Arlo Sinclair is a London-based contemporary artist whose work transforms obsolete technology into painted relics of cultural memory. Floppy disks, game cartridges, broken consoles, and outdated peripherals—objects once at the cutting edge of play and productivity—become his chosen canvas. By painting these fragments of digital history with references to video games, Hollywood films, and internet culture, Sinclair bridges nostalgia and critique, situating himself in the lineage of both Pop Art and Urban Contemporary movements.

The foundations of Sinclair’s practice can be traced back to the visual strategies of Pop Art pioneers such as Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and Keith Haring. Just as Warhol reframed soup cans and movie stars as icons of mass culture, and Lichtenstein elevated comic-book panels into monumental canvases, Sinclair turns to the physical carriers of media—floppy disks, cartridges, and early hardware—as symbols of our digital lives.

Unlike the consumer goods celebrated in mid-20th-century Pop, Sinclair’s chosen objects are already obsolete, relics of industries and corporations that promised innovation but ultimately succumbed to rapid cycles of obsolescence. His works often bear playful, hand-painted overlays: a floppy disk carrying the Super Mario Bros. start screen, a spoof NASA “Fake Moon Landing” back-up, or a cartridge adorned with 1980s film graphics. In this way, Sinclair extends Pop Art’s fascination with mass imagery into the digital age, while his satirical tone recalls Urban Contemporary artists such as Banksy and KAWS.

Born in South Africa, Sinclair found an early creative spark in technology. When his grandfather patched up a broken Commodore 64, it became his playground and escape. Unable to buy games, nine-year-old Arlo taught himself to code them. “That machine was more than a computer; it was a doorway,” he recalls. “Now I paint the door—and scribble a joke on the handle.”

That mix of reverence and irreverence fuels series like Too Big to Fail, which lampoons fallen corporate giants such as Blockbuster, Kodak, and Toys “Were” Us, and Conspiracy Disks, where Sinclair transforms floppies into mock archives of internet folklore—CIA-labelled “JFK” disks, or “Area 51” backups. In every case, the obsolete becomes both artifact and punchline, a reminder that what we once viewed as indispensable quickly slides into absurdity.

Sinclair’s art resonates in an era hungry for nostalgic escape. Recent studies have documented the rise of nostalgia consumption during times of cultural stress, alongside a boom in the market for retro consoles, reissued merchandise, and vintage tech. Sinclair channels that longing but never lets viewers drift into simple comfort. His paintings offer the glow of a childhood loading screen, only to confront us with what followed: data breaches, AI deepfakes, and mountains of plastic hardware destined to outlive their players by centuries.

As Sinclair explains, “My work isn’t just about nostalgia; it’s a reflection on the digital age and its pervasive influence on our lives.”

Sinclair’s ability to fuse humor, critique, and design has won him a growing following among the global tech elite. His collectors include Silicon Valley engineers, Web3 founders, and Fortune 500 executives—many of whom see themselves in his imagery, having grown up as geeks in the 1990s before becoming architects of today’s digital world. His art has been described as “geek luxury”: fine art that speaks directly to a culture once marginalized but now central to global power and capital.