Concept: the puppy bowl, with half time performer, kitty purry, and there is an actual left shark

So this artwork is called “Bonnie” It is a portrait of my mother when she was young. I found a picture of her when she was around my age (19-20) and she let me keep it. This is my recreation of it. My mother was born in Puerto Rico and I was born in San Diego, CA. I always thought this picture was beautiful so I thought I’d recreate it

So this piece has no name. I actually ended up getting rid of it, but I still took a photo of it. So this looks like a normal woman's face, but if you look closely, you will see her entire face is colored in with actual make up products. The idea came to me when I started getting into make up earlier this year. I thought it was fun to play with but I wanted to know what it would look like to make my own creation with it. So I made this. I think we should give her a name? Any thoughts??

My mom and dad have been fighting for an hour because my dad bought a kilt off amazon for $109.

This is another one of my favorite pieces. It is called “Cobain”....obviously. It isn’t my BEST work but I am still insanely proud of it. The idea behind it was Kurt talking to his daughter from Heaven and Frances being stuck alive, which is hell without her father. Now, this isn’t supposed to be religious at all. I am not a religious person, so a lot of people are confused by the piece. I just liked the idea of the contrasts of Heaven and Hell. The quote is from a monologue I wrote for my friend for her drama class. 

Who ya gonna call?

“Abstract Portrait”

So this piece is probably one of my favorites. It one of the ones that took me the longest (maybe 3 days). It is called “abstract” because at the time I made this, I was blonde but I CRAVED pure hair color! But I wasn’t allowed to until I turned 18. Now as most of you know, my hair is purple. It meant a lot to me because I feel that the pure hair color describes my personality more than when I was a brunette or when I was blonde. 

“Disenchanted” by My Chemcial Romance. I DO NOT OWN THIS SONG

Death Row (part 2)

I continued to stare at her for a while. I scanned her frame from top to bottom. I couldn’t process how young she was. So young and still a killer. A cold blooded killer.

“What do you want?” she repeated louder. She crossed her arms around her chest. Shivers formed on her arms. She seemed cold. But then again, her short-sleeved jump suit didn’t help being locked in a empty, glass container. There were needle marks near the veins of each arm. She was clearly a heroin user. Her expression became more hostile as she yelled, “What are you staring at?”

I was suddenly snapped out of my trance. I locked eyes with her as she repeated the phrase. “What the hell are you staring at?”

“You.” I stated simply.

“What about me?” she questioned, her hostile tone still present.

“I didn’t realize how young you’d be.” I confessed, not breaking eye contact.

Suddenly her hostility faded. She began to laugh. Laugh. “Does it bother you to see such a young woman? I mean, you’re kind of old.” She linked her hands together and stretched them above her head, turning away from me.

“I’m thirty.” I clarified, slightly offended.

“I’m twenty.” she snickered.

“I’m free.” I retorted.

Her expression changed for a split second. She brought her hands back down to her sides and turned to face me. Then she cackled, “That was a good one.” She sauntered closer to the glass. I held my breath, wondering if I should back away or stand my ground. She noticed this change in my expression. “Can I see your badge?” she asked simply.

“Why?” I inquired. My breath hitched. I was fighting the urge to shake. Something about her just seemed terrifying. Almost as if she could snap at a given moment.

“Shouldn’t I know the name of the person I’m talking to?” I didn’t move. I stood frozen and clearly terrified of this young girl. “Don’t you want me to answer your questions?” she continued. I blink a few times, escaping the trance I was stuck in. Without a word, I pulled my badge out of my chest pocket and showed it to her. She smirked and chuckled, “Gwen Logan, how are you?”

“We aren’t here to talk about me.” I stated, regaining myself. I saw a chair sitting behind me at the opposite side of the cell block.

“Right, of course we aren’t,” she sneered, “I’d tell you my name but I’m sure it’s already in that briefcase. Isn’t it?” Her expression continued to change as if she couldn’t make up her mind. She would go from amused to hostile to giddy. I watched as it would change each time she spoke.

“I do know you’re name, Carrie,” I replied, sitting in the chair and facing her, “Face me please.” Her head snapped up from where she laid. She took a chair from across her tiny room and sat it in front of the glass wall. She leaned back and put her feet up against it, one leg crossed over the other.

“What do you want to know?” She asked.

Her mood had changed. I watched as she went from giddy to emotionless. Her face was blank. It seemed as if she had shut down. “Alright,” I breathed, “let’s begin.” She didn’t reply. I stumbled to grasp the pen and clipboard in my hands. I glanced down at my first question and struggled not to shake as I spoke. “Where are you from?”

“Atlanta.” Carrie answered plainly. She looked at me, sitting in the same position she was. I could barely breathe when I looked at her. Something about her was so intimidating.

“Don’t let her under your skin.” I thought. “Okay,” I sighed shakily, “What’s your full name?”

“Carrie Louise Manchester.” she replied.

“Alright.” I said, trying to hide my shaking. Clearly to no avail.

“Do I make you nervous?” she suddenly spoke.

My head shot up as I looked directly into her eyes. And I realized then that since I had gotten there, it was the first time I had done so. Her eyes were locked on mine. She sat there, waiting for me to respond. She waited as if she was looking for me to slip up and show weakness. I couldn’t. “No.” I said sternly.

She cackled loudly. “Bullshit.” she muttered in between breaths. She drew breaths quickly, shortly, causing her to being choking on her own laughter.

“Deep breaths.” I instructed.

She stopped laughing suddenly and locked eyes with me again. “What do you care if I choke? You’re only here to find out why I killed the bastards, aren’t you?” I leaned forward, waiting for her to say something. She looked as if words were hanging on her lips, but she couldn’t utter them. The mere thought almost hurt her. “Well forget it,” she sighed, “It was for fun. I wanted to shoot them.”

“And stab them both several times each?” I inquired.

“Heroin makes you kind of...crazy.” Carrie uttered with a poisonous taste to her voice.

“I don’t believe you did it off a high.” I stated.

Her look softened, “Well then, good for you.” Her face hollowed out. It was like staring at a blank canvas. It seemed full of possibilities, but at the end of the day, it was plain. That’s what she was. I could have chosen to walk away from what I thought was a empty chase, but something told me to stay.

“I can read your mind, you know.” she spoke. My head snapped up from the questions on the page in front of me.

“Excuse me?” I questioned

“I said, ‘I can read your mind.’ I know what you’re thinking.” she explained playfully. A smile crept back onto her pale, thin lips. She quickly swiped her tongue across them, waiting for me to respond.

“Tell me, then. What am I thinking?” I asked, waiting patiently. She looked at me with a sad expression. As my mood changed, hers did as well. Whenever I became nervous or expressed any sort of excitement, she mirrored it. And for a moment, I actually did believe she could read my mind. “What am I thinking?” I repeated.

Carrie giggled, “You want to give up just like all the other shrinks did. But I’ll give you some advice Gwenie. Do it. I’ll never tell why I shot those assholes.” Suddenly her giggling stopped. Her face changed for what felt like the millionth time. She looked at me sadly, coldly, harshly. The insane twinkle in her eyes faded and turned into a dead, angry expression. “I’ll take it to my grave.”

“Why,” I demanded, “What was so special about those two men you killed, who had families, friends, lives, that you just had to so brutally kill them?”

The anger faded again and sadness returned. I had struck a nerve. “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” Carrie stated simply.

“I’m not done!” I yelled.

“I am.” she said. Carrie calmly walked over to her bed and laid down. Before I could argue further, the security guard was behind me.

“You can’t force that bitch to do anything.”  he muttered.

“What did you call me?” her voice screeched. I looked up and saw Carrie standing back at the foot of her glass enclosure.

“I called you a bitch,” the man taunted, “Got a problem with that?”

“Yeah I do!” she screamed.

“Do something about it.” he continued, knocking on the glass. Suddenly, her face puckered. The world moved in slow motion as I watched the young woman spit on the face of the man who kept her locked away. A low growl erupted from her throat as she trudged back to her bed. The guard turned to me, wiping the saliva from his scowling face. “I told you she was crazy.”  

“You were right.” I agreed.

Death Row (part 1)

2016

I had been with he federal bureau of investigation for almost three decades. I had countless closed cases and put several deviants away. But there were always those few deviants who stuck around after they were arrested. Some of them made it their mission to crawl under and agent’s skin and make them relive and remember  every moment they shared. I wasn’t one of those agents. Not anymore. I’d grown so strong in my twenty five years. Only one ever got under my skin. Only one ever stuck with me in my head.

I was sitting at my desk when a coworker of mine came bursting through my door. He was a new trainee. He was coated in a thin layer of sweat and held a manila envelope in hand. “Agent Logan!” he called from my door. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at me with anticipation. I didn’t look up in acknowledgement. I just continued typing away at my desk.

“What is it? I’m busy.” I attempted to dismiss. My eyes didn’t leave my computer.

“The boss sent me down here with this file. He said you’d be interested.” The young man place it on my desk, on top of all the papers and clutter that already occupied my space. I glanced up and him and smiled as he turned to leave.

I looked at the file, curious as to what was so important that it couldn’t wait until my work was finished. I opened the envelope and slowly slid the contents onto my desk. There it laid. There I saw what was so important it need not wait. There laid the mugshot of the one criminal who got under my skin all those years ago, with the word “DECEASED” written across the page.

Carrie Manchester was convicted of murder in 1991. She pled guilty to murdering two men in cold blood and was given the death penalty. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw the paper in front of me. Surrounding the mugshot were the case file and notes. Notes I had taken twenty five years ago. I was a young trainee and eager to help the bureau in any way I could. I wanted to assist them in understanding the mind of a murder. My boss, Agent Crosby, assigned me to analyze Manchester and find out why she did what she did. By the time I was finished, I told everyone the results were inconclusive. But I knew that wasn’t the truth and I carried it around with me all this time.

I stood up in shock, losing my breath quickly. Suddenly, Crosby appeared in my doorway. His frail, elderly hand grasped on to the doorknob. “Are you alright, Gwen?” he asked.

I blinked a few times at the page and finally looked up at him. “Of course.” I lied.

“I’m assuming you’ve heard the news.” he sighed. I nodded without saying a word. I just resumed staring at the word “DECEASED” written over the young woman’s face. “You almost got through to her,” Crosby began, “It’s a pity we’ll never know why she killed him. It’d give the family some peace.” He watched me for a moment, waiting to see if I would react to his words. But I didn’t. I just stared. Crosby sighed. “I haven’t thought about her in years.” he continued.

“Neither have I,” I blinked, “I almost forgot she existed.”

He looked at me with sympathy in his eyes. He walked to my desk and stared at the picture with me. He then looked back up at me. My eyes were still glued to the photograph. “I know that was a hard time for you, Gwen.”

“I can’t believe she’s finally gone.” I stated, recomposing myself.

“Gone, but never forgotten.” Crosby clarified.

I chuckled dryly, “Isn’t that the understatement of the century.” I sat back down in my chair, gripping the arms tightly and turning to face the man in front of me.

“Well, I hope you at least did her some good before her death. Twenty five years is a long time to reflect.” he suggested.

“I doubt that she did.” I said, shaking my head slowly. I leaned back in my chair and looked up at the ceiling. My thoughts weighed heavily on me. I sat silently for a few moments before my boss interrupted my thoughts.

“She really got under your skin, didn’t she?” he observed. I didn’t say anything. I continued staring up into oblivion. “What happened to you in that prison?” He furrowed his brow and continued to look at me, waiting for a response. I didn’t give one. At least, not one he would appreciate. Twenty five year ago, I was another person. Everything I had become and everything I was and built was because of that experience.

1991

I walked into the prison office with my briefcase in hand. Inside were a few documents and papers on Carrie. “Carrie Manchester,” Crosby informed me earlier, “confessed to murdering two men. She shot them both multiple times and then used a kitchen knife to cut both their throats after they were dead.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Nobody knows why she did it. She just said she didn’t a trial or fight. Said she’d gladly admit to what she did, but never told anyone why. We want you to try to determine why she killed them.” he explained.

“Why me?” I questioned.

“Since you’re training to be our psychoanalyst, we figured you could figure it out if nobody else could.”  Crosby concluded. I didn’t want to fail my first assignment. I was a young upcomer and was desperate to prove myself. Maybe too desperate.

I walked into the prison office and flashed my badge at the security guard. The man paid no attention to me. He sat there, drifting off to sleep. I banged my fist against the clear window. He jumped to his feet, startled. “Visiting hours are over.” he said sternly. I rolled my eyes and held up my badge again. His tone immediately changed. “Oh, Detective Logan, we’ve been waiting for you.” “I’m sure you have been.” I replied solemnly. The guard got out from behind the desk and pushed open the clear, glass door that separated us. Then he began explaining the procedures.

“She’s kept in a different type of cell than the others. Instead of bars, she’s kept away in a large, glass case.”

“Why do you do that?” I inquired.

The guard stopped and turned to me. “She’s a nutjob. That’s why.” he said sternly.

“She’s still a person.” I argued.

He smirked and turned away from me and began walking again, “Just wait until you meet her. Then you’ll understand why we take these precautions.” I followed him to an iron door. On it was a sign that read “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” I clenched my briefcase in my fist. “One more thing,” the man said, “Don’t make it a habit of feeling sorry for her. You’ll regret it.”

He put a key into the lock and pushed the door open. I heard screams of torture and insanity immulate from it. I swallowed hard as I made my way through the hall. Hollers, coming from the prisoners, were thrown my way as I walked towards my cell.

“Who the fuck is she?”

“Oh, she thinks she’s fancy?”

“What’s in that briefcase, honey?”

“Who the hell is she here for?”

I ignored the calls as I got to my destination. I rounded a dark corner and say the glass case in front of me. Her eyes locked with mine. She leaned her head against the brick wall as she stared at me. Then she grunted, “What do you want?”