Erica Robinson had spent 17 years behind a camera telling other people’s stories. Then she got diagnosed with cancer, and for the first time, she didn’t know how to tell her own.
One afternoon at the end of active treatment, she set up a tripod in her living room and made a self-portrait. No lighting, no plan, just her and a body that felt unfamiliar. When the photo alone wasn’t enough, she moved it to her iPad and started writing on top of it, layering medical terms, side effects, and everything that wasn’t visible from the outside.
That portrait became Under the Pencil, an ongoing project that’s since worked with 30 AYA women navigating cancer, using photography and handwriting to hand the narrative back to the person living it.
We talked to Erica about how the project works, why she started it, and what creativity can do that medicine can’t.
Before we talk about the project, let’s talk about you. When you were diagnosed, where did you turn? What did processing your diagnosis actually look like in those early days?
In the early days of diagnosis, processing was minimal at best. I was the first person in my immediate family and friend group to face a major health crisis, and I struggled to find my footing. Already prone to anxiety, I slipped into work mode, learning medical language and organizing dozens of appointments. Only after I understood my treatment plan did I feel safe enough to think beyond logistics. I don’t think the processing has stopped since.
At what point did art enter the picture? Was it something you’d always had, or did cancer bring you to it in a new way?
Art, in some form, has been a consistent part of my life since I was a kid, and I’ve been fortunate to have had a career in photography for over 17 years. Photography has always been how I communicate, and up until I received my cancer diagnosis, I didn’t see that shifting. But when I was diagnosed, I became disconnected from my cameras, feeling pressure to create during a time when my brain was working overtime simply trying to survive. I documented when I could, finding comfort in double exposures because life felt too overwhelming for a single frame. At the end of active treatment, I felt more lost and misunderstood than ever. One afternoon, I made a self-portrait in my living room. No studio lights. No backdrop. Ugly cream-colored walls. Just a camera, a tripod, a remote shutter release, and my bruised, defeated body. Photography alone was no longer enough. Writing filled the gaps. So, when this portrait felt incomplete, I moved it into my iPad, where I could write directly on top of it. For hours I pinched and pulled at the screen, layering medical terms I’d spent the previous year learning, the side effects I was experiencing, and the emotional roller coaster that wasn’t visible on the outside. Cancer didn’t bring art to me, but it did reveal new depths. Art is an exploration, and after years of telling stories about other people and places, it was finally time to explore my own.
Walk us through the moment the Under the Pencil Project became an idea. What were you feeling, and what made you think this needed to exist beyond your own experience?
Under the Pencil began as a personal and private experience that I hadn’t expected to make public. It was a way to feel understood, even if I was the only one listening. Not long after I made my portrait, my first and closest friend in the cancer community mentioned that she’d been struggling. She had also recently been diagnosed with breast cancer, and we bonded over how different our experiences were, despite sharing the same diagnosis. I offered what is now the Under the Pencil process to see if it would offer her the same support it had offered me. It did—and then some. It was then that I realized this experience, specifically its interactive nature, was something special and that there were more women like me who could benefit.
Describe the project for someone who has never heard of it. What actually happens? What does a participant experience from the moment they arrive to the moment they leave?
Under the Pencil is an ongoing participatory portrait and handwriting series for Adolescent and Young Adult (AYA) women diagnosed with cancer. It offers a safe space beyond clinical care, where patients and survivors are provided a platform for self-expression, identity restoration, and emotional healing. The mission is to return the narrative to the patient during a time when control often feels unattainable.
I am certainly not the first artist to combine photography and handwriting, but where this project differs is in its collaborative process. My self-portrait was photographed by me, and the words were handwritten by me. I wanted to offer as much of that control and experience to others as I could. I often describe an Under the Pencil session as having three parts: the talking, the photographing, and the writing. Each session starts with a long discussion about the physical scars the participant wants (or doesn’t want) to show, the mood they want to convey, their comfort level in front of a camera, and their mobility and flexibility. This allows me to learn as much as I can in order to create a portrait that is representative of their story. Every body and every person is unique, so when we get in front of the camera, posing is based more on feeling and flow than on structure. From there, once we’ve made some photographs, I guide them in choosing which portrait feels right. This is my favorite part to witness. Together we review every portrait before choosing the image that feels most honest. Once they’ve chosen a portrait, the file is moved to the iPad. From there, they handwrite directly onto the portrait. Individual Under the Pencil sessions average about four hours, while group sessions tend to last anywhere from five to eight.
The NIH estimates that over 88,000 AYAs will be diagnosed with cancer in 2026. For women in this group, the experience often includes body-altering surgeries, fertility loss, chemically induced menopause, and hormonal upheaval from prolonged endocrine therapies. These layers of trauma – even alongside hope and positive perspectives- are rarely seen or centered in public narratives. That’s where Under the Pencil lives: in the space between what’s said in the exam room and what’s felt in the aftermath.
Why the pencil? Why write the words directly on the photos? What does that act mean to you, and what have you seen it mean to the people who do it?
The title, Under the Pencil, is a twist on the saying “going under the knife.” It is another subtle ode to the act and idea of control. At the time of my portrait, I was newly facing chemically induced menopause at 34 years old and had gone from a life of full-time travel and creativity to COVID lockdown, then to a cancer diagnosis. My time was dictated by a calendar loaded with doctor’s appointments, a nutritionist telling me when and how much to eat, and medication side effects wreaking havoc on when, or whether, I could sleep. In the saying “under the knife,” the surgeon is in control of the scalpel. In Under the Pencil, the patient is in control of the words. Writing directly onto my portrait became an act of reclaiming my narrative. It was how I met this new version of myself. I only hope it offers the same to others. Why pencil? Well, pen simply didn’t sound right.
Tell us about someone the project has impacted. You don’t have to use a name. Just tell us what you witnessed.
The impact of Under the Pencil is returned to the project just as much as it is received by the participants. Since beginning this project, I’ve worked with thirty women. Without their participation, this project wouldn’t exist. They are the catalyst behind its evolution – from poorly lit living room portraits, to studio group sessions, to the newly implemented audio layers, to the final chapter art exhibitions. This project reaches far beyond myself and even the patient participants. The stories ripple outward, to families, caregivers, medical teams, and newly diagnosed patients who may never participate themselves but still find pieces of their own experience reflected back. During the first public exhibition, I was brought to tears watching the 10-year-old son of a participant slowly read every portrait in the room before returning to his mother’s. I later heard from the mother of another participant, who flew in from across the US to see her daughter’s art and not only witness her growth, but be fully present for it. I’ve witnessed tears when a participant sees themselves from a birds-eye-view for the first time after their body has been altered. Ive witnessed laughs when a participant realizes the sense of freedom they feel writing their own words. And I am forever grateful for the trust I’ve been given to share these vulnerable stories.
What do you want a young adult with cancer to know about creativity as a tool for processing something this big?
For me, creativity became one way to process what medicine couldn’t. Creativity is limitless, personal, and unstoppable. Cancer was and is not my entire identity. Exploring creativity as a tool for processing a major trauma like this can give you access to yourself in unexpected ways, and if you’re open to it, it can be an incredible teacher. Where and how to start is often the hardest part. My self-portrait that began Under the Pencil was far from technically perfect. It was made in a living room with harsh light, cream-colored walls, and a body I barely recognized. But it opened a door I didn’t know existed. Every portrait since has reminded me that healing doesn’t always begin with answers. Sometimes it begins by making space to tell the truth.
What’s next for the Under the Pencil Project?
Under the Pencil continues to evolve alongside the people who shape it. Portrait sessions remain ongoing, driven by the unfortunate reality that the number of Adolescent and Young Adult (AYA) women diagnosed with cancer continues to grow. Sessions are open to women ages 18–40 within five years of diagnosis and are not limited by geography. While I am based in Southern California, I travel frequently and welcome opportunities to create portraits wherever participants are.
Looking ahead, the project will continue to expand through new participants, evolving exhibition formats, and deeper layers of storytelling. A second public exhibition is also in development, expanding on the first while exploring new ways to share participants’ stories. As the project grows, my goal remains the same: to create spaces where patients can reclaim authorship of their own narratives while fostering empathy and understanding beyond the clinical experience.
Reclaiming the Narrative
Under the Pencil is a reminder of something b-present believes too: the people living through a cancer diagnosis deserve space to process it on their own terms, and support that helps them do it.
If Erica’s story resonated, her project is ongoing and open to AYA women ages 18-40 within five years of diagnosis, regardless of location. You can find her at @ericarobinsonphoto or underthepencil.org.
And if you’re navigating a diagnosis and looking for your own way to stay connected to the people around you, that’s exactly what we’re here for.
Support for Better Support
Showing up for someone with cancer can feel awkward, overwhelming, and high-stakes. You do not have to wing it. Start with tools that make support feel more human, more practical, and way less lonely.