My formal art education began with photography at Washington University, a path chosen after being specifically told that I couldn’t draw. I later entered UCLA for my MFA, initially pursuing printmaking, but quickly found its rules too restrictive. Under the guidance of Nancy Rubin and Paul McCarthy, I embraced unconventional materials and experimental, anti-form techniques, transforming my practice entirely.

My studio in Downtown Los Angeles, surrounded by industrial discards—scraps of foam, chicken wire, and throw-away remnants—is integral to my process. I identify with these cheap, graceless materials that possess no perceived value, as they resonate with an internalized feeling of being "ordinary and vulgar"—judgments internalized from childhood. My sculptures serve as a pathway to process early trauma and the emotional instability it created.

Now, at 57, navigating a post-menopausal body that feels physically out of control, the central questions of my practice—Am I… Are these pieces pretty? Are they worthwhile or useless?—have become intensely urgent. My work follows the tradition of anti-form, rejecting rigid technique for pure, tactile intuition. Ideas are not sketched; they emerge as raw, non-gendered, body-like manifestations of my subconscious. I favor materials like beeswax, resin, silk, and latex for their organic, skin-like qualities, creating abstract organic forms that are visceral and deeply body-like.

This commitment to process is a refusal of perfection. My sculptures often mirror my own psychological tension, resulting in objects that are unstable, clumsy, and fragile. They are not intentionally ugly; they are simply honest. In a culture saturated with formulaic images, my work asks the viewer to stop and confront the uncomfortable question of what is true beauty. It’s awkward, honest, and complex. By offering a space for genuine connection with the basic human condition, my art seeks to expand the viewer’s perception of what holds value and worth.

Photo: GL Askew II