I’m here to talk about an artist. And a rebel.
Not the kind who put on spiked collars and ripped jeans and pretend to be artsy and rebellious.
I mean the real ones, you know, those born naturally thinking outside the box. They don’t try. They simply do, and don’t even realize it.
My friend Laura Kina was the first real rebel I ever knew. No spikes needed. I’ve known her since we were twelve years old.
Together, we braved the turbulent middle school years of the crazy ’80s as New Wavers. We grew our bangs over one eye, wore dark eyeliner and black clothes inspired by The Cure, laced up our well worn Dr. Martens, and made sure to always look serious and somber.
Then she became a punk skater, and I shifted more toward contemporary ’80s styles in line with Madonna.
Like all middle schoolers, I tried to be cool. She just, simply put, was cool, without trying. I liked that about her. I hoped to soak it up through osmosis.
When we were thirteen, we had a sleepover at her house. During dinner I noticed (how could I not?) a very large and somewhat disturbing painting hanging near the dining room table.
While eating, I stared at it, and stared… because it didn’t seem remotely aligned with what I imagined her very, very, very strict Christian parents would hang on their wall.
Noticing my stare, Laura pointed to it and said, “That’s my latest piece.”
Because at thirteen she was already an artist who had ‘latest pieces’.
She had painted a huge airplane on a broad canvas. Then she’d constructed a three dimensional hole in the airplane with paper mâché to make it look as if the side of the plane had ripped open, turning the entire piece into a mixed media collage. She’d next cut the top half off a Barbie doll and glued the bottom half, aka sans head, into the hole, its feet sticking out.
It looked like someone was being sucked out of a flying plane to their imminent doom.
I said, “There’s a doll about to fall to her death.”
She nodded. “It’s inspired by all the deaths in the Lockerbie terrorist attack.”
I don’t remember 100%, but I’m sure I blinked a few times, surprised. Because I didn’t know what ‘Lockerbie’ was. But of course I didn’t. My family didn’t read the news.
And suddenly, even at that age, I realized it was a modern art piece based on current events. A horrible current event, but contemporary and timely and powerful.
And I wished I could do that. But I was instead a simple country girl whose family didn’t even get the newspaper.
Even so, I then played it off, and nodded to her like I’d known all about it. Because in middle school, you never, ever admitted ignorance. You acted cool and went along.
Later that night, we snuck out into the darkness and ran up the street to spray paint on the road. Because we were rebels. And that is what rebels did.
We didn’t have a plan, so we stood there deliberating what to paint.
She said, “We should paint No Contra.” Then she discussed why it was bad.
And once again, I had absolutely no idea what that meant or what she was talking about. My family wasn’t political at all. They actively avoided the news as one would COVID19. It was a point of pride for some family members to say things like, “Oh, I don’t know anything about that.”
Meanwhile, Laura’s family debated issues over ham and eggs and hung paintings of dolls being sucked out of airplanes based on current events.
Again, I winged it. I am very, very good at winging it.
So I said, very convincingly, “Yeah! No Contra! Screw ’em.”
And we spray painted it across the road.
Another time she came to my house for a slumber party. We played sad songs on vinyl by The Smiths and drew psychedelic pictures inspired by various album covers. We snuck rum and Coke from my parents’ liquor cabinet, and she promptly puked it out my bedroom window.
Then, late that night, we decided to carve symbols into our legs with razor blades. Because cutting yourself up is what cool rebels do.
Right?
She carved the Egyptian symbol for everlasting life and rebirth into her ankle: the ankh.
I carved the symbol for infinity into a birthmark on my left calf. That birthmark had always bothered me, and I thought a cool symbol in it might finally make it acceptable.
It hurt, but we didn’t complain. Because pain is a appropriate self-punishment for rebels.
At that age, I loved nothing more than shocking my mother. It was my favorite pastime. So the next day I proudly showed my family the carving on my leg, waiting for the shocked gasps.
My dad frowned. “Why did you carve the number eight into your leg?”
I sighed.
Parents are sooo uncool.
Grumpily I said, “It’s not an eight, Dad. It’s the symbol for infinity. Geez.”
Mom glowered. “It looks like an eight.”
I looked again.
It did look like an eight.
The infinity symbol does look like the number eight depending on its angle.
I walked away, brooding. Because brooding is the only thing to do when parents ruin something, yet again.
When it healed, it turned into white scar tissue that stood out sharply against the dark birthmark. And for the rest of my life, anyone who sees it asks me, “Why do you have an eight on your leg?”
And every time, I brood all over again.
I should’ve done an ankh too. Nobody would’ve confused that with an eight.
Acrylic on canvas, 48×72”, 2019
After high school, Laura moved to Chicago to pursue her art degree, and then her art career at DePaul University. Today she’s a Vincent de Paul Professor in the Art School at DePaul University, where she helped co found the Critical Ethnic Studies MA program and the Global Asian Studies minor.
On top of that, along with co-founders Camilla Fojas and Wei Ming Dariotis, she helped implement a Critical Mixed Race Studies conference and association.
I moved to Seattle for college, then later moved abroad.
We stayed in touch, something Facebook eventually made much easier, even while I lived in Europe.
And years later, I saw her in person again when I attended a conference in Chicago.
We sat down in a swanky, funky restaurant, ordered cocktails, and started catching up. It was immediately like old times. She was still the same wacky, kooky artist she’d always been, still paving new roads, this time for Asian Americans through art and advancing mixed race studies.
Then the pandemic hit.
She went through major trauma during COVID, not just isolation, but also divorce, surviving breast cancer, and coming out.
Talk about a brutal trifecta.
And through all of it, through the pain and upheaval, she captured it in art and poetry and spirit. (She will be publishing a memoir of that experience in the coming year.)
And how could I not admire her for that? For facing so much trauma and creating art out of it?
So I bought one of her pieces, a painting of a rainforest in Japan. It is titled “Gajumaru Canopy #2.”
Gajumaru is the Japanese word for banyan trees, and this scene is from the Valley of Gangala in Nanjo City, Okinawa. Each time I see it, I’m transported back to rainforests I’ve visited in Hawaii, Panama, Ecuador, Colombia, and beyond.
I’ve hung it in my front room. And every time I look at it, I love it all over again. That’s how you know an art piece is just right for you. It makes you feel something every time you see it.
It makes you dream, or reflect, or remember, or sense.
Above all, art should make you feel something.
Laura has shared that gift with the world, just as powerfully as she once did with a headless doll decades ago.
Around that time, we both picked up writing as a hobby and formed an online writing group with another old high school friend. We met monthly to talk about writing, art, hobbies, and life.
Laura’s newest project was working with a traditional tattoo artist who did Hajichi tattoos, which are traditional Okinawan hand tattoos done using the ancient tribal method of bamboo and ink. Only a handful of artists in the world still perform this Indigenous practice.
Laura showed us her hands over a Zoom video call, beaming.
She got Hajichi tattoos done as part of reclaiming her heritage and fighting cultural erasure through body art. And they look way better than my symbol for infinity (Eight!) on my leg ever did.
The funny thing is, she would never describe herself as a rebel. But she defies traditional roles, challenges norms, and brings forward new perspectives. And that’s about as authentic as rebellion gets.
About a year ago, Laura shared difficult news: she is once again facing cancer. In the winter of 2026, I visited her again in Chicago.
We wandered around Pilsen looking at murals and urban art, then stopped at a Mexican fusion restaurant called D’nuez which, by the way, has churro French toast with caramel. It’s literally, ‘to die for’.
At our table sat several bottles of hot sauce. Their labels were covered in big red warnings, with flames and devils and peppers and enough aggressive messaging to suggest they had legal representation. I’m fairly certain there were medical warnings on the back too, informing consumers that ingestion may result in spontaneous combustion.
Naturally, I avoided them.
Laura, however, picked up not one, not two, but all three bottles. Then she proceeded to absolutely drench her Mexican omelet. Not a few drops or a polite amount. Drench.
Meanwhile, the fumes wafting off her plate were burning my nostrils like the acidic blood of an alien.
I watched with growing concern as she dug in.
Her face turned red, and then redder. She started sweating and then hyperventilating.
At this point, I was simply waiting for the imminent combustion these bottles had promised me.
Finally, she looked up and said, “I think I put too much on.”
I laughed.
And then, to my horror, she kept eating.
Somehow, she survived the meal without bursting into flames.
Afterward, we visited her art studio.
It was housed in a massive old warehouse that had been converted into artist studios and ateliers. Her studio was bright and filled with years of her work: paintings, prints, books, poetry, teaching, activism, and community building.
Everywhere I looked were the accumulated side effects of a woman following her curiosity for decades. And I was struck by how much she had given the world. Her canvas with the headless doll had simply gotten bigger and broader.
Her work creates conversations and makes people see differently. Whether through art, writing, teaching, or preserving cultural traditions, she has spent her life sharing creativity.
It also made me think about my own life.
Have I shared enough? Have I created enough? Have I put enough of myself into the world? Have I made the world a better place?
Probably not. Or at least not enough, yet.
So, I want to share Laura’s work, her accomplishments, and the remarkable creative spirit that has inspired me since we were twelve years old and I stared at a dismembered doll in her dining room.
I hope you’ll take a moment to explore her art and learn more about what she’s created.
Laura Kina’s Professional Site: https://laurakina.com/
Post Main Image Credit/Info: Laura Kina, Hajichi (kasuri and F-35s), 12×12 inches, Oil on wood panel, 2024
Other links of interest:
Critical Mixed Race Studies: https://criticalmixedracestudies.com/
Okinawan Princess: Da Legend of Hajichi Tattoos Book
https://besspress.com/products/okinawan-princess-da-legend-of-hajichi-tattoos
Queering Contemporary Asian American Art Book
https://uwapress.uw.edu/book/9780295741376/queering-contemporary-asian-american-art/
War Baby/Love Child: Mixed Race Asian American Art Book
https://uwapress.uw.edu/book/9780295992259/war-baby-love-child/
Such a great tribute by one rebel for another! Thanks for sharing.