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 .
Based in Portland, Oregon.
For now.
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