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Creighton Baxter


Creighton Baxter is a white American artist, transsexual woman living with HIV and public sexual torture survivor. Her transdisciplinary practice stitches across performance, installation, photography, and drawing. Baxter's process is time and body-based; often using her own physicality, voice or fluids to alter the space of performance and the objects she creates. Her creative practice centers drawing and its ephemeral quality, as an origin point and form of research.

She has participated in exhibitions including Under a Dismal Boston Sklyine at Boston University, and Object of Dread with artist Steve Locke at Castledrone. Her early 2020 exhibition Realigned Possession, with artist Miller Robinson, uses endurance-based gesture, drawing and sculpture to encounter poetic and corporeal limits for each artist. Her works have been published in The New Inquiry, Guts Magazine, Art Papers, Rhizome, SEQUITUR, Art New England, and Boston Art Review.

Creighton lives in Los Angeles and shares a studio with her sibling Lily Baxter. She is currently writing a book of poems and creating drawings that explore religious trauma, divinity and HIV.


There are two stories my mother tells me repeatedly about the earliest parts of my life. The first is my birth on an Easter Monday. She jokes that I was resurrected; with many family members in town for the holiday and for my birth. Including three generations of women who watched me become the fourth.

My mother was in a dangerous labor because my unusually large skull had been lodged into her pelvic opening. I was trapped inside of her and my skull was being pressed down on all sides. Perpetually crowning.

She went into convulsions from the pain and an emergency C-section was performed. I was born that night on April 16th, 1990 in Arizona. I was named Creighton by my parents. After my maternal great-grandmother Margaret Creighton.

While still in the hospital, a group of my mother’s coworkers came to visit us. My mother tells me that as I laid in her arms, I was completely silent with eyes wide open. I looked around the room at each woman standing above us, making eye contact and slowly moving to see each of them. I did not cry or grunt, or express much at all besides what my mother considered to be a deep knowing gaze from myself to these women and finally to my mother.

Recently, I called my mother and asked her to retell me this story. With all of her stories, she tells a long truthful version. Sometimes the details emerge, embed themselves, or loop back like some sort of stitch. Like water. So this time she tells me, it wasn’t about resurrection at all.

My maternal grandfather was also born on Easter Monday. All of his family called him Bunny for this reason. The night of Easter Sunday, my maternal grandmother said I would be born the following day. My mother went into labor before sunrise. After I was born my mother’s friend wrote a poem about me. My mother can’t find a copy of the poem but she tells me the title.

“Creighton Paecht Baxter was born on April 16th with a really big head”.

I tell my mother that I have been writing about divinity and she says, “people have noticed you see the divine in everything since you were three years old”.

The second story from my mother is about kindergarten. I became very upset with my teacher. We were asked to go around the room and each say what we would become as adults. Many listed the professions of their parents or said things like astronaut, ballerina, firefighter. When my turn arrived, I said that I would become a storyteller. My teacher tried to convince me this was not a profession. I refused this claim and asserted that it was who I would be.

I did not say this part in class, nor is it part of my mother’s version of the story, but when I expressed this calling to my teacher I saw myself in the future. I was a woman, wise and loving. I was a witch cackling.

I’ve grown up now. I would like to tell you some stories.

After the first time I was called a faggot at five years old, something inside began to infect itself. Something colossal and cruel. As I looked around me I saw an animosity toward my body at such a young age. I saw the look of disgust from adults that I couldn’t articulate until I was an adult myself. It surrounded me without a name. Their disgust was a mask to cover their fear of witnessing a person who had no alternative but to be herself.

As a trans child, I was force-fed a myth that hung around me in the landscape of Maricopa County. I learned that someone like me would never know love. That to be loved was to be all the things I never was in that time. I learned this from movies, distant relatives, classmates and teachers. I learned this from rapists and folklore. I learned this lie again and again, despite my parents' herculean efforts to show me otherwise with their deeply human love for me. A true love that will unfold complexly and divinely for all of time.

I began to learn of a god and his hatred for me. And so like any god-fearing child I began to pray. Daily in every moment like a Jesuit. I was in a constant state of prayer for years. I believed that one day a god would allow me to wake up as a girl and like magic I would not be forced into boyhood. I would just be a normal girl and that would be the thing that let me survive. A resurrection at six years old.

Around that time, I began the lifelong process of taking my body back from the ones who tried to destroy me before I had a voice. I was an afraid, curious, and brave child. I looked around me and I only saw impossibilities. To be a girl, would mean to be impossible.

At some point I began praying to become a boy. I wanted to wake up from the terror of my authentic self and become assimilated into the myths I saw floating around me. Again like a Jesuit in constant prayer I began to bury my girlhood. I lived impossibly.

And one day at a restaurant in our Phoenix neighborhood, my mom and I stopped to grab a sarsaparilla. I looked up at the cashier and I saw one of us. A tall, courageous and vulnerable woman stood at the register. I will never forget her looking into me, and I into her. It shocked me into possibility. I saw possibility for the first time inside her existence shining back at me. And that day, I stopped praying. I began to believe in magic. I believed that one day I could become who I was meant to be and have always been.

I became fascinated with witches, psychics, mystics and divination. I started seeing a glimpse of something more magical lurking behind the world’s veils of normalcy and heterosexual logic. But still at this time I was a child who did not have resources to name myself. So magic is where I located my reflection. In portrayals of witches I encountered women who lived untethered to men. Women and girls who escaped impossible circumstances through magical skill pulled from the well of themselves. I saw women living on their terms, always turning nothing into something. I saw them resurrecting dead animals and healing others.

In time the shame, violence, and fear of never experiencing love or being a girl buried me down again. But the magic stayed.

At fourteen I began attending a historically “all boys” Jesuit high school. I was the only out queer student at that time. During that year I experienced ritualistic public sexual torture, almost every day, by cisgender male students and adult teachers.

Die of AIDS would be written across my locker in shit. Cans of piss and seminal fluid would be thrown at me from towers. I would be strip searched and force-fed pieces of embalmed animals. And I would become obsessed with the Virgin Mary, a woman surrounded by men. For a long time, this string of traumatic violences confirmed my fear that to exist was to be unlovable. That to have any boundary meant you would be broken regardless.

But as I endured that year, so much of the violence hurled at me was based on the rumor that I was not really a boy. Little did they know how right they were.

So I learned that I couldn’t hide myself even if I tried. In the aftermath, covered in piss, bruises, and bits of animal, my faith in magic was lit again. In my deepest space of shame there was a flickering part of me that committed to my life in that year. I was lucky enough to get out and transfer schools. I committed to finding love in myself. I committed to finding friends and lovers. It radicalized me.

All of this impacted my relationships. It had me lost until I hit an edge and flew back repeatedly.. At times, it has been a root of my own selfishness and disrespect toward others. A year that set the stage for fifteen years of fearing touch and chasing it with abandon. It was all things splitting from inside this place. And since that year, I have carried the tense and precarious dichotomy of an experience that destroyed me and also brought me to love myself as much as I could.

It would not be my last experience of violence. It became a cycle of waves, filled with mostly dangerous relationships and violent men. But after that year there was nothing that could be taken that wasn’t already stolen from me with precision. I fell in and out of these abusive dynamics for a long time, always chasing something I wanted to heal and looking for it in the wrong places. The Jesuits hardened a part of me that might not ever fully soften. My body learned a life-long response to threat. When under attack I cut off the oxygen to my brain and lose consciousness. Later I will learn that this is an extreme freeze response to trauma. It is the main way my body learned to protect itself in the face of an atmospheric threat that never really left. I lovingly call these my “rage naps”.

There are many stories after that year.

Like falling in love with someone safe, a person I dreamt of at seventeen. We met when I was twenty-one. A brilliant and tall femme named Nash who loves the color green and always asked to touch me. A lover who changed my life forever. Being kissed on the hand by Julia Kristeva. Working at ICA Boston during Steve Locke’s first museum solo exhibition and staring at his neon sculpture every day which read, “there is no one left to blame”.

Beautiful red lakes where I’m brave enough to swim naked with my friends. A young man trying to take my life at nineteen and I am saved by a woman named Motown who becomes a mother to me; the same woman who has a psychic vision that I will meet a man when I am thirty who will make my heart expand.

Alleyways on fire from the gasoline games of boys. Stolen flatscreen televisions. Exploding houses. My sibling’s pet snail. Riding down the Pacific Coast Highway on my great-grandmother Creighton’s birthday with my friend Courtney. We made a sharp turn and found ourselves hanging off a cliff’s edge above the ocean.

Meeting my brilliant friend Hayley, who always tells me that their favorite thing about me is the confidence I have when leaving the house each day and still believing I could fall in love at any moment. Like how I fell in love with Hayley and we have spent over a decade singing I Will Always Love You to each other. There are so many stories about Hayley.

Meeting my friend Sarah, Hayley’s partner. Sarah will first be my peer, then my teacher, then my collaborator, then a part of my family. We came out as transsexuals at the same time. You could say it was divinely timed.

Those are all stories for another time. Because there is a different story I need to tell on my birthday as a gift to myself.

When I was twenty-seven I moved to Los Angeles because the life I built until that year had imploded and fallen to pieces. I was broken and met a man I will call William.

William was an acquaintance from the internet and severely charming through a phone screen. He made me feel seen as he arrived at my new apartment for the first time. William fed me and drove me around in his black convertible. When we came back to my new apartment he sexually coerced and assaulted me in a way that took a year to understand. But the effects of his actions would be known long before that.

The week after meeting William I went to the beach. I ran into the ocean alone, butterflying into the waves and finding myself further in the water than I had been since childhood. For hours I rolled on the waves again and again, crying in hopefulness for a new life in a new city with no job, not much money and a lot of support. I looked around to a wave that came barreling like a quarter horse. It swallowed me and while underwater I began seroconverting. Chills flooded me and then the nausea. After tumbling without a chance to breathe, my head finally breached the water. I had found myself in a riptide.

I learned very young that the most effective way to flee a riptide is to swim diagonally to shore. So like every other time, I began to move sideways until my feet touched the sand. When I arrived at the shore trembling and swallowing my own vomit I assumed my body was responding to the waves.

A week later I would find a job. Two weeks later a high school boyfriend would commit suicide here in Los Angeles. The following week I would be diagnosed with HIV by a tall beautiful woman a few blocks from my apartment that I met William in. The one I still live in. With the same bed in the same room. My bed. My room.

A month later I would achieve undetectability and continue to maintain it for every day after that. In time more friends died and I worked at my new job. Life continued in a way that didn’t give much time to consider William or HIV. Eventually life would bring me to a place of acceptance. What William did was intentional. As this knowledge unfolded, I discovered that he is a predator amongst trans people in Los Angeles. So I went back to the same beach and this time some friends dive into the water with me and ride every wave until I am ready to come back to shore.

A week later, my first love Morgan Zwicky died. What can I even say? I sleep with a picture of their mouth above my bed. There are days when I wake up and their mouth has left the wall and it rests on me, a kiss that never ends. Sometimes when they visit me I smell cigarettes in my house. Camel Turkish Silvers, the ones they were smoking the night we met.

So I started to move diagonally again through my artwork and loving friendships. My sibling Bug, whose birth is my first memory, is a skilled swimmer. They moved alongside me, making sure my head stayed above the tide and I started to breathe again. By a few years I am the older sibling. But really, we are the same age.

Bug is ancient.

What feels abjectly cruel about sexual violence, is the insistence of time to keep moving with or without you. If you don’t continue the commitment to yourself, eventually you just get pulled out with the tide.

But I continued moving diagonally and the day came where I thought perhaps I could fall in love again or at least trust someone enough to touch me tenderly.

And then I met an unassuming man. Difficult to spot and nondescript. Kind of like a hotdog. I gave my power away to him for a time. He asked me to maintain part of my life as a secret for his convenience.

In a way meeting him is one of the greatest gifts I will ever receive. It is finally where the long return to my body ended. I flew back into myself.

As I write this, I smell cigarettes in my house, and I hear Morgan in my ear, “A rebirth feels like dying. Because you are breathing for the first time in so long”.

I go to the beach with Bug. It is their birthday, New Year’s Eve. This beach has tide pools and I don’t need to swim but maybe one day I’ll have a friend who can dive in with me. We walk through the tide pools as I ask Morgan, my clear moth, to show me what needs to be seen. I look across the pools and there are thousands of delicate shells of every size, fishing weights engraved with the number three, softened glass, crabs, so many stones.

Looping worlds, separate and together.

Globally, an estimated thirty-three million people have died of AIDS. An estimated thirty million of us are currently living with HIV. Sometimes I close my eyes. I imagine all sixty-three million of us. Dead and alive together. A wave of intimacy and human power. I imagine us being able to see one another. I imagine meeting my mother’s first boyfriend who died of AIDS. I think about my old friend Carlos. I think of the women who worked in the neighborhoods of my childhood. I think of the old porn shop that sold ACT UP buttons when I was a teenager.

I think of myself and remember being told I would die of AIDS over and over. I remember the people who were so afraid of me and my body. I close my eyes, I imagine all of us standing together in power. I remember my first lover living with HIV before I contracted it myself. I remember his fear in disclosure. I remember his assumption that I would walk away. I remember learning about undetectability. I remember his patience.

I close my eyes, I imagine all of us together.

And when I close my eyes and all of us are there, my rapist William is there too. The man who raped me without a condom is there. Because he could never take me from myself. He must be himself even if he hates himself. His shame drove him to so many harmful actions. He sees trans women as the easiest target for his pain. Shame never goes away but you can move it around. When I close my eyes, he is there with us too.

When I close my eyes we are sixty-three million strong. I see all of the mentors, dancers, lovers and teachers we could have had. I see them watch us. They are here.

I close my eyes. I am grateful when the living have rest. When we meet lovers. I am grateful when I wake up with those who hold me.

I open my eyes and find myself here. Today I turn thirty-one.

The magic worked in a way I didn’t know was possible. I look around and see that I am the witch my young self knew I would be. I am the brave woman who made sure that child got to a safer shore. I have survived rape, torture, and domestic violence. I have arrived at the shore of my body. This divinity that runs through me with bravery I was forced to find as a child is deep and loving. I am the witch cackling, untethered and transformed. I emerge altered and glowing. I manifest injectable potions to soften myself. They help me move through a world I was once dead inside of. I grow my hair down my back and my legs are long. I release the anger bit by bit and I keep the potent rage.

I know love because I experience the divinity of others. People in my life show me the possibilities of love every day. At thirty-one, I have been able to drop the fear I picked up in childhood that to be loved and to love, was not something I would access. I believe in it so deeply now because I witness love practiced with the incredible people in my life. I am eternally grateful to those who have made me possible, legible and affirmed. There are too many to name. I am indebted to my chosen family and my parents who have sat with me in grief and rage and joy. I am here because of myself most certainly but the first thing I ever knew is that I have a sibling. I am here because of Bug Baxter too.

I am here because Bug knows how to swim. Because Bug helped me get back on a horse in the woods after a concussion. They have changed my bandages and washed blood from my hair. Their laugh keeps my feet on the ground. Bug has good stories.

I am here because two strangers pulled over to save a group of teenagers dangling off a cliff inside of a station wagon.

I am here because one day in the greeting card aisle at Rite-Aid I met a young trans child named Diego who asked for advice. Their courage stunned me. We talked about how hard being a kid can be, and we cried as I reminded Diego that we are magical. I tell them, people fear power they cannot understand.

Diego, you divine and glorious being, if you ever find this writing I want you to know that meeting you showed me that I do want to be a mother in some way. You made me more courageous. I do not want you to have to be brave like this. But you might have to be. I want you to do everything in your power to keep your softness.

I am here because soon I will be the godmother of a divine child named Paecht. The child of my cherished friends and collaborators. Perhaps I will never be a mother of tradition, but I will be one on loving terms.

I am here because my mother knew I would become a powerful storyteller. I am here because my father would let me sit in his darkroom as a child and watch him print photographs.

I am here because of my chosen mother Motown who saved my life. Since that fateful day many of her visions have been correct. Including that I would survive again and again, finally arriving back to myself with an expanded heart.

I am here because of the woman who gave me that sarsaparilla, she changed the course of my life and I wish I knew her name. Thank you forever my love.

I am here because my younger self held on with an impossible grip. I never gave up. In my grief and confusion my womanhood was a compass that buoyed me in a turbulent world.

I am here because I saw Page’s drawings inside of a book when I was seventeen. Ten years later I would meet them at work, just as I was being diagnosed with HIV and not realizing Page was the same artist I had seen so much earlier. They are the first person I read this letter aloud to.

I am here because of my roommates Jasmine and Miller, delightful and divine artists. I get to listen to Jasmine sing. I watch Miller build the most bizarre and glorious things.

Morgan, Mogwai, Maggie, Johnny Belinda, my ZaZa, my moth, my number eleven. Our love exists across time and many lives. I see you on every horizon. I see you in every tattoo and scar you have left across my human body. Forever.

I am in no rush to meet you again and again. I know that there is so much time. Writing about you has been the hardest and most rewarding part of this process. I feel you in my hands, I just know it. As I knew that I would love you forever the moment I met you. I am here because of you.

I am here because of my beloved Nori. A powerful force on earth. She told me I must do what is self-loving and now I have.

I am here because of Río. My first real girlfriend. She modeled forgiveness for me. Then Río helped me create a mutual aid fund for surgery, helped me find a surgeon, and walked me through the process. Río and all of the people who supported that are a huge part of why I am here.

I am here because of Hayley and Sarah, there are no words.

I am here because of Nash. When I would have freeze responses to flashbacks and trauma, when my rage naps would kick in, Nash would sit with me as I slept. Sometimes they would pick the mattress up and let me crawl under to feel the weight of the bed on top of me. My brilliant emerald. I am so grateful for your friendship after all these years.

I am here because Miller, Bryn and Bug built studios with their six hands to share with our friends. The studio where I write this and draw so many things I have always wanted to say.

I am here because of everyone.

I am here because of myself.

I am not impossible. No one is. There is joy everywhere in all of it. Each day my body shows me the gifts of so many profound and hopeful experiences in my life. Amidst the fight it has taken to be here I’m still here because of these gifts and the people who love me.

Until my late twenties I stayed alive out of spite. I wanted to prove the Jesuits wrong. I wanted to prove the predators wrong. I wanted to prove so many people wrong. Almost four years ago, my diagnosis began to change that. The spite began to leave and the magic of love started to take its place. Thank you spite for getting me to the place where I no longer need you. I am left with myself. Less afraid and just as brave.

To exist in any form as a trans person is an undertaking that many struggle to comprehend. It is a spiritual and alchemical process. It is proof that magic is real. That you can use magic to change your life. I hope each of us honor the trans people in our lives as much as we can. Love us softly without conditions. Give us opportunities for rest in a safe place and stand with us in grief, power and laughter. Learn of your own divinity by sharing a world with us. Let us show you what is actually possible. Protect trans children. Their presence on this earth protects us all.

The people in my past who have made me into secrecy must carry their own shame. When you tell an Aries to hide herself she will do the opposite gleefully and with love. I tell the stories of my life through poems, drawings and prose. I have cast a spell of self-actualization too large to compartmentalize. The only impossibility in my life is staying quiet. There is no other alternative but to be here, as a person who chooses to live without secrets. A storyteller.

I don’t even know the definition of divinity.
And I don’t believe in good and bad timing.
Because, I experience the divine.
I experience it. In everything.

So what is Time? Nothing. And everything. Divinely timed.

I was worth waiting for. Happy birthday to me.

I love all of you very, very, very much. I love me too.


Solo Exhibitions

- Vulnerable Evidence, Castledrone, Boston MA, 2018

Two Person Exhibitions and Performances

- Realigned Possession: Creighton Baxter & Miller Robinson, My_____ Projects, Los Angeles CA, 2020
- Object of Dread: Creighton Baxter & Steve Locke, Castledrone, Boston MA, 2018
- It Might Get Better: Creighton Baxter & Hayley Morgenstern, for Time, Situation, Dexterity at Charlotte Street Foundation, La Esquina Gallery, Kansas City MO, 2015
- It Might Get Better: Creighton Baxter & Hayley Morgenstern, Montseratt College of Art 301 Gallery, Beverly MA, 2014
- It Might Get Better: Creighton Baxter & Hayley Morgenstern, Howard Art Project, Boston MA, 2014
- It Might Get Better: Creighton Baxter & Hayley Morgenstern, Anthony Greaney, Boston MA, 2012

Selected Group Exhibitions and Events

- Onward, Boston Hassle, Boston MA, 2020
- Tom of Finland Art & Culture Festival: Plugged In, 2020
- Bright Future Ahead: A Benefit for Trans Wellness Center, Treehouse LA, Los Angeles CA, 2019
- Under a Dismal Boston Skyline, Stone Gallery, Boston University, Boston MA, 2018
- In Presence, Distillery Gallery, Boston MA, 2017
- HUSH-HUSH at The Stud, San Francisco CA, 2017
- Queer Territories, University of Texas Austin, Austin TX, 2016
- Topical Breech, Mainsite Gallery, Norman OK, 2016
- Trigger Warning, Coven Berlin and Kleiner Salon, Berlin, 2015
- Trigger Warning, Queer Arts Festival, Roundhouse Art Centre, Vancouver, 2015
- Time, Situation, Dexterity, Charlotte Street Foundation, La Esquina Gallery, Kansas City MO, 2015
- Performance GIFs, Rhizome.org, 2014
- The Highest Closet: Creighton Baxter, Bug Davidson, Sarah Hill, and Hayley Morgenstern, Montseratt College of Art 301 Gallery, Beverly MA, 2014
- Mujeres: Iron Maidens, La Galeria at Villa Victoria Center for the Arts, Boston MA, 2014
- Accumulation, Boston University, Boston MA, 2014
- SELFi.e, Womanorial, onlin exhibition, 2013
- Communion V, Bathaus, Jamaica Plain MA, 2013
- RE:Present Me, Anthony Greaney, Boston MA, 2013
- SUPERNOVA Festival, Washington D.C. , 2013
- Performance GIFs, Rhizome.org, 2013
- Performers Only, Bathause, Jamaica Plain MA, 2013
- Anthony Greaney/Salon Zürcher at Zürcher Gallery, New York NY, 2013
- Momentum: Boston LGBTQIA Artist Alliance, Anthony Greaney, Boston MA, 2013
- CAUTION, Golden Thread Gallery, Belfast Ireland, 2012
- Soap Box, Hillyer Art Space, Washington D.C. , 2012
- Open Studios, Anthony Greaney, Boston MA, 2012
- Persistence of Vision, The School of the Museum of Fine Arts Boston, Boston MA, 2012
- Communion IV, Anthony Greaney, Boston MA, 2012
- LUMEN Festival, Staten Island NY, 2012
- A Kind of Problematic Show, Howard Art Project, Boston MA, 2011
- Slutty Witchy Faggy Cats, Grace Exhibition Space, Brooklyn NY, 2011
- Allegorical Outfits and Fool's Play, 309 Hancock Gallery, Dorchester MA, 2011
- Here:Now, Ghost Gallery, Phoenix AZ, 2008

Talks and Lectures

- Visiting Artist Lecture, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Department of Gender & Women's Studies, 2021
- Visiting Artist Lecture, Boston University, Department of Curatorial Studies, 2021
- Guest Speaker with Body Hack, Rutgers University, Department of Women, Gender and Sexuality Studies, 2020
- Guest Artist, lecture, CalArts School of Dance, 2020
- Guest Artist, lecture, Lesley University, Department of Art History, 2019
- Gust Artist, lecture and studio visits, Massachusetts College of Art and Design, Department of Fiber Arts, 2018
- Panelist and Guest Artist, lecture, University of Massachusetts Boston, University Hall Gallery, 2018
- Guest Artist, lecture and workshop, University of Texas Austin, Departments of Art History and Performance Studies, 2016
- Panelist, University of Oklahoma, Fred Jones Jr. Museum of Art, 2016
- Guest Artist, lecture, University of Missouri Kansas City, Department of Art History, 2015
- Panelist, Charlotte Street Foundation’s La Esquina Gallery, 2015
- Visiting Artist, lectures and workshops, Montserrat College of Art, 2015
- Visiting Artist, lecture and workshop, Metropolitan Arts Institute, 2011

Awards, Grants and Residencies

- Artist in Residence, Castledrone, Boston MA, 2018
- Fine Arts Diversity Council Grant, University of Texas Austin, 2016
- The Rose Hill Award for Performance Art, 2012
- Dean's Research Award, The School of the Museum of Fine Arts Boston, 2011
- Boit Award, 2009

Related Professional History

- Co-founder, 235 NSF Studios, 2018-Present
- Performer, Mark by Sarah Hill, Film, 2019
- Performer, Rule of Three by Bug Davidson, Film, 2014
- Performer, Raphael Motañez Ortìz, Museum of Fine Arts Boston, 2013
- Performance Assistant to Amanda Coogan, Museum of Fine Arts Boston, 2011
- Cultivating Commonalities: A Photographic Exchange, Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art, Scottsdale AZ, 2008
- Performer, JARBAS LOPES: Cicloviaérea, ASU Art Museum, 2008