Feature: Artist Caro
Carolina Martinez AKA Caro, is an NYC based creative who specializes in painting and hosts art shows and spaces.
In our first issue on our relauch, we got a great chance to chat with Caro.
She shared about her upcoming show, Fragments,
….and about her goals and perspectives on life and their artistic journey.
Hear more from Caro below in our one on one feature interview:
What are your biggest creative inspirations and how do they influence your work?
Local Artists
I will never tire of giving local artists their flowers—those who aren’t household names yet but continue creating anyway. The ones who do it despite the sacrifices, the doubt, and the knowledge that they could take an easier, more comfortable path. And then there are those who feel that creating is their only path—like breathing, like survival. There’s something incredibly powerful about that level of dedication, about the love they have for their craft, for themselves, and for the communities they build.
Every visual artist I know and love is someone I’ve connected with in the real world. They’re not just making art for personal expression but to be a voice for their culture, their city, and their people. The most inspiring artists to me are often the ones who haven’t "made it" financially yet—the ones still waking up every day and choosing to create. There’s a rawness, a hunger, and a purity in their work that you don’t always find once commercial success enters the picture.
Untitled.
Music, Music, Music
As much as I identify as a painter, I could easily name more musical influences than visual artists. I’m a fan of storytelling, and music—especially multigenre, concept-driven projects—has shaped how I think about narrative in my work. Radiohead, Björk, Daft Punk immediately come to mind.
Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter project stays on repeat as of late. I’ve always felt a connection to her work because of how proudly she represents her Houston roots. The subtle references she weaves into her music and performances—both visually and sonically—feel deeply personal, yet universal. She takes elements rooted in nostalgia and gives them her own fresh twist. That’s something I try to do in my own art: take familiar themes, emotions, or imagery and reinterpret them through my own lens.
Amy Winehouse speaks to the reckless, melodramatic, love-drunk girl still living inside me. There was something so painfully honest about the way she made music— raw, self-destructive, yet beautiful in its vulnerability. I resonate deeply with that, especially as someone whose art is tied to personal experiences. Creating from pain is difficult because it forces you to confront things you’d rather keep hidden. It’s like airing your dirty laundry in public, and Amy did that fearlessly. Her work reminds me that the most impactful art is often the most honest, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Kanye West is another major influence—not just as a musician but as a cultural force. I want to be very clear when I say that I fell in love with the old Kanye! As a lifelong fan, I’d be remiss to ignore the impact he’s had on my own journey. He has always been unapologetically vocal, for better or worse, and I admire that audacity. What fascinates me about Kanye is how he embodied the spirit of the internet before we even understood what that meant. He challenged systems, shifted conversations, and pushed boundaries, sometimes in ways that were chaotic but always disruptive.
In all these artists—whether visual, musical, or cultural—I find a common thread: a fearlessness in creation, a deep connection to where they come from, and an ability to tell stories that resonate beyond themselves. That’s the kind of impact I hope to have with my own work.
Can you share a personal project that demonstrates your personal style and passion?
This upcoming show—my first ever—feels like the culmination of my artistic journey up until now. It represents the core themes that have shaped my work: creation from darkness, from grief, from longing. It’s about taking complete hopelessness and somehow building something from it.
Collage has always been an important part of my process—piecing together fragments of what’s left, reconstructing meaning from chaos. There’s something deeply symbolic about that. The idea of cold, hard concrete also resonates with me—something unyielding and industrial, yet shaped by human hands into something meaningful. I see my work as an intersection of both: raw and unfiltered, but deliberate.
ALEJANDRO, 2024
art created from heartbreak
I am heavily inspired by intense negative emotion. My work doesn’t shy away from desolation; instead, it transforms it into something tangible. This show is not just a collection of paintings—it’s a reflection of that process. It’s proof that even in the midst of destruction, something new can be created.
What kind of influence and impact do you desire to achieve towards your community?
I want to bring people together in real life—to pull us out of our phones and into shared experiences. I think a lot of people in my age group are reserved, hesitant to put themselves out there. I can’t say I’m not the same way, but I’ve been forced into the world because of what I do. And I don’t think you have to be an artist to experience that kind of presence and connection. I want to help create free and open spaces where people feel comfortable approaching one another, where conversations happen naturally, where creativity and collaboration feel accessible to everyone.
At the end of the day, art is about communication. It’s about finding ways to say the things we don’t always know how to express. If my work—if the spaces I create—can help someone feel seen, heard, or inspired to take up space in their own way, then that’s the kind of impact I want to have.
How do you balance professional aspects with artistic expression in your work?
Balancing my professional and artistic sides has been one of my biggest challenges. I always knew that if I wanted to make a living from my art, I had to treat it like a business in some capacity. But I didn’t realize how aggressively I needed to approach it—how much I had to get my own shit together—because at a certain point, people start watching. And when that happens, you can’t afford to let yourself down.
There’s a discipline to this that I wasn’t prepared for. Sometimes I have to show up even when I don’t feel like it. And I had to come to terms with the fact that I couldn’t manage a business in active addiction. Sobriety—or at least clarity—became necessary, not just for my art, but for my survival in this industry. Because talent alone isn’t enough. You have to be sharp. You have to be present. And you have to be willing to take yourself seriously before anyone else will.
Since my art is deeply tied to my identity, I struggle with knowing when to be public about certain topics and when to keep them private. Some things feel too personal to share, but at the same time, my work is built on honesty. Take my experiences with drugs and alcohol—I didn’t talk about them for a long time because I didn’t want to be seen as incapable or irresponsible. Because I know that I’m not. I know that I’m willing. And I know that I show up for what I do. But at the same time, these struggles are part of my story, and they’ve shaped the art I create. The challenge is finding that balance—how much do I share, and how much do I keep for myself?
The "how" is still a big question mark for me. I’ve always told myself I needed to treat my art like a business, but now I actually have to practice it. Organizing this show forced me to see where I needed structure—to block out my time, create windows for answering business inquiries, and separate that from the time I spend simply enjoying and consuming art.
Since I don’t have a personal page, social media is part of my job, and that line between life and work can blur. Lately, I’ve been working a lot outside of the Brooklyn Public Library. In part because because I lost my computer and didn’t want to rush into buying a new one, but also because I’ve always wanted to create a project entirely out of a public library. The library keeps me connected—to my community, to what’s happening around me, and to the idea that creativity and knowledge should be shared.
This balance between my artistic and professional life is something I’m still figuring out, but I’m learning that structure doesn’t have to be rigid—it’s best when there’s some wiggle room!
What should we look forward to from you in the upcoming period?
This show has opened more doors for me than I ever could have imagined. I had doubts it’d be a while until I did something this big again… that i’d feel a bit of emptiness. But now I see that this is just the beginning. As an artist, it’s such an honor and a blessing that I am booked and busy!
On February 20th, I’ll be part of UP Magazine’s Art Battle at Sour Mouse, a love-themed event that perfectly aligns with everything I’ve been exploring lately. I’ll also be making live art (of the non-paint variety) at the launch of PROJEKT NEON, a passion project by a friend of mine.
Beyond that, I want to explore other media forms. I’ve been on the verge of a photography resurgence for a minute now, and this show—along with the graphics I’ve played around with—has been pushing me toward creating a collection from them. I’ve also been toying with the idea of making a zine for a while. I don’t want to say too much because who knows what will stick, but I’ve learned to take my time with my ideas, letting them simmer instead of burning myself out by going full throttle.
With time, I’ve realized that every idea will have its moment—each concept just needs to be nurtured. It’s a reminder to tend to my creative garden, knowing that when the time is right, they’ll bloom. But in the immediate future, I’ll be at those two shows following my upcoming Valentine’s Day show, which, in many ways, marks the start of this next phase in my work.
If I could give my younger self advice, it would be this: Stop smoking so much damn weed.
I love it—I love painting while high, I love the way it makes me feel—but I can’t ignore the fact that it slows me down. It makes me careless, makes me repeat silly, silly mistakes. And the truth is, I could have made more moves, gotten further, if I hadn’t spent so much time in that haze.
The second thing I’d tell myself? Start sooner.
I waited too long to take myself seriously. I was hesitant to call myself an artist, even when people saw me painting and assumed I was one. I would brush it off—“Oh, I’m just taking a class”—but the truth is, I loved it from the beginning. I admired artists and musicians who built a life around their work, but I never thought that could be me. It wasn’t just self-doubt; it was what the world told me was realistic. I had plans—political science, law. And I’m still passionate about those things, but they don’t fulfill me the way this does.
So if I could go back, I’d tell myself to jump sooner. To stop hesitating, stop waiting for permission, stop worrying about whether art could be a “real” path. It always was—I just needed to claim it.
The biggest challenge I’ve faced in New York—both as an artist and as someone coming up—has been realizing that people are watching.
At first, it was just me. My work, my journey, my risks. But with this show, it’s not just me anymore. There are people who believe in me, who see something in me, who are investing in what I do. It’s no longer just me and my backpack roaming the streets of New York. The city is watching, and the city expects something from me. And maybe I’m being a little dramatic, but it’s because I take what I do seriously. I take other people’s faith seriously. I take my family’s legacy seriously. I know I have something special, and I have to make this work.
I get scared sometimes, that I’ll crumble under the pressure. But every day, I’m building resistance. Last year’s me couldn’t handle the responsibility I have now. This is growth.
I want to prove to myself that I can pull this off—that I can come through the door banging. I want this show to be leverage for the next steps I take. I know I want to do this a million times over, but right now, I feel the weight of making sure it happens, making sure it’s everything it should be. Making it the best possible.
I’ve always identified with being a street cat—broke, running around, figuring things out. But now, I’m being forced to refine myself. I’m stepping into the role of a businesswoman, a leader. I know I am capable, but a lot of times, it feels like I’m putting on a costume. I’ll continue to fake it till I make it, because that’s all I know how to do. I know what I’m working toward is bigger than me. Way bigger. And that scares me. It means sacrifice. It means change. And as much as I know I have to step into it, there’s a part of me still holding on to the version of myself that had nothing to lose. But I do have something to lose now. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.
Why I Centered My Show Around Valentine’s Day
This wasn’t random—it’s deeply personal. A couple of years ago, I went through a major breakup, ending a six-year relationship that had shaped my entire adult life. We built a world together. And when I left, I wasn’t just grieving the relationship—I was grieving the version of myself that only existed within it. I didn’t know how to be me without that foundation.
It took me a while to realize it, but I did not handle it well. I was drinking too much, self-medicating, making a mess of everything. That was around the time I met my colleague Wendy. She was special from the beginning—my first and only Mexican friend in New York. I could actually relate to her. She watched me go from basically married to public crashout. I’m not sure why she stuck around, but I’m glad she did!
My first Valentine’s Day single, Wendy took me to an event. It was one of the few nights in that phase of my life where I managed to go out and remain relatively sober. It was just me and her. There was cumbia—había ambiente—and for the first time in a long time, I felt connected. To myself. To my roots. To something bigger than heartbreak. That night meant more to me than any of the six Valentine’s Days I had spent with my ex.
The next year, I was still lost. Still making choices that hurt more than they healed. But when February rolled around, I decided to reclaim my life for a second. My birthday hadn’t gone well. The holidays left me feeling empty. I was tired of waiting for something outside of me to fix that. So I romanticized my own life. Surrounded myself with red, velvet, silk. Took myself to galleries. Created my own warmth. And it worked. It was one of the best months I’d had in a long time—not because someone gave it to me, but because I gave it to myself.
So when it came time to choose a theme for my show, it was obvious. Valentine’s Day is complicated. Love is complicated. But I love love—I love it enough to acknowledge its full spectrum. The heartbreak, the disappointment, the self-love, the resilience. The darkness that makes the light shine brighter.
This show is about taking something that once hurt and making it beautiful.
That’s what Valentine’s Day means to me now, and I am so excited to share it with the world.
Sneak peek into my new post-show project
Follow CARO on Instagram for more and check out her upcoming show on Thursday, February 13th.