Transcriber: Anna Minenko Reviewer: esra kurul
Close your eyes for just a moment and picture an artist working.
What do you see? Where are they? Are they alone?
Most people, when they think of an artist, picture a really solitary practice.
And for many artists, that’s true.
They spend months and months, sometimes years alone in their studio,
making a new body of work.
Sometimes they’ll share a sneak peek of what they’re up to
on their social media accounts.
But for the most part, that work is completely under wraps
until the gallery opening.
And that’s what brings people out to the opening.
The idea that they’re finally going to get to see this work
to be let in on the secret of this person’s solitary art practice.
Until pretty recently,
this is the story I told myself about who I was as an artist,
and it went really well with some other stories I told myself,
like how I was an introvert, how I never really fit in or belonged anywhere,
how I'd probably end up a hermit.
Oddly enough, those stories began to unravel for me
the day that Ruth Bader Ginsburg died.
At that time, the pandemic was in full swing.
I’ve been quarantined with my family for months.
My teaching studio was shut down.
I had a painting studio in my home and all the time in the world,
but I was completely immobilized with depression.
When Ruth Bader Ginsburg died,
for the first time in months, I actually wanted to paint.
I wanted to understand her life, the magnitude of her contribution.
I wanted to understand the collective sadness
that was felt with her passing.
So I went downstairs to my basement studio
where I typically painted in total solitude,
just like that stereotype.
I listened to interviews and documentaries with her,
and I painted her portrait all night long.
When I finished, I realized
that for those 12 or so hours that I was painting
I was completely at peace.
No sadness, no anxiety.
If anything, I felt a renewed sense of inspiration
from what I learned about her life.
I shared that painting on my social media accounts
and it was so warmly received.
So I decided I needed to find some way to recreate that peaceful feeling
to dig me out of that dark place I was in.
So for the next few days, I tossed around ideas
about doing maybe a 30-day painting challenge.
I've always really admired artists that could do that,
that could commit to a challenge like that.
And I thought, you know, if I could paint one portrait a day for a month,
I bet I would really level up in terms of my painting skill.
So I sat down with the calendar and I’m looking at the days,
and counting it out, and trying to figure out when to start.
And I realized there was 100 days left in 2020,
and I thought that was a sign.
And I decided I would finish out the rest of that just dumpster fire of a year
by painting one portrait a day for 100 days.
Which was totally a bananas thing to do, and I knew it at the time.
So before I could change my mind,
I made a blog page on my website where I would share the work.
I titled the project “100 Badass Women”, and at the top of the blog page I wrote,
“This has been the darkest year I can remember, and I’m turning on the lights”.
I promised to paint one inspiring woman every single day
and share that work on my website without fail.
And I made that promise for no reason other than accountability.
I knew if I didn't promise and had people waiting on me to do those paintings,
that I would never, ever finish it.
So at this point, my reason for this project,
my why was all about me, a singular artist,
solitary person.
I wanted to get better at painting.
I wanted to relieve that depression I was in.
I wanted a purpose.
But very quickly, in an unexpected way that why began to change.
The second portrait I painted was of Maya Angelou.
When I listened to her speak in those interviews as I was painting her,
I was completely mind blown by her.
Every word she said was like a vitamin that I had been deficient in
before I heard it.
And when I was painting her, I learned of her quote,
“When you learn, teach. When you get, give”.
So when I posted the painting online that night,
I also posted a write-up I did of what I learned that day.
And I kept doing that with every portrait afterwards.
The conversations that these paintings and writings started sparking on social media
really surprised me.
People were sharing them and commenting,
sending me hundreds of suggestions of other women that I could paint.
As the days went on, I realized I was actually painting on autopilot.
But what I was really tuned into was what I was learning about each woman’s life.
And even more than that, at the end of the day,
I was so stoked to share the painting, I could not wait to share it online.
And you would think after 10 or 12 hours of painting and a few more hours writing
and researching that I would be ready to just put it away,
at least for a few hours until the next one.
But it was the exact opposite.
I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait to connect with people
and join the conversation about what had been posted that day.
I got really into the written component also.
I was sharing links to documentaries, stories, quotes from each woman,
but I was also sharing a really surprising amount of information about myself,
my personal thoughts and opinions.
And that was surprising to me that I wanted to do that
because of those beliefs, I said, where I was just sort of an introvert
and wasn't used to opening up like that.
But something about this sense of collaboration and community
that was happening with the work was just opening me up to others in a way
that I hadn’t experienced before.
And I think the pandemic had a lot to do with it, too.
We were just lonely, isolated, starved for conversation or something.
But whatever the reason, I was sharing more of myself
than I ever have in my life, and I actually liked it.
It felt really good.
I felt seen.
Look how fast I can paint.
It is no sweat to do one painting a day when you can paint that fast.
So I kept going, I kept sharing these works every single day.
I had this incredible momentum that I have to credit to the people
that were following me and cheering me on.
It felt like I had my own cheering squad for this.
I really only panicked one time. It was like day 60, I think,
I had 40ish days to go and I was just like, “No, I can’t.
I can’t do that, I’m going to fake my death, I cannot finish”.
I seriously panicked, bad.
But it was temporary, I did not do that.
I kept going and that sense of community got stronger
with every single painting I posted.
So I pretty quickly got over that.
So what I first saw as a solitary project
that was designed to lift me up and increase my skill,
became a collaborative project
that uplifted and connected so many people
that were in desperate need of that connection.
It opened me up to others in ways that I never thought was possible for myself.
It helped me shed old ideas about what kind of artist I was,
what kind of human being I was.
Every evening I was completely engaged in these conversations.
We were talking about pop culture, women's history,
deconstructing patriarchal ideas, gender roles.
People were sharing deeply personal stories
about their struggles with mental health, substance abuse, all types of trauma.
You name it, we were talking about it.
We were holding space for each other to just be seen and understood.
And something in me just clicked.
I realized that I actually do want to show up,
I do want to belong,
I want to be a part of a bigger community.
That feeling of community made me realize that I used to shy away from those things
because I believed that I was not able to show up as my authentic self.
And if I couldn't show up authentically,
I did not see the point in showing up at all.
A little less than a year after I finished this work,
I came out publicly as trans.
I never thought that I would be able to share that with anyone in my lifetime.
I believed that I could only exist as my full self in total solitude.
And that is an excruciatingly lonely way to live.
By the time this work was exhibited at the Huntington Museum of Art,
I was nearly a year into transitioning.
I was able to stand in front of hundreds of people
and speak so openly about my journey,
about how this work and the conversations about gender roles
help me embrace that truth about me.
About how the community helped me share that truth about me.
I was completely terrified to talk about those things,
but I was met with nothing but love and support.
Looking back on the project,
I can honestly say I did meet all of my original goals.
I got a lot better at painting,
the anxiety and the depression that I was experiencing did fade,
but I gained so much more than I thought I would.
The connection I felt to my community
helped me show up more authentically in the world.
It helped me tear down long held beliefs about myself,
about the roles I was playing,
and it allowed me to find a natural balance
between my solitary studio practice and collaborative community art,
which I've done a lot more of since then.
And even though things are really scary right now for trans people,
it gave me the strength to stay in that authenticity no matter what.
The way I found this sense of belonging felt like a happy accident.
But because of that, I'm learning to be more intentional about using my artwork
to create community, collaboration and authenticity for others.
And as Maya Angelou said, “When you get, give”.
So from this experience, I would like to give you an invitation.
I want to invite you to reconsider the roles you play
and the stories that you tell yourself about who you are.
Think about parts of yourself that you might feel are unworthy of being seen
or unworthy of being loved.
See if you can make space within those parts to let others in.
Thank you.
[Applause]