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Julie Blankenship is an artist, curator and archivist based in San Francisco’s Mission District. She’s known for her photo-based, mixed media works. Her art has been published in magazines and journals including Photo Trouvee, Cut Me Up, and Poets & Writers; and on book covers including Hard to Find: An Anthology of New Southern Gothic; and Of One Pure Will, speculative fiction published by Egaeus Press. Her work has been featured in exhibitions at venues including Korean Culture & Arts Foundation in Seoul, and the European Cultural Center in Venice, Italy; the Walter/McBean Gallery, Joseph Chowning Gallery and American Institute of Architects’ Center for Architecture+Design Gallery in San Francisco; Museum of Northern California Art in Chico, California; Among her favorites is Silent Fire, a collaboration between artists, musicians, composers, and singers, presented by Yale University Institute of Sacred Music, in partnership with Nasty Women Connecticut. Interviews with Blankenship have been included in the documentary films Mrs. Vera’s Daybook, and Art and AIDS. She’s lectured at Photo Alliance, Camerawork and Kolajfest. Her artist talks, titled Difficult Subjects, center on her work, and other artists grappling with political, personal and social challenges in their art. Having studied at the San Francisco Art Institute (SFAI), she later taught photography and interdisciplinary arts at SFAI and San Francisco State University. While leading Visual Aid, an arts/social justice organization serving artists with AIDS, she founded Visual Aid Gallery.
Published on March 2nd, 2026. Artist responses collected in months previous.
Was pursuing your creative work a calling for you? How do you define calling within your practice? Share a concise definition and a moment when this felt most true.
As a child living in Spain under the fascist Franco regime, I visited the Prado Museum, where I was enthralled by the art of Goya, Velasquez and Hieronymus Bosch. The mystery and grotesque beauty of Goya’s work thrilled me. He spoke truth to power, revealing horrifying secrets that resonate today; and exposing the dark arts of class, political and religious authority wielded with impunity. He dared record the deprivation, starvation, disease and derangement wrought by wartime violence and chaos. Knowing his work forever changed me. I saw that artists were right up there with journalists, in the power of their truth-telling. Once I started making art, nothing could stop me.
What does a successful career in the arts look like to you today? Describe how you measure success now and note any shifts from earlier in your career.
When I was a young artist, fresh out of art school, the art world was in a very different place. San Francisco was a cultural center, with all kinds of galleries, and alternative spaces where people went to see art. It wasn’t easy, but artists like me had plenty of opportunities to show our work. There were lots of writers and critics, who wrote for art newspapers, magazines and zines. I was barely aware of the slow-motion crash of the market and epic changes taking place in the art world. I thought success would include a teaching job, recognition, sales, and gallery representation. Unfortunately, these weren’t as I’d imagined and didn’t bring financial stability, or the life I’d envisioned for myself. Today, my measure of success is more about my level of engagement in making and sharing work; and how much I push myself to take risks in process. Achieving wider recognition would bring more opportunities to publish my work, and exhibitions in venues with resources would support production of more ambitious work.
How are you kind to yourself in your art practice? (Include one or two concrete examples such as boundaries, rest, or studio routines.)
When I’m not traveling, I show up and work, every day I can. Whether all day or just for a few hours, it counts. The rhythm of daily work creates a sense of comfort and order. When I have doubts or don’t feel engaged, I sort through archives, organize materials or clean my studio. In the process of digging through layers and piles of materials, I often come up with new ideas and inspiration as I unearth sketches and partially finished works, remembering directions I’d wanted to pursue. If I’ve been avoiding something that I need to get done, I set a timer for a few minutes or however long I can bear, then alternate with work that’s easier, more appealing or doesn’t require making difficult decisions. When I feel exasperated or frustrated, I give myself permission to step away from my work, have a cup of tea or call it quits for the day. Allowing myself an out is a way to ready myself to start fresh the following day.
What impact do you hope your work has on others? Name the response you hope to spark and who you most want to reach.
My work, Grace, is inspired by people and communities who’ve been abused by clergy. This work is dedicated to them. I hope it makes a difference. When people see my art, thoughts and emotions arise that may not be easily described. I’m open to my audience having a range of experiences. Here are some responses I imagine people having while viewing my work— …don’t make me look…ravaged beauty…it’s too much…what’s that smell…is that incense…I’m still here…how dare she…everyone is so scared…my people are out there…how could this happen…pure evil…she shares my anger…I’m moved to tears …where’s the justice…I hate this…so many bodies…I feel sick…would anyone believe me…you believe in me…together we’re powerful…I think I felt something crawling on me just now, get it off me…we survive…I’m outraged…we are all so beautiful…
Do you have any rituals or spiritual practices that you integrate into your daily life as an artist? If relevant, mention frequency, timing, or how the practice supports your work.
Buddhism teaches that all beings are interconnected. Instead of allowing fear to overtake me, I chop wood and carry water, a Buddhist teaching that means keep going, just do the next thing, a step at a time. Put one foot in front of the other. Art itself can be a mechanism or pathway to healing. While making art, on a good day, I can achieve a kind of zen state, separate from pain, and intrusive thoughts, with no distractions or constrictions. Making art can be painful and a source of suffering because it brings up so many challenging questions, judgements, jealousies, needs and desires. It can also empower both artist and viewer. Art cracks open our hearts, allowing us be more open, perceive more, feel more. It creates space to hear the voices and stories within ourselves, and others. It connects us to the mysteries of nature, human beings and life itself. But, as I keep telling myself, it takes practice.
Was pursuing your creative work a calling for you? How do you define calling within your practice? Share a concise definition and a moment when this felt most true.
As a child living in Spain under the fascist Franco regime, I visited the Prado Museum, where I was enthralled by the art of Goya, Velasquez and Hieronymus Bosch. The mystery and grotesque beauty of Goya’s work thrilled me. He spoke truth to power, revealing horrifying secrets that resonate today; and exposing the dark arts of class, political and religious authority wielded with impunity. He dared record the deprivation, starvation, disease and derangement wrought by wartime violence and chaos. Knowing his work forever changed me. I saw that artists were right up there with journalists, in the power of their truth-telling. Once I started making art, nothing could stop me.
What does a successful career in the arts look like to you today? Describe how you measure success now and note any shifts from earlier in your career.
When I was a young artist, fresh out of art school, the art world was in a very different place. San Francisco was a cultural center, with all kinds of galleries, and alternative spaces where people went to see art. It wasn’t easy, but artists like me had plenty of opportunities to show our work. There were lots of writers and critics, who wrote for art newspapers, magazines and zines. I was barely aware of the slow-motion crash of the market and epic changes taking place in the art world. I thought success would include a teaching job, recognition, sales, and gallery representation. Unfortunately, these weren’t as I’d imagined and didn’t bring financial stability, or the life I’d envisioned for myself. Today, my measure of success is more about my level of engagement in making and sharing work; and how much I push myself to take risks in process. Achieving wider recognition would bring more opportunities to publish my work, and exhibitions in venues with resources would support production of more ambitious work.
How are you kind to yourself in your art practice? (Include one or two concrete examples such as boundaries, rest, or studio routines.)
When I’m not traveling, I show up and work, every day I can. Whether all day or just for a few hours, it counts. The rhythm of daily work creates a sense of comfort and order. When I have doubts or don’t feel engaged, I sort through archives, organize materials or clean my studio. In the process of digging through layers and piles of materials, I often come up with new ideas and inspiration as I unearth sketches and partially finished works, remembering directions I’d wanted to pursue. If I’ve been avoiding something that I need to get done, I set a timer for a few minutes or however long I can bear, then alternate with work that’s easier, more appealing or doesn’t require making difficult decisions. When I feel exasperated or frustrated, I give myself permission to step away from my work, have a cup of tea or call it quits for the day. Allowing myself an out is a way to ready myself to start fresh the following day.
What impact do you hope your work has on others? Name the response you hope to spark and who you most want to reach.
My work, Grace, is inspired by people and communities who’ve been abused by clergy. This work is dedicated to them. I hope it makes a difference. When people see my art, thoughts and emotions arise that may not be easily described. I’m open to my audience having a range of experiences. Here are some responses I imagine people having while viewing my work— …don’t make me look…ravaged beauty…it’s too much…what’s that smell…is that incense…I’m still here…how dare she…everyone is so scared…my people are out there…how could this happen…pure evil…she shares my anger…I’m moved to tears …where’s the justice…I hate this…so many bodies…I feel sick…would anyone believe me…you believe in me…together we’re powerful…I think I felt something crawling on me just now, get it off me…we survive…I’m outraged…we are all so beautiful…
Do you have any rituals or spiritual practices that you integrate into your daily life as an artist? If relevant, mention frequency, timing, or how the practice supports your work.
Buddhism teaches that all beings are interconnected. Instead of allowing fear to overtake me, I chop wood and carry water, a Buddhist teaching that means keep going, just do the next thing, a step at a time. Put one foot in front of the other. Art itself can be a mechanism or pathway to healing. While making art, on a good day, I can achieve a kind of zen state, separate from pain, and intrusive thoughts, with no distractions or constrictions. Making art can be painful and a source of suffering because it brings up so many challenging questions, judgements, jealousies, needs and desires. It can also empower both artist and viewer. Art cracks open our hearts, allowing us be more open, perceive more, feel more. It creates space to hear the voices and stories within ourselves, and others. It connects us to the mysteries of nature, human beings and life itself. But, as I keep telling myself, it takes practice.
Find Julie Blankenship on Instagram
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