Art school confidential

Lily Moon is a painter and illustrator who blurs the lines between fine art and street art. She currently has works on display at the Kennedy Gallery Art Center (1931 L Street) and also hosts a free “chalk therapy” session in front of the gallery every second Tuesday of the month, where participants can talk about art and express themselves on the sidewalk. SN&R caught up with Moon to talk about deadlines, debt and the art of pizza boxes.

Did you go to art school?

The closest thing that comes to art school was once I took one figure-drawing class when I was 15 years old at Cosumnes River College. I realized I was good at it. I only passed with a C, but that's because I hate turning in homework. Deadlines were not my thing. I was pretty much on my own at 18. I went to the International Academy of Design and Technology [in Sacramento] for one semester, and it was not for me. Now I'm $20,000 in debt, but I know my passions will someday pay for it. Art schools can [cost] $100,000, and I didn't feel the need to go to school to become an artist. For anything to be successful, you have to have a passion for it. You learn it yourself. You pick up a book if you need to. I use YouTube for everything.

Why do you create?

It really helps that I'm a bipolar person. I didn't realize it until I was probably 17 years old. It's a very hard feeling. Since I can't articulate myself sometimes, it really helps that I'm an artist, because with the visual, people don't need to talk; they feel it. You don't know why you like a piece, you just do. You can finally figure it out if you ask yourself a billion questions, but initially, when you look at a piece, you can tell if you like it or not. You walk up to it, and there's a gut feeling, and either you go to the next one, or you stop and you can't walk away from it even though it's a hideous thing. This is how I feel—“My husband makes me feel this way,” “my wife makes me feel that way,” or “I look like this in the mirror, I can never get better than that.” When you see [the pieces] visually, you work your problems out constantly. It's almost like writing yourself a little note. It pushes you further.

What do you like about making black-light-activated line art?

You can create an illusion with it. Art itself is an illusion. You try to create 3-D [effect]or a different perspective with it. Black lights are so much fun. I'm a big fan of the '70s and '80s, all of that, but you can actually make a serious picture and make it feel very soulful.

Explain “chalk therapy.”

I draw chalk people on the sidewalks, and people come talk to me. It helps that I have that personality; I've always been able to make people laugh.

What themes do you explore in your art?

Being bipolar, you can look at each one in my [series of face illustrations] with two halves. There's an inside and an outside in each face. The series is kind of like a period diary, actually. One piece is half spun up, stretched thin, the other is a voluptuous face that says “I am a woman.” The eyes are closed, like, “Please, just let me be. I know I'm going to bleed for a week.” It's called “Molotov.”

Tell me about pizza boxes.

Each [piece] is about how I feel when I eat pizza. My brother had a few around the house and wouldn't throw them away, so I said, “Fuck it—that's my new canvas.” I love to draw on anything. As an artist, you have to pick up whatever is around when it has the right texture and weight, and just go for it. I used colored pencil and ink, and I sealed it with a clear gel. They were never intended for show, but people came over to my house and really liked them, so they went up in the gallery. [The character Pizza the Hutt from] Spaceballs is definitely an inspiration for the pepperoni-face boy. I left the scraps and crumbs in the box to represent the character's only legacy.

Ever surprise yourself with a piece?

You have to attach a meaning to the image. Sometimes an artist doesn't know anything about the piece while it's all subconscious. After, I'll sit down, look at it, analyze it with other people who come into the gallery and tell me what they think, almost like a therapist would. A lot of my work is my own therapy. Then, I'll finally see, “Oh my God, it all makes sense. That's what I was feeling.”