What is the best thing that I love about my work? I love that my work creates space for people to feel seen. Whether through visual art, writing, or curating, I get to translate private experiences into shared language. I love working in the in-between, where vulnerability meets structure. I love collaborating with artists and communities. I love building things that didn’t exist before. I love when something clicks emotionally before it clicks intellectually. I love watching people linger with an image or a story. I love work that holds contradiction instead of resolving it. I love when art becomes a form of care. I love that my work keeps changing as I do. I love the way my work can inhabit complexity, intimacy, and vulnerability simultaneously. It’s a space where body, text, and memory intersect, where feminist histories converse with personal narratives. My drawings, prints, and installations allow me to honor the women who came before me while exploring my own agency. Each gesture, color, and compositional choice carries intention. I love how it invites viewers into a dialogue rather than presenting answers, echoing lessons from feminist artists before me, about the power of voice, story, and presence.

What is my idea of happiness? Happiness is working in a space that encourages both discipline and play, where creation feels expansive yet rooted in purpose. It’s seeing an idea germinate over years into a tangible project. It’s collaborative moments with artists, family, or students that feel generative. Time to think, make, and connect without rushing. A day that includes movement, writing, art, and meaningful conversation. Work that feels purposeful but not consuming. Laughter in the kitchen, especially with my kids. A body that feels at home in itself. Being surrounded by people who tell the truth kindly. Feeling useful without being depleted. Long walks, good books, good art. A sense of belonging without performance. Enoughness.

What is my greatest fear? Losing time to fear instead of using it to live. Becoming small in moments that ask for courage. Letting exhaustion replace curiosity. Forgetting to listen to my own intuition. Staying quiet when something matters. Letting systems erase nuance. Losing connection to my body. Becoming disconnected from my kids’ inner lives. Confusing productivity with meaning. And, like many people, not loving fully while I have the chance.

What is the trait that I most deplore in myself? Over-functioning. I sometimes carry too much instead of asking for help. I can confuse responsibility with self-erasure. I overthink when I could trust. I stay polite longer than I should. I sometimes doubt what I already know. I rush myself when patience would serve better. I try to be useful before being honest. I’m learning to unlearn urgency. I’m practicing softness with myself.

Which living persons in my profession do I most admire? Judy Chicago for building feminist infrastructure. Mickalene Thomas for power and pleasure in representation. Lucy Lippard for rigor and generosity. Carrie Mae Weems for moral clarity. Kara Walker for refusal of comfort. Renee K. Nicholson, for her vast body of work and her dedication to helping others realize their creative potential. And the countless artists working quietly, consistently, and bravely in community.

What is the thing that I dislike the most in my work? Administrative overload that crowds out imagination. Systems and metrics that flatten meaning. Funding structures that privilege safety over risk. The pressure to brand instead of explore. Burnout culture disguised as ambition. The myth of the lone genius. Extractive timelines. Tokenism disguised as inclusion. When care becomes optional.

When and where was I the happiest, in my work? When I realized I could make art again without needing permission. When I saw my students and collaborators find language for themselves. When my work entered public space and sparked conversation. When I curated projects that centered underrepresented bodies and stories. When my writing connected strangers across distance. When my artwork traveled internationally and still felt intimate. When collaboration felt mutual instead of transactional. When my partner framed my work by hand. When work felt like extension, not performance. When I trusted my voice.

If I could, what would I change about myself? I’d replace self-doubt with self-trust faster. I’d take up space sooner. I’d stop apologizing for complexity. I’d trust silence more. I’d release perfectionism earlier. I’d ask for what I need without translation. I’d believe good things faster. I’d stay longer in joy. I’d worry less about being liked and more about being honest.

What is my greatest achievement in work? Building a multidisciplinary practice that bridges art, writing, curation, and community. Sustaining a feminist, body-centered artistic voice across decades. Creating work that lives in galleries, libraries, journals, and classrooms. Supporting artists through infrastructure, not just admiration. Helping shape programs that center equity and care. Transitioning careers without abandoning identity. Publishing and exhibiting internationally while staying grounded locally. Creating work while raising children and working full-time. Letting evolution be visible. Staying in the work.

Where would I most like to live? Somewhere with water nearby. A city with bookstores, museums, and long walking paths. Somewhere that feels intellectually alive but emotionally humane. Close to community, not spectacle. A place where seasons change. Somewhere my kids feel at home. Somewhere art is not ornamental but necessary. Somewhere that holds history and possibility. Somewhere that invites both solitude and connection. Somewhere I can stay curious. Somewhere I can grow older without shrinking.

What is my most treasured possession? My children’s art. My sketchbooks and journals. Letters from people whose lives intersected with mine. Books that changed me. Objects and art with stories attached. My body, increasingly. Time, when I get it. Trust, when it’s given. Language, when it arrives. Memory.

What is my most marked characteristic? Curiosity paired with care. I ask questions and stay long enough to listen. I move between disciplines naturally. I build bridges instead of silos. I take emotional work seriously. I hold complexity without rushing resolution. I lead quietly but persistently. I bring structure to tenderness. I believe in people before systems. I make space.

What is my most inspirational location, in my city? Libraries, especially quiet corners where students and strangers work side by side. Museums where bodies slow down in front of images. Coffee shops where conversations stretch longer than planned. Public spaces where people gather without performance. My studio, when it’s messy and alive.

What is my favorite place to eat and drink, in my city? Black Bear, The Grind, Mundy’s, and other Independent cafés and dive bars with mismatched furniture and decor. Places where conversations linger longer than orders. Anywhere that feels like a neighborhood room instead of a transaction. Places that welcome notebooks. Places where I can sit and think and talk and let time stretch.

What books influenced my life and how?

Ways of Seeing by John Berger taught me the politics of perception.

The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir gave language to the structures that shape women’s lives.

Lucy Lippard’s writing shows feminist art history as an active conversation.

Audre Lorde and bell hooks taught me power, selfhood, and love as radical acts.

The Laugh of the Medusa by Hélène Cixous encouraged me to inhabit language as a site of feminine power.

Judy Chicago’s Through the Flower reminded me to claim my voice boldly.

Tina Fey’s Bossypants taught me that humor and defiance are inseparable.

Renee K. Nicholson’s Postscripts and Feverdream deepened my understanding of art writing as an active, lived practice.

All these works shape how I approach feminist, body-centered, and surreal narratives in my art and writing.

You Only Die Once. What music would I listen to on my last day? Joni Mitchell, Amy Shark, Julia Michaels, Elle King. Something with a pulse. Music that makes me cry and breathe at the same time. Music that feels like love.

Who is my hero or heroine in fiction? The narrators of The Yellow Wallpaper, Go Ask Alice, and Cat’s Eye—voices that reveal hidden struggles, silenced perspectives, and inner resilience. In particular, Cat’s Eye’s narrator, an artist, resonates with me deeply, reflecting on memory, identity, and the complexities of creative life. These characters inspire me to explore voice, selfhood, and the power of telling one’s own story in my work.

Who are my heroes and heroines in real life? My children.. My partner. My parents. Wanda Ewing, and women artists who made work without permission. Teachers who taught me how to see instead of what to think. Activists who organize quietly and consistently. Writers who name difficult truths without cruelty. Friends who show up repeatedly. Artists who build infrastructure, not just objects. Caregivers who hold systems together. People who stay. People who try again. People who listen.

Which movie would I recommend to see once in a lifetime? Who Does She Think She Is? – A compelling documentary following women artists balancing motherhood, identity, and creative ambition. Woman, Art, Revolution – An essential look at feminist art history and the radical women who reshaped the art world. I Shot Andy Warhol – A gripping dramatization of Valerie Solanas’s life and the events surrounding her infamous act, exploring rage, radicalism, and the struggle for recognition.

What role play stories in my life and work? Stories are how I understand power, identity, and belonging. They are how private experience becomes public language. They are how bodies become visible without being consumed. They are how grief becomes survivable. They are how memory resists erasure. They are how systems are questioned. They are how connection happens across difference. They are how art moves beyond objects. They are how people recognize themselves.!

What do the words “You are the storyteller of your own life” mean to me? They mean agency without isolation and authorship without denial of context. They mean I get to choose meaning, not just endure events. They mean reframing without erasure. They mean responsibility without blame. They mean refusing scripts that no longer fit. They mean telling fuller versions of ourselves. They mean revision is allowed. They mean silence is not neutrality, mean voice is practice and becoming.

Who is my greatest fan, sponsor, partner in crime? My partner. He builds frames for my work, literally and figuratively. He makes space for my work without shrinking his own. He listens deeply and collaborates generously. He challenges gently and celebrates without competing. He sees me and reminds me who I am when I forget.

Which people or companies would I like to work with?

ArtLifting

Museum Exchange

Fractured Atlas

Artist Communities Alliance

Creative Time

Feminist Press

Women’s Studio Workshop

Joan Mitchell Foundation

For Freedoms

Anonymous Was a Woman

What project am I looking forward to work on? I’m excited to launch Feverdream in March 2026 (Redhawk Publications), with poems by Renee K. Nicholson that I created illustrations for. We’re having an exhibition and reading at the Monongalia Art Center! I’m also developing more artwork that blends image, text, and archive to explore embodiment, memory, and feminist histories. Collaborative curatorial work is ongoing, alongside writing projects that bridge criticism and art. Artist residencies that prioritize infrastructure over extraction (next up at Kinhouse Gallery in Indiana!), and slow, reflective projects that make space for viewers and participants are all part of what I look forward to next.

Where can you see me or my work? In exhibitions nationally and internationally. And various places online. In libraries and public spaces. Through Woman Made Gallery in Chicago. In collaborative projects across community institutions. In writing about contemporary art and cultur, n artist residencies, curatorial programs. and often quietly, behind the scenes.
Instagram: @sallery_art
Website/Portfolio: sallyjanebrown.com

What do the words “Passion Never Retires” mean to me? That creativity doesn’t age out and curiosity doesn’t expire. Desire evolves instead of disappearing and making is not a phase. SArt grows older beautifully and becoming doesn’t end.

Which creative professionals should Peter invite to tell their story?

Renee K. Nicholson

Amy Chaiklin

Holly Wong

Laurence de Valmy

Randi Ward

Leslie Sotomayor

Molly Humphreys

Cat Aboudara

Kelly Cahn

Liz Powers

How can you contact me? Email: sallery_art@zohomail.com