As a maker of prosthetic eyes, Christina Leitzel was told as an apprentice to treat her craft much as an expert art forger would: create a perfect match of one of nature’s most intricate canvases.
But just as there are many ways to lose an eye — to cancer or to a fall; to a broom that strikes the wrong part of the brow — Leitzel wants to show there are many ways to gain one.
On a damp afternoon in Portland, Ore., a man in his 30s who had recently lost his eye to a BB gun stepped out of her office with a grin. His eyes matched his forest green beanie. But in his left, a shimmering gold vortex swirled within the pupil.
Leitzel, also known as “Christina Oculara” on TikTok and Instagram, creates what she calls “fun eyes.” Her designs include pupils painted in the shape of a sunflower and the diamond slit of a beloved cat. She has fulfilled requests as strange as they are touching: A man who arrived with a box of ashes, wishing for his late wife to “see everything that he did.” A woman adorned in piercings who thought, Why not a pierced iris, too?
That one, Leitzel said, turned out to be her favorite. The resulting TikTok was so popular that eye doctors felt compelled to post warnings against piercing actual eyeballs.
Social media has helped turn Leitzel’s practice into a mecca for the one-eyed community. Perhaps, she suggests, blending in is often for the comfort of the fully sighted, rather than those who are not. Some prefer to have their difference visible — and start a conversation.
“I just want my patients to be happy,” Leitzel said. “At the end of the day, they have to feel comfortable with themselves.”
It hasn’t always been so straightforward. Her profession, ocularistry, requires at least five years of training in how to properly design, fabricate and maintain prosthetics. Leitzel hears from colleagues who worry that her “fun” eyes confuse medical devices with props or costumes. A few years ago, her professional association chastised her for one of her designs, which it said “lowered the esteem of the profession.” (It involved a cartoon penis.)
In case of any regrets, Leitzel requires new patients to first receive a standard prosthetic, which costs about $5,000 before insurance. Then, if they wish, she’ll create a fun one for $500. She and Rachel Yee, a friend and patient, raise money to cover the expense through a nonprofit called the Fun Eye Fund.
Leitzel was unaware of ocularistry until a classmate at her Philadelphia art school popped out her eye and handed it to her. She was surprised that it was not a glass orb, like in the movies, and that it was immaculately hand-painted. The classmate sent Leitzel around the corner to her ocularist, who took her on as an apprentice.
There, she learned the art of making eyes: How to cast a mold with an organic putty called alginate. How to create the illusion of dilation by carefully layering light and dark pigment.
Strands of red thread embedded in the resin give the appearance of veins. To arrive at a true-to-life level of irritation in the eye, Leitzel asks questions: Had the patient slept well the night before? Any recreational substances? (“It’s Portland, after all,” she said.)
She also listens to stories of accidents and operations. For some patients, she turns away the mirrors during fittings, knowing the sight of their raw socket is too much to bear.
In 2021, Leitzel met Yee, who had lost her eye to cancer as a toddler, for a fitting. Yee was 31 and had always wanted an eye with a pupil that was gold and glittering. But ocularists turned her down, telling her it wasn’t what they did. Leitzel didn’t.
It was the first time, Yee recalled, that she was happy with a new prosthetic. But she wore it only among friends at first, unsure if she could handle the attention. She kept wearing her realistic prosthetic instead.
It wasn’t until she later saw hateful comments on TikTok about her eye that she realized there was no point in hiding. “It’s human nature to spot differences in people’s faces,” Yee said. “If they’re going to look, I wanted to give them something to look at.”
Today, she has dozens of fun designs by Leitzel and reserves her realistic eye for rare occasions, like renewing her driver’s license. “It depends on my mood — and my outfit,” Yee said. Jet black for the gym. Pearly white, with Swarovski crystals and gold under the protective acrylic layer, for her wedding.
Not all of Leitzel’s experiments pan out. Attempts to embed insects — a bee, a scorpion — have resulted in crushed blobs, though the latter surprised her when it glowed under a black light.
Leitzel’s latest pursuit was a snow-globe effect, involving glitter that would dance in diluted glycerin. It wasn’t working as she hoped. “Liquid is not a thing,” she said, scrutinizing the translucent plastic between her fingers. “At least, not until I figure it out.”
