I make art because spite jolts me awake faster than hope ever could. Silence never suited me. Grief looks better in eyeliner. My mistakes get cut up, glued down, sold for six bucks and a nod.
I draw like I’m having conversations with ghosts, like I’m celebrating that I survived. Art is just love that found a new way to speak, and I still have plenty left to give.
Some of my weapons are Sharpies, sumi, and India ink. Tools that don’t forgive, don’t erase, and don’t lie. My work lives in contradiction: pulp and elegance, seduction and unease, control and collapse.
An occasional model turned full-time myth, I redraw myself on my terms. Sometimes femme fatale, sometimes half-feral omen. Pinup with a glitch in the feed.
I didn’t go to art school. I lived through something meaner. Spite taught me first. Survival came next. Every line I make is a refusal to vanish.
Zines, drawings, paintings, prints, the occasional papier-mâché possum, and merch for the defiant, the haunted, the beautifully ungovernable.
For anyone who’s ever felt like too much, or not enough, and kept going anyway.
This isn’t feel-good art. This is feel-something art. Based in Portland, Oregon. For now.