The Long Line: Who I Am as an Artist (So Far)

I've been making art since I could hold a crayon. Born in 1973, I was probably 2 when I started coloring on the bedroom walls in a Pollock-esque style. Even then, I was drawn to drips, marks, filling space with color.

I'm writing this as I figure out who I am as an artist. Organizing my history. Seeing the patterns. Understanding how everything connects.

The Early Thread

At five, I drew portraits of my grandparents. My grandma sent my brother and me door-to-door selling our drawings for 50 cents. At my grandparents' real estate and construction company, I'd draw architectural plans on graph paper, mapping out imaginary houses. That love of structure and layers—it's still in my work.

Another early memory: peeling foam labels off Pepsi bottles in spirals and stuffing them back into the empty bottles. I called it "pop art." Soda pop. Pop art. Looking back now, I see Jackson Pollock. I see my current shredded work. The through line was there from the beginning.

Finding My Language (1996-2012)

In 1996, I took my first art history class and fell in love. By 1998, I was obsessed with Sam Francis at MOCA—the pours, the drips. I painted 20-30 canvases in one semester while most students had one or two. Around the same time, Yayoi Kusama's repetitive dots and obsessive mark-making hit me just as hard.

I got my MA in Studio Art from CSUN in 2010, but it was those art history classes that gave me the framework I still use: feminism, semiotics, postmodernism, the male gaze, Pattern and Decoration.

In 2006, I discovered Second Life. I created Gracie—my avatar, tall and thin and blonde, everything I wasn't in real life. I photographed 2,000 avatars. My MA thesis "My Life as an Avatar" explored the gap between who I am and who I think I should be. I transformed into Gracie physically (platinum hair, nose piercing) while dressing her virtually in my clothes. Who am I? Who do I want to be?

In 2012, I created "And One Man In His Time Plays Many Parts"—a mixed-reality dinner party where people in a physical LA gallery sat at a table with avatars from around the world in Second Life. Both realities, identical décor, simultaneous conversation. It was about community, identity, and where art actually happens.

That same year, I shaved my head in a performance at the Brewery. I saved the hair in a jar. I said I wouldn't grow it out until society changes.

Building Community (2012-Present)

In 2012, I became President of the Brewery Artwalk Association. In 2013, Social Media Manager for LA Art Association. In 2014, I started Shoebox Arts—supporting artists with writing, PR, mentorship, opportunities.

In 2016, I became Publisher of Art and Cake and opened Shoebox Projects gallery. All of this—making my own art, supporting other artists, building community—it's all the same practice. Creating spaces where people can be seen, valued, celebrated.

2014 Brewery Artwalk Weekend Decompression

The Transformation Work (2013-Present)

I painted mannequins, bringing my avatar skins into the physical world. I cut paintings off stretcher bars and hung them on hangers—literal skins.

After Trump was elected in 2017, something broke. I shredded photos of my "skinny self" from the 90s—photos I'd carried like talismans. First shredding. Then I shredded family photos, negatives, journal pages, letters about my eating disorder. I put them in jars, in glass cake stands. "Losing Weight." "Let Me Eat Cake."

I started cutting everything. Mannequins in jars. Corvette paint peeled off in jars. Wigs cut up in jars. Little girls' furniture cut into pieces.

Taking Up Space (2016-present)

The Plus series: my body behind frosted glass doors, backlit, obscured but undeniably present. Printed huge on transparent film, hung from the ceiling. Inspired by Ana Mendieta and Jenny Saville.

I've been photographing my shadow since 2016—over 1,000 photos. Using light and dark to give my body the space in the world it deserves. My shadow takes up space. It exists regardless of how I feel about my body that day.

Selfie with Friends: over 1,500 photos since 2016. About community, people I love, taking up space.

During the pandemic, I created My Imaginary Wall—colored dot stickers on glass, making physical the invisible wall that stops me from doing things. Now I understand it's probably ADHD, anxiety, depression, chronic illness.

Perceive Me (2018-Present)

In 2018, artist Amanda Mears drew me from life. She saw me as beautiful. I couldn't see that. So I asked: How do other people see me?

I worked with over 100 artists—photographers, painters, sculptors, drawers. We've had exhibitions at Cal State LA, five venues during the pandemic, made a catalog. We've done two nude portrait sessions where anyone can pose and professional artists draw them.

Perceive Me isn't just about me anymore. It's about creating space for people to be seen, to exist in their bodies without shame.

POW and Liberation (2023-present)

I cut up all my paintings and drawings. Almost 7,000 pieces on wire keyrings, 5 inches apart, approximately 118" x 136". Every painting I made from 1997-2024, cut up and reconstructed.

After the Pacific Palisades fires, I shredded everything in storage. Report cards, letters, journals, photos—52 years of life.

I filled 1,800 3x3x3" acrylic boxes with shredded pieces. The community came together—10-12 people filling boxes, talking about art and life. Jennifer photographed each side of each box—over 10,000 photos.

Painted Yogurtland spoons (my binge food for years) in boxes—Comfort and Joy. Cut-up mannequins in 8x8x8" boxes—An Uncomfortable Skin, Second Life Edition, Established 1973. Christmas ornaments in jars. Stickers, concert tickets, jewelry—all in jars now. Part of the art.

What I'm Learning

From Pepsi bottle labels in 1980 to POW in 2025—there's a line connecting everything.

The circles and drips from 1997 still show up today. Gracie exploring the gap between who I am and who I think I should be. Perceive Me asking how others see me. Plus series saying: here's my body, large and present. POW saying: here's everything I've made, destroyed and reconstructed.

My work has always been about identity, body image, transformation, community. About maximalism—filling every inch with color and meaning. About making the invisible visible. About women artists being seen. About taking up space when the world tells you to be smaller.

I write to remember. I make art to understand what I'm thinking and feeling. I shred and cut and reconstruct because nothing is permanent, everything can be transformed, destruction and creation are the same process.

I'm still figuring it out. Still organizing. Still learning who I am as an artist.

But the line is there. It's always been there.

And it continues.