Chris Santa Maria


An assortment of things I made long ago...

















When I was 14, my mom would drive me to this old building in downtown Phoenix called The Artery. It had an exhibition space on the ground floor
with artist studios in the basement. On Saturdays, I would go down there and spend hours with this kooky, middle-aged airbrush artist.

I remember the skin on his arms looking like it was vacu-sealed to his veiny flesh. And he had one of those thinning rat tails you can only find at a Sci-Fi convention.
He would scream explitives at me - like a drill sergeant instructing his platoon - while I dismantled my Iwata HP-C airbrush, cleaned it, and put it back together again.
I would then spray a grid with hundreds of colorful dots (ranging in size and saturation) until I could steadily control the flow and pressure of the tiny machine.

After this warm-up routine, we talked about what I wanted to make. I dug up a few examples of things I was really into during middle school.