Today we’d like to introduce you to Perpetua All Mother.

Hi Perpetua , so excited to have you on the platform. So before we get into questions about your work-life, maybe you can bring our readers up to speed on your story and how you got to where you are today?

My story doesn’t start at the beginning. It starts where the fractures are.
I was born and raised in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where I first learned that art could be both a sanctuary and a rebellion. I didn’t create for the sake of beauty—I created because I had to. It was survival. Storytelling and ink became my weapons against life’s injustices, a way to externalize what was too heavy to carry inside. Every drawing, every word, was a small act of defiance—a way to say, “I’m still here.”
For a long time, I let life have its way with me. I played the role of the victim because that’s what I had been conditioned to do—to endure, to survive, to let things happen. But that part of the story is over. The victim complex is dead.
I am the perpetrator now.
By that, I mean I no longer wait for doors to open—I break them down. I go after what I want, and I know I will get it because I am willing to do whatever it takes. There is no backup plan. There is only forward. That shift didn’t just change me—it changed my art.
This transformation is woven into everything I create. My work has always explored duality—the divine and the damned, girlhood and godhood, victim and villain. I carried those themes with me when I left Tulsa for New York City, where I honed my craft and sharpened my voice. It was there, in the raw intensity of artistic solitude, that I discovered the power of anonymity. I realized I didn’t need to be seen to be felt. Without a face, I could be pure creation—unfiltered, limitless, free.
That philosophy birthed Perpetua All Mother Media House—a home for the misunderstood, a sanctuary for those who live outside the lines. My art evolved beyond ink-on-paper into immersive storytelling, digital holography, and conceptual media. I don’t just make things to be looked at—I make things to be experienced. My work doesn’t ask for permission. It demands to be felt. I believe art has the power to illuminate even the darkest corners of our experiences—to make pain feel beautiful, to remind us we are never truly alone.
So how did I get here? By refusing to let life dictate my narrative. By taking control. By turning every fracture into a foundation.
I create for the haunted, the lost, the searching. My story is not linear, nor is it complete. I’m still becoming, still unraveling, still writing my own mythology—on my terms, without apology.
I know my aesthetic can be repelling, especially at first glance. It’s intentional. My art isn’t designed to be universally palatable—it’s meant to challenge, to provoke, to make you feel something, even if that feeling is discomfort. But here’s the thing: anyone I’ve ever repelled has only ended up serving me. My art isn’t for everybody—it’s for the ones who see past the surface, who recognize beauty in the strange, the sorrowful, and the sacred.
I’m aware that my anonymity puts people off. Viewers and critics often get stuck on the fact that my face is hidden behind a black veil, as if that somehow makes my work less real or less honest. But I want to assure you—if you’ve read my poetry, if you’ve truly looked at my art, past what’s visually in front of you—then you’ve already seen me naked. Every fracture, every vulnerability, every part of me I wouldn’t dare say aloud is right there, exposed. My face is just a detail. My truth is in the work.

Would you say it’s been a smooth road, and if not what are some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced along the way?

Not even close. It’s been filled with bumps, potholes, detours, and the occasional tire spike—but I’ve persevered.
Perpetua All Mother Media House was born from every obstacle I’ve faced. It’s the product of the fractures, the setbacks, and the moments when giving up seemed easier. But instead of sitting here and listing my losses, I’ll say this: I’ve learned to turn them into something that pays my bills. Every failure, every heartbreak, every closed door became raw material for my work.
In my poetry, I go deep into my experiences with grief, guilt, and gumption—the holy trinity that’s shaped me. Grief for what I’ve lost, guilt for what I’ve done or didn’t do, and gumption for refusing to stay down.
The road hasn’t been smooth, but I’ve learned to navigate it with grace, even when the wheels are falling off. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. The cracks are where the light gets in—and where the art comes out.

As you know, we’re big fans of you and your work. For our readers who might not be as familiar what can you tell them about what you do?

I create immersive, multi-sensory experiences that blend fine art, poetry, and cutting-edge media. My work exists at the intersection of the divine and the damned, the beautiful and the brutal. I specialize in crafting conceptual worlds—whether through ink-on-paper, digital holography, or interactive storytelling—that pull people into spaces where the seen and unseen collide.

I’m probably best known for making even the toughest cookie cry. My poetry resonates with every beating heart, tapping into the raw, unspoken emotions we often bury. It digs into grief, guilt, and gumption, while my visual work transforms those themes into something visceral. I don’t shy away from the uncomfortable. In fact, I run toward it. My art grapples with vulnerability, shame, trauma, and the less polished aspects of humanity—and then reframes them as something beautiful.

I’m most proud of the community I’ve built through sharing my work—the people who see themselves in the pieces I create and feel less alone because of it. I’m equally proud of the local impact I’ve been able to make through my philanthropic collaborations, especially the work I’m doing in Tulsa. Being able to give back to the place that raised me feels full circle.

Most of all, I’m proud to be the person I needed growing up—someone who shows others that their pain, their weirdness, their rawness can be turned into something meaningful and powerful. My work isn’t for everybody. It’s for the haunted, the lost, the searching—the ones who can’t help but look deeper, even when it hurts them.

What sets me apart is the way I offer complete vulnerability from behind a veil. My anonymity isn’t a wall—it’s a mirror. People see themselves in my work because I strip everything away emotionally, even if I stay physically hidden. My face may be obscured, but my soul is exposed in every line of poetry, every stroke of ink, every immersive experience I create. It’s the paradox of being fully seen while remaining unseen—and it forces the audience to look inward, not just outward.

Can you talk to us a bit about happiness and what makes you happy?

I love my job, and I love to create—there’s nothing more fulfilling than turning emotions into something tangible and watching it resonate with others. But at the end of the day, when all the feelings have been felt, the paintbrushes are cleaned, and the lights are off in the studio, what makes me truly happy is something much simpler—my pets.
They are my greatest inspiration when it comes to loving unconditionally. I have a cat and a dog, both rescues, both with a slew of ailments and medical complications that somehow make me love them even more. Their names? Purrpetua and Furpetua—yes, I went there.
Caring for them grounds me in a way nothing else can. No matter what featured exhibition, gala, red carpet, or performance I’ve been part of, my nights in the city mean absolutely nothing to them. They don’t care about my latest project or who said what about my work—they just want to be fed. I’m constantly rushing home to make sure my cat has taken her long list of pharmaceutical prescriptions, or to do my dogs daily patella stretches.
And honestly? I love it. I could have just come from a major event, but the moment I’m scooping my cat’s litter, I’m a nobody—and for some reason, that makes me so happy. It’s humbling. It reminds me that beneath all the art, the accolades, the heaviness of my existence, under the identity of Perpetua All Mother, I’m just someone who loves deeply, even in the smallest, most mundane moments.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://www.perpetuaallmother.com
• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/perpetuaallmother/
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@PerpetuaAllMother

Image Credits

Photography and editing by Lance Tylen