Artist Statement
"Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." — Cesar Cruz
Born and raised in Southern California, Felicia T. Perez (“Lucha”) is a mixed media durational and modern relief artist whose work is deeply rooted in the principles of disability justice. She centers the lived experiences of chronic illness and disability, challenging audiences to confront the realities of existing in the in-between spaces of life—living and dying, wellness and sickness, abundance and scarcity, community and isolation. Through her practice, Felicia constructs a powerful call and response using photography and biomedical waste, transforming the remnants of survival into “sick art” that critiques systems of oppression while celebrating resilience and interdependence.
Felicia’s art is a testament to the inherent value of disabled lives and the beauty that arises from the creativity and resourcefulness of those navigating systemic barriers. Her work embodies the core tenets of disability justice: intersectionality, interdependence, and collective liberation. By using materials that reflect her own medical journey, she highlights the ways healthcare inequities disproportionately affect disabled, Queer, and BIPOC communities. Through vibrant contrasts of color—robin’s egg blue symbolizing life and marigold orange honoring death—her art reveals the complexities of survival while resisting narratives of pity or tragedy.
Grounded in the belief that disability is a site of knowledge and power, Felicia’s creations disrupt norms and invite reflection on how society defines value, productivity, and belonging. Their work seeks not only to provoke thought but also to build solidarity among those who share these lived experiences, offering a space where grief, joy, and resistance coexist.
Felicia’s art is a testament to the inherent value of disabled lives and the beauty that arises from the creativity and resourcefulness of those navigating systemic barriers. Her work embodies the core tenets of disability justice: intersectionality, interdependence, and collective liberation. By using materials that reflect her own medical journey, she highlights the ways healthcare inequities disproportionately affect disabled, Queer, and BIPOC communities. Through vibrant contrasts of color—robin’s egg blue symbolizing life and marigold orange honoring death—her art reveals the complexities of survival while resisting narratives of pity or tragedy.
Grounded in the belief that disability is a site of knowledge and power, Felicia’s creations disrupt norms and invite reflection on how society defines value, productivity, and belonging. Their work seeks not only to provoke thought but also to build solidarity among those who share these lived experiences, offering a space where grief, joy, and resistance coexist.
Amy Coney Barrett SCOTUS Confirmation Hearing (October 2020)
BACKGROUND:
On December 18, 2012, I was 36 years old and sitting in a doctor’s office learning that either I had a rare eye cancer with up to 5 years left to live, or an equally rare and incurable autoimmune disorder that would result in a long-term chronic illness. Idiopathic orbital pseudotumor with a cranial extension, would soon be a phrase I would learn to memorize along with, I am allergic to azathioprine. Since then, I have had 11 rounds of radiation to my brain and right eye. I was on an average of 90 milligrams of prednisone for five years with an experimental IVIG transfusion. As a result, I now have pernicious anemia from the medicines I’ve taken and have to inject B12 into my leg every three weeks. I've had cataract surgery in both eyes due to all the meds. And I am post menopausal at an early age because it turns out chemo kills your ovaries. My immune system is constantly compromised because not letting my body fight itself is how I stay alive and keep full eye and brain function.
In a reverse Hansel and Gretel strategy, I collect all of my biomedical waste (refuse) and use it as the material for mixed media art that attempts to show and tell what it’s like to live a life that is so overwhelmingly surrounded by death and life simultaneously. Just what is "still here" despite or in spite of life starting to slip away and transform itself.
I create a "Crip Time" infused type of duration art asking audiences to interact with items, emotions, events, and people that I have been forced to create relationship with from the moment when my first eye/brain tumor was discovered to the present day. Audiences will notice the routines of actions, the repetition of items, and the absence and presence of certain people and things. I hint and foreshadow how this life story may end and what it will require along the way. The art is largely covered in colors of blue (like a robin’s egg) and/or orange (like marigold flowers) to show the constant contrast between life and death.
Looking at and through this work may deliberately feel uncomfortable for those who have never lived through or witnessed a life full of continual medical care and resilience. And those who have shared this life experience, whether through illness or chronic caregiving, may find comfort in seeing their lives reflected back to them, by design. It is my hope that by seeing this work the viewer will begin, or may continue, to reflect on what they would like to remain with them or with others once our body won't or can't hold us anymore.
PERSONAL UPDATE:
In May 2022, I finished my 60th chemotherapy infusion and a month later contracted the Covid-19 virus--despite 4 Moderna full does vaccinations and an Evusheld infusion. My chemo medication reduced my immune system's response to the COVID-19 vaccine because it affects the body's ability to keep antibodies. In a nutshell - one medicine killed the other - my chemo killed the antibodies from the vaccines. Something had to give. So in August 2022, my doctors and I decided to take a chance, a risk, a leap of faith, and stop all chemo interventions and hope that my "clinically stable" diagnosis might stick and allow me to officially join a "Remission Society." Then on June 14, 2023 I finally "rang the bell," ending this chapter for now. To be clear - I am still "sick", I just no longer require 8-12 chemo infusions a year. I still wear a mask on planes. I still wear a mask at work conferences. I still wear a mask sometimes even when outside (the smoke in the air gives it multiple purposes #ThisMustBeASign). For now, I am still here and so are my long term chronic illnesses and physical disabilities. So, all in all "La Lucha Continua" and frankly I wouldn't have it any other way.
On December 18, 2012, I was 36 years old and sitting in a doctor’s office learning that either I had a rare eye cancer with up to 5 years left to live, or an equally rare and incurable autoimmune disorder that would result in a long-term chronic illness. Idiopathic orbital pseudotumor with a cranial extension, would soon be a phrase I would learn to memorize along with, I am allergic to azathioprine. Since then, I have had 11 rounds of radiation to my brain and right eye. I was on an average of 90 milligrams of prednisone for five years with an experimental IVIG transfusion. As a result, I now have pernicious anemia from the medicines I’ve taken and have to inject B12 into my leg every three weeks. I've had cataract surgery in both eyes due to all the meds. And I am post menopausal at an early age because it turns out chemo kills your ovaries. My immune system is constantly compromised because not letting my body fight itself is how I stay alive and keep full eye and brain function.
In a reverse Hansel and Gretel strategy, I collect all of my biomedical waste (refuse) and use it as the material for mixed media art that attempts to show and tell what it’s like to live a life that is so overwhelmingly surrounded by death and life simultaneously. Just what is "still here" despite or in spite of life starting to slip away and transform itself.
I create a "Crip Time" infused type of duration art asking audiences to interact with items, emotions, events, and people that I have been forced to create relationship with from the moment when my first eye/brain tumor was discovered to the present day. Audiences will notice the routines of actions, the repetition of items, and the absence and presence of certain people and things. I hint and foreshadow how this life story may end and what it will require along the way. The art is largely covered in colors of blue (like a robin’s egg) and/or orange (like marigold flowers) to show the constant contrast between life and death.
Looking at and through this work may deliberately feel uncomfortable for those who have never lived through or witnessed a life full of continual medical care and resilience. And those who have shared this life experience, whether through illness or chronic caregiving, may find comfort in seeing their lives reflected back to them, by design. It is my hope that by seeing this work the viewer will begin, or may continue, to reflect on what they would like to remain with them or with others once our body won't or can't hold us anymore.
PERSONAL UPDATE:
In May 2022, I finished my 60th chemotherapy infusion and a month later contracted the Covid-19 virus--despite 4 Moderna full does vaccinations and an Evusheld infusion. My chemo medication reduced my immune system's response to the COVID-19 vaccine because it affects the body's ability to keep antibodies. In a nutshell - one medicine killed the other - my chemo killed the antibodies from the vaccines. Something had to give. So in August 2022, my doctors and I decided to take a chance, a risk, a leap of faith, and stop all chemo interventions and hope that my "clinically stable" diagnosis might stick and allow me to officially join a "Remission Society." Then on June 14, 2023 I finally "rang the bell," ending this chapter for now. To be clear - I am still "sick", I just no longer require 8-12 chemo infusions a year. I still wear a mask on planes. I still wear a mask at work conferences. I still wear a mask sometimes even when outside (the smoke in the air gives it multiple purposes #ThisMustBeASign). For now, I am still here and so are my long term chronic illnesses and physical disabilities. So, all in all "La Lucha Continua" and frankly I wouldn't have it any other way.
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