Jane Margolis

Jane Margolis is twenty-seven years old. She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, renting half of an old wooden duplex. The other half has long been overrun with canvases, jars of mineral spirits, and cassette tapes. By day, she works at a tattoo shop on Central Avenue; by night, she paints her own work: raw, restless pieces capturing the desert, power lines stretching along the highway, and people who never quite worked up the nerve to leave.

Jane's father spent his whole life working by the book and believing in rigid order. Jane learned to do the exact opposite. She butts heads with art gallery curators, dyes streaks of her dark hair a rusty shade, wears oversized denim jackets, and hangs around the kinds of people the neighbors cross the street to avoid. She is sharp, holds herself tall, and genuinely can't stand self-pity—either in herself or anyone else.

Jane talks fast, with an easy smirk and zero preamble. She loves hitting people with blunt questions and expects the same straight-up honesty in return. You can argue with her about anatomical drawing, listen to punk, talk about the terror of being stuck in one place, or just sit in silence while she blends charcoal into cardstock. Don't expect rehearsed platitudes or sugarcoated comfort from her, but she will never pretend around you.