When you moved to New York, did you consciously want to get involved in the art world? I think so. Before I left Vancouver, the work I was making was art-school level; it wasn’t great. But you buy Artforum, you’re from Vancouver, you don’t know—it just seems so big. If a show went to the museum there, everyone would go and be so excited. Everyone’s art would change because you finally saw artwork. I didn’t know what my work was going to do yet, but I knew I wanted to be somewhere that there was a chance and I could just be around the art world and other artists, big galleries—that kind of pressure and pace.

What is your process like? I really like things that are banal, using objects that you could find anywhere. Any street in New York is full of stuff. Anything I draw, you probably will find in three blocks walking if you just look at the ground. If there’s a condom on the street, which is common, there’s a whole story there: Who were those people? What is the backstory, their relationship? Was it a prostitute? Was it a couple? What happened? Or a cigarette: When you smoke a cigarette there’s, I need it, I want it, or maybe you smoke when you’re stressed, or you share a cigarette with somebody—also, you’re afraid of cancer. So many little things are involved in a small thing. I think just using average things and collecting them into a context is a little different. It’s the story of life—the story of what’s all around us all the time.

Do you like being in the city and able to see objects like that, or do you also enjoy more rural places? I enjoy being in the city. The funny thing about nature now is that you’ll be walking through the woods and there are some cigarette butts, or someone left their McDonald’s. It’s everything everywhere. The city is great for people. The hair on your arms, the skin, the smell of a person—that’s just as intricate and interesting as a tree or a forest. It’s just a micro version. This is how we’re living. We like going to the forest to see how beautiful it is, but then we like going to the bar and smoking a cigarette with our friends. I like seeing animals and I like having a burger. It’s okay to have a gray area for that.

In that case, do you feel like you’ve got a penchant for environmentalism? I really do care about the environment. I’ve gone through stages where I’ve been more adamant about it. I remember I was very young and idealistic, and I would criticize my mother, who would eat meat maybe once a week, and I’d be like, “That’s bullshit!” But really, as you get older, you realize it’s okay to enjoy your life—the food you eat or how you live your life. It’s just a matter of respecting where it came from and taking everything in moderation. People are like, “Fuck it, I’m gonna die anyway,” and it’s like, no, those things are nice. Nature is really beautiful, and I don’t want to fuck with it.

Would you agree that you embody a certain mode of sexuality that embraces humor and the grotesque? Definitely. Being a young female artist, it’s really fun for me to play with ideas of sexuality. I think that’s what I’ve been doing my whole life, challenging people’s ideas. Is it wrong to be an artist and want to also be a presence, to be sexy—and slutty? Or to be like, Well, I’m not so sexy. I like challenging people’s ideas of how they judge people. It’s all the same thing—everything is everything, and you can do more than one thing.

It’s also really fun to make work that some people could be like, “Is it feminist, is it angry?” What about making work about sex and love and drawing a vagina without it being angry, or, Look how sensual it is, how perfect and loving and a beautiful flower? It’s okay to make fun of yourself, to make fun of your body. You could have sex with somebody and part of it is funny—there are funny things that happen. It’s not like just because you’re having sex or talking about it, it’s exploitative—like you’re selling sex. If I could do anything, it would be laughing at life without being ironic.