There are a few that come to mind. I watched a lot of cartoons as a kid, so my childhood was filled with monsters and the eccentric fictional creatures of the early 2000s. One formative experience was when I was about 6 or 7 staying over at my grandma's house. I was flipping through the channels later than my parents would have allowed and Spirited Away was playing on Adult Swim. At the time I wasn’t familiar with the work of Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli and I was stunned by the meticulously detailed animation and the surreal imagery.
By the time I landed on that channel, I had missed the first 10 minutes or so and Chihiro was crawling down the steps of the bathhouse that led to the boiler room to find Kamaji. My attention was immediately arrested by the brightly colored spirits crossing the bridge to and from the bathhouse and I had a visceral reaction to Kamaji’s arms that sprouted from nowhere. I loved the diversity of the creatures from the little soot balls to No Face, the Radish Spirit and Haku. The River Spirit sprouting from the still water of the bath and congratulating Chihiro on a job well done is one of my favorite images ever and I think about it often. After that night my parents got me the DVD and I probably drove them crazy watching it nonstop. I would even change the language options occasionally out of pure curiosity to how the movie sounded in other cultures.
I had a tiny TV in my bedroom and a portable DVD player for when my family went on road trips. Two other movies that became big sources of comfort for me were Alien Vs. Predator and James and the Giant Peach. Earlier than all those though was a memory from when I was so young that for most of my life, I didn’t know where it came from. At a certain point not being able to pinpoint it, I had come to the conclusion that I manufactured the memory.
I remember seeing a woman; that I would describe as a forest nymph draped in the bedsheet of a child’s ghost costume. She flew through the forest with her arms outstretched like a bird and everything from her neck down including her hair moved like fabric in the wind. There were only suggestions of human anatomy. It was unclear where she ended and the forest began, like they were one and the same.
It wasn’t until this year that I stumbled upon an image of her and learned she was the Spring Sprite from the final scene of Fantasia (2000). My guess is that I watched it around the time it came out, which would have made me at least three-years-old and she had lived in my memory rent free for over two decades. Although I wouldn’t call her a monster, that memory took on a life of its own and I believe a lot of the work I’ve made, especially in the past five or six years, was somewhat an effort to recreate or emulate her.
It seems like two of your formative memories of monsters are connected to nature (thinking about Fantasia and Spirited Away). The monsters in those films, if I may observe, sort of “personify” nature as a way to explain the unknown or the unseen - like the only way to explain or even justify the chaos, terror, wonder, mystery and power imposed on us by the universe is to give it a “face” or imagine an entity that’s responsible. Do you think monsters represent the unseen?
I don’t believe everything can be explained and that’s how it should be. I think one of my personal philosophies, especially as I’ve gotten older, is the acceptance that we are inherently ignorant. I think a lot of people have a sisyphean obsession with answering all of life’s questions. As a result, they can impose destructive rhetorics on marginalized communities and the world. I think the thought of there not being a higher power or there not being a reason for hardship in the world would make a lot of people uncomfortable because so many of us rely on religion to explain the chaos of being alive.
People usually assume I’m a spiritual person because of the kind of work I make but I’m really not and I’ve accepted that there are limits to my understanding. Since I’ve started thinking this way I believe that my creativity and intellectual curiosity have become more playful and it’s allowed me to become more open to possibilities. Conversely, I believe it’s very selfish to search for answers to particular questions just for the sake of my one’s own comfort.
I am endlessly fascinated by the overlooked and underappreciated aspects of nature’s beauty simply because there is so much more left to discover. Although there will likely never come a time when I can fully understand the unexplainable, I want to draw whatever connections I can between our humanity and the Earth that bore us. In this sense, yes, I do believe monsters are one of the things that can represent the unseen.
Although Long Island isn’t exactly a cornucopia of nature, I did grow up across the street from a nature preserve and my father was a landscaper who put more plants around our property than I could even count. My leafy environment as a child was like my incubator. This very green childhood came to an abrupt end when I moved to Manhattan to attend LaGuardia High School. I feel like I’ve lived the best of both words and that dynamic upbringing definitely informs my visual vocabulary.
Are the monsters you illustrate friends or enemies? What do they mean to you? Are they mirrors to the world? What do you want people to feel when viewing your work?
I wouldn’t say they are friends or enemies, rather reflections of myself and my relationship with the world around me. The post-anthropic sci-fi theme throughout my work was and still is a coping strategy through my journey of self-actualization. In 2020, after I came out to my friends and family as a trans woman, a friend asked me if the creatures I drew were a manifestation of the alienation I felt and the answer was a resounding yes. Although that’s my own experience, there isn’t anything in particular I want people to think or feel when seeing my work. Of course I want to make good art, but I don’t make art for people to like it or for any one particular group. I can’t help how people interpret my art but that’s what makes it really fun for me. I love when people notice things about my art or draw connections that I overlooked or didn’t necessarily intend. I love having conversations and getting to know people, so honestly, if someone has some wild interpretation to my work that comes from their own life, that’s the best feeling. I think the best art changes meaning over time and you have a new interpretation every time you look back at it. That’s what I hope to accomplish with my art and I never want to be literal.
Do you feel like the creative process allows you to exorcise or purge yourself of experienced trauma? Does drawing monsters help you heal or offer a feeling of control?
Absolutely. Growing up with a vision impairment that I or anybody barely understood was a very isolating experience. School was a constant challenge because I struggled to do very simple things like read or see pretty much anything in a classroom. There were some teachers that were particularly cruel and aggressive about it. I didn’t have a proper diagnosis for my retina disease, Blue Cone Monochromatism, until I was 10-years-old and it was still very confusing for me and my parents because of how rare it is.
At a very young age I was expected to advocate for myself and felt very vulnerable on an almost daily basis. I had developed this imposter syndrome believing my disability was all in my head and that if I just tried a little harder, I would be able to do things normally like everybody else. That mental hurtle took me many years to overcome. Ever since I could remember, drawing was a coping mechanism for me because it came naturally to me. It was a way for me to express myself at a time when I didn’t have the vocabulary or life experience to describe what I was going through. I believe these struggles have shaped me into the person I am and have also contributed to my affinity to my occult and esoteric interests.
Why draw monsters? Do you start with the intention to draw monsters in your work? Or do they naturally surface?
I think it’s a combination of the two. In my opinion, all my best ideas surface on their own naturally. I find when I force myself through a block or overthink a concept, the results are seldom very good. Generally, when I learn something that’s intriguing to me, I research that particular topic and I will express what I learned through creative expression.
Although my work isn’t personal in a literal sense, I incorporate a wide range of visual motifs that I connect to my own personal experiences. That’s why I’ve always been so drawn to surrealism. Since I was in elementary school, I’ve accumulated a small library of art, anatomy and nature books. The earliest book in my collection is Portraits by Steven McCurry.
Why are you drawn to ink as your primary medium? Does it connect or relate to the theme of monsters?
They are not consciously connected thematically, although it probably isn’t a coincidence that my style bears similarities to illustrators and artists I admire including American illustrator Arthur Rackham, Russian surrealist Pavel Tchelitchew, and manga artist Junji Ito, all of whom have built their own monstrous or metaphysical worlds. The main reason why I draw so much with ink is because of practicality. During the pandemic and even a little before I became more precious with my sketchbooks and treated them much like composition books or journals, visualizing and externalizing my internal transformations and struggles as a young trans woman. I made the decision to draw with ink almost exclusively because I could draw with as much detail or density as I wanted without the worry of my drawings transferring on the opposite page or smudging into oblivion over time like graphite does when you don’t protect it.
Over time I realized there were other perks to this new approach. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to build value when using black ink, which helps with my low vision. I also specifically draw with a dual point pen, which allows me to make a very wide range of marks from a tiny line to sweeping, bulbous strokes. My favorite pen is the Kuretake No. 55 Double-Sided Brush Pen. The unintentional outcome that really got me committed to drawing with ink was that it was actually improving my drawing skills significantly more than my primary focus was mixed media!
Since limiting my marks to only black ink on white paper my ability and understanding to render depth, texture and movement had quickly become much more mathematically accurate. You may have noticed my style of cross hatching looks a bit like chicken scratch. I was drawn to the organic nature of that method but it’s also much faster than if I were to draw much tighter lines. I also never sketch with pencil before drawing with ink, which means whatever mark I make on the page, stays on the page. This forced me to work around mistakes in a way I wasn’t willing to before I began this process and in my opinion it’s resulted in better art long-term. I’m also colorblind, so color comes secondary to composition anyway.
Why is it important to explore grotesque imagery?
That’s a very good question. I have very complicated feelings on this that I struggle to express, but I’ll try my best. What people find grotesque is very subjective and varies from person to person, but I find that grotesque imagery conveys a sort of dissonance between one’s sensitivity and morbid fascinations. It blurs the boundaries of social constructs and sometimes appropriate social behavior.
For art or any creative expression to really cross the line from being ugly or strange to being grotesque, the creator has to have more than just a shallow interest or understanding in whatever they are attempting to convey. Just because something is scary or disgusting doesn’t make it grotesque, although those can certainly be defining features. The meaning of grotesque varies in meaning significantly depending on the context, but ultimately, in order for something to be truly grotesque it has to either be informed by or inform complex visceral responses and emotions. What’s grotesque reminds us of our humanity and our mortality.
Separately, as I’ve matured, I’ve noticed that a lot of queer and female identifying people in particular are very naturally drawn to abject art and alternative interests. I’m still not entirely sure why that is. Broey Deschanel made a video essay exploring this topic far more eloquently than I could. In summary, I believe it’s natural to be drawn to what lies in liminal spaces when you yourself exist in a liminal space. Through my creative process, I aim to reflect on all the complexities that make me human and echo that outwardly.
As you get to know me, one thing I hope to demonstrate to people is that I reject antiquated expectations placed on me as a woman and especially as a trans woman. I’m not afraid to stand up for myself nor am I afraid to be confrontational with myself. The world can be cruel. May as well take it with whatever grace you can.
What do monsters teach us about our world?
I don’t think there’s a limit to the lessons monsters can teach us nor do I think any answer I could give would even scratch the surface. It’s evident looking back to some of the earliest art and anthropology that humans are drawn to recognizing and creating patterns where none may exist. Immediately what comes to mind is the Makapansgat pebble, which is a small pebble that was likely carried by a pre-human ancestor roughly 3 million years ago because it bore resemblance to a human face due to its natural wear and chipping patterns.
To bring it back to your earlier question about giving a face to the powers of the world, I think mythology perfectly demonstrates that phenomenon. Take for instance the anthropomorphic gods of ancient Egyptian and Pagan mythology or the wrathful deities of South Asian Buddhism whose necks are adorned with skulls or human limbs. These figures can serve as lessons to teach us to be good in the life we have because we don’t know what will happen to us after that.
They serve as reminders of our mortality. They can protect us from evil or pull us into chaos. They can bring us joy or remind us of our pain. I think in every sense “monsters” are a reflection of ourselves.
What are some of your earliest memories of making art? What's your first memory of comics?
Art-making has always been part of my life, in the way it is for all kids. I do have a really specific elementary school memory of having to make a Halloween diorama for a school assignment. We had this program on the school computer that would let you design and print one. But I made one with paper shapes instead because I knew it would look more distinctive and even at that age I liked that handmade touch. When I think back on that it makes me laugh so much - what a little snob! But to this day I really value analog process, so I guess it is pretty indicative of the person I became.
My first comics were graphic versions of the Ramayana and, like, stories about the god Krishna. My parents must have bought them for me and my brother in India. Weirdly I wouldn't consider them artistic influences at all - my strongest earliest influences are manga - but I think it's proof of the power of comics that I remember those stories so clearly and fondly now.
What makes a good story?
I ask myself this question all the time and the answer changes all the time too. We live in an era of easily consumed art and this isn't necessarily the fault of creators. Big companies are in control of a lot of our media, and art as a corporate product is designed to reach the maximum number of people but is made with as few resources as possible. So inevitably, a lot of mediocre art gets made. I find it pretty unnerving how many books or movies I feel totally lukewarm about, or how many just leave my mind completely after I've finished them. As a storyteller I find that so tragic!
So, at this moment I think a really good story is one that provokes strong emotion. One with some very visible humanity, I guess. Just technically speaking, I also love a really tight, snappy story with a sense of humor and an element of surprise.
What was your time at SVA like? How has it impacted your career?
I loved my time at school. I'm just a dweeb and have always liked learning environments. Art school was a pretty fraught experience for some friends and it was out of reach for others - I got lucky with my teachers and peers. It was definitely a huge financial gamble, though, and the fear of professional failure has been the fire under me basically my whole career. I owe a lot to my community but in a way I also owe a lot to that pressure.
I know you're currently working on your first published book that is both written and drawn by you. How's that going and any updates you want to share?
Yes I am! Thank you for asking about it!
It's chugging along - it's a challenge in a way I wasn't expecting. My first book project had a script ready (by author Marika McCoola) and in a way it was much easier, even though the actual labor of drawing a graphic novel is not an easy thing. This time along the book is my special little baby and I want it to be super, super fun and interesting and emotional... it feels like I could tweak it infinitely and I wish I could! I'm also just finding it difficult to hold the shape of this story in my head. I've done lots of short stories and I can usually visualize those in full, but this one is going to be 250+ pages for sure and needs a lot more brainstorming, both on paper and in the literal brain. Thankfully, I really enjoy the process of writing and layout. The feeling of a story clicking into place after you've been fiddling with it for ages is the best feeling in the world. Sometimes I think I write just to feel that satisfaction.
How much planning goes into your books and do you stick to it? Does a page ever dictate or change the narrative as you work on it?
It depends on the project! Artists either follow rules or instincts and I am definitely an instincts person. Traditionally a comic page has four or so steps - script, thumbnails, pencils, inks, and then tones/colors if the project asks for it. I used to follow this system when I was younger, but these days drawing the same thing over and over just makes me nuts and I find that it takes a lot of life out of my drawing. What I do now is write a rough outline, do a rough thumbnail pass on paper, and then I scan those into a digital program. I use them as a guide and move straight to inks, and then do a clean-up pass so I can retain as much energy as possible while improving readability. If a page or scene is giving me a lot of trouble, I will flesh it out in more detail. I also like to have some flexibility so I can adjust the narrative if it's needed. In my opinion, if you're bored while working on your own story, the game's already over.
I don't find that a page changes the narrative as I'm working on it, exactly, but I often start thumbnailing with a couple of key "scenes" in mind and structure the story around them.
What advice would you give to aspiring cartoonists?
Unfortunately it's probably advice they've already heard elsewhere - just draw! Draw just for the pleasure of making marks on a page! Start with something small - adapt a story if writing one is daunting. Try not to get caught up in perfectionism. Try and make everything you do better than the thing before it. And try to hold on to the pride and pleasure of creating through it all. Artists make art because we can't live without it!
How long have you been working with paper mache and why are you drawn to it as a medium?
I have been working with paper mache for about 2 years now on my own work. I became fascinated with the idea that I could make something big and would potentially be heavy if using any other material and I would still be able to install it on the wall without any issues.
My journey with this medium began during collaborative installations with other artists, where we utilized paper to create intricate designs or molds for prototypes. What drew me in initially was its remarkable versatility. Despite its lightweight nature, paper mache allowed us to craft sizable installations that could be easily mounted on walls without any logistical hurdles.
As I delved deeper into experimenting with the material, I started telling my family about my pieces and my uncle shared with me tips that he had learned growing up and also experimenting with materials like paper mache and found objects. I discovered its rich history and cultural significance in the Caribbean, Central and Latin America. This exploration opened my eyes to the depth of paper mache as an indigenous craft, existing long before my involvement. It's a process steeped in tradition and innovation, offering endless possibilities for artistic expression. My fascination with its history and potential for creativity continues to drive my exploration and experimentation in this timeless craft.
What is it about monsters that are appealing to you? What do they symbolize? Were you scared of monsters as a kid? Are you conquering or slaying monsters from the past?
Monsters have always held a special place in my artistic exploration, stemming from the complex interplay of fear, paranoia, and love that I grew up surrounded by. These emotions, I've come to realize, are deeply intertwined with systemic cycles, shaping our experiences and perceptions in profound ways.
In my work, I use what I affectionately call "monsters" as symbolic representations of these intricate emotional landscapes. They serve as tangible manifestations of the fears and anxieties that once haunted me, but also as vessels for exploring the transformative power of love and understanding.
While monsters may have been sources of fear in my past, I've learned to see them differently over time. They've become companions on my journey of healing and self-discovery, allowing me to confront and embrace the complexities of my own psyche. Rather than slaying or conquering them, I've chosen to engage with them in dialogue, nurturing a sense of empathy and compassion for the parts of myself that were once shrouded in darkness.
My monsters symbolize not only the shadows of my past but also the resilience and strength that come from facing them head-on. They're a reminder that within every fear lies the potential for growth and transformation, ultimately shaping the narrative of my own personal evolution.
How do you want viewers to experience monsters in your work?
In my work, I aim to immerse viewers in a multifaceted narrative experience, where motifs serve as signposts guiding them through the intricate tapestry of stories I weave. These motifs act as timestamps, anchoring the audience in the specific moments and realities I explore.
By strategically incorporating these recurring symbols, I invite viewers to not only navigate the narrative landscape but also to actively participate in unraveling its mysteries. Each motif acts as a gateway for observers to delve deeper into the layers of meaning and symbolism embedded within my art.
Ultimately, I hope that encountering these motifs sparks a sense of curiosity and discovery in viewers, prompting them to seek out connections and patterns that enrich their understanding of the broader narrative. It's a collaborative journey, where every motif encountered is a breadcrumb leading to new insights and revelations, inviting viewers to engage with my work on a deeper level.
Did working in the movie industry feed your interest in monsters and the grotesque?
This is definitely Rossana lore that I don’t really speak about, haha but I come from a background of working in special effects in the film industry where I got to learn and work under the best special effects artists and monster making artists in the industry, honing my skills in character creation and imbuing creatures with depth and realism.
While some may perceive my work as grotesque, I view it as an exploration of the intricacies of character design and storytelling. The experience of crafting monsters for the screen taught me to consider the nuances of each character's narrative, as well as the importance of grounding them in a tangible reality. This realism extends beyond mere aesthetics to encompass textures and details that evoke a visceral response in viewers.
My background in the movie industry has not only expanded my technical capabilities but also instilled in me a deeper appreciation for the complexities of storytelling and the power of visual expression. It's a journey that continues to inform and enrich my artistic endeavors, pushing me to explore the boundaries of creativity while staying rooted in the authenticity of the human experience.
What is the relationship between your paintings and paper maché? Do they inform each other? Is there any kind of dialogue between the two mediums?
The relationship between my paintings and paper maché sculptures is symbiotic, each informing and enriching the other in a dynamic dialogue of creativity. Particularly with my frames, I see them as more than just borders; they serve as gateways or portals into the myriad worlds and realities I explore in my art.
My sculptures act as vessels, introducing viewers to the motifs and characters that fill my paintings. These motifs serve as breadcrumbs, guiding observers through the narratives and themes embedded within my work. By strategically incorporating these recurring symbols, I invite viewers to actively participate in unraveling the stories I weave, providing context and foreshadowing through both visual cues and titles.
There's a fluid exchange of ideas and imagery between my paintings and sculptures, each contributing to the rich tapestry of storytelling that defines my artistic expression. Together, they form a harmonious whole, inviting viewers on a journey of exploration and discovery through the realms of imagination and symbolism.
What are you working on right now and what’s next?
Currently, I'm deeply immersed in the ongoing narratives that shape my artistic practice, delving deeper into the stories of revolution and colonization that have long captured my imagination. This process involves not only continuing existing storylines but also exploring new avenues for experimentation with materials and techniques.
While my work is meticulously planned, drawing from years of research and contemplation, there's always room for evolution and unexpected discoveries. I'm constantly pushing the boundaries of my creative expression, seeking to unearth new layers of meaning and relevance within the historical contexts that inspire me.
Looking ahead, I find myself on the cusp of a new chapter, where I'll be exploring different timelines of history while remaining anchored in the themes of love, fear, and paranoia that have shaped my personal journey. These themes resonate deeply with my experiences of migration and living in a surveillance state, fueling my commitment to creating art that sparks introspection and dialogue on these pressing societal issues.
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