Beyond the Canvas: A Conversation with Lauren Clancy
Lauren Clancy’s art doesn’t just hang on a wall; it lives, breathes, and often aches. Her mixed-media paintings, rich with the tactile presence of newspaper fragments, raw color, and layered textures, feel less like compositions and more like archaeological digs into the human spirit. They are visceral landscapes where memory, grief, and resilience bleed through, inviting viewers to confront the chaos of existence and find a surprising sense of release.
In this candid interview, Clancy pulls back the curtain on her deeply personal process. She speaks with an unvarnished honesty about navigating life’s tumultuous fires—illness, loss, and profound betrayals—and how these experiences forge the very essence of her work. This isn’t art created for external validation but rather born from an intrinsic compulsion—a sacred act of survival and self-discovery. As we delve into her unique relationship with language, her journey through multiple creative disciplines, and her unwavering commitment to truth, it becomes clear that Clancy’s art is not merely biographical; it’s a resonant vibration, a raw testament to the human condition that calls us to feel “something”—discomfort, recognition, release, or perhaps, all of it at once.
AMM: Your work feels like it’s been torn straight from the soul—fragments of newspaper, color, memory, grief. When you’re creating, are you trying to make sense of the chaos or just survive it?
LJC: I create when I’m compelled, when something in my soul needs to be made tangible. I don’t always know what I want to make, or how it will turn out. Sometimes I wrestle with my own inner ego. Will this work? Will it make sense in the end? I am my own worst critic. The inner turmoil I’ve experienced through painting is something I’ve had to both relinquish and reckon with in order to keep pushing forward. I’ve had to move past my own boundaries and keep creating anyway.
And then, at some point, I remember… there’s almost no need for all that doubt. It always comes together in some way. And if it doesn’t, you just paint over it. That’s the beauty of painting.
My life outside the studio is often very structured. It’s busy, fast-paced, and full. But when I step into the studio, it’s like I can finally breathe. I put on music, let go, and just pour it all out. That space becomes sacred. It’s meditative. It’s freeing. Sometimes it feels like mindlessness. Other times, it feels like survival.
All my life, I never made art to show other people or to sell. I only began sharing it within this past year, after reaching a turning point in my life and really just gathering the courage to. But even now, I’ll always strive to create from that original place, making what I’m compelled to make, not what I think people want to see or what might sell.
We live in a world where coercion is commonplace, where people compromise themselves in nearly every facet. I witnessed that deeply during COVID. And while it may be controversial to say, it marked something in me. My integrity, my truth, and honoring myself will always mean more to me than being liked, praised, or profitable. If that doesn’t resonate with galleries or collectors or anyone else… so be it. I’ll still keep making my art, the way I need to.
I’m a truth seeker. In my life and in my work, I go to the deepest depths, through grief, memory, excavation, and intuition, in order to reach the truth of something. I refuse to compromise. For me, it’s almost: give me truth or give me death. That’s how vital it feels.
AMM: You’ve lived through fire: illness, loss, rebirth—how do you keep the canvas from becoming therapy, and instead make it art that sings with something bigger than biography?
LJC: I’m not sure a canvas shouldn’t be therapy… or biography, for that matter. Why not let it be both? For me, painting is about capturing the essence of a moment, an emotion, a lived experience. It’s like a snapshot of the soul. There’s something deeply beautiful about honoring that.
When I was diagnosed at age 30 with stage 3A Hodgkin’s lymphoma, I felt like my life was shattered. Everything I thought I knew had to be picked up, re-examined, and rearranged into something new… something that made sense in the aftermath. I’ve had the rug ripped out from under me more times than I can count, especially in love, betrayal, and loss. But I’ve also experienced moments of immense bliss, joy, and spiritual connection.
For every depth of agony I’ve walked through, I’ve also touched the highest of highs. I feel fortunate to have lived a rich emotional experience… and if I’m being honest, I’m grateful for all of it. It’s shaped who I am as a woman, and as an artist.
I’m the antithesis of complacent in life. always in motion, always evolving, always peeling back new layers. I believe this pursuit is essential for my soul, because I’m always seeking to reach my highest self. I invest in my own growth, spiritually, emotionally, creatively, because I believe that’s where my best work comes from.
How do I know when the art has transcended the personal? I think it goes back to what I said earlier… something else just takes over. It’s no longer about me. It’s like the spirit within me moves, and suddenly what was once mine alone becomes something more. Something universal. Something meant to be shared.
I had a period of years after cancer where, in retrospect, I was dimming my own light. I held myself back with a certain restraint. I didn’t want others to feel envious of anything I was doing, whether perceived or real. I’m very conscious of energy, and I felt I needed to safeguard my own and any energy being negatively directed toward me. That much hasn’t changed, although I’ve learned better tools for handling and protecting myself. And while I live a beautiful life, I used to worry that fully stepping into it might “be too much.”
I also had a few scary experiences, two stalkers actually, that left a real imprint on me. But it wasn’t just them. I think it was also the trauma of cancer, and the heartbreak, and the betrayals from people I gave my whole heart to. Over time, I just didn’t feel safe… physically, emotionally, spiritually. I began unconsciously pulling back. In my younger years, I was more apt to live openly, to stand in the spotlight with a kind of raw, naïve trust in the world. But slowly, through those circumstances, I became shelled.
It took time to recognize that. To reconcile with it. But once I did, and I’m still on my journey with it, I began to find my way back. Not all at once… but slowly, and fully. And now, I believe that the more I allow myself to shine… to live in love, to be authentically and unapologetically myself… maybe others will be inspired to step into their own divine light with more warranted authority. And that’s the kind of light I want to send into the world.
AMM: Words show up in your paintings like ghosts—cut-out, buried, resurfacing. What’s your relationship to language now: is it your weapon, your anchor, your witness?
LJC: I’ve always had a fascination with books. I almost always have one with me, and I buy more than I could ever read in my very little spare time. In middle school, I used to walk around with an electronic dictionary… just because I loved learning new words. My father was an editor of a newspaper, and I have these vivid memories of newspapers scattered all over our house. I didn’t like them at the time, but now I see them as oddly comforting… an imprint of a certain time, of who we were.
Sometimes it makes me sad that newspapers and print are nearly extinct and being replaced by digital. I long for the tangible feeling of a crisp newspaper, a book. I still handwrite my own calendar. I just don’t think I’ll ever change in this digital world.
I love literature. I almost majored in it. I love expanding my vocabulary. It might sound a little dorky to say that, but it’s one of my passions. Words have always helped me make sense of the world. The more language we have, the more clearly we can express how we feel. And I believe that’s everything. Communication is everything.
As an ode to my past, and as a way to capture time itself, I often incorporate newspaper into my work. Not in every piece, but often. Even when the text isn’t fully visible, there’s something powerful in knowing it’s there. It’s like a quiet time capsule… subtle or sometimes not so subtle… but always present.
So yes, I would say language is my weapon, my anchor, and my witness. It doesn’t move quietly through my work. It’s potent, direct, and visceral… just like it is in my life.
AMM: You move between disciplines—acting, writing, painting—as if they’re all limbs of the same beast. What does each form give you that the others can’t?
LJC: I never really used the word “artist” to describe myself, which is kind of ironic considering how much of my life has been shaped by creative expression. Maybe it’s because I studied business in college, or maybe it’s the strong entrepreneurial side of me that kept me leaning into other kinds of pursuits. I’ve always been creative, but I often channeled that creativity into building things… businesses, ideas, stories, solutions. Business has always been grounding for me. It’s given me a sense of stability and structure, a kind of safety that allowed other parts of me to flourish. And while the business world doesn’t always feel fluid or soulful, creating my own company was, in its own way, an artistic act. I approached it with vision and imagination. I built it from the ground up using my creativity… just through a different medium.
Introspectively, perhaps I never used the word “artist” because, deep down, I didn’t feel worthy of it. To me, it’s always felt like an esteemed word. Noble, even. And for a long time, I wasn’t sure I had earned that kind of title. That says more about my own inner barriers than anything else, but it’s true. I had to grow into the courage to claim it. To realize that being an artist isn’t about permission. It’s about truth.
Since I was little, I’ve been dancing, writing, painting, performing… it’s always been part of me. Not something I took on, but something I came in with. These disciplines have moved through my life like different languages I’ve learned to speak. Sometimes all at once. Sometimes one louder than the others. But always there.
As an adolescent, I never thought I was any more talented than anyone else. I didn’t see myself as particularly gifted. I just figured everyone danced, everyone painted, everyone wrote. It wasn’t until later, looking back from a place of more self-awareness, that I realized how fortunate I am to have these abilities. I’ve come to appreciate how much these forms have shaped me and how naturally they’ve always flowed. It feels silly in hindsight, but for so long, I didn’t differentiate myself. I didn’t name what was special. My inner world is a very humbled one, possibly to my detriment.
For most of my life, I would make art and just put it away. I have pieces still sitting in my parents’ garage, buried in bins and corners. Even with the pieces I kept near me, I’d often finish them and slide them into a closet, then forget about them entirely. Creating was instinctual, but it was also deeply private… almost like a personal ritual. I didn’t really want anyone to see it. For a long time, that part of me felt too intimate to share. Most of my family knew, but many of my friends—even people I was close with, had no idea I made art at all. I didn’t make it to show… I made it because I had to.
But one day, while I was moving, I laid out around sixteen of my paintings across the floor. And for the first time, I really saw them. I saw the story. I saw the pain. I saw the evolution. And I felt something shift.
I took a few photos. And then I remembered… I had just met a photographer. I thought, maybe he can come over and snap a few professional ones before I put them away. I started writing down their names on a piece of paper. Scribbled their dimensions in the margins. It was nothing formal, nothing planned… just a quiet, almost mundane moment that felt strangely important. Like I was preserving something without quite knowing why.
Art Basel and Miami Art Week were swiftly approaching, and that inner nudge got louder. Submit. But it wasn’t just about showing the work. It felt spiritual. I was deep into a Sanskrit mantra practice, calling in higher alignment, trying to elevate my life. And something opened in me. A deeper passion. A sense of readiness that hadn’t been there before.
Until then, I hadn’t felt safe exposing that part of myself. I hadn’t wanted to bare my soul in that way. I worried… would anyone like it? Would I be judged? Would they laugh my work off the wall? I wrestled with that for years. But when I finally did show my work, it was received with such warmth and depth that I knew… I had to keep going.
Dance brings me into bliss, into presence, into spirit. Writing helps me make meaning… I’ve written poems, stories, essays, journals for as long as I can remember. And now, I’m in the process of writing a memoir, which has become a way to reclaim and reframe some of the most pivotal moments of my life.
Acting taught me emotional honesty and deep listening. Yoga brought me into a relationship with breath, stillness, and subtlety. These forms aren’t separate chapters in my life. They’re different expressions of the same essence.
So no, I didn’t always call myself an artist. And maybe the label doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s in me. And I’m honored if others see it too.
AMM: When someone stands in front of your work—raw texture, emotion bleeding through—what do you want them to feel first: discomfort, recognition, release… or all of it at once?
LJC: Honestly, what matters most to me when someone stands in front of my work is that they feel “something.” That maybe they take a pause. Maybe they lean in a little closer. Maybe they see something in it that evokes a feeling or reminds them of a memory. That they find their own meaning in it.
I keep coming back to the word resonance, because that’s what I hope for…a vibration, a moment of recognition. The humanness of that, that connection through feeling, is what ties us all together.
I don’t paint with a fixed outcome in mind. Some pieces come from personal emotion, others from what’s happening in the world; politically, socially, or culturally. And sometimes it’s all of that at once. Through my use of newspaper clippings and other found materials, I try to reflect what’s unfolding around me in real time.
Some works, like Hidden Love, arrive with clarity. I saw that one in its entirety before I even began and had to build the puzzle pieces, quite literally, to match that vision. But more often, I start with a feeling or a fragment and let myself be guided. I pause, revisit, shift direction. The process is rarely linear.
And when I finish a piece, I sometimes step back and think, How did I even make that? It’s like I get so immersed that it just becomes what it needs to be. I’m not sure I could recreate some of them if I tried.
I think what I’m most drawn to in both making and sharing the work is the space it creates for someone else to enter. A woman once told me that my piece Narcissist reminded her of riding the subway in the Bronx as a child. It had nothing to do with my intention, but it became hers, and I loved that. That’s what art should do: create room for others to see themselves in it, in whatever way they need.
