Humdrum Artist Series: Sierra Skinner

‘Humdrum’ is a series of profiles on twelve of Los Angeles’ finest up and coming multimedia artists, reflecting the roster of the group art show of the same name opening at des pair books in Echo Park on September 16th and running until December.

I don’t know if it needs to be said, but I’ll say it anyway: you should be at that opening. Not only because the art is good and worth finding parking, but because print is important, physical space is important, and supporting artists is important, and by attending, you knock out all three. This is the final installment of our nearly-two month long series, and it would not have been possible if not for our friend, Humdrum curator, and all around hero, Sierra Skinner. She organized the show, shot photos of each of the artists, was a liaison between them and my grumpy self, and has proven to be an indispensable part of this generation of Los Angeles artists. What a marvel.

How did you get started as an artist & how has your practice evolved to where you are now?

It took me many years to find an artistic outlet that felt congruent to my abilities despite always feeling some innate creative impulse. I couldn’t draw for shit, tried so many instruments that never stuck, and writing made me squeamish. Then one year I was gifted a camera and something just clicked. I was hardly ever without a camera on my body from that point on. Ultimately everything I do stems from a serious fascination with people and a desire to understand others on a deeper level. I loved having a medium that enabled me to interact with others creatively, a process that felt inherently collaborative. I still really struggle to identify myself as a photographer and hardly ever will, because taking pictures is just something I do to process life as I live it, like keeping a diary.

How does your creative process usually start? Does a vision or motive come first or do you find the meaning/end point as you work?

I never really plan exact shots, I just pull out my camera whenever a particular moment or subject grabs my attention in a way that feels necessary to hold on to. Shooting this way has made me more sensitive to my surroundings and imbued even the most subtle, mundane experiences with documentable value. The meaning comes from the content of the image and the feelings associated with it tend to evolve as I do. My memory isn’t particularly reliable, so the pictures I take function as an archive to contend with my own fractured recollection to consult whenever I need reminding. This is why my favorite photos are the ones that feel like honest memories- a little blurry, messy, grainy, off center, grimy. Catching people in moments where they aren’t trying to be presentable, with faces contorted by laughter or even a bit skewed by some sort of melancholy. That’s what taking pictures is to me- a commitment to bearing witness and paying close enough attention to catch those kinds of moments.

Have there been any significant feelings, experiences, or themes that have influenced your work?

Everything I do comes from a surplus of feeling and a constant struggle to process experience. I’ve always found life to be a deeply overwhelming prospect, as melodramatic as that sounds. It can be so viscerally uncomfortable at times that I don’t really know what to do with it. I’m a very sensitive person with a terminal tendency to care a bit too much about pretty much everything. I can’t help it, even when it feels like it’s gonna drive me mad.

Taking pictures is my attempt to reconcile all this excess care. Trying to make sense of it all as it’s happening. That’s been a recurring theme in all of my work: a struggle to figure out my place in all of this & attempting to articulate what it all means to me even when I’m paralyzed by my own sentimentality. I’m often in disbelief that I’ve made it this far and found the incredible community that I have. My photos function as both proof of life for myself and tokens of gratitude for the people who make that possible. I don’t know if this will make sense to anybody but me, but that’s also the beauty of it. It doesn’t really have to.

Los Angeles is a particularly intense and often uncomfortable place to be operating in. Do you feel like this pressure of perception and competition has affected your work or identity as an artist?

More than I’d like it to. In fact I fully stepped away from taking pictures for over a year when I moved into the city because everything just seemed so over-saturated already. I didn’t want to compete with anyone and didn’t trust myself enough yet to know that I might actually have something worthwhile to contribute, or that anyone would even care. Des pair is truly what changed everything for me. The 3 years that I have spent here have completely changed my perception and expanded my concept of what is possible for young artists. Being here made me realize that you shouldn’t have to compete to prove that your shit has meaning, and that there’s no one size fits all definition for “good” art. There is so much going on in this city and as daunting as that can be, it also provides an endless source of inspiration and opportunity. Like who would’ve known that this job I got mindlessly as some 19 year old kid ready to give up entirely would completely change the way I think and introduce me to the kind of community I always longed for. Being here made me realize that all my limitations were self imposed, that to be waiting around for some kind of permission or reassurance that may never come was just wasting time. Seeing the rich history of artists who operated on the fringes as outsiders and nobodies and continued their work relentlessly even when nobody understood made me realize that what I actually needed was to get over myself. Des pair has been a safe space for me to do just that. I’m so grateful to have had this place to cling to and take solace in as I learned all the tough lessons that come with finding your way out here. I probably would’ve never picked my camera back up without it.

What do you feel is lacking in the modern art scene and why?

Conviction. The rapid commodification of art (and subsequently, artists) has left us drowning in a flood of shallow cash grabs and algorithm pandering. Marketability has taken a disturbing degree of precedence over authentic output and our mainstream consumption of the arts has been inundated by whatever is viral or trending. It’s a popularity contest that can be so discouraging to witness. The ones getting the most credit and accolades are too often just the ones with the loudest voice, not saying much of anything. Meanwhile there’s a whole legion of artists who clock out of their day jobs only to make a piece more substantial than most of the shit you’ll see going up in galleries on their bedroom floor using materials they found on the side of the road. Making it happen with limited resources, limited space, whether they’re getting recognition for it or not. These are the artists who hold my attention, the ones reckoning with not only the world around them but also themselves every day, by any means necessary. Such sincerity and hard work should matter more than who your parents are or what asses you’re willing to kiss. That’s ultimately what this show has been about for me: holding space for those amongst us that prioritize moving with integrity and consideration in an industry that seems to have lost sight of it.

What role does technology play in your practice and how might that change over time?

I’ve resisted it as much as I can, honestly. I stick to analog processes whenever possible mostly because it makes more sense to me technically than all these overly complex computer programs. At a certain point though it does become necessary, especially when it comes to connecting with and discovering other artists. It’s just an essential tool of communication and distribution these days, can’t really fight it any longer.

Do you believe your work belongs to you or the viewer?

For me personally, it’s not necessarily a matter of ownership. My work has always felt more like an offering to the subject, and usually a pretty private one that I have been hesitant to make public until now. It feels like publishing a love letter in the hopes that whoever reading it has also loved that deeply and might understand. That being said, I am who I am because of the intimate works of art that I’ve resonated with and claimed as my own, in a way. A favorite book, movie, song, anything really becomes a thread in the fabric of your identity in a way that can’t be removed, not even by the creator of the thing. However that doesn’t make it belong to the artist any less, they’ve just granted you permission to share in the experience.

At what point do you believe a piece of work is ‘finished’?

Potentially never. You can revisit and expand on a piece for years, coming at it with fresh eyes and a new perspective. You always run the risk of overworking something, but even that is entirely subjective. This is a challenge in & of itself, knowing when to walk away and get on to the next thing.