In the heart of Silicon Valley, where technology and innovation reign supreme, lies a hidden gem in the world of textile art. Jaya Griscom is a talented artist who has been weaving a new path in the world of textiles, blending figurative abstraction with cutting-edge textile technology. Griscom was born in Menlo Park, California, and lived in the Bay Area through grade school. From a young age, she knew that creating art was what she was meant to do. “I knew from the time that I was quite little that art was kind of what I wanted to spend my life doing,” Griscom recalls. “From being very tiny, as soon as I could hold markers and paints and everything…that was always my first choice of what I wanted to spend my time doing.”
Her parents quickly realized that art was their daughter’s passion and enrolled her in the Peninsula School, which emphasized art programs and self-directed creative time for its students. “One of the founders of the school over 100 years ago had been a weaver. So [they] started a weaving program at the school that then ended up sticking with the curriculum, because they had the looms and they had the materials,” says Griscom. Although she didn’t know it at the time, this was the gateway into her lifelong pursuit of weaving and creating textile art. She states: “I ended up learning how to weave when I was like five, and I fell in love with the tactile experience of working with fiber.” Griscom describes textile art as soft and “that it feels good, that it’s cozy, that it’s kind of quiet and absorbs sounds.”
“Operating on a scale that is at least as large as the human body, if not larger, has a very different kind of physical relationship when you’re viewing or touching it.”
Griscom began her formal fine art education in high school, by earning a visual art certificate from Idyllwild Arts Academy. She then studied at Bard College, double majoring in studio art and religious studies. From there she moved back to the Bay Area and completed an additional degree from Cañada College in fashion design merchandising and small business management.
Eventually, she found herself back at Peninsula School, this time teaching the very same weaving class that had inspired her as a child. “It was wonderful to be back. I love being in the classroom,” recalls Griscom. As with so many educators, Griscom’s job was impacted by the pandemic, and she was forced to shift to remote work. “Teaching anything remotely is certainly not optimal, but specifically teaching something that is so hands-on and material intensive was really challenging to make work.” While she made teaching work remotely for a while, she decided it was no longer a fit without being in-person and instead focused more attention on her own practice.
Working with various types of looms, from traditional to new age, has allowed Griscom to create both simple and complex designs. Most recently, she was excited to have access to a digital Jacquard loom through a residency program at Praxis Fiber Workshop in Cleveland, Ohio. This loom unlocked new opportunities for creating more photorealistic designs, which often depict human features such as hands. “The human body is fascinating, and I think that as much as we all are so familiar with bodies…it can be a really exciting way to kind of reexamine that connection with self, as well as reexamine the hefty societal expectations placed on ourselves in terms of physical appearance.”
Griscom makes a point to share that the intersection of the ancient art of weaving and modern technology isn’t new. “There have always kind of been these parallels in this dialogue between computer coding and weaving.” She adds, “You have warp strings, your vertical strings. You have your weft strings, your horizontals. It’s either a weft on top of a warp, or it’s a warp on top of a weft. It’s a zero or one, like it is with binary code.”
Griscom has also recently started combining prints, repurposed clothes, and 3D contours into her larger-scale textile artwork. Griscom admitted that while she does enjoy art in all sizes, she’s found herself drawn to larger pieces. “Operating on a scale that is at least as large as the human body, if not larger, has a very different kind of physical relationship when you’re viewing or touching it,” she shares. As a result, she has been accepted into the Cubberley Artist Studio Program in Palo Alto, which provides a large studio for bigger projects. Griscom is excited to continue to expand her practice with new techniques and materials, weaving the old and new together.
“This is why I need art. Because I am not very good at expressing things through words. The art is out of necessity at this point.”
Born and raised in Iran, Kiana Honarmand first experienced the magic of self-expression through music. “There was something that happened to me with the medium and expression that felt like magic. It gave me another language in which I could express myself,” Kiana described.
In high school, she studied math and physics, pivoting to art one year before attending university. Kiana went on to study photography at the University of Tehran, Iran, where her education was rooted in tradition and honing her technical skills.
It wasn’t until she immigrated to the United States in 2012 and began her MFA at Pennsylvania State University that she had the opportunity to explore interdisciplinary arts. She explained, “I became really curious because I had never done any of these things. I started really experimenting and broadening my horizons.” This shifted her way of looking at what she did and as a result, her practice became more conceptually driven. Kiana’s work used digital fabrication tools and traditional methods of craft.
Kiana’s skills continued to develop over the years and she used different mediums to help tell her story. “You have to allow yourself to mess up. Playing and experimenting is a big part of any creative process,” she said. “If you put the pressure of perfection on your first try, you are just putting limitations on yourself,” she continued.
Her solo and group shows, displayed around the US, have allowed her to share the process of immigration and the stigma that comes with it, censorship, and her experiences as a woman in patriarchal Iran. “I’m interested in finding ways to connect with people through our shared experiences, and I found that art is a much kinder way to start a conversation,” she said.
Kiana moved to the Bay Area near the end of 2019 and found it challenging to connect with her new community due to the pandemic. Luckily, residencies such as Root Division in San Francisco and The Cubberley Artists Studio Program in Palo Alto helped her maintain her artistic development. Kiana explained, “This is why I need art. Because I am not very good at expressing things through words. The art is out of necessity at this point.”
“People will always want to talk about [my past] because it’s exciting. They focus on who you were, not who you are, or who you’re trying to become.” -Steven Free
Steven Free spends a lot of time with animals, whether it be the dogs he walks to pay the bills, the kittens he and his wife live with, or the giraffe that lives in his heart.
A radio plays to the hum of an overhead projector in a suburban backyard studio. A shelf stuffed with toy giraffes looks down on a tidy workspace. There are sketch boxes, a sink surrounded by binders filled with paint swatches, and a table topped with replica shipping containers that exhibit pieces by an (in)famous Bay Area graffiti artist. Hunched over the desk, standing in the spotlight of the projector’s halogen bulb, or tagging paint mixture instructions on index cards is Steven Free, better known as “Girafa,” a painter with a past that keeps his hands hard at work and his head in the clouds.
Steven’s artwork centers on a character that he developed as a teen. He was adopted as a toddler after his birth mother left him in a Bay Area motel room. That experience, subconscious in specificity, set him on a path of self-actualization. Stimulated by the response he got from recreating comic panels as a child, he gravitated toward creativity. Always doodling and looking for ways to express himself, Steven enrolled in capoeira, a martial art and dance form originating among enslaved Brazilians. He practiced capoeira for 18 years but gained an identity that would last a lifetime. As a rule, the Mestre, or instructor, would give his students nicknames. He landed on “Girafa,” the Brazilian Portuguese word for giraffe, for Steven, in reference to his lean and towering frame. “Since I have always been interested in comics, superheroes, and their alternate identity, I ran with the nickname and developed a character,” he says. By the early 2000s, the character most commonly associated with Girafa was painted on over a thousand walls, trucks, and pieces of property that did not belong to Steven. That version of radical self-expression resulted in arrest and restitution but began a new life for the giraffe that was once Steven Free. While not initially inspired by his inherited alter ego, giraffes have grown on him over the years. “When my Mestre gave me the nickname,” he explains, “I thought it was dumb, but I started to realize its potential. The long neck. The pattern. The environments I could include.” The versatility of the giraffe, combined with his appreciation for animals, stemming from his mother’s passion for bringing home pets, fostered themes of interspecies communication. “Animals can’t tell you what they need,” he says, “but if you pay attention, you know. It is a weird dialogue we have with our pets. I don’t draw people; I’m not interested.” Transposing elements of pop culture and human expression on the characters he illustrates has drawn audiences to his work. “I like giving animals human qualities when expressing sorrow, anger, or excitement.”
When asked how he feels when stumbling across pieces of his past life in the wild, Steven shares, “It’s the paint; it’s the sun that has eaten it away. It’s trippy because I know that was me, but I’m not carrying that same feeling.” His time creating graffiti will always trail him, “People will always want to talk about it because it’s exciting,” he claims. “They focus on who you were, not who you are, or who you’re trying to become.”
Today, Steven splits his time between walking dogs and creating art under his Girafa moniker. He shifted his focus from producing art to designing products after his 2019 solo exhibition at the late Arsenal SJ. Having difficulty selling artwork, Steven wanted to make his brand more accessible to those who followed his graffiti. He produced T-shirts, totes, keychains, and air fresheners, his latest push being a collection of replica trucks and shipping containers bearing iconic Girafa pieces. “After wrapping that show, I was burnt out with painting. I jumped into product design, but that took on a life of its own. That’s pretty par for the course,” he claims. “Every artist lives in the process of gradually evolving their work. I am excited to jump back into art and see if I can make a living being a full-time artist.”
Searching for greener pastures can be challenging, especially for a giraffe accustomed to the city streets. Steven’s shift to studio practice has been a change of pace. “Projects can take a long time. I didn’t have weeks to complete work in the street. I had to learn to be okay with not finishing a piece within an hour.” That extra time allows Steven to mix paint colors and meticulously document the shade and mixing process on index cards he catalogs in binders. While working fast is no longer a requirement, he always looks for ways to optimize his processes. “How can I work smarter, not harder? Sometimes, my process is very rigid, and I do things until they burn me out,” Steven says.
Steven’s contemporary work is still inspired by and attributed to the Girafa character he imagined as a teen, but he now distinguishes between foreign and familiar imagery. “I have a bad habit of trying to reinvent the wheel. I try things and start to lose the core of my work. It is a balance. I want to maintain what I am known for.” Pieces displayed in his studio depict a classic Girafa spot pattern composed in multi-color abstractions, a process formed by creating templates, masking lines, and inverting colors; his interests in color theory and intricate detail are on full display. “I can get into these pattern paintings with multiple color overlays until the process takes it out of me, and I need to scale back. I want to continue doing Girafa; it is what I am known for and enjoy doing, but I want to see where that can evolve.”
The next step for Steven is branching outside of the South Bay. He is working on a catalog that he hopes to display in galleries nationwide. This ambitious next step is one of evolution and self-determination. “Having work shown outside the Bay Area would give me much more confidence. There’s fear, because you don’t have hometown support, but you must be comfortable with things not working out, pieces not selling, or not being invited back. That’s the artist’s journey; even when things aren’t working out, you still have this drive. It’s who you are. It would be like telling somebody they can’t breathe anymore. You can’t help yourself.”
In addition to enduring the growing pains that come with forging a new path, Steven is a newlywed and lives a simple life with his wife and cats. When asked why folks should care about Steven Free, he counters, “I don’t think people should care about me. They should care that there are people like me willing to express themselves through art. I am not where I would like to be, but maybe somebody out there looks up to me. If they could see what I went through, the struggle, and how I continued to do work and want to progress as an artist, and that gives them hope? Being an artist is hard. We need people doing that hard work to prove it is possible.”
“I see a beautiful mirroring of papermaking to mental health as a whole because while people can be delicate, people are also so tough and resilient.”
Bay Area native Chelsea Stewart dances in her studio with a brush in each hand, pushing paint together before it has a chance to dry. Her impulsive process leads her to work on five to six different pieces at a time, moving from one to the next. “I’m somebody who, if I don’t like something, I’m going to cross it out and start another painting. I’ll come back to it later.” Stewart’s youthful vibrancy can be felt as she considers all possibilities for a lifelong career in the arts. Outside of her art practice, she works as a gallery manager and volunteers with art-focused nonprofits. “I want to help others share their narratives; I know art will always be there.”
For the last two years, Stewart has been exploring papermaking, a craft she picked up during a virtual artist residency. “I think I’ve always been interested in the process of papermaking and how meditative it can be. You get your hands dirty, blend the paper, wash it out, blend the paper, wash it out…figuring out flaws along the way, then making the flaws part of the final piece.” The systematic and rhythmic papermaking process can take Stewart many hours, even days. As she works, she listens to a podcast or instrumental music in the background, such as Hans Zimmer: Live in Prague. Stewart creates mixed media work by combining this newfound skill with the acrylic-based paintings she did as an undergrad, contrasting the two media.
As Stewart spins her anxiety ring, she dives deeper into a recent piece mixing paper and synthetic beads with acrylic on canvas, fusing it to her relationship with mental health. “I want to make something that reflects my own personal experience, using these elements to say more about my life. I wasn’t sure how to express it because the topic of mental health is so delicate, similar to papermaking materials. But when the delicate fibers interlock, you create a strong piece of paper. I see a beautiful mirroring of papermaking to mental health as a whole, because while people can be delicate, people are also so tough and resilient.”
The sound of Chuy Gomez on the radio is synonymous with the Bay Area. Some Chuy fans might also know him from his hour of music on CMC, a cable TV show from 4 to 5pm on local channels. His ability to connect with his listeners and the community have made him a popular local celebrity, and when he was unceremoniously let go from his 20-year stint as a DJ with KMEL, his already faithful fans rallied around him even more. Now he’s back in his groove at HOT 105.7, doing what he does best.
Tell me about your background. I was born in Mexico and came here before kindergarten. I was raised in the Potrero Hill neighborhood of San Francisco. I grew up with the radio always on at the house. I would call into KBRG every day to request songs for my mom: Los Bukis, Los Caminantes, whatever was hip at the time. The DJ began to recognize me. He invited me, this little boy who called every day, to come down and check out the station.
When did you first try radio out? I was interested in it because of being around music. In high school, I started deejaying house parties. I never really wanted to do radio. I’d pretend to be Lee Perkins. People would tell me, “You sound like him.”
I’d MC events, and this led me to my reintroduction to radio. I had a buddy whose sister was having a quinceañera. I didn’t know he was a friend of Marcos Gutierrez from KSOL. He came to the quinceañera. He said, “Nobody does this but me here.” He was the bilingual guy on CBS. So then I became his intern. Before you know it, I’m hanging out for his show, and the show after. So then I start driving the vans, and that led to a weekend position eventually. It’s crazy because I was just a kid hanging out with Marcos Gutierrez. Then I became a DJ.
At what moment did you realize that you liked doing radio? I knew that I loved music coming out of my radio. Just being there, it morphed into something. I didn’t know I wanted to be on the radio. Dr. Demento, Wolfman Jack—I had my local celebrities, I liked. And then being able to be in a space where I saw these people was something else. I wasn’t starstruck, but I was this young guy hanging out with these vets. I learned a lot of game from Barry Pope. He and I spent a lot of time in the station vans doing community work.
Radio is not just about performing, it’s also about connecting… People have grown up with me in the past 20 years. I’m almost like the neighbor that you know. I’ve been to your schools, I’ve been to your dances. You’ve seen me in different situations. Now you see me walking through the fair. Some of these people don’t know I’m on the radio because people have been locked into three specific stations in the market. Unless you’re scanning through the radio, you don’t know it’s there.
Now it’s all about grassroots again. Shaking hands, kissing babies.
When did you feel like you could make a name for yourself? When did you say, “I’m going to be more public?” I was always the radio guy that was there playing music. Then they hired Mancow to do mornings, and I think by that time we had switched over to be WILD 107. He heard me and said, “You have a lot of energy, want to be part of the morning show?” I’d do the morning show Monday through Friday. I’d be the street team guy, the morning show ambassador. I’d do call-ins to the station. It got me out in front of the people. Chuy became almost a personality himself. That allowed me to grow.
My girlfriend at the time got pregnant; my son was born in 1992. I ended up asking for benefits. I couldn’t get a raise to get my own benefits. At the same time, someone called me from KMEL. They said “We’re thinking of doing something, want to meet?” So we had a conversation. I told them my girlfriend just got pregnant and I needed to start making money. They said, “Well let me put something on paper for you…”
How’d you feel in that moment? I’ve always taken life day by day. Then, I asked if I could get benefits. Oh, benefits come with the job. Okay, cool! So now I’m excited. But I didn’t want to leave WILD because I liked it there.
WILD couldn’t match KMEL’s offer, so I took the offer. They teamed me up with Rosary. We had the Chuy and Rosary show. It was growth. It was a godsend. I started doing nights for about 2 ½ years. Then it was a weird situation. They put us on the morning show. For whatever situation, that didn’t work out. So then I got the night show back. Then I went from nights to doing afternoons. Then Michael Martin, who was originally my music director at WILD, said he wanted to take what I was doing in the afternoons and do it in the mornings. I ended up doing mornings for over 10 years.
How did you find doing mornings in terms of the style? For me, it was awesome because I didn’t have to do the whole bells and whistles… I’ve never been a fan of prank calls. While you’re stuck in traffic, you have music. I threw in some entertainment reports. We did great for the amount of time that we had. Up until August of 2013, when they walked in and, after 20 years, said, “We decided to go in a new direction.”
There was no warning? I went on vacation. I came back and worked Monday through Thursday. I went into a meeting Thursday after I got off the air. “We decided to go into a different direction.” Oh, so no funky Friday tomorrow? That day was my last day.
In that moment, how was that news? In radio, you never know when your last day is. You’re only as good as your last show. I never expected it. I thought I’d graduate to KISS FM, to an older demographics station. It didn’t sink in. I cried more when I left WILD than when I left KMEL that day. It was a little surreal. I had Disney on Ice tickets that night with my daughters. I didn’t pay attention to my Instagram that day. People were going crazy, asking “What happened to Chuy?” That was empowering and reassuring and it felt good.
When did you get the call for HOT 105.7? They called and said they wanted to do afternoons. Awesome! I get to sleep in. They kicked off the station by playing Nelly’s “It’s Getting Hot in Here” nonstop for a few days. It felt like when you fall off your bike and you get back on, and you’re back in stride. You feel good.
Who are your big influencers? I’ve always been an Ice Cube fan. He and Scarface are my all-time favorites. I interviewed Ice Cube in ‘94 or ‘95. That’s probably been the only time I’ve been in groupie mode. You watch him and you see his videos and you see what kind of figure he is, and then, oh my God, I’m standing next to him.
I’ve talked to everyone from him to Snoop Dog to Rappin’ Forte. It was an incredible time in hip hop. The golden era. The ’90s were the best.
