If you live in Portland (or even just near it) and have friends or family living farther afield, you have almost certainly been asked at least once in the past two weeks about the decidedly unique flavor of the nightly protests taking place outside the ICE detention center on South Macadam.

Maybe they asked you about the frog. Or the chicken. Or the pajama party. Or the “Operation Inflation” project delivering inflatable costumes to the protests each night, now that the frog has become an unofficial mascot. Or the dance parties. Or the Emergency Naked Bike Ride on Sunday night, in which hundreds of intrepid souls who usually do this in the summertime under far more congenial weather conditions rode past the ICE building to join the fun.

If a story about a Portland protest begins with “The clarinet player from a marching band who were playing the Ghostbusters theme song while wearing banana costumes,” you might be forgiven for assuming it would just be another quirky Portland anecdote.

Well, it isn’t. Her name is Oriana Kobol, and she just spent three nights in Clark County Jail after being charged with felony assault.

Oriana, who plays the clarinet for the Unpresidented Brass Band, a group of musicians who came together during the first Trump administration to play at protests, appears from videos posted on social media to have been collateral damage in officers’ pursuit of someone else. Witnesses say agents from the Department of Homeland Security were chasing a suspect across the street, charged directly into the middle of the band, and Oriana was knocked to the ground.

The official statement from law enforcement states that she “interfered with an arrest of another subject” and that she “kicked and bit a federal officer as she was being detained.” She was arrested and charged with assaulting a federal officer, which carries a possible sentence of eight years in federal prison.

Band leader Miles Thompson, along with numerous witnesses, insist that’s not what happened. Her friends and family told KATU News that she was across the street from the building when the DHS agents came through and that she was tackled and pinned to the ground without provocation.

After three days in Clark County Jail (several media outlets have reported no answer to their queries about why she was sent to Washington), Oriana had her first court appearance on Wednesday and was then able to return home to her family, although her conditions of release state that she’s no longer able to go near the ICE building.

In an emotional video interview with The Oregonian, she says she’s grateful to be back with her partner and three-year-old daughter, but describes feeling “fear and sadness” around the charge she’s facing, and that she’s gearing up for a long legal fight. She says she’s been advised not to speak on the specific charge that’s been made, but pointed out that she’s far from the first protester who has been faced with similar charges from federal officers (more than 30 since June of this year). 

Oriana was emphatic when asked if she would continue to play with the band, even after what happened: “I think this has only strengthened my commitment to social justice . . . I feel even more committed to what people are protesting at the ICE building and I hope that people continue to speak out against acts of violence toward minorities.”

***

Protest art has a long and cherished history in Portland, but seeing an artist face federal charges for simply making her art in public has many creators of progressive work feeling as Oriana does, both alarmed about the escalation from federal officers and determined to hold the line – not just because of the role their art plays in mobilizing and energizing broader resistance movements, but because the making of art in challenging times is healing for them, too.

I spoke to five artists and makers in a range of disciplines about Oriana’s arrest, as a component of the crackdown we’ve seen this year more broadly against freedom of expression (ArtsWatch has covered this topic from a number of angles before, such as book bans and federal arts funding cuts), and whether they feel any new fears about their own safety because of the art they make. All of them were clear-eyed about the risks — including a few requests not to use last names or other identifying information in this article — but none are backing down.

“Creativity makes resistance visible”

Lauren (who asked us not to use her last name) is the volunteer lead of the 350PDX Climate Justice Arts team, where her work involves everything from banners and murals to giant papier-mâché puppets. She joined the group in 2020 after a search for how her creative skills might be best utilized in the environmental justice movement.

“Eventually I realized that my energy was best spent making art, something I already loved doing in my spare time, and it became a natural way to contribute without burning out,” she says.

Over the past five years the arts team has created a wide range of protest art, including a series of giant puppets inspired by nature, many of which you can find on the group’s Instagram page. Lauren points out the benefits of incorporating art into public events, especially the kind of work they do on a large scale. “Creativity makes resistance visible,” she explains. “It’s often the first thing people notice about a protest. The more compelling the imagery and messaging, the more likely it is to draw attention from the public, the media, and potential allies. If nothing is interesting to look at or hear, who’s going to want to talk about it?”

The interconnectedness of all justice struggles is a central component of the 350PDX members’ work; they’ve built new puppets to carry an anti-ICE message at Saturday’s “No Kings” parade. Lauren notes that one major benefit of art installations or displays at a large protest is that clear messaging visuals make it harder to distort or misrepresent the point you’re trying to make. They’re also fun and unifying (who doesn’t love a giant puppet?), energizing the crowd and “reminding us that resistance can also be joyful.”

“The role of the artist is to make the revolution irresistible”

During a press conference last week about the current federal government shutdown, Republican U.S. House Speaker Mike Johnson took a reporter’s question about potential overreach on the part of DHS and ICE agents against protesters, which he strongly denied, instead deploring “the abuse of law enforcement by radical leftist activists,” alleging repeated physical attacks by protesters against “the valiant brave patriotic Americans who step up to serve in these dangerous law enforcement positions.”

He sarcastically added that “the most threatening thing I’ve seen yet was the naked bicyclers in Portland who were protesting ICE down there. I mean, it’s getting really ugly.”

Theater artist Eleanor O’Brien — no stranger to either Portland’s Naked Bike Ride or to art as activism — isn’t surprised to see conservatives make specific mockery of this point. Through her sex-positive theater company Dance Naked Creative, she has developed original works performed everywhere from Portland’s Fertile Ground Festival to Scotland’s Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Though each show explores a different idea, the authoritarian policing of body sovereignty — particularly, though not exclusively, the bodies of women — is the running theme of nearly all her work.

She was present at Sunday’s naked bike-riding event, and speaks passionately about why the optics of this form of protest matter. Though she’s a regular at the summertime World Naked Bike Ride, the grim fall weather gave her pause at first, and she hadn’t ridden her bike in months, “but I realized it was such a visually powerful antithesis to the control and oppression represented by federal troops in our streets.”

I asked Eleanor about the uniquely Portland flavor of the current protests, from frogs to dance parties, and how the bike ride fit into that. She pointed out that the right to protest naked is actually enshrined in our city legislation. To outsiders, that might sound weird or goofy; but to her, it stands for something important, because the policing of bodies is central to fascism.

“Being naked by choice represents the opposite: freedom, joy, refusal to submit to an authority I don’t trust or respect,” she says. “Being naked is vulnerable, but when it’s a choice, it becomes a declaration: ‘I do not fear you. I will not submit.’ That’s why the naked bike ride mattered. Our bodies — visible, unashamed, taking up space — are the antidote to authoritarian control.” 

She also echoed a point Lauren made about marching with puppets: that fun and joy aren’t trivial, superficial matters when building a resistance movement; they’re core to making it sustainable. Eleanor cites a quote from Black civil rights activist, author and documentary filmmaker Toni Cade Bambara — “The role of the artist is to make the revolution irresistible” — as a central thesis of all her work.

“My job is to create the possibility of a different kind of future — to imagine a new story,” she says. “What concerns me is protest that offers no alternative vision — rage without a roadmap. We need to show people what we’re fighting for, not just what we’re against. I know that outrage is motivating and useful for getting people out on the street, but we also need visions for what’s possible, for the kind of world we could build. What I love about the frogs and the chickens and the banana brass band is the vision of joyful collaboration, play, and creativity. Thinking outside the box.”

“The thing is, I just have to make stuff“

Tech illustrator Gina Shaddox has been a knitter for 40 years. Past passion projects include a sweater for the Portland Pickles baseball team’s pickle mascot and another with the face of basketball star Damian Lillard. One of her most recent creations is a brightly colored six-foot knitted piece which wraps around a light pole on Lombard Street with anti-ICE messages. She describes herself as more of a crafter than an artist, but found creativity to be a vital outlet for her feelings around the current administration’s crackdown on Portland.

“With our city about to be occupied, and people being kidnapped off the streets in broad daylight, it just makes me feel like I need to do whatever I can to resist,” she says. “I found myself feeling helpless, like I think a lot of people did. I wanted to make some kind of sign to display my outrage, and it was pretty natural to go with what I knew best. When I came up with the idea and I started knitting, I made the entire project in less than a week. I just couldn’t stop once I started.”

***

The origin point was similar for KM Steere, a full-time illustrator and artist who works in mediums from digital art to polymer clay sculpting, with a particular emphasis on whimsical and fantastical animals and plants. “

Normally my artwork is very unrelated to politics,” they explained. “However, this year was different and I felt the strong need to work through some things through my artwork. I’ve been so frustrated by current events, and after January the anxiety kept growing and I felt like I needed to do something, but didn’t know what. So I started drawing. I know I relate to the world better through creatures and I figured that I’d be able to express my thoughts and feelings in the same way.”

***

Graphic designer Richard (who asked that his last name not be used) began creating community-focused artwork because of Portland’s professional soccer team and its Timbers Army. “There’s a long-time culture of protest and resistance in the North End, and encouragement for creative expression in just about any way you can imagine,” he says.

A passion for both Portland and soccer became inseparable from a commitment to antifascism and human rights after a 2019 Major League Soccer crackdown on political signage. Though he donates at least 25% of his merch profits, he’s uncomfortable being given too much credit as an activist figure.

“I have to be honest – what I do feels like nothing compared to people on the front lines, putting their bodies in harm’s way to protect our community,” he says frankly. “Though I do show up to protests and harangue elected officials, I’m not an organizer or a leader. I’ve found a way to use my art skills to contribute in my own small way – raising money for woke-ass causes I care deeply about, and giving people a way to express their own protest and resistance by wearing or stickering my artwork.”

***

All of the artists expressed that their creative practices felt like a way to contribute to a bigger movement in the way they know best, and a reminder that there are more ways to protest than marching outside the ICE building. “The thing is, I just have to make stuff,” says Richard. “Have to. When a new idea arrives it feels as if I have no choice! New work is often inspired by anger and frustration and feelings of powerlessness; but creating something, however tiny in the greater scheme, feels a million times more positive than doing nothing at all.”

“I’m not a fighter, nor am I imposing physically,” says Gina. “But I have always been a troublemaker. I may not have any influence in the world, but one thing I can do is create. I feel like it’s absolutely necessary to use whatever means we have to resist fascism in whatever form it may take.”

“I think just having an outlet where I can express an idea fully helps,” agrees KM. “I get flustered very easily when trying to argue a point, especially to another person who has an opposing view. When I draw a new critter it gives those very intense feelings somewhere to go.” 

“Even though the news can feel overwhelming and bleak, this work gives me a sense of purpose and peace,” Lauren says of her puppetry work. “It’s something actionable I can focus on instead of sitting with helplessness. Every time I work on a piece, I feel re-energized and hopeful, and when we bring our art into the streets, seeing people’s faces light up reminds me why it matters.”

“Courage is a muscle”

I asked all five artists if, or how, their creative practice had changed since the election. Did they have new security concerns they didn’t before? New ideas moving to the forefront? All of them agreed that continuing to make art felt important in new, more potent ways, for themselves and their communities.

“I know I am small beans in the wider world,” says KM, “but I’m still absolutely terrified of the potential security concerns of my actions and putting my protest artwork out there. But I think it is important to continue to resist the current administration’s efforts in any way I can. The policies they are proposing and enforcing are harmful to everyone. Every person. Even though I am one person, I still want to try and stand up and do what I can. I try to be smart about it, but that doesn’t stop me from being scared.”

Eleanor describes the theme of her most recent play, Plan V, as “a movement to restore reverence to the sacred feminine.” It used to end on a hopeful note, with the audience leaving energized and inspired. “Then Trump returned to the White House, and women’s rights began to be systematically dismantled,” she says. “As an artist, I had to respond.” In the play’s new ending, the gathering is infiltrated by censorship police and the audience is asked to rise up against fascism, joining hands and lifting their voices in song. She fully concedes that this is a vulnerable ask for audiences, “but I truly believe we have to practice resistance, and theater is a relatively safe place to do that. Courage is a muscle.” 

She also faces constant new challenges from social media and web platforms over censorship, and has had her own accounts deleted for “inappropriate content.” She’s frustrated by the need for new security concerns, “but I refuse to let fear silence me. I’m not going to obey in advance, not if I can help it.”

As a climate activist, Lauren says that new challenges haven’t changed her fundamental goal, “to help move people from fear into hope and action.” She’s judicious about masking at protests, keeping her phone on airplane mode, and other standard safety protocols to avoid surveillance and doxxing, but she’s no less committed to her work. “The administration’s attacks on so many fronts can feel paralyzing, but I keep reminding myself that there are more of us than them. . . I believe that the more of us who speak up, the harder it is to silence us. As a white cis woman, I also feel a responsibility to use my relative safety to stand up for friends and neighbors who are directly targeted by ICE and this administration.” 

“These people have been told to give free rein to their worst natures,” says Richard, “so yeah, of course I’m worried about getting on their radar. I’m much more worried about my friends and neighbors – trans folks, people of color, immigrants in general, the current direct targets of the regime. But as a straight-looking white dude, I’ve got to use that privilege.”

The collaborative nature of making and sharing art is cathartic for all of them. Lauren says having an artistic outlet like puppetry has benefited her as much as it benefits the community. “I used to make art just for fun, but using it to hopefully help shape the world instead of simply making something ‘pretty’ has been deeply fulfilling. Brainstorming, designing, and building with a team is exciting and joyful. I’ve learned so many new skills through puppet-making and screenprinting that I never would have on my own . . . Making protest art feels like a direct expression of my values, it has given me a sense of purpose. When the fear of the future has felt paralyzing, creating something tangible has kept me grounded, bringing me back to my body and back to hope. It has also helped me gain confidence in my skills as an artist and connected me to an intergenerational community of compassionate, inspiring, creative, and driven people. I’m so grateful to have found this community.”

“I know from being in therapy that distraction isn’t always the best way to deal with adversity, but I feel like being creative is such a great coping mechanism for times like this,” says Gina. “You can convey your thoughts and feelings and ideas in a maybe less than conventional way. It’s a good opportunity to distract yourself, but also stay involved, which seems like an oxymoron but is very true right now.”

KM is a full-time freelancer and “very much a homebody” who emphasizes that the vital human connections that come about through artists sharing their work with audiences are a lifeline for isolated creatives working from home.

“I’m thankful every day for the people who reach out and check on me, compliment a piece I’ve made or share with me how something I made has impacted their life,” they say. “Those little bits of humanity help me continue to see the wonder in the world around me. People who choose to support artists are something very special.”

They also note that these very human connections are one of the things we lose with generative AI, “a tool built to try and take creativity away from the world,” which simulates human artistry but can’t ever truly replicate it. KM links this struggle to the authoritarian crackdown on living artists and that creativity is more important than ever: “Please keep creating, because that spark is something we can do as a community to keep hope alive.”

On “Keeping Portland Weird”

For many Portlanders, the only “weird” thing about any of our city’s colorful, creative forms of protest is the reminder that there are other people who aren’t from here and find it weird. (The inflatable protest frog isn’t quite as difficult to explain as our obsession with the airport carpet or our belief in the superiority of our tap water, but it’s close.)

The artists I spoke to felt like it was simply an organic product of the city’s oddball, irreverent spirit, in an authentic way that long predates the calculated whimsy of the Portlandia stereotype. None of them were surprised that so many people met the increased activity of federal agents with a sense of gleeful chaos, dancing, art and music. (In a post that quickly went viral, one Bluesky user from Portland summed up the different approaches of various cities to the incursion of ICE agents. “LA: we will fight you. Chicago: we will fight you. PDX: we will make you endure week after week of improv theater.”)

Eleanor points out that Portland’s heroes tend to be offbeat, independent creative thinkers, which explains why the city is such a ripe target; the administration is cracking down on artists, she says, “because we point out what is true.”

And absurd metaphors are a serious matter: When armed federal agents tackle a clarinet player in a banana costume, it draws attention to the disproportionate gap between the perceived threat and the official response. “What I love about what’s happening in Portland is that we’re refusing the binary of ‘cower or fight,’” Eleanor says. “As a city of creative weirdos, we’re claiming a third option: irreverence, humor, joy as resistance. And here’s the thing – fascists have no counter-argument to that. They can’t match wits. Theirs is not a culture of humor, because humor requires surprise and creativity, the exact opposite of control and conformity. You can’t legislate against a naked bike ride or a dance party.”

KM explains that creativity and resistance originate from the same impulse: “To be creative is to do something unexpected, strange, differently or against the norm. And I think showing resistance often follows the same logic.” Born and raised in Portland, with a family member in the film industry, they say the current ICE protests reflect the city they know: “I remember seeing some weird and quirky things when I would visit the Claymation artists and filmmakers in their studios. This feels like it follows the same trajectory. I know it has become cliche to say ‘Portland is weird’ these days, but, in my opinion, it is true and has been for a long time.” They’re proud of the way the city has been responding; “unhinged times call for an unhinged response, after all.”

Fellow Portland native Lauren agrees that “the ‘weird’ and ‘creative’ forms of protest are definitely reflective of the people here. We don’t feel the need to conform to traditional social norms, and we value freedom of expression (and freedom in general, for that matter), especially when we see those freedoms being taken away. Responding to portrayals of Portland as a ‘war zone’ and protesters as ‘violent’ with the visual opposite makes sense for us. I’m extremely proud of how people have been demonstrating at the ICE facility, even after being met with unprovoked violence — with tenacity, courage, compassion, humor and creativity. Naked bike rides, dance parties, and costumes aren’t new to us; it’s just that now, we’re bringing that same spirit to ICE’s front doorstep.”

“I couldn’t be prouder of the way Portland has stood up to the bullies and kept our beautiful weird souls intact,” says Richard. “A city-wide encouragement of and acceptance for freaking freely was fully in place when I arrived nearly two decades ago, and the city’s resistance style feels like a clear extension of that.”

Eleanor is quick to point out that what’s organic to Portland isn’t necessarily unique to Portland (as we’ve seen with the run on inflatable costumes nationwide after the explosive virality of the twerking frog with immunity to pepper balls).

“I want people to know that what’s happening in Portland – the creativity, the irreverence, the refusal to be intimidated – that’s replicable,” she says. “Every city has artists. Every community has weirdos. We just need to find each other and start creating the alternative story. The revolution doesn’t have to look like a protest. Make it weird. When they tell you to cover up, shut up, and comply, the most radical thing you can do is be visible, speak truth, and take up space. With joy. Tap into your creativity. Art isn’t a luxury in times like these – it’s survival.”