Daisy Parris is an artist who does not subscribe to categorisation. Neither just a painter nor a writer, they are an artist who embodies the proper form of the word. Their paintings, massive in scale, hinge on their innate contradictions. They are an assortment of sharp, bright colours layered expertly together and intersected with canvas patches covered in poetry, roughly sewn directly onto the canvas. The result is an unflinching, emotional self-portrait of an artist and modern-day punk.
I’ve read that the DIY punk scene influenced you. When I see your work, it reminds me of when I was a teen and my friends and I would make patches and sew them on our backpacks or jean jackets. It didn't matter exactly what they said, but it was about doing it yourself.
Yeah I definitely think about making patches, zines, collages, cutting up your clothes, and being super angsty in your journal. It's a survival mechanism as well; to make do with what you have and do it yourself. That’s how I was raised. I think the punk scene is exciting because everyone was a musician, artist, and writer — they would do it all. And that's what I want to do; I want to do it all.
When you say, “do it all," what do you mean?
Writing, painting, making an album, photography, making the album cover, book cover, everything. I want to try many different mediums. It makes sense to try to do it all. My goal is to make an album when I'm 40. There’ll be a time and place for everything eventually, but for now, it's painting and writing.
Would you describe yourself as a punk?
I think it's up to others to decide. I definitely think it's punk to be tender, well-mannered, passionate, and to rage quietly. The obvious definition of punk has expanded; it looks different now but is still about raging from within. That's my way into punk, but it's up to others to decide.
When I read your poetry, I’m reminded of the imagist poets of the early 20th century, specifically H.D and her poem Fragment Thirty-Six. I also see elements of the contemporary poet Rita Dove, who, similar to your poetry, uses concise, everyday language to convey grand emotions and complex themes. Who are the poets who have influenced your work? What draws you to fragmentation and economical language in your writing?
My way into poetry has always been through music and punk. When I was young, I memorised Dorothy Parker's poem Resume because I was obsessed with the film Girl, Interrupted. At the time, it was kind of like a mantra for me, even though I didn't fully understand how dark it was.
Do you still have the poem memorised? I’m not familiar with it.
Yes! I can say it to you now.
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren’t lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.
The rhythm and playfulness of the poem always stood out to me. Now, as an adult, I understand how much it is about despair, but I can also see the humour and hope in it. It’s as though it’s too much effort to give up, so you may as well keep going.
My dad would also play John Cooper Clarke in the car, so his storytelling and rhythm were always around. The song Be Safe by Lee Ranaldo and The Cribs introduced me to a more modern punk spoken word. I find it interesting when music becomes background to spoken word, the same way painting sometimes becomes background to my words. Sometimes, they swap roles, and words become background. Now, you asked about fragmentation and economic language.
My dad would also play John Cooper Clarke in the car, so his storytelling and rhythm were always around. The song Be Safe by Lee Ranaldo and The Cribs introduced me to a more modern punk spoken word. I find it interesting when music becomes background to spoken word, the same way painting sometimes becomes background to my words. Sometimes, they swap roles, and words become background. Now, you asked about fragmentation and economic language.
Yes, because you could have epic and extensive poems adorning your paintings. Why do you choose to focus on minimalism?
I think it’s so much to ask someone to read a painting. I don't go to a gallery to read, and that's not why I look at painting. I paint because I don't have the words to say it all. Sometimes I wonder why I put so much effort into reediting, reorganising, reconstructing, and then writing in the text in clear block letters if I'm just going to rub out and distort the words. However, I also use text as a painterly gesture, so it becomes something you can read if you want to, or just see as abstract symbols or compositional devices within the painting.
My writing is economical because it’s the only way I know how to do it. I don’t read poetry or books often, so I only collect new words and language through experience, observation, or music. Rhythm is always running around in my head, so the words come out that way. I use a kind of childlike, limerick rhythm in my writing because it’s a very simple, playful way of dealing with heavy subjects. The more confident I get, the more complex my writing becomes and the more it takes over larger areas of the paintings as I piece together more scraps of canvas, almost as though I’m sewing together my own flags.
My writing is economical because it’s the only way I know how to do it. I don’t read poetry or books often, so I only collect new words and language through experience, observation, or music. Rhythm is always running around in my head, so the words come out that way. I use a kind of childlike, limerick rhythm in my writing because it’s a very simple, playful way of dealing with heavy subjects. The more confident I get, the more complex my writing becomes and the more it takes over larger areas of the paintings as I piece together more scraps of canvas, almost as though I’m sewing together my own flags.
Does being non-binary manifest itself in your work at all? Is gender something you have consciously chosen to explore through art?
Yes, it manifests itself; sometimes, it's conscious, and sometimes it just happens. The way it manifests itself at the moment is through the adaptation of song lyrics. I've adapted them so that they're through a non-binary lens. And 90% of the time, no one's ever going to get the reference, but it's in there, you know, floating around with all my other poetry.
What's an example of one of those references?
The song Typical Girls by The Slits has now become Typical Theys, and the song Modern Girl by Sleater-Kinney has become Modern They. It's not about saying that the songs can do better because they say everything perfectly already; it's more of a homage to them because I don’t have the language to say it all myself. I’m using the songs to figure out my identity and place in the world; and ask the questions: what makes a typical non-binary person, and what makes a modern non-binary person? They're both kind of humorous songs; they're taking the piss. In Modern Girl, the song says, “Anger makes me a modern girl,” and anger makes me a modern non-binary person, as well as hunger and happiness and everything else in between. What applies to a girl or a woman — the same erasure, expectation, and violence towards them — can also apply to non-binary or queer people. It’s about fighting back and carving out space for yourself. These songs have been in my life for a long time, and now, 10 years later, I'm seeing them through a different lens. Right now, that's my way of processing my identity through work.
It’s ironic that artists who are not straight white cis men all too often have their work tied to their identity and community as if the experience of gender, for example, is only relevant to discuss if you’re suffering discrimination and marginalisation. Especially as queerness has become an art world buzzword, how do we balance voicing our realities without being pigeonholed and exploited because of our identity?
This is a difficult question because no matter what you do, if you’re an outsider, it will most likely become your moniker and what you’re introduced to. Sometimes it feels like the galleries are just ticking the boxes. They're like, okay, you're non-binary, and you're working-class, great, now we’re inclusive. It's the same in music, with bands being introduced as all-female or musicians being introduced as female guitarists. I don't think it’s up to us to fight against it all the time because we’re just trying to exist and make work, but also, if we don’t keep saying anything, it will never change. It’s no good being an empty ally, you can’t just tick the boxes, galleries need to put in the work to support the marginalised artists they’re working with.
There’s also something about playing the game to make it through.
Yeah, there’s rebellion in using the system to infiltrate from the inside. Do it for the queers and do it with integrity and honesty, but use it in whatever way you need to survive.
What is your process for building a painting? Do you start with something more concrete, such as language? Or rely on colour and form to drive the work? What draws you to combine abstraction with poetry, and have you always worked this way?
My process at the moment is to freak out and procrastinate. I just finished a show, and I'm in this weird place where I can't remember how to paint. I have a formula I can use to get started: I make the canvas messy, get rid of blank space, and put the ugliest colours I would never usually use on there. That tricks me into painting when I’m stuck because then I have to fix the mess I’ve made, you know?
I used to be quite sparse with paint and very precious about the first marks I made on a canvas, but now I'm just trying to let that go and push the work beyond what I’ve done before or what is expected of me. Because of how many layers of paint I put on and take off, it's a more considered, time-consuming process now.
I used to be quite sparse with paint and very precious about the first marks I made on a canvas, but now I'm just trying to let that go and push the work beyond what I’ve done before or what is expected of me. Because of how many layers of paint I put on and take off, it's a more considered, time-consuming process now.
When you say take off, are you physically scraping off the paint?
Yes, I’m literally trying to carve into the paint. The text also gets put on and taken off so many times now, whereas before, it would usually stay in the first position I put it in. I’m trying to weather or age the canvas. I want to push it to have more depth, more grunge, and be more extreme.
When I look at your work, I see contradictions. For example, pieces are brightly coloured yet speak of death, loneliness, and the extremity of human emotions. Your poetry has an experimental lyricism that combats the words' materiality. Are these contradictions unconscious or conscious? Where do they come from?
I've been raised in contradictions, so it’s the only way I know how to function. I can adapt to extremes quite well or just sit in the middle of them. I’m good at it, but sometimes it feels like I don’t know where I belong. So naturally, my work is made up of physical and emotional contradictions. I’m trying to be more considered about certain kinds of contradictions in the work, like colour or texture. I've been thinking about how to make emotionally dark or deep work without necessarily using dark colours all the time. I think some colours are not what they seem; bright colours can be terrifying, especially if they've weathered or faded. If a bright colour has faded or cracked, it’s a sign of age and experience. It’s almost like you have to mourn the loss of the original colour, which was no doubt so fresh, bold, and sure of itself to begin with.
What do you think about the pressure for an artist to be categorised as one thing? When I look at your work, I see neither a writer nor a painter but rather an artist. How do you view yourself and your work?
I don't feel as though I am one thing, and, as I said earlier, it makes sense to me that people should just make all the things they want to and not be stuck in a box. Painting and writing have always taken the forefront, but I know there will be a time and a place for music for me. I don’t think artists should be scared of playing. A favourite artist of mine is Roni Horn, and they do everything: sculpture, drawing, and photography, and you never question their language; you always recognise it as Roni Horn’s work. I'd love to get to that level of being confident in all areas and not worrying about whether people will recognise it as my work.
Another person like that is Carrie Brownstein from Sleater-Kinney, one of my favourite bands. She’s done sketch comedy, music, writing, and directing, and all to a high standard. I think that's the coolest thing, and punk and comedy often overlap. I look at people like her who don't question whether there's space for it all; they just do it.
Another person like that is Carrie Brownstein from Sleater-Kinney, one of my favourite bands. She’s done sketch comedy, music, writing, and directing, and all to a high standard. I think that's the coolest thing, and punk and comedy often overlap. I look at people like her who don't question whether there's space for it all; they just do it.
Recently, I went to see a talk between artist William Kentridge and writer Julian Barnes. They both spoke at length about the importance of the studio space, specifically as a place of refuge from the “violent absurd” that is modern society. What role does your studio play in your practice? Is it a place of refuge or something else entirely?
Yeah, it's quite an interesting one. It should be a place of refuge and just be yours, right? But I am in this weird place when I'm avoiding the studio for the first time in my life. I'm processing intense emotions in my work, so the studio is quite a dark place to be at the moment. Right now, the studio also symbolises survival, loss and deadlines. But I want to get it back to being a fun place where I can be playful.
How do you reckon with your punk roots and the need to conform to the elitist high brow art world?
I never had a need to conform, and I still don't. The only thing I need to think about is survival and the only thing I've sought after is stability. I’ve reconciled that if having stability makes me a sellout, I don't mind. This is the first time I've ever had stability in my life, and it came from working with my gallery Sim Smith. I make a conscious decision not to be inside all the noise and fashion. In my eyes, stability is a success, and you can do great things with stability. You can still be a punk if you have somewhere to live, you know what I mean? Infiltrate from the inside, as I said earlier.
What do you think about the trope of the starving artist? What advice would you give young artists facing economic barriers who may not come from wealth or have access to resources? How can the artist’s spirit endure despite the multitude of challenges contemporary artists face?
I hate it so much, and we shouldn't be expected to work in such cold, depressive conditions that cost hundreds of pounds a month. The standards need to change. I don't know what my advice is because I can only explain how I did it and how I make a living off being an artist. But the thing is, if I had nothing again and just had a pen and paper, I would make those materials go a long way. It takes a certain kind of discipline and commitment. The art world is also so precarious. One day, they could decide that you're it, and the next, take it all away from you, so you have to block that out of your mind and be committed to your work, even if no one's watching and no one ever starts watching. It’s sad but artists need to make peace with the possibility that they will never have success in their lifetime. When I was a chef, I'd also be working on my art stuff on the boss’ time. Any spare second I got, I'd be on Instagram trying to sell a painting for a hundred quid or planning a group show. My advice is to work on the job if you can.
Arca paints to escape from music, and David Lynch describes painting as his first love. But what do you do outside of painting that makes you feel free?
I love animals, so my favourite thing to do now is look for frogs in my garden. That is one of my joys in life. I just love looking at creatures.
I know that among all of the references we’ve discussed, music is very important for you. Do you remember your first concert? Or your first CD you bought?
My first concert was Good Charlotte at Brixton Academy in London. I remember the first cassette tape I bought was Just Like a Pill by Pink. But before that, I used just to buy vinyl records, even though I didn't have a record player. I would buy Sex Pistols 7inches off eBay. I don't know why I got so obsessed with it. I just liked looking at the pictures, I guess. Eventually, I got my mum's record player working and could finally listen to her and my dad’s old punk records.
If you could sit right now and listen to a whole album without stopping, what would it be?
I looked through my records last night, and my answer is Coral Fang by The Distillers because it's just a perfect album and I don’t skip any of the songs. I got the limited edition vinyl from Amoeba Records in LA a few months ago. When I was younger, my dad had the CD, and he let my mum, my sister, and I borrow it. We wore it out so much that I had to buy a second copy. I realised this is the first time I have my very own copy, and it's on vinyl. I just want to listen to it loud and warm and deep on the record player.
