Photographer Ichiro Okada

SHE OPENED THE DOOR to her small Manhattan studio apartment, earnestly shook my hand and said, "Hi. I'm Laurel," as if I hadn't just flown across the continent and arrived at her doorstep. "Sorry it's so hot in here. I can't control the heater." The window above the radiator was flung open, letting the December air seep in. And soon after: "Sorry the bathroom's such a mess," which it really wasn't.

I was surprised by her apparent nervousness, given someone who makes such daring work. Balls to the wall, it might even be called.