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Julie Blankenship is a visual artist, based in San Francisco's Mission District. She’s known for her photo-based, mixed media works. Her art has been exhibited widely, and was recently included in In Flux: Calibrating the Unknown at the Museum of Northern California Art in Chico, California; Surrealism Centennial at FOG Gallery in San Francisco; and Time Space Existence at the European Cultural Center in Venice, Italy. Her work has appeared in publications including Poets & Writers Magazine, Vastarien, Blood Bath, Museum of Americana, Cut Me Up, Brazenhead Review, Sein und Werden and Photo Trouvee. It has been featured on book covers including Hard to Find: An Anthology of New Southern Gothic; Of One Free Will, speculative fiction by Farah Rose Smith; and in Portraits, by the Gay Men’s Chorus of Washington DC. She is Director of Visual Aid Projects + Archives, an arts/social justice organization supporting the the creative legacies of artists with HIV/AIDS. As founder of Visual Aid Gallery, she curated many exhibitions both at the gallery and in venues throughout the Bay Area. She taught at the Interdisciplinary Art Center at San Francisco State University; and the San Francisco Art Institute, where she had previously earned a BFA in photography and MFA in painting.
Published on April 1st, 2025. Artist responses collected in months previous.
Talk about some of the logistics of your art practice. What systems do you have in place to help streamline your workflows?
An old drying rack, found abandoned in my building, has been a huge help. Now refurbished, it’s in constant use in my studio, enabling me to be more organized and work on a dozen books at once, rotating them as they dry. It serves as a reminder that I need to find ways to get essential equipment, rather than “make do” with jerry-rigged systems that impede my work. Years ago, I gave up doing assemblage with objects, partially because it involved lots of tedious shopping and storage of bulky materials. Now that I’m working with books, paper and photographs, storage is less of a problem. I sort, organize and consolidate my materials once or twice a year. The process is always inspiring, as I come across forgotten gems and new ideas arise. These days, all I need to make my art are found books, inks, brushes and water; though I do have to locate books that spark my interest (a process in itself). When I begin working on other components of the related installation, my process will be more complex, but this is wonderful for now. Working with simple materials brings me a lot of joy.
What is some advice for someone who does not have any experience who would like to pursue a career like yours?
In relation to your art, cultivate openness. Trust yourself to meet each situation appropriately, with rigor or gentleness, whatever is needed. Make mistakes every day. Ask for help when you need it. Know you have a community. Show up for other artists and for yourself. Practice forgiveness. The world owes you nothing; so be humble, keep your promises, and be on time. Try to be present and not talk endlessly about yourself. Treat curators, jurors, gallery owners, and teachers with kindness and respect, even when they reject your work. Support all kinds of culture. Keep a sense of humor. Most people will love you.
What was the lowest point in your art career and how did you overcome those adversities?
When a nonprofit organization I led was forced to closed, I sank into depression. Over the years, while supporting my family, teaching art and working with cultural organizations, I’d nearly lost my identity as an artist. It didn’t help that the art world frowns on having to work for a living. Life had intervened in my process, and I found it nearly impossible to pick up where I’d left off. Sometimes, all I could do was straighten up my studio and look at my materials. It took a while, but I began working 15 minutes a day, which often led to many hours. Eventually, I began to find my way. The first body of work I made was somewhat awkward, but slowly, my creative self began to thaw. As Kafka wrote “Reading [or in this case, making art] is the axe that breaks the frozen seas inside us.”
How did you come into the type of artwork you are doing now?
My current work is a response to child abuse by clergy. As a child, while visiting a church to make art, I was groomed and abused by a priest. Though relatively mild, the abuse impacted my life. Recently, when a close friend (and 4,000 survivors in the state of California) filed a lawsuit accusing the catholic church of failure to protect children from criminal abuse in religious schools, Indian boarding schools, and churches, I wanted to understand how these things could happen. “Grace” is a series of altered books, filled with inkblot drawings, which will eventually be part of a larger installation. The found books are mostly prayer, religious indoctrination and advice books, originally written for children and young adults. Gradually, as I work, every page of each book becomes covered with drawings of wings, bones, breasts, insects and monsters. Repetition allows me to focus on nuances of the art process, while I grapple with alienation and try to mentally process crimes against children. The work has become a meditation on good and evil, who deserves our trust, the power of truth, what it means to be a survivor, the nature of grace and the interconnectedness of all beings.
What was an epiphany in your art practice that took you to the next level?
Analog photography is seductive, with the grain of black and white and the pleasure of printing. While preparing to apply for my MFA, I printed a series of huge photo murals. Developing the images required the paper to be scrolled back and forth, by hand, in troughs of developer and fixer. I was literally up to my elbows in chemicals. While working late one night, I emerged from the darkroom with wet, rolled photos. No one else around, I climbed up on a shelf to pin my murals up to dry. As water dripped down, I slipped off the ledge, hitting my temple, and giving me a black eye. I realized all that time alone in the dark, with so many chemicals, wasn’t good for my mental or physical well-being. In their final form, the murals were mixed media, worked with paint, pastels, and collage. I didn’t have a studio, so worked in my tiny apartment; or on walls around school. Everything was very heavy, as I carried supplies from one location to another. The final straw was finding out that the sepia-black paint I used (autobody-undercoating) was toxic. Except for installations, I’ve worked small, with found photos, ever since.
Talk about some of the logistics of your art practice. What systems do you have in place to help streamline your workflows?
An old drying rack, found abandoned in my building, has been a huge help. Now refurbished, it’s in constant use in my studio, enabling me to be more organized and work on a dozen books at once, rotating them as they dry. It serves as a reminder that I need to find ways to get essential equipment, rather than “make do” with jerry-rigged systems that impede my work. Years ago, I gave up doing assemblage with objects, partially because it involved lots of tedious shopping and storage of bulky materials. Now that I’m working with books, paper and photographs, storage is less of a problem. I sort, organize and consolidate my materials once or twice a year. The process is always inspiring, as I come across forgotten gems and new ideas arise. These days, all I need to make my art are found books, inks, brushes and water; though I do have to locate books that spark my interest (a process in itself). When I begin working on other components of the related installation, my process will be more complex, but this is wonderful for now. Working with simple materials brings me a lot of joy.
What is some advice for someone who does not have any experience who would like to pursue a career like yours?
In relation to your art, cultivate openness. Trust yourself to meet each situation appropriately, with rigor or gentleness, whatever is needed. Make mistakes every day. Ask for help when you need it. Know you have a community. Show up for other artists and for yourself. Practice forgiveness. The world owes you nothing; so be humble, keep your promises, and be on time. Try to be present and not talk endlessly about yourself. Treat curators, jurors, gallery owners, and teachers with kindness and respect, even when they reject your work. Support all kinds of culture. Keep a sense of humor. Most people will love you.
What was the lowest point in your art career and how did you overcome those adversities?
When a nonprofit organization I led was forced to closed, I sank into depression. Over the years, while supporting my family, teaching art and working with cultural organizations, I’d nearly lost my identity as an artist. It didn’t help that the art world frowns on having to work for a living. Life had intervened in my process, and I found it nearly impossible to pick up where I’d left off. Sometimes, all I could do was straighten up my studio and look at my materials. It took a while, but I began working 15 minutes a day, which often led to many hours. Eventually, I began to find my way. The first body of work I made was somewhat awkward, but slowly, my creative self began to thaw. As Kafka wrote “Reading [or in this case, making art] is the axe that breaks the frozen seas inside us.”
How did you come into the type of artwork you are doing now?
My current work is a response to child abuse by clergy. As a child, while visiting a church to make art, I was groomed and abused by a priest. Though relatively mild, the abuse impacted my life. Recently, when a close friend (and 4,000 survivors in the state of California) filed a lawsuit accusing the catholic church of failure to protect children from criminal abuse in religious schools, Indian boarding schools, and churches, I wanted to understand how these things could happen. “Grace” is a series of altered books, filled with inkblot drawings, which will eventually be part of a larger installation. The found books are mostly prayer, religious indoctrination and advice books, originally written for children and young adults. Gradually, as I work, every page of each book becomes covered with drawings of wings, bones, breasts, insects and monsters. Repetition allows me to focus on nuances of the art process, while I grapple with alienation and try to mentally process crimes against children. The work has become a meditation on good and evil, who deserves our trust, the power of truth, what it means to be a survivor, the nature of grace and the interconnectedness of all beings.
What was an epiphany in your art practice that took you to the next level?
Analog photography is seductive, with the grain of black and white and the pleasure of printing. While preparing to apply for my MFA, I printed a series of huge photo murals. Developing the images required the paper to be scrolled back and forth, by hand, in troughs of developer and fixer. I was literally up to my elbows in chemicals. While working late one night, I emerged from the darkroom with wet, rolled photos. No one else around, I climbed up on a shelf to pin my murals up to dry. As water dripped down, I slipped off the ledge, hitting my temple, and giving me a black eye. I realized all that time alone in the dark, with so many chemicals, wasn’t good for my mental or physical well-being. In their final form, the murals were mixed media, worked with paint, pastels, and collage. I didn’t have a studio, so worked in my tiny apartment; or on walls around school. Everything was very heavy, as I carried supplies from one location to another. The final straw was finding out that the sepia-black paint I used (autobody-undercoating) was toxic. Except for installations, I’ve worked small, with found photos, ever since.
Find Julie Blankenship on Instagram
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