steps
The electric state artwork isn't just pretty pictures of robots. It's a warning about isolation. It’s about how we use technology to buffer ourselves against a reality that feels too hard to handle.
If you want to dive deeper into this world or use its influence in your own creative work, here is how you should approach it:
- Study the Composition: Notice how Stålenhag often puts the "spectacle" (the robot/ship) in the background and the "mundane" (the character/car) in the foreground. This makes the sci-fi elements feel like a natural part of the world rather than a forced addition.
- Embrace the "Lo-Fi" Future: If you’re a designer or writer, stop thinking about the future as shiny. Think about how things break. How does a drone look after five years of rain and no maintenance?
- Get the "Things from the Flood" and "Tales from the Loop" Books: These are the predecessors to The Electric State. They focus more on a suburban Swedish 80s/90s vibe, but they lay the groundwork for the style.
- Observe Real-World Decay: Go take photos of old industrial parks or rusted-out cars. The electric state artwork works because it is rooted in the textures of our actual world.
- Listen to the Soundscapes: Stålenhag actually composes electronic music to go with his books. Listening to his synth-heavy, ambient tracks while looking at the art creates a full sensory experience that explains the "vibe" better than words ever could.
The real power of this art is that it doesn't feel like a "could be" anymore. It feels like a "will be." We’re already walking around with our heads down, staring at screens, ignoring the crumbling world around us. Stålenhag just added some giant robots to make us notice.