SHAMALA HAMALA

Kevin James Thornton · Summer 2026

The workshop side of my studio, Shamala Hamala, is becoming a total mess.

And actually, that’s a good thing. When I first moved into this beautiful storefront in Cincinnati almost exactly a year ago, I was determined to keep it in pristine shape. I wanted it to feel like the sort of place where one could wander in and assume the person working there had their shit together.

The gallery side still mostly maintains this illusion. The working side? No.

There’s piles of art papers everywhere. Tubes of paint have gone solid because apparently putting the cap back on properly is beyond my skill set. I had this stainless-steel work surface on top of my big wooden table that was once clean and shiny but now it’s covered in blobs of paint, experiments in color, and dried swirls of pigments.

End of excerpt · From a past print issue

In conversation with Sea Dax · Spring 2026

K. Thornton: Tell me a little about yourself.

Sea Dax: I moved to Cincinnati in 2008 and earned my BFA from the Art Academy of Cincinnati in 2012. I didn’t know I was going to stay here as long as I have, and I wasn’t sure a master’s degree was in the cards for me. I spent more than a decade building my practice, creating a solid routine, and learning what it meant to prioritize art-making.

A few years ago I decided to pursue my master’s degree. Before that, I had spent a long period making work about the body. I was heavily bullied for my size when I was younger, and a lot of my work explored desirability, fatness, and my relationship with my own body.

When I began my transition, I wanted to turn outward toward the community I’d built around myself. I grew up in a very conservative rural area where there weren’t many queer people. When I moved to Cincinnati, I began curating a new community for myself, and many of the people I connected with were trans.

End of excerpt · From a past print issue

In conversation with Akwi Nji · Fall 2025

K: So how did you end up painting?

A: When everything stopped, I lost my outlet. Sure, I could still write, but everything I wrote was meant to be performed live. Virtual shows weren’t the same. Writing into a void didn’t feed me.

My daughters were home. I remember pacing the house after George Floyd’s murder like a caged animal. My older daughter looked up from the couch and said, “Mom, what are you going to do with that energy?”

That question stopped me. I realized I’d always processed life through my voice, but suddenly I couldn’t. So I thought, Maybe it’s supposed to come through my hands.

That’s when I started making things—fabric collages, because fabric was what I had around the house.

End of excerpt · From a past print issue