Jordan Sullivan’s work resists easy categorisation—anchored as much in personal reckoning as in political critique, in humour as much as grief. Drawing from lived experience across disciplines, geographies, and jobs—including current work as an art therapist and substance use counsellor—Sullivan explores art as both refuge and resistance. In this interview, a conversation unfolds around risk, capitalism, healing, and the need to see clearly through the chaos.

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Have you ever felt drawn toward a conventional career path? What made you take the "creative leap" despite the risks?

I’ve had a number of jobs—construction worker, landscaper, housekeeper, dishwasher graphic designer, waiter, artist’s assistant—and I currently work as an art therapist and substance use disorder counselor at a residential rehab for teenagers and young people impacted by trauma. Every job, whether conventional or not, has come with its own risks, required a certain amount of sacrifice, and been exploitative, considering we live under capitalism. I actually don’t see art as a particularly risky career path. If anything, at this point, it’s a fairly conventional one—and that’s not a bad thing. Art shouldn't be on a pedestal or perceived as some unattainable pursuit. It should be a fairly normal and natural thing to pursue—personally or professionally.

It depends on the circumstances, but broadly speaking, jobs outside of art I have found to be far riskier—they often demand more self-sacrifice and a greater detachment from your inner life. Also, day jobs and work experience outside of art can, and often do, make someone a better artist. I’ve never felt that art was particularly difficult for me to pursue. Yes, it’s challenging. It hurts sometimes. It can be embarrassing. It becomes this strange obsession. But it’s not that hard. I used to pour concrete on a construction crew in the middle of nowhere, Texas—that was hard work. I used to be a drug addict and an alcoholic—that was risky business. Art, in comparison, is a relatively easy pursuit. All that said, I do think it’s important to take risks—in art and in life—but not at the expense of your health.

How does your art engage with or comment on pressing contemporary issues—social, political, or environmental?

In one way or another, all of my work expresses the idea that almost every aspect of our lives is a symptom of the illness caused by living under capitalism.

How do you challenge yourself to continually grow as an artist while remaining true to your voice?

To continually grow as an artist, I believe it’s important to consistently point out what’s wrong with the world. Maintaining a sense of humor is also important to me. The world—like a person—is sad, tragic, hilarious, beautiful, and cruel. I try to keep that in mind: to stare straight into the chaos, the void, the dark heart of things, to know where I stand, to use what little voice I have to stand against oppression, and to avoid trends or conventional notions of beauty as much as I can. I’m also lucky to have a wife who consistently lifts me up—and calls me out on my bullshit.

What kind of legacy do you hope to leave in the art world?

I couldn't care less about my legacy.

What are your long-term aspirations as an artist, both personally and professionally?

I want to build a labyrinth in the desert and cover its walls with images of life and death.

Can art be truly therapeutic? Have you experienced its healing power personally, or seen it impact others?

Art is definitely therapeutic. It has saved my life many times. Throughout my struggles with drug addiction and alcoholism, art has always been a refuge for me. I’ve lost a lot—money, time, friends—but art has never left me. Not yet, anyway. It’s an unconditional love. And, like I said, I work as a counselor and art therapist at rehabs for teenagers, and I’ve seen art have a profound impact in those settings as well.

Do academic institutions still play a vital role in shaping artists today, or has self-taught creativity disrupted this?

I hope academic institutions are being disrupted by self-taught artists and alternative forms of education. I'm not a fan of college or traditional forms of higher education—especially university art programs. In my experience, self-taught artists are always more interesting and original.

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What emerges from Sullivan’s reflections is not a fixed practice, but a lifelong grappling with art as survival, confrontation, and care. The work challenges systems, privileges honesty over legacy, and insists that art belongs not to the elite, but to anyone with something to say. Through clarity, irreverence, and deep compassion, Sullivan draws maps through both darkness and light—each piece a gesture toward healing and refusal.