“We bury our friends in the morning, protest in the afternoon, and dance all night.” This quote originated during the AIDS crisis. Underprivileged, queer, and people of color fought for their rights to live in a system that neglected their very existence. Our community’s friends, lovers, and leaders died of preventable causes while the world watched. But they didn’t accept defeat; they organized. They made the world listen; they made themselves seen when others turned a blind eye. But most importantly, they danced. They understood that, in a system of oppression, not only to exist, but to live and live a life of joy and fulfillment, is an act of rebellion. As a child, I took to pencil and paper as my entertainment, and I quickly discovered that I could make someone smile by giving them a drawing. I realized the power I hold as an artist: to bring others joy. Since then, my life has been filled with paint-stained clothes and fingernails embedded with charcoal, with my eyes on a career as an artist. Coming from a low-income and unstable household, attending an affluent suburban school, and being the only outwardly queer person in my community, fear, stigma, and hate have shaped so much of my life. I grew up feeling like I was the only one in existence like me. I confided in art and studies to and understand how my identity shapes the world around me. At 15, with the help of the community and friends, I made my debut as a drag performer, and since then, I have led an expansive career under the name Green Apple Slush. My artwork is rooted in my experiences as a queer person and a drag performer. With my art, I explore how queer and trans bodies navigate self-worth within systems of oppression. My paintings are both a tribute and an examination; a celebration of LGBTQ drag artistry, and a reflection on the triumphs, losses, and the social/political tensions that define my lived experiences. Drag is self-creation. In my artwork, a tube of lipstick becomes a weapon of creation; dirty silicone breasts become the object of meditation. The canvas becomes the stage, and the viewer becomes the performer, placed in front of a mirror that reflects a caricature of femininity. I am drawn to the tensions between what is authentic and what is artificial. I do not attempt to resolve this tension, but instead, let it exist with deliberate friction.Through the lens of drag, I explore the creation and transformation of identity, and in the act of painting, participate in this creation. Painting becomes a way to reclaim my presence; performance becomes existence, and existence is power. With my art, I inhabit the fluidity of drag and queer existence, reflecting on, disrupting, and reimagining how we perform ourselves into being. After one of my performances, a woman reached out to me. She said that she and her son had attended the show together. Her family had been facing tough times, and her son was enduring bullying at school because of his femininity. She shared that my performance was a source of strength for her son; she called me his "superhero." Her message shook me. I had never imagined I could be a source of strength for someone else. That moment reminded me of everything I had needed growing up. Visibility, hope, someone to look up to. Now, I know that I can be that for others. Although our current political situation feels like one giant step backwards, I'm constantly reminded that, while there is still so much to fight for, we have come a long way, and there is so much to be hopeful for. I hope to carry the baton of the artists and activists that have come before me, making artwork of pain and resilience, not for fun, but for survival; for dancing in the face of grief, for loving loudly and living fully. With my art, I hope to continue to be a pillar and to encourage others to be fearlessly authentic, even when the world tries to belittle them. I want to remind others, especially those who feel unseen, that their stories are sacred, their joy is powerful, and their existence is valuable. The world may not always be ready for us, but we show up anyway. Painted, glittering, aching, and alive.

Watercolor demands that I collaborate with the material itself. The paint flows, bleeds, and settles in ways that cannot always be fully controlled, creating opportunities for discovery and surprise. Watercolor hides nothing; every slight brushstroke is fully visible. But that is exactly why it's my favorite medium: it allows me to create raw and emotionally charged images that are intimate, expressive, and deeply personal. The two artworks that I have chosen were inspired by works I encountered while visiting the Boston MFA. The first one was inspired by Christina Quarles' "In 24 Days Tha Sun’ll Set at 7pm." Coming from a low-income and unstable household, attending an affluent suburban school, and being the only outwardly queer person in my community, fear, stigma, and hate have shaped so much of my life. I grew up feeling like I was the only one in existence like me, and I confided in art to understand my experiences and reflection on the social and political tensions that shape my life. This painting is a self portrait that explores my relationship with my drag persona. I wanted to express the duality between these identities: two separate existences that coexist, mesh, and overlap into one experience. During the same museum visit, I was also deeply moved by the exhibition "Witnessing Humanity," particularly John Wilson's portrait series "The Young Americans." The artwork inspired the second watercolor and pollage portrait of Robyn: my friend and fellow drag performer. I wanted to create not only a portrait of my friend, but also a portrait of the political landscape and the psychological state of me and many others of my generation. She's tired and disilusioned. Her wrist is broken, and she dreads having to continue pedaling forward. But most importantly, John Wilsons artwork reminded me that, although our current political situation feels like one giant step backwards, and while there is still so much to fight for, we have come a long way, and there is so much to be hopeful for. Studying Studio Art student at Vassar, I hope to build a career as a professional artist. Through painting, I want to continue exploring identity, self-creation, and community. I want to create work that inspires others to be fearlessly authentic and reminds them that their stories are sacred, their joy is powerful, and their existence is valuable. Thank you for your consideration! :)

The artwork I've chosen is "My Boobs Are in an IKEA Bag under my Bed." I view it as a self-portrait, where the bed represents a more realistic, outward-facing world that unsucessfully hides an chaotic, oversaturated, and complex subsurface realm. My paintings are a celebration of queer culture and artistry, and an exploration of the social tensions of identity politics that define my lived experiences. I make artwork of pain and resilience, not for fun, but for survival; for dancing in the face of grief, for loving loudly and living fully. As an outwordly queer person, I often feel socially isolated; like I'm the only one in existence like me. Freedom of expression is important to me because it is how I am able to disect understand my lived experiences and how my queer identity shapes my world. But my creative expression is not just for me; I know that my experiences are not isolated. Freedom of creative expression is important because it is how we foster community, conversations, and change. I want to remind others, especially those who feel unseen, that their stories are sacred, and their existence is valuable. With my art, I hope to invite others to be loud, colorful, and fearlessly authentic, even when the world tries to belittle them. Thank you!:)

I've always been in awe of nature. As a kid, I wanted to learn the names of every plant and animal. I looked closely into the inner workings of plants and found another world, a labyrinth of vibrance and wonder, and wanting to understand this world, I took to drawing it. When I sit outside to study nature and create art, it's a meditative and transformative experience. Painting the world around me has prompted me to see the beauty in things that might pass me by, like the interlacing swirls of bark or how a branch may penetrate the sky, and even in a slab of concrete. It's taught me that beautiful things can come from chance, and its allowed me to stop and stare and to find a quiet moment in our current world that feels so defined by chaos. Even when I go into the studio, I always take the lessons from nature with me; how lines curve and intertwine, and how to feel and express textures and space. I hope to carry on Terry's legacy and the lessons from nature with me and my art. Thank you for your time and consideration! :)

“We bury our friends in the morning, protest in the afternoon, and dance all night.” This quote originated during the AIDS crisis. Underprivileged, queer, and people of color fought for their rights to live in a system that neglected their very existence. Our community’s friends, lovers, and leaders died of preventable causes while the world watched. But they didn’t accept defeat, they organized. They made the world listen; they made themselves seen when others turned a blind eye. But most important of all, they danced. They understood that, in a system of oppression, to not only exist, but to live, and to live a life of joy and fulfillment, is an act of rebellion. As a child, I took to pencil and paper as my entertainment, and I quickly discovered that I could make someone smile by giving them a drawing. I realized the power I hold as an artist: to bring others joy. Since then, my life has been filled with paint-stained clothes and fingernails embedded with charcoal, with my eyes on a career as an artist. Coming from a low-income and unstable household, attending an affluent suburban school, and being the only outwardly queer person in my community, fear, stigma, and hate have shaped so much of my life. I grew up feeling like I was the only one in existence like me. I confided in art and studies to and understand how my identity shapes the world around me. At 15, with the help of community and friends, I made my debut as a drag performance, and since, I have led an expansive career with the name Green Apple Slush. After one of my performances, a woman reached out to me. She said that she and her son had attended the show together. Her family had been facing tough times, and her son was enduring bullying at school because of his femininity. She shared that my performance was a source of strength for her son; she called me his "superhero." Her message shook me. I had never imagined I could be a source of strength for someone else. That moment reminded me of everything I had needed growing up. Visibility, hope, someone to look up to. Now, I know that I can be that for others. My experiences as a queer person and a drag performer inspire my artwork. In my most recent body of paintings, I explore how queer and trans bodies navigate self-worth within systems of oppression. My paintings are a tribute and cross-examination, a celebration of LGBTQ drag artistry, and a reflection on the triumphs, losses, and the social/political tensions that define my and others' lived experiences. Although our current political situation feels like one giant step backwards, I'm constantly reminded that, while there is still so much to fight for, we have come a long way, and there is so much to be hopeful for. I hope to carry the baton of the artists and activists that have come before me, making artwork of pain and resilience, not for fun, but for survival; for dancing in the face of grief, for loving loudly and living fully. With my art and my future career, I hope to continue to be a pillar and to encourage others to be fearlessly authentic, even when the world tries to belittle them. I want to remind others, especially those who feel unseen, that their stories are sacred, their joy is powerful, and their existence is valuable. The world may not always be ready for us, but we show up anyway. Painted, glittering, aching, and alive. Portfolio: https://sites.google.com/view/jaron-milman/works ThankYou!!:)

I've always been in awe of nature. As a kid, I wanted to learn the names of every plant and animal. I looked closely into the inner workings of plants and found another world, a labyrinth of vibrance and wonder, and wanting to understand this world, I took to drawing it. When I sit outside to study nature and create art, it's a meditative and transformative experience. Painting the world around me has prompted me to see the beauty in things that might pass me by, like the interlacing swirls of bark or how a branch may penetrate the sky, and even in a slab of concrete. It's taught me that beautiful things can come from chance, and its allowed me to stop and stare and to find a quiet moment in our current world that feels so defined by chaos. Even when I go into the studio, I always take the lessons from nature with me; how lines curve and intertwine, and how to feel and express textures and space. I hope to carry on Terry's legacy and the lessons from nature with me and my art. Thank you for your time and consideration! :)

As a child, I took to pencil and paper as my entertainment, and I quickly discovered that I could make someone smile by giving them a drawing. I realized the power I hold as an artist: to bring others joy. Since then, my life has been filled with paint-stained clothes and fingernails embedded with charcoal, with my eyes on a career as an artist. Coming from a low-income and unstable household, attending an affluent suburban school, and being the only outwardly queer person in my community, fear, stigma, and hate have shaped so much of my life. I grew up feeling like I was the only one in existence like me. I confided in art and studies to and understand how my identity shapes the world around me. My creative passion eventually led me to my career as a drag performer, and a few years ago, after one of my performances, a woman reached out to me. She said that she and her son had attended the show together. Her family had been facing tough times, and her son was enduring bullying at school because of his femininity. She shared that my performance was a source of strength for her son; she called me his "superhero." Her message shook me. I had never imagined I could be a source of strength for someone else. That moment reminded me of everything I had needed growing up. Visibility, hope, someone to look up to. Now, I know that I can be that for others. My experiences as a queer person and a drag performer are my greatest inspiration for my most recent body of artwork, where I explore how queer and trans bodies navigate self-worth within systems of oppression. My paintings are a celebration of LGBTQ drag artistry, and a reflection on the triumphs, losses, and the social/political tensions that define my lived experiences. I hope to carry the baton of the artists and activists that have come before me, making artwork of pain and resilience, not for fun, but for survival; for dancing in the face of grief, for loving loudly and living fully. With my art and my future career, I hope to continue to be a pillar and to encourage others to be fearlessly authentic, even when the world tries to diminish their light. I want to remind people, especially those who feel unseen, that their stories are sacred, their joy is powerful, and their existence is valuable. The world may not always be ready for us, but we show up anyway. Painted, glittering, aching, and alive. Thank you for your time and consideration! Portfolio: https://sites.google.com/view/jaron-milman?usp=sharing –Jaron Milman

Coming from a low-income and unstable household, attending an affluent suburban school, and being the only outwardly queer person in my community, fear, stigma, and hate have shaped so much of my life. I grew up feeling like I was the only one in existence like me. I confided in art and studies to and understand how my identity shapes the world around me. My experiences as a queer person and a drag performer are my greatest inspiration for my most recent and favorite paintings. I explore how queer and trans bodies navigate self-worth within systems of oppression. My paintings are a celebration of LGBTQ drag artistry, and a reflection on the triumphs, losses, and the social/political tensions that define my lived experiences. I hope to carry the baton of the artists and activists that have come before me, making artwork of pain and resilience, not for fun, but for survival; for dancing in the face of grief, for loving loudly and living fully. With my art and my future career, I hope to continue to be a pillar and to encourage others to be fearlessly authentic, even when the world tries to diminish their light. I want to remind people, especially those who feel unseen, that their stories are sacred, their joy is powerful, and their existence is valuable. The world may not always be ready for us, but we show up anyway. Painted, glittering, aching, and alive. Thank you for your time and consideration!

As a child, I took to pencil and paper as my entertainment, and I quickly discovered that I could make someone smile by giving them a drawing. I realized the power I hold as an artist: to bring others joy. Since then, my life has been filled with paint-stained clothes and fingernails embedded with charcoal, with my eyes on a career as an artist. Coming from a low-income and unstable household, attending an affluent suburban school, and being the only outwardly queer person in my community, fear, stigma, and hate have shaped so much of my life. I grew up feeling like I was the only one in existence like me. I confided in art and studies to and understand how my identity shapes the world around me. My creative passion eventually led me to my career as a drag performer, and a few years ago, after one of my performances, a woman reached out to me. She said that she and her son had attended the show together. Her family had been facing tough times, and her son was enduring bullying at school because of his femininity. She shared that my performance was a source of strength for her son; she called me his "superhero." Her message shook me. I had never imagined I could be a source of strength for someone else. That moment reminded me of everything I had needed growing up. Visibility, hope, someone to look up to. Now, I know that I can be that for others. My experiences as a queer person and a drag performer are my greatest inspiration for my most recent body of artwork, where I explore how queer and trans bodies navigate self-worth within systems of oppression. My paintings are a tribute and a cross-examination, a celebration of LGBTQ drag artistry, and a reflection on the triumphs, losses, and the social/political tensions that define my lived experiences that I hope to carry the baton of the artists and activists that have come before me, making artwork of pain and resilience, not for fun, but for survival; for dancing in the face of grief, for loving loudly and living fully. With my art and my future career, I hope to continue to be a pillar and to encourage others to be fearlessly authentic, even when the world tries to diminish their light. I want to remind people, especially those who feel unseen, that their stories are sacred, their joy is powerful, and their existence is valuable. The world may not always be ready for us, but we show up anyway. Painted, glittering, aching, and alive. Thank you for your time and consideration! Portfolio: https://sites.google.com/view/jaron-milman?usp=sharing –Jaron Milman

Coming from a low-income and unstable household, attending an affluent suburban school, and being the only outwardly queer person in my community, fear, stigma, and hate have shaped so much of my life. For much of my teen years, I had no support system or outlet. There would be days when I would snap at my friends without warning or feel too anxious to leave my room. My mental health struggles became all-consuming; they practically defined who I was. As my mental health suffered, so did my physical health; I lost significant weight, got sick often, and developed alopecia. I had to fight with my family just to see a mental health professional; It wasn’t until recently that I was finally diagnosed with multiple anxiety disorders. I was relieved to finally have language for my experiences, but what helped me most wasn't my diagnosis, it was dance. I had been dancing for years, and I loved it for so many reasons. But, it wasn’t until then that I began to use it as a tool for my mental health. The dance studio became my sanctuary. Unlike at home or school, in the studio, I was recognized for my effort, my expression, and my presence. When I fell flat on my face, I could belly-laugh with friends beside me. I had a community of fellow artists and mentors who danced through life with me. Dance gave me structure, discipline, and joy. No matter how chaotic my day was, I always found the energy to show up and move. Dance helped me process what words couldn’t. Contemporary let me be freely expressive; ballet grounded me with its meditative focus and control. But of all the styles, my favorite was always Indian classical dance. The strong poses contrasted by fluid movements, accompanied by colorful music, was pure joy. Dance gave me a space to care for myself, my body, and my mind at the same time, and it taught me that physical activity and creative expression can be more healing than any medicinal cure. Though I no longer take dance classes, dance led me to the world of drag, where I found another transformative outlet. Drag gave me a new way to celebrate identity, creativity, and healing. After one of my drag shows, a woman reached out to me. She said that she and her son had attended the show together. Her family had been facing tough times, and her son was enduring bullying at school because of his femininity. She said that her son hadn't stop talking about my show a week after the fact. My performance was a source of strength for her son; she called me his "superhero." Her message shook me. I had never imagined I could be a source of strength for someone else. That moment reminded me of everything I had needed growing up: visibility, hope, someone to look up to. Now, I can be that for others. My mental and physical health are important to me because they are the foundation of everything I do—my art, my resilience, my ability to uplift my community. I’ve faced stigma, neglect, and trauma, but I’ve also found joy, purpose, and healing through movement, through art, through being fully and unapologetically myself. Looking back, I’m proud and incredibly grateful for how far I’ve come, not only with my mental and physical health, but also as an artist and a leader.

As a child, with little more than a pencil and paper, I discovered the joy of drawing. It started as a simple pastime, sketching cartoons and portraits of my family and friends, but quickly became something deeper. I realized that, by giving someone a drawing, I could make them smile. I could connect with them, even without words. The joy of creating something meaningful and sharing it with others planted the seed for what would grow into a lifelong artistic pursuit of passion and purpose. Growing up in a low-income household while attending school in an affluent, predominantly white suburb, I often felt like I existed in two different worlds. My presence was defined by cultural disconnect and social ostracization, and during those years, I turned to art as a safe space for me to explore my thoughts and feeling and begin to make sense of who I was. Art helped me navigate a complicated social landscape, and in doing so, helped me understand myself better. Though I have always dreamed of pursuing a future in art, I spent the majority of my high school career negotiating with myself, bargaining to sacrifice that dream in favor of more “practical” or conventional paths. I explored many different subjects, particularly in STEM fields, hoping something else might spark the same passion. But nothing ever came close. Ultimately, I was pulled back to my love of art, which I now fully embrace as study studio art at Vassar College. I am committed to my art education, with a long-term goal to earn my MFA, and building a life centered on creativity, activism, and expression. As the political state of the United States has become increasingly defined by tenions, miseducation, and hated, I’ve become increasingly aware of how LGBTQ+ and Hispanic communities—my communities—have been marginalized in the U.S. From discriminatory legislation to cultural erasure, these attacks are, in my eyes, deliberate efforts to silence and suppress us. I am deeply unsettled by the fact that, even today, basic human rights for people like me remain up for debate. Through my art, I strive to change that narrative. I want to create works that actively educate and uplift. I want to celebrate my culture while emphasizing the importance of visibility and acceptance. With paint, color, and glitter, I want to fight for a future where we are not just seen, but valued, heard, and embraced.