Her cellmates don't understand. "The thing was mocking me," she says, fists balled under her arms. "Some dude sprays red and black on canvas -- with a trowel -- and they call it art." Carmen paces, shoes clapping the linoleum. “Who’s to say that what I did wasn’t also art?” One of the women says, “Didn’t you piss on a painting?” Carmen isn’t listening. “I had color, shape, form, perspective.” The warden appears. “I was provoked. All artists want to provoke an emotional reaction, right?” He sighs. “Wait til you see what I can do with a trowel,” she says.
writer. editor. doodler. er.
Writings in the Raw
Julia Halprin Jackson
writer. editor. doodler. er.
I write.
I doodle.
I'm at work on my first book, a collection of linked short stories that follows a community of expatriates living on the southern coast of Spain.
I care about stuff. Like curing type 1 diabetes. And marriage equality. And rights for immigrants. And public radio. And espanol. And Frank O'Hara and Jennifer Egan and Federico Garcia Lorca and Tony Kushner. You know, cool stuff.
I make postcards that are also stories.
Sometimes I read stories and poems out loud.
Sometimes I go to conferences.
You can find my short stories, essays, poems and flash fictio in a variety of places in print and online. If you Google really hard, you might find the two short radio pieces I produced on a badass NPR affiliate in San Francisco.
This is where you can go to find out who I am.