WINTER 2021 JUXTAPOZ

Citation preview

Amani Lewis

Mr. StarCity Brian Calvin

Brother Vellies

WINTER 2021, n216 USA $9.99 / CAN $10.99 DISPLAY UNTIL MARCH 1, 2021

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CONTENTS

Winter 2021 ISSUE 216

34

134

Darien Birks Makes the Leap

10

38

San Francisco, Brooklyn, San Jose, Toledo, Amsterdam

Editor's Letter

14

Studio Time Ania Hobson’s Interrogation Room

18

The Report Troy Lamarr Chew II’s Award Tour

24

Design

Fashion Brother Vellies Primed for the Pledge

110

Maria Qamar

48

Travel Insider Lowe Mill ARTS in Huntsville, Alabama

A Beautiful Monolith at SCAD

136

Sieben on Life A Six Pack with Scott Bourne

138

Pop Life

Confetti in Cancún with Ana Leovy

Globe x Pantone Colors, ONLY and MadHappy

Steven Sweatpants Defined 2020

Amani Lewis

Influences

54

Picture Book

68

44

Product Reviews

26

Events

86

Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe

118

Trey Abdella

San Francisco, New York, Europe and Beyond

142

Perspective Arinze’s Heart is in Nigeria

In Session

56

On the Outside

94

Danica Lundy

126

Bianca Nemelc

Sickid and the Next Generation of LA Art

60

Book Reviews Paul Whitehead, Lynette YiadomBoakye and Windows on the World

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102

David “Mr StarCity” White

Right: Brian Calvin, Composite Sketch, Acrylic on linen, 30" x 40", 2020. © Brian Calvin, courtesy of the artist and Anton Kern Gallery, New York

78 Brian Calvin

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CONTRIBUTING WRITERS

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Sasha Bogojev Jewels Dodson Willian Dunleavy Kristin Farr Sarah Hagi Shaquille Heath Ania Hobson Charles Moore Evan Pricco Nathaniel Mary Quinn Michael Sieben Gwynned Vitello Matt Wake

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TECHNICAL LIAISON

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Juxtapoz ISSN #1077-8411 Winter 2021 Volume 28, Number 01 Published quarterly by High Speed Productions, Inc., 1303 Underwood Ave, San Francisco, CA 94124–3308. © 2016 High Speed Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in USA. Juxtapoz is a registered trademark of High Speed Productions, Inc. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. Opinions expressed in articles are those of the author. All rights reserved on entire contents. Advertising inquiries should be directed to: [email protected]. Subscriptions: US, $29.99 (one year, 4 issues); Canada, $75.00; Foreign, $80.00 per year. Single copy: US, $9.99; Canada, $10.99. Subscription rates given represent standard rate and should not be confused with special subscription offers advertised in the magazine. Periodicals Postage Paid at San Francisco, CA, and at additional mailing offices. Canada Post Publications Mail Agreement No. 0960055. Change of address: Allow six weeks advance notice and send old address label along with your new address. Postmaster: Send change of address to: Juxtapoz, PO Box 884570, San Francisco, CA 94188–4570. The publishers would like to thank everyone who has furnished information and materials for this issue. Unless otherwise noted, artists featured in Juxtapoz retain copyright to their work. Every effort has been made to reach copyright owners or their representatives. The publisher will be pleased to correct any mistakes or omissions in our next issue. Juxtapoz welcomes editorial submissions; however, return postage must accompany all unsolicited manuscripts, art, drawings, and photographic materials if they are to be returned. No responsibility can be assumed for unsolicited materials. All letters will be treated as unconditionally assigned for publication and copyright purposes and subject to Juxtapoz’ right to edit and comment editorially. Juxtapoz Is Published by High Speed Productions, Inc. 415–822–3083 email to: [email protected] juxtapoz.com

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Cover art: Amani Lewis, A Midnight Woman, Acrylic, screen print, glitter, earth pigment, textile and digital collage on canvas, 52" x 64", 2020, Collaboration with Alissa Ashley and Ebonee Davis

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EDITOR’S LETTER

Issue NO 216 I remember taking a night train from Paris to Madrid on the night of the 2004 US Presidential election, in my bag a copy of the Gunter Grass’s magnum opus, The Tin Drum, which I’d been slowly reading throughout my trip, searching for find some sort of consolidation with the chaotic early Bush years and Grass’s interpretation of siilar times in WWII Germany. Immersed in this art created and written after such tumultuous years, and The Tin Drum’s maniacal, surreal strangeness has almost come to symbolize what the twentieth century understood about itself. A main character literally steps out of time to observe a monumental shift in humanity, but “remained the precocious three-year-old, towered over by grown-ups but superior to all grown-ups, who refused to measure his shadow with theirs, who was complete both inside and outside,” was about to take on a post WWII world where democracy teetered on the brink of collapse. It is stunning art. I think about this as we, about to publish the Winter issue, are on the precipice of so much apprehension and uncertainty. Or, what is so bizarre, maybe on the brink of a revival, a time 10 WINTER 2021

of ideas, progress and understanding. At the risk of sounding naive, I look at the readers and artists of Juxtapoz who participated in the pages of our 2020 Quarterlies and see a year where we all decided to step out of institutional templates and choose our own version of an ideal world—on our own without a rulebook or permission. I don’t imply identity with Oskar in The Tin Drum, but I recognize the significance, the imperative of art being made in the wake of catastrophic moments. We make the decision to be collectively curious and shape a world of inclusion and new ideas. We aren’t taking night trains across Europe right now, but we do have the opportunity for so many cross-cultural encounters. Winter 2021 cover artist, Amani Lewis, is a brilliant emerging voice who combines so many mediums in their work that we feel like we are going through our own schooling to understand their craft. But one thing is certain: Lewis is part of a new generation of artists for whom collaboration is the lifeblood, inviting us to share their collective practice. Mr StarCity, the NYC-based painter who has channeled infectious love and care for others

into his professional vision, is on the brink of a major moment, soothing many of us along the way. Steven Sweatpants, Aurora James, Trey Abdella, Danica Lundy, Brian Calvin, Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe, Bianca Nemelc, Maria Qamar… these are all fresh thinking artists who exemplify what a new decade will begin to look like in art. Collective mindsets, inclusive visions and a refusal to be predetermined by the past. If you are hesitant about rewriting history or venturing into the vaunted lexicon of Art, we offer that opportunity in these pages. We owe it to our readers, artists and the blueprint that was established in 1994, when Juxtapoz was created as a platform for alternative cultural voices. 2020 might be defined by the pandemic, social unrest and a test of democracy. Join us as we seek to broaden and embolden what the next decade can be. Enjoy Winter 2021.

Above: Amani Lewis, Murjoni (NITT edition), Acrylic, pastel, glitter and digital collage on canvas, 56" x 38", 2019

Susan Krueger-Barber (MFA 2017), BIG HEARTED PEOPLE NEED SHARP TEETH, 2017

M FA

LOWRESIDENCY Designed for contemporary artists, writers, educators, and scholars.

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STUDIO TIME

Ania Hobson A Deeper Interrogation I have been painting for about seven years, changing studio spaces over time. My current studio is on an old American Air Base in Suffolk County in England, where the old runway tracks are now left with the skeletons of old air jets that sit in the middle of nowhere. In the distant surroundings are empty hangers and the old control tower which are the last echoes of their history. My studio space is an old interrogation room which used to hold a two way mirror—where it was all about figuring someone out, provoking and creating anxiety in order to get confessions. We use body language to observe reading into 14 WINTER 2021

people's emotions. I like to think this is how my work is seen... with less of the interrogation aspect. I am a big fan of silent movies where little is said, and I like my work to be seen like this. When I was younger, I used to create comic strips of storylines that I had invented, and I feel like I have reverted back to this now in my work. The characters that I paint are always looking out of the frame, as if the story isn’t finished and there’s more going on outside the scene, rather than in the painting. There’s so much that can be conveyed in an expression; it’s our biggest form of recognizable communication. Especially the

eyes and eyebrows, which are the most prominent features in which we read emotion, which is why I exaggerate them. Emotions are not only worn on our facial expressions, as they also can also trigger emotions; so each painting that I make will carry some feeling that I was experiencing at the time. Everyone reads into expressions differently and this can be a reflection of the person themselves. —Ania Hobson Ania Hobson had a solo show last fall at Catto Gallery in Hampstead, London. @ania_hobson

Above: Self-portrait by the artist

January 9 - February 13, 2021

REPORT

On Award Tour From LA to The Bay, Troy Lamarr Chew II Shines Troy Lamarr Chew II is a precious gem who fittingly paints symbolic glints and sparkling jewels. He won the prestigious Tournesol Award and residency at San Francisco’s Headlands Center for the Arts in 2020, and when the studios temporarily closed, Troy headed back to his LA studio to continue painting for two solo shows, both stunners. Kristin Farr: Tell me about your show at Parker Gallery. Troy Lamarr Chew II: It was titled Fuck the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men. It was inspired by an incident that happened the night I graduated from undergrad. I got beat by the police when I was walking home, and then thrown in jail. They knocked my teeth out, and I was trying to make a show remembering that. I made three paintings in the shape of a grill or a tooth, and each one commemorates the teeth I lost. I was thinking about the fragility of life, and teeth, specifically. The glasslike self-portrait was made at The Headlands center for the arts, right when I had gotten the Tournesol Award. I was thinking about my place in San Francisco, as a black dude, and I was also Uber driving. It was this weird feeling of invisibility in several aspects of my life, so I wanted to recreate that in a painting. 18 WINTER 2021

I’m so sorry that happened to you with the police. You’ve said it was a catalyst. Not to give them any praise, but it woke me up and showed me that I wasn’t living for anything. I was just going with the flow, drinking and going to parties because everyone was, versus thinking for myself and doing what I want. It was a big growing moment, if anything. It’s still a motivator, because, when I see my tooth in the mirror every day, it reminds me to stay in control. It was supposed to take away the shine inside of me, but it really brought it back out. With Fuck the Kings Horses and All the Kings Men, I wanted to make a metaphoric painting to show that the shine is still gonna keep going, whether you knocked my teeth out or not.

that they were knocked out, I see their value even more. I have fake teeth, and I think about having porcelain in my mouth, versus my natural teeth often… but when I put gold in, it’s me choosing it, like a decision I made—not just the porcelain the dentist gave me by default.

You paint light and reflections so well, with the gems, too. What’s the symbolism with jewels? I was thinking a lot about how rappers with diamond or gold teeth use metaphors about how their words are pricey, or the words they say have a price tag.

I was looking at how “grillz” changed throughout time, and even within my own family. My dad has a false tooth in the front, my Granddad has two front false teeth... and they’re gold. Then I have three, so I’m looking at that lineage of the front teeth being replaced. But yeah, hopefully I’m the last one with these false teeth in my family.

It’s hard to vocalize, but also thinking about how my mouthpiece was damaged... putting stones and gold in there is my way of repairing it. That’s the only way to elevate broken teeth. It’s not a regular tooth, it’s gold, it’s a precious metal, so it elevates the tooth to a whole other level. But now

Teeth are significant. They’re used to identify people and all that. I was kinda thinking about that in the painting with the red stones. It has ancient skulls on it, linked to Mayan and Egyptian culture. They used stones to make their teeth beautiful, but the gold was typically a form of dentistry. Bridges were made with gold wire or gold plating to keep the teeth together.

Amen. I always thought it was interesting that the most common dream across all cultures is about losing teeth. The teeth not being perfect, or the front of your face not being “presentable,” that is scary to people,

Above left: Three Crowns (8), Oil and acrylic on canvas, 40" x 46", 2020 Above middle: Three Crowns (7), Oil and acrylic on canvas, 36" x 42", 2020 Above right: Three Crowns (9), Oil and acrylic on canvas, 40" x 46", 2020

REPORT

especially when thinking about the pain. It makes me think of the tooth fairy or even Humpty Dumpty, and how he got cracked and nobody could fix him. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men tried to put him together again… But I feel there’s a line in that story that they’re not telling us. He didn’t just fall and nobody could fix him. That story had to be about fragility of life, or teeth at least. But that missing piece of the story reminds me of the police or authority figures covering something up and reporting it differently. You paint figures in a lot of different ways. I’m kind of a different painter with each series. There’s a series I have called Out The Mud, where I’m working with West African cloth. These cloths are usually understood from generation to generation within Afrian culture, and are typically passed down. But since I’m not a part of that culture anymore, I’m searching for that connection. I kind of let the cloth speak to me.

I recreate the cloths, then fill in the fabric with something that I think parallels black culture in America—just searching for the similarities and differences within the two cultures. I also don’t like to show the faces in the Out the Mud paintings because it’s more about the situation. I want the audience to fill it in—if you don’t know the situation, it could be anybody... it could be you. Tell me about the other self-portrait where you are more vaporous. Invisible Man. I was thinking about the invisibility of being in the art world and in San Francisco. You could come to my shows and not even know I’m the artist. There’s been so many times where people talk to me like I’m anyone else at my show, and they might say the paintings are cool, and then after I say thank you, they’re like, “Oh, you did this?” But then, I was an Uber Driver, and people would hop in, and ask if I’m Troy, then almost instantly

Above left: Fuck the King’s Horses and All the King’s Men, Oil on canvas, 36" x 48", 2020 Above right: For Free, Oil on canvas, 2018

put in their headphones. It was like I wasn’t being seen, but, I was, at the same time. That’s why I made it like a glass invisible man, something you can see, not totally invisible, but you can see through it if you choose to, or not. You think a lot about words in your work. Language is the biggest thing in my practice because it’s all a story to me. I’m trying to convey an idea to you, and I’m trying to get it off as clear as possible, even though I know everybody will have their own interpretations. I have an idea I’m trying to get across, and I do that through my visual language. Your Slanguage paintings are like riddles with research. It’s like when you listen to hip hop. Some lyrics go over your head, and you don’t know what they’re saying, but sometimes you do. Listening to more of that music, it can help explain itself, like context clues, but it goes deep sometimes.

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REPORT

I’m researching from the beginning of hip hop to now, so that’s almost 50 years worth of words. It’s a lot of music to listen to, but I feel like I have to do the research to learn, and that is listening to music. Let’s talk about your latest show at Cult Exhibitions. Yadadamean, that show was all about the slang created in the Bay Area, so it’s a lot of E-40, B-Legit, Mac Dre and Too Short references—all the words they created that are now popular within hip hop culture and American culture. I typically group the words based on topic, then put all the ones that relate into one painting—looking at it as a visual lexicon. Cheese, bread, paper—all words for money created in the Bay Area. Weed references they made—crutch, broccoli, cauliflower, Girl Scout cookies… You hear 20 WINTER 2021

them say it in the songs, but you gotta use them context clues to fill in the blanks, especially because some of that music was made 20-ish years ago. There’s a lot of wordplay that was created right here in the Bay, and a popular weed company called Cookies comes out with different strains that are sweet-related, and that’s more slanguage that gets put into the culture, and into one of my paintings. Once a rapper says it in their songs, it’s everywhere. I listen back to who said things first; it’s a lot of hours of listening to music. 420, also coined in the Bay. I have something in Yadadamean referencing that too. What other cross-cultural connections stand out to you?

There’s a connection that Black people have to Africa that is obvious, but it also needs understanding. The way we dance, for instance, or even the way I paint, I see connections, because the traditional African cloths are also paintings. They were painted with natural materials from the Earth, just like oil paint comes from the Earth. The cloths are just like the paintings we look at that are worth millions of dollars. It’s all painted on cotton, it all comes from the Earth, both are the same thing, you know? That’s why I put them both on the same picture plane—now which one is worth more? I’m trying to bring them to the same level. Troy’s latest solo show, Yadadamean, is on view at Cult Exhibitions through the end of 2020. His solo show at Parker Gallery was on view in September.

Above: Ball Street Journal, Oil on Canvas, 48" x 36", 2020

REVIEWS

Things We Are After Fresh and On Deck

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Darien Birks x Madhappy Capsule Collection Back in 2018, the olden days, when we used to travel for Basel Week, Jux deputy editor Kristin Farr wandered into the Wynwood pop-up of Madhappy. Now, she is one of their biggest collectors and loves the Local Optimist line best. Featured in this issue, illustrator Darien Birks [see page 34], created Madhappy’s first collab capsule, BUDDY, a good acquisition to start your collection. The quality is beyond primo and, most importantly, you will be in support of a company that raises mental health awareness alongside their positively positive gear. madhappy.com

Globe x Pantone® Color of Year Dipped Deck Box Set This is such a perfectly smart and simple idea, so it’s hard to believe we’ve never seen a skate deck in this guise. Having admirably functioned as an art piece on many walls over the years, the aesthetic becomes uniquely important depending on how you like to design your home, so Globe Skateboards has come up with a very modern approach by teaming with Pantone® colors. A special Pantone Color Of The Year Dipped Deck Box Set, featuring 5 limited edition 8.25" decks, each paint-dipped in the official Pantone Color Of The Year and engraved with color name and Pantone number has been released twice this year. The current Box 02 set features 2010 Turquoise, 2009 Mimosa, 2006 Sand Dollar, 2002 True Red and 2000 Cerulean Blue, created in an edition of 200. globebrand.com

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PICTURE BOOK

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Above: Curfew, New York, New York, June 2020

PICTURE BOOK

Steven Sweatpants Back to Basics “This is the first night that the city had established a curfew. I remember my mom telling me to watch my back when I went out that night. I didn’t know what to expect. The commute from Bed Stuy to uptown felt faster than ever. My palms were lightly sweating and my thoughts were moving faster then the train. But when I finally got out, and saw the thousands of humans in unison, I felt immediately at ease. My soul was blanketed with conviction and reassurance that we were in this together. The further we walked into the night, the stronger we grew as movement. The closer the clock moved towards curfew, the more empowered we all felt. While I was walking in the crowd and documenting for The New Yorker this summer night, I literally walked into a car. It was somehow masked in the center of the crowd, just creeping at a slow speed but with allies in the whip in solidarity. Me and the brother made direct eye contact with each other, and he sat on top of the car and slowly raised his fist. That moment felt like the definition of what it not only felt to be out that night, but how we will define our generation’s stance on the black experience.” —Steven Sweatpants

Ask Steven “Sweatpants” Irby how he got his start as a photographer, and he’ll describe a brief stint working at GameStop in the early years of Instagram. A customer entered the East Flatbushborn, Queens-raised photographer’s store, mentioned the app, and the street photographer knew he’d stumbled upon something that would deeply impact his life. He started documenting his neighborhood via iPhone, bought an old Canon Rebel XSN film camera for fifteen dollars, and the rest is history. The iPhone and film combination helped to get his foot in the proverbial door, and today Sweatpants shoots digitally more often than not—generally with his Sony a7R III. The cofounder of Street Dreams magazine is signed to Sony as part of the Alpha Collective, which, with a sly smile he admits, consists mostly of his friends. Aside from that, he explains that Sony cameras offer an ideal blend of speed and light. Sweatpants also loves his Contax T2, a 35-millimeter film camera he can slip into

Above: Steven Sweatpants, Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, Photographed by Jessica Foley

his pocket when needed. The street photographer doesn’t have opposing gear, and that’s the way he likes it. “I love being quick and nimble. I don’t mind moving when I take my photos.” It’s an approach that’s rooted in the ideals behind punk rock and hip hop—a clear, unadulterated take on what’s really happening out in the world. When the artist got his start, his sole purpose was to capture his neighborhood. He set out to take control of the narrative and tell an objective story. “For every single photo we take in the street photography community,” he says, “we’re documenting what’s really happening.” The overarching goal is simplicity—that is, in the sense of going back to basics. There’s a beauty in the simple things, Sweatpants explains: a father and son playing basketball in the park, intimate moments that may seem small in the grand scheme of the world—yet these are the moments the artist hopes to bring back to the forefront of our lives.

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PICTURE BOOK

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Above: Juneteenth 2020, Brooklyn, New York, June 2020

PICTURE BOOK

“I think it’s really important to show just the most humane, simple human interactions,” he continues. “People are so caught up in all the complicated issues that are in the world right now, but if you can get this right, maybe you can get the other stuff right.” In an introspective take on his craft, Sweatpants goes on to explain that he wants people from all backgrounds to view his photographs. On the one hand, he doesn’t want to bring his community down, but on the other, he doesn’t want viewers to stereotype Black people. How can his approach— no matter what outsiders say about street photography—not be a form of fine art in this way? Street photography may seem chaotic to some, but he is living proof of its intentionality. Energy is critical to the artist’s methods. There’s a sense of taking in the energy of the day or the moment. On Juneteenth this year, Sweatpants remembers the minute that demonstrators reached the Williamsburg Bridge, he thought to himself, “Is it actually about to happen?” And so the bridge was barricaded, and the artist got in position— anticipating whatever might come next. “I’m not the kind of guy to think I’m going to stumble upon the work,” he says. This combination of adaptability and purpose culminated in the artist’s iconic Juneteenth 2020 image. What’s in a name? Ask the artist about his alias, and he’ll credit his mother. When the photographer was a kid, the “Sweatpants” moniker often came down to his having to do chores—or really anything he didn’t want to do. Sweatpants would make excuses, claim he was too comfortable to get up and work, and somehow evade his daily tasks. In a way, it was empowering: He’d put on a pair of sweatpants, play a video game, start drawing to make up his graffiti name, because everyone in Queens was doing that at the time. “My mother looked at it almost as my superpower,” he explains. “Like I needed those sweatpants so I could be empowered.” That’s the beauty in the artist’s nickname. Yes, Sweatpants likes to be comfortable—but he wants those around him to experience the same thing. This, he explains, is a key element of his personality. In fact, the artist aims to inspire comfort in all his work, in his artistry, in his Instagram captions, and in his overall personality. The oft-overlooked attire that’s inspired his name is, in fact, multifaceted and very much on-brand. To this end, Sweatpants complements his street photography with striking black-andwhite portraiture. He inspires the sense of comfort as a creative director, crafting intimate images of figures like Dapper Dan and Derrick Rose. Viewers might take note of the change

of scenery, but they’ll quickly recognize the artist’s signature candid style. “I’m the kind of photographer who really works off energy, and it’s incredible to meet someone who has a really kind and empathetic kind of energy,” he says of his experience photographing Rose in Detroit. The images he captured of the basketball pro

Above: I’m still sick I couldn’t get any chicken from that dude name Gus, Detroit, February 2020

mean a great deal to the artist, and with the COVID-19 pandemic thrown into the mix, they’re all the more impactful. Sweatpants, one might argue, is largely an autodidact. He’s learned a great deal from experience—and the artist is more than willing

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PICTURE BOOK

30 WINTER 2021

Above: To whomever is bumping Jodeci mad loud on my block, I respect you, New York, New York, October 2018

PICTURE BOOK

to share key takeaways with his audience. His Ted Talk, “Don’t Live to Pay Your Rent,” honors his artistry, and though he was “nervous,” at the time, there’s a sense of authenticity (and a series of emotional stories) you won’t want to miss. “I had to put those stories at the forefront, and I didn’t want to screw it up,” he discloses. Sweatpants explains that even if the content didn’t get a million plays, his goal was to offer something people could walk away with—to offer something they could take home and apply in their own lives. And then there’s Street Dreams magazine: the artist’s baby, so to speak, for the last six or seven years. He can’t help but laugh that it took a couple of Canadians to help him launch a magazine dedicated to the New York street photography scene. What started with a creative team appreciating his captions from another corner of the continent led to an outdoor meeting at the Williamsburg Bridge,

Above: My grandma knows how to slap box, Havana, Cuba, April 2017

and the publication took off! Sweatpants and his co-founders discussed the concept, started shooting, and got to talking about launching a Tumblr page featuring the artist’s photographs. The idea was to go digital from there—but the team’s digital dream went to print just 48 hours later. They printed only 100 or so copies of their first issue, but things took off relatively quickly. Reed Space, Jeff Staple’s legendary street wear store (unfortunately, now closed) showcased the artist’s photographs in issue 003, with rooms packed to capacity and lines snaking around the corner outside. Sweatpants can’t help but seem a little dumbfounded by the growth of his project. Consistency is a common thread in the artists’ work, and, “We’ve been able to really keep it going and keep it consistent. We’ve been able to build an agency.” Radio shows, podcasts, an issue of Street Dreams dedicated exclusively to his co-founders’

native Vancouver—Sweatpants and his team are branching out, strategizing, and endlessly appreciative of the opportunity they’ve been afforded. Because, ultimately, the artist’s objective is to take back the narrative of his community—to fill a void for the middle ground and give the pretentiousness linked to so much of the art world a much-needed overhaul. “This is the best way that punk rock and hip hop vibe comes into play,” he says. “This is for the people— and I’ve always had that as my backbone.” This certainty has given Sweatpants a sense of purpose. It’s also helped him sharpen his muscles and develop his eye for photography. And by truly engaging with his community in this way, Sweatpants reveals that street photographers can come together and document what’s really happening out in the world—in real time. —Charles Moore @stevesweatpants

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photography by Chris Behroozian

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DESIGN

Nothing But The Hits Darien Birks Pivots From Nike His portrait of a suave figure in a powerful puffer coat was all we needed to see. The stylistic, pop illustrations of Darien Birks had us hooked before we even learned of his many influential years as art director at Nike. Recently he’s leaned into a full-court-press on personal work and illustration,

resulting in excellent early stats. His distinctive new zine visualizes this pivot and is aptly titled Knew Normal. Basketball is integral to his work, and when asked about his favorite players, he pays respect, “Each of their stories is something that I have applied to my journey as a creative.”

Kristin Farr: How did you end up as an illustrator after working for Nike and making music as The Stuyvesants? Darien Birks: In 2011, I was living in Brooklyn, freelancing as a designer. I was asked by a friend who was working at Nike to submit some of my work. It involved branding for a few NBA athletes. The team at Nike liked my work, and eventually they asked me to come out to Portland and meet them. I was happy with what I was doing at the time and wasn’t immediately ready to uproot and move across the country, so I sat on the thought for a couple months—ultimately, it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. While at Nike, I was learning a lot of new things that I didn’t already have in my toolkit. I was expanding my knowledge base within my industry and sharpening up my craft. However, going to work isn’t enough for me, I needed to keep growing in other ways. So I began illustrating after work, on weekends, just to stay curious, and to see where it could go. Working on our album covers for The Stuyvesants was another outlet that helped me get back into illustrating. When I left Nike in early 2020, I had a goal to push my illustration just as much as my art and design direction. I no longer wanted to do one thing, so I took a risk on myself and moved full steam ahead. How does your love for basketball go beyond work? I am a major lover of sports. I played sports as a kid, and I play to this day. Mainly basketball, but I grew up playing football, baseball, and a little golf as well. Sports culture is everything to me, both on and off of the playing field. I’m interested in the stories, the athletes, the team history, everything. I love sports talk radio, podcasts, magazine articles, and books. I text sports trivia back and forth with certain friends regularly, just to stay up on our sports knowledge. It’s a real thing for me. I definitely have always admired my sports heroes through portraiture, or through creating a signature shoe for them. As a kid, I would sketch for hours, drawing shoes and athletes. I loved drawing the jerseys, and trying to get as close to an athlete’s likeness as possible. That was my haven, my escape, my therapy. I had no idea that it

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Above: Bubble Goose, Digital artwork, 2019

DESIGN

was shaping what I would become as an adult. It’s extremely ironic to me.

human and feel this just as much as we do. I hope it gets more momentum.

This was an impactful year in basketball, with the NBA strike and the loss of Kobe Bryant. How do you feel about it all, and how did you end up working in this field you’ve always admired? Basketball has been through so much this year. I’ve never witnessed this many things happening at once, within the same season. It has truly been crazy to see.

Losing Kobe felt unreal. He was young, and beginning a new chapter in his life postbasketball. He did a lot for the evolution of the game, and that effect is carrying on within the players that he inspired. He’s gone, but Kobe will never be forgotten.

The players sitting out to observe social injustice, systemic oppression, and inequality was great to see. I think there should be more of it. There are so many things going on in the world that are more important than sports—it’s telling that even the greatest athletes feel the same—after all, they’re

Above: Pegged, Digital artwork, 2020

I ended up working in the basketball category at Nike through creative leads David Creech and Michael Spoljaric. They both knew that I was a huge basketball fan, and that I was at a point in my career where I was ready for something new within the organization. Basketball at Nike was going through a shift, a reset in a sense, and they were looking to build a new team. Those

guys hand-picked me for the role and the rest was history. I had my best years at the company working in basketball, it was truly a dream job. What projects with Nike are you most proud of? If I had to choose a few—I’d say launching the NBA x Nike partnership, KD 11 (Kevin Durant), Hyperdunk Flyknit, Free Trainer 3.0, Kyrie 5 (Kyrie Irving), Nike Adapt 2.0, Zoom Freak 1 (Giannis Antetokounmpo), 2016 Olympics, and Hypercool. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but those are the first that come to mind. I was admiring your Kevin Love logo with the tree. Can you share the backstory? I spent the majority of my years at Nike creating athlete logos. Our creative director at the time (and close friend of mine), Michael Spoljaric, JUXTAPOZ .COM 35

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would create these friendly competitions between our design team. He would make us all create logos and pin them up—and we would pick the best logos that way. The Kevin Love situation was a bit different, because they wanted us to speak with the athlete first, so he appointed me to hop on the phone with Kevin and discuss his logo. We had a great conversation and I was super excited to get started on the mark. He wanted it to be about his roots in Oregon, his family, something timeless, and to subtly incorporate his style of play. The tree represents both the Douglas fir, Oregon’s state tree, as well as family (as in family tree). I wanted that to be the foundation of the mark, as it was for Kevin himself—so it’s placed directly in the center. The K and the L point in opposite directions as Kevin is a two-way player who can score and pass the ball, rebound and defend. I used tall and bold letters to reference his stature at 6’ 10”. It was a lot of fun creating the logo, and the most rewarding part is that Kevin loved it. 36 WINTER 2021

How do you describe your personal style, or styles you’re attracted to? It’s not photo real, but it’s not over-abstracted, and it usually focuses on themes based in pop culture. Fashion, music, sports, politics, that type of thing. I’m attracted to work of the same sort, among other things, but the work of Barkley Hendricks, Emory Douglas, Kadir Nelson, Amy Sherald and Kerry James Marshall, among others, are huge influences for me and my work. I liked your recent capsule collection with MadHappy. What other projects are coming up? The MadHappy work was a lot of fun, and I was thrilled to create their very first illustrated product drop. More importantly, I like what they stand for, being a voice for mental health awareness. I recently finished up a collaborative project with Apple, which focused on young African Americans stepping into power for a new collection of movies on the AppleTV app. Also just finished up a project with Spotify, designing the cover art for a new podcast, Resistance, which launched in October.

What’s something you’ve recently seen out in the world that made you want to draw it immediately? The most recent thing that I spotted that had me anxious to get home and recreate it was noticing the creative masks that people are wearing during this pandemic. It started with simple medical masks, but then, all of a sudden, the masks became really unique and interesting once people realized that this isn’t going away any time soon; so the masks have been way more creative these days. It inspired me to create these super interesting masks on fictional characters, making them all different, with funky patterns and such, giving the subjects different expressions in the eyes—leaving the viewer wondering what they’re thinking. I haven’t fully illustrated them yet, just quick sketches for fun at this point. I want to expand on it to document this time in our lives. Darien Birks’s Knew Normal zine is available now at FiskGallery.com @DarienBirks TheStuyvesants.com.

Above left: Vdot, Digital artwork, 2019 Above right: No Debate, Digital artwork, 2018

Midnight Adventure Abby Jo Turner ‘18

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FASHION

Aurora James and Brother Vellies Primed for the Pledge Maybe she was born for the role, but the founder of Brother Vellies and the 15 Percent Pledge is named Aurora, the mythical goddess who traveled from east to west announcing the dawn. As a young designer captivated by fashion’s ability to “help us escape to a magical place,” Aurora James sought to represent an inclusive worldview of beauty. Traveling in Africa, committed to promoting artisan work, after meeting the crafters who make “vellies,” the local leather walking boots, she created a pipeline to market their goods. As Brother Velllies became a model of ethical production and sustainability, Aurora saw an opportunity to encourage fairness and the future by asking retail companies to pledge that 15% of their products be produced by Black businesses. New beginnings can make very fashionable, equitable endings. Gwynned Vitello: Now that you have established the 15 Percent Pledge, what is the status and what has been the biggest, and maybe unforeseen, challenge? Aurora James: What an incredible journey this past five months has been. I think we have all learned so much about our World, our country, each other and our collective pain. All of this learning is important so we can then focus on our progress, how we can march confidently forward, together, in the direction of change. I am incredibly proud of the companies that have committed early to the 15 Percent Pledge. This benchmark was a very foreign idea when I introduced it, but it resonated with people, and I have no doubt that it will eventually be the norm in the country. Retailers like Sephora, Macy’s and MedMen are at the precipice of change, not just in their stores but in their industries. I am incredibly proud of Vogue and Yelp, who were our first publishing and tech companies to figure out how they could pledge, and the progress has been wonderful to watch. I must say, for every commitment we announce, there are a handful that never make it there. It takes bravery to publicly commit to such a big step. When I launched the 15 Percent Pledge, I estimated most retailers to be around 7-9% shelf space, but only after investigating did we realize that most sat between 1-2%. We never ask anyone to do it 38 WINTER 2021

Above: Portrait by Grace Miller All other photography: By Christopher Sherman

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overnight, it’s a multi-year process with a multiyear plan. The painful reality is that not every retailer is willing to commit to Black businesses in such a meaningful way. Back people in this country are worthy of long-term commitments and a true seat at the table. Not only have you founded a business that, since its genesis, has grown organically in terms of

its mission, but you’ve challenged a business model. Do you feel torn between being the CEO/ CFO and being the creative director? I wouldn’t say I feel torn but the dichotomy is alive and well inside of me. It’s hard in a day to flip from some of the emotionally intense conversations we have at the 15 Percent Pledge, to then design a beautiful pair of shoes at Brother Vellies, then run numbers on the business to then return home and

work on writing my book and also be a great friend, lover and daughter. We are all balancing so much, so I would be lying if I said it was easy. But no, that’s not usually when I feel torn. I feel torn over minutia— white lilies or blush peonies, almond or oat milk. I am shockingly decided over the larger issues in life. That said, in your current role, you do both, in that you give others the opportunity to make a JUXTAPOZ .COM 39

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What role does fashion play now, whether we are homebound or venturing out? Think of how Hollywood put on these extravaganzas so people daydream, or Jimi Hendrix wearing thrift store velvet jackets and scarves, or even little kids dressing up. I think everyday fashion is shapeshifting. It feels to me that women are looking more to themselves versus outside sources on what to wear. I also truly believe that people are rethinking their spending and which companies and brands they’re comfortable investing in. We’re all getting a little more thoughtful about what we “need.”

living creatively. I mean, for you, fashion is not just throwing on sweats, but it’s also not wearing the latest trend. I read an interview with Amy Sherman Palladino, who created Mrs. Maisel, and who, incidentally, is a dancer. Of her art, she said, “When you’re a dancer, it’s not just in class or when you’re in performance; when you’re home, your body is your instrument.” Do you feel similarly about creativity and fashion? What a lovely statement. I am in the midst of a very deep love affair with the people of this planet. I want to learn everything about them and I want to see them thrive and be free. Brother Vellies and the 15 Percent Pledge are an expression of that. How can we all just live our lives doing what we want to do, existing in the pursuit of happiness. When your best friend laughs—do you know that sound? I want to hear that and feel that every day I am on this planet. My Mother was adopted at birth, and she told me that, as such, anyone I meet on the street could be my very close relative. You, Gwynn, could be my cousin. I feel that deeply, the connectivity. I am an only child and my Mother is the only blood relative I know. But somehow I feel like I come from the world’s largest family. Being raised in Toronto must have played a part in your worldview, as it is considered one of the world’s most cosmopolitan cities, and Canada has a reputation for being so darned… nice, producing so many comedians and always ranking high in quality of life surveys. Yes, it absolutely influenced my outlook. They say America is a cultural melting pot, but Canada is a cultural mosaic. The idea is that we retain

more of our heritage and traditions. Growing up, I remember celebrating many different holidays and religious occasions. It was par for the course. We were curious about each other and respectful of each other’s cultures. I miss that. But I’m excited to instill that in my future children. I read that you were named after Aurora (my mother and sister-in-law’s name, by the way) from Sleeping Beauty. My favorite outfits in the movie were not the “transformational” ball gowns, but the black peasant laced corset and brown skirt. Neutral but perfect for wandering around a haunted forest. Everyday clothing can be a fantasy right? Absolutely, much of this life has felt like a fantasy. Some of the most shy pieces I have designed have taken me furthest off-road to the largest adventures. I’m thinking specifically of our Fall/ Winter loafers. The animal prints and woven textures of your shoes and accessories are wearable and adaptable, but not like some monochromatic, uniform line of clothing. Did you intend your pieces to be, say, neutrals with possibilities? My intention really is to design things that people will fall in love with and own forever. And I mean it when I say forever. There is symbolism and thought behind so much of the collections. I often think of my shoes as an extension of me, part of my DNA, and the clothes work around them. So, yes, in a sense, they are all neutral in the way that a redhead is neutral. Or shocking blue eyes are too; it’s just part of you.

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Can you explain what went through your mind when you saw velskoen walking shoes and met the people who made them? What was the thought process that led you to consider helping them sell directly to a wider group of customers? I just thought it was the true example of traditional design. It’s the ancestor of the modern day desert boot. I looked at the shoe they were making and thought it would do well with people in New York, and that maybe by working with these amazing people, we could keep traditional African design practices alive while creating and sustaining artisanal jobs. I started selling these in a booth at the Hester Street Market on the Lower East Side. I wasn’t sure if they would catch on, but I would sell out pretty quickly. A woman who had bought a few pairs over the course of some weeks came by and asked if I had a website—it turned out she was from the New York Times! I quickly made a website and launched my first collection in Spring 2013.

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What was and is our impression of New York and the industry, any disappointments? I spent time in New York as a teenager. I remember spending an entire day photographing the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park just a few months before the Twin Towers collapsed. When I initially moved to New York, I lived in a one bedroom apartment with two other people. But, no, I was never disappointed by New York. Yes, I have been disappointed by people at times. The fashion industry is full of an incredibly vibrant and talented cast of characters in this city. They make for the best, and also the worst of times. But let’s face it, “worst” is a very relative term. And fashion moves quickly, so there is no time to wallow. Chop chop. Then let’s move on to the goods. What fabrics do you particularly like? Are there any new materials you’d like to work with? And, now that you’ve grown bigger, how do you find artisans? I still love working with various materials, but it’s important to me that we use those that are local as much as possible. At our core, you’ll find vegetabletanned leathers. We’ve used soling from recycled tires in the past, we use hand-carved wood from Kenya, floral dyed feathers, along with a collection of other byproduct materials sourced from farmers across the globe. In the beginning, I was able to travel back and forth to Africa frequently, and I would just go to the local market and use whatever was available. We strive to lessen the impact of our production practices by always asking questions and making changes each season. We try not to over order and only order quantities we think we can sell. Somehow, I think your appreciation of process might guide your desire to open brick and mortar stores. Is this still your intention, and why do you think it’s important? A store space is inspiring to me because it can act as a living, breathing brand experience. We have one store in Brooklyn right now which is as manic as my mind. It’s really fascinating. Sometimes it’s totally calm and airy, and people walk in and want to curl up and sleep. Other times, it’s entirely chaotic, which is great. I don’t like retail experiences that are cookie cutter. If I’m working on a new collection, I want you to be able to walk into the space and feel that. Maybe I’m listening to a song on repeat. Maybe I’m burning sweetgrass. Because my studio is upstairs from the store, that connectedness is alive and well. I am going to be writing my book mostly in Los Angeles, so I’ve been considering opening a second store and office out there. We will see, won’t we? Can you tell me about any budding new artists, any new designs you’re excited about? I just went over to view the new Theaster Gates exhibit at the Gagosian, Black Vessel. It’s his firstever solo exhibition in New York. It’s incredibly

powerful. Of course, I’m always excited about what Jordan Casteel is doing, and last year’s Simone Leigh exhibit at the Guggenheim was really inspiring. Hugo McCloud’s portraits from plastic bags are also incredibly powerful. And a man very close to me is releasing another album soon, which I am incredibly excited about. I hate to say it, but sometimes the most beautiful things tend to emerge from the darkest hours. And I must admit, it has been a little dark when I’ve turned my flashlight off this past four years.

As someone who has carved her own path, do you have any advice for folks who may not have an MBA or MFA, but who want to make a difference? Find out what is important to you and make sure to stay true to that. Put trust in yourself and just keep working at it. Sometimes your best mode of transportation is a simple leap of faith. And if all else fails, I will still love you. brothervellies.com 15percentpledge.org

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www.onlyny.com

INFLUENCES

Ana Leovy Confetti in Cancún Ana Leovy’s glass is half full, effervescent with bubbles, ready to toast the day and share the good news. Maybe on a solo stroll, maybe with friends and neighbors, the message is clear in her ripe gouache and acrylic pictures. Follow the light like a sunflower, lounge proud with purpose. A tropical storm delayed our conversation, but didn’t dampen her spirits. Gwynned Vitello: Your work has real vibrancy and immediacy, so I can see how you got lots of work as a graphic designer. The paintings kind of burst and sing, but I guess you felt boxed in doing corporate work. Tell me about your transition to full-time painting. Ana Leovy: Thank you! Painting has always been my passion, and, as a kid, I always dreamed of being a painter. I initially wanted to major in visual arts, but ended up going for a “safer” choice and studied graphic design, out of my fear of not being able to have a successful career, of not 44 WINTER 2021

making a living. Although it was not my dream job initially, I don’t regret choosing graphic design as a career. I ended up loving it and I’m grateful because it gave me so many tools I use today. I started transitioning to full-time painting about three years ago. I’d been working as a designer in an ecommerce start-up in Mexico City, completely fed up with the routine and the long commute. It was a good job, but I felt like there was something missing and it felt wrong to stay there any longer. I decided to move to Barcelona and did a masters in graphic design applied to illustration. I think that was my true beginning! My love for design grew while discovering creative sides within illustration. Spain was particularly special to be because I was surrounded by people who lived off art and inspired and pushed me to do the same. I had lots of spare time between classes, so that allowed me to get back to my sketchbook and let it all out. It was very cathartic.

So who or what inspires you? Are most of the subjects interpretations of yourself, as well as fictional characters, famous folks and friends? They are definitely extensions of myself, of my thoughts and emotions. These characters are not normally based on anyone in particular, unless it is a commissioned work, where I’ll get asked to do a representation of a real person. But to be completely honest, doing this makes me a bit nervous. Even though I am not aiming to be realistic with my style, the fact that there are actual people involved reduces my creative freedom, in a way. So I have avoided this sort of work lately, focusing more on personal pieces, where my characters are completely made up. Don’t get me wrong! I also get lots of satisfaction when doing commissions based on existing people. I love how intimate and meaningful this is, but I also think it’s important to step back every now and then and continue this exploration on

Above: Smoking Area, Gouache on paper, 31" x 23", 2020

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my own so that my work evolves. What ignites my inspiration constantly changes, but lately I find myself needing to portray social scenes like groups of people dining together, dancing, kissing, hugging, simple activities we all took for granted and were taken away. I guess I am craving all of that. Nostalgia is very present in my work. I think there is a lot of beauty in sadness. Rumor is that you practice blind contour drawing. True? How much of that comprises your practice, and does that mean you don’t do rough sketching? I think blind contour practice influenced my distorted traces and how I play with shapes and proportion. But I do it more as a personal exercise to relax my hands and mind. My current figures are a bit more planned and defined, so there is a sketching process involved, for sure.

choosing color, it isn’t something I do consciously, but I lean more towards colorful palettes because their variety brings out a whole new meaning and resonates more with what I want to say. It’s important to me to showcase diversity within my characters, and I don’t feel I have that ability when using only black and white. I also find color very compelling, how it can speak to everyone in a different way and have so much impact.

color. It’s funny because sometimes the concept behind my work is not very cheerful, even though my selection of paint seems to say the exact opposite. I enjoy playing with this juxtaposition because I believe that there are so many hues in feelings and how each one of us sees the world. Certainly, when I find myself down, color gives me positive energy, and hopefully this happens to other people as well when they see my work.

I find color to be some sort of personal diary, so things I can’t say with shapes or words, I say with

How does place play a part in your work, starting with going to school in Spain and

This way of drawing fascinated me since the first time I learned about it back in high school art. I love the element of surprise, not knowing how it will turn out when you finally look at a page that was blank a moment ago. It also helps me be more present, even if it’s just for a couple of minutes, to observe a real life object and all its details. We don’t take time for observation now, always going at such a fast pace and with so much content constantly thrown in our faces. I really struggle with the amount of screen time I am using per day, especially since quarantine, and it makes me very anxious. I’ve been doing a little exercise for a couple of weeks, doing a quick contour selfportrait drawing in the mornings as soon as I walk up. It helps me start off my day more relaxed. Do people sit for your portraits, and when they do, are they seeking a certain look? When I do portraits of real people, it’s never face to face. The majority of my clients are international, so they send me photos and we have tons of conversations that will help me capture their essence. Since I am a realistic artist, I focus more on the personalities, their likes and signature traits. Have you consciously made a self-portrait? Aside from the contour drawing experiment I’ve been doing (and old school projects) I haven’t done any self-portraits, though I definitely see myself reflected in some of the women I paint. I guess that’s inevitable! I may do it as an exercise at some point, but at the moment, it isn’t interesting to me. I like it when the characters are not so real so that anybody can relate. Do you ever do black and white? Does it work for you at all? I did some charcoal and pencil drawings when I was younger, and I still enjoy them because black and white is very romantic somehow. When

Above: Life is a party, Gouache on paper, 23" x 31", 2020

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then going back home to Mexico? How has the transition been from Mexico City to Cancún? I’m someone who gets bored easily when I spend too much time in the same place, so I tend to move around a lot to spice it up. I am very lucky because I can take my work almost anywhere I go, so travel helps when I am feeling stuck or anxious. I’ve lived in many places, but I think Spain was the turning point. I was doing my Masters, which was really exciting, and it was also the first time I lived completely on my own. This meant plenty of time for myself, so I learned and focused on my creative side more than ever, which led me to where I am today. I was also impacted by the lifestyle and surroundings. I was able to walk everywhere (love walking!), go to parks or cozy cafes to sketch, read and listen to music. I felt so free and inspired! When I came back to Mexico City, I was not able to do that. It just wasn’t a place where I felt comfortable walking alone as a woman. I will always be fond of it; I still like visiting, I have lots of friends there and it’s quite fun! But I chose Cancún for a different quality of life and to be close to my family. That said, moving from the city to the beach has not been super easy, let me tell you. I do not enjoy sweating constantly or sharing my apartment with spiders. The humid temperature actually affects my work as I’ve had to learn to adjust and paint faster so that materials don’t dry up before I’m done. I also cannot store a huge stock of art supplies because the consistency changes. I’m learning little things along the way, but overall, I do feel happier for now. What are your feelings on living and working in the studio, in terms of scheduling, lighting, atmosphere? At the moment, I’m working from home where I have a studio and do everything. I'm definitely needing to have more space for the larger paintings, but I’m still a bit hesitant to have a studio separated from my home. I like that I can wake up very early and go straight to my art room, or even when I can’t sleep. I guess I’ll always have a space for this even if I move outside of my apartment. What part of graphic design work do you especially miss? Branding! Particularly naming, playing with words. Creating the logo, choosing typography, color palette and everything in the process is seeing an idea come to life. I don’t think people give design the credit it deserves. I think painting will always be a part of your artistic life, but I can imagine you designing clothes or living spaces. Ooh, I actually was debating between graphic, fashion or interior design before going to university. I find them all very appealing, so who 46 WINTER 2021

knows? I am definitely open when it comes to new areas where I can explore my creativity. I don’t ever think I would leave painting by choice though. Maybe I would do a capsule thing or collaboration, but I don’t dare want to deal with all the rest. You are such a social person, so I think that making art is definitely a kind of dialogue for you. What’s your favorite aspect of the creative process? It’s hard to narrow it down, but I even get excited from just choosing the materials, and the process

of painting is soothing and energizing at the same time. But there is no better feeling than knowing that somebody out there has connected with your work. This morning I went for a doctor’s appointment and while chatting with a lady at the counter (whom I’d never seen before) she noticed my name and said, “Oh, I have one of your paintings in my house.” What? The world is so small. I love it. @analeovy

Above: Summer Fling, Gouache on paper, 14 "x 19", 2019

ChiCago’s premier urban-Contemporary art gallery

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TRAVEL INSIDER

Lowe Mill Arts An Art Pilgrimage in Huntsville, Alabama Back in sepia-toned times, it began as a textile mill and was later a shoe factory. Since 2001, this cavernous brick building has been home to a tech town’s arts/culture heartbeat. Nineteen years later, organizers tout Lowe Mill as The South’s largest privately owned arts center. It’s located in a soulful working class neighborhood, on the west side of Huntsville, a North Alabama city known for aerospace engineering that helped NASA put men on the moon with 1969’s Apollo 11 mission. Huntsville is also famously home to Space Camp, where generations of kids, including those of celebs like Tom Hanks and Bruce Springsteen, come to indulge astronaut daydreams. The past several years, Huntsville has attracted bold

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font endeavors like the FBI, Blue Origin and Facebook to locate here. The city is about about an hour’s drive from Muscle Shoals, and the fertile recording studio scene that birthed classics by the likes of Aretha and The Stones. In Huntsville, there are local gems for food, drink, art, entertainment and shopping-scattered around town, particularly on the west side and downtown. But if your time is limited, you can get all those things at one address: 2211 Seminole Drive, aka Lowe Mill. Being a former large scale production site for consumer goods has advantages, particularly when it comes to parking. Lowe Mill has no shortage of that. However, this being pandemic-

stained 2020, you won’t be able to drive onto the lot without a mask, as Lowe Mill stations an employee at the former guard gate to check for them. Inside the actual building, the ceilings are high, so combined with masks and surrounded by visitors who tend to respect social distancing, I feel safe tooling around for an hour or two. Inside Lowe Mill, exposed wizened brick walls contribute to the vibe. Looking out across the back parking lot, you can see verdant Monte Sano Mountain slumbering in the background. Lowe Mill likes to emphasize its arts and entertainment, but commerce provides one of the facility’s greatest anchors. Vertical House Records is located in an outbuilding on the grounds’ east side. In 13 years, owners and married couple Andy and

Above: Lowe Mill ARTS & Entertainment complex

TRAVEL INSIDER

Ashley Vaughan have built up Vertical House from a 200 square foot space inside Lowe Mill to their current aircraft hangar-esque digs. Here you can sift through 25,000 used and new records, ranging from classic (James Brown, T. Rex, Fleetwood Mac) to contemporary edge (Courtney Barnett, Thom Yorke, Sheer Mag) to local heroes (Brittany Howard, Jason Isbell, Phosphorescent). Other music-heads points of interest at Lowe Mill include local luthier Danny Davis’ fine handmade acoustic guitars at Tangled String Studios and Patrick’s Nickel’s downhome instruments at Cigar Box Guitar Store.

Inside Lowe Mill’s three-floored main building, you’ll find more than 150 spaces and around 200 artists, makers and sellers. Seven galleries featuring regional artists dot the hallways. Recent exhibits there include Paul Cordes Wilm’s’ popfolk mischief, Phoebe Burns’ dreamy mixedmedia and DaNeal Eberly’s sensual brushstrokes. The galleries are set up in corners and main corridors, between them, punctuating the studios which house painters, sculptors, photographers, jewelers, fiber artists, furniture makers and beyond. During opening night events, art

Top left: Vertical House Records Top right: Galleries Bottom left and right: Studio work Middle left: Tangled String Studios

enthusiasts intermingle with featured creatives and learn what sparks their work. With all this gazing and perambulating to do, fuel is key. For a liquid “go,” Piper & Leaf does soft-bliss flavored hot and cold teas and a minty take on straight-up iced tea, as well as iced and hot coffees. For a little more kick, check out Irons Distillery’s silky small batch whiskeys. Victuals-wise, onsite food trailer Chef Will the Palate’s vegetarian entrees have enough oomph to satisfy even carnivores. Sweet teeth must seek Pizzelle’s Confections, JUXTAPOZ .COM 49

TRAVEL INSIDER

for clever chocolates, candies, mini-cakes and homemade ice cream. Other Lowe Mill food go-to’s include Pofta Buna savory crepes, Suzy’s Pops frozen delights, Happy Tummy’s myriad wraps and, until they close at the end of this year, Mountain Valley’s sublime sourdough-crust pizzas. Gamers get served here too. Timbrook Toys builds and sells a fun, easy-to-learn board game called Hedge Lord. Cozy arcade Hale Electronics boasts a deft mix of classic pinball and video games, perfect for a mid-visit Lowe Mill timeout. There’s also a billiards table in a roomy corner on the first floor. During the fall and spring, Lowe Mill’s Concerts on the Dock, held on the site’s former loading dock, are Friday night fixtures for Huntsville live music fans. The free concert series hosts rising local and regional talents, including Birmingham R&B faves St. Paul & The Broken Bones. In the covid era, Lowe Mill got creative to keep the music flowing, pivoting to drive-in, with Concerts in the Car. During non-pandemic times, Lowe Mill also hosts indoor shows, in their First Floor Connector 50 WINTER 2021

space or an upstairs Studio Theatre, by the likes of Los Angeles punk icons X and bands from Single Locks Records, a nifty Muscle Shoals indie label co-founded by John Paul White. In addition to music and visual art, Lowe Mill hosts events built around film, comedy, poetry, pop culture, fashion and storytelling. Not to mention a vibrant Day of the Dead party. Lowe Mill is open 12 – 6 p.m. Wednesday to Thursday, 12 – 8 p.m. Friday and 10 a.m. – 6 p.m. Saturday. For those looking for afterhours action, nearby Campus No. 308, housed in a former middle school, is home to Huntsville’s two biggest breweries, Straight to Ale and Yellowhammer, as well as scrappy local music bars, Lone Goose Saloon and, simply dubbed, The Bar, and Earth and Stone’s fab-fresh pizza. Further eats can be found down Governors Drive at Stovehouse, a well-curated food garden with everything from ramen to barbecue. If you’re in need of pregame caffeine or postgame brew, Gold Sprint Coffee is just a few blocks from Lowe Mill and pours craft bevs, a cycling-centric space that also hosts occasional art exhibits and

indie rock. A DIY/all-ages music venue dubbed Trash Bone just opened up around the corner. Lowe Mill is one of the first things many Huntsvillians recommend for out-of-towners to check out. One of the most endearing things about Lowe Mill, despite being a frequent tourist destination, is that locals still love it too. It’s also equally accessible to hipsters and strollers. As a Huntsville native and longtime resident, it’s where I go to feel transported from the everyday but don’t have time to travel. Or just to get an eyeful of inspiration. Or pick up a tasty treat or new jams. For first time visitors, the Lowe Mill website and social media is a good way to see what’s shaking or upcoming. You can scout out studios and shops you want to make sure and see while there. But the only real way to experience Lowe Mill is to wander around and explore it in person. You’ll make a new memory or find a keepsake to bring back home for someone special. Or, more than likely, all the above. —Matt Wake lowemill.art

Top left: Lowe MIll water tower Top right: Chef Will the Palate food truck Bottom right: Concert posters Bottom left: Irons Distillery

IN SESSION

SCAD Ervin A. Johnson’s #InHonor Project .Before completing his second bachelor’s degree in photography and an MFA at the Savannah College of Art and Design, Ervin A. Johnson graduated from the University of Illinois-Urbana Champaign with a degree in Rhetoric—which we can broadly define as the use of speech and its ability to create knowledge and use it persuasively. Imagine applying such aural and visual skills to make art, to look out at the world, look within and follow that with a universal language. SCAD Art Sales, a consultancy program offered to students, submitted Johnson’s series, Monolith, to Photo London Digital, the first online international photography fair. Monolith is the third part of a larger series titled #InHonor, a project Johnson admits had been percolating inside for years. The Trayvon Martin 54 WINTER 2021

case lit the powder keg and gave him the impetus to make art that he felt would make a difference. “How could I be more vocal and contribute to this movement and honor this multifaceted thing that exists in the art world, in the real world, on social media, which is why it’s called #InHonor. The project is really about bringing the work to the people it’s made for. It’s meant to be shared online, because I felt like I wasn’t visible for a long time, and I want it to help others feel visible.” Trayvon, the Black Kid in the Gray Hoodie, as well as Kids Driving While Black have all been “painted” in broad strokes, but not heard, much less represented. Johnson took multiple photos, then digitally and physically collaged facial parts to present them as one face. Broad or aquiline noses, hooded or deep-set eyes, dark or light skin, each has a special smile or frown, but each shares a kinship. By sharing the series online, Johnson uses

the rhetorical power of social media to recognize and usher respect to the individual, as well as express affinity with the group. While this is a pretty close to perfect example of an artist experimenting (successfully) in multimedia projects, it also illustrates the opportunities found in a school like SCAD, which, in its photography school alone, offers a panorama of technical classes, from camera systems to lighting styles, from photojournalism to fashion, and real mentoring from faculty. In a time when many of us are re-examining career— and community—there’s hope, there’s buoyancy in seeing Ervin A. Johnson looking inside and sharing his wisdom. That’s Art. —Gwynned Vitello www.scad.edu ervinajohnson.com

Above left: Monolith #25, Photographic mixed media, 16" x 20", 2019 Above right: Monolith #38, Photographic mixed media, 8" x 10", 2019

ON THE OUTSIDE

Sickid The New Folk Sickid is a young, Los Angeles-based graffiti artist and painter, best known for littering LA with an ever-changing cast of cartoon characters and situations, most notable for his work on billboards. His fine art painting includes Angeleno folk art, comics and the irreverent, as well as subjects in a more autobiographical realm. His depiction of scenes growing up around the Catholic Church, the naive painting styles of immigrant neighbors, street characters, and other untrained and raw influences hat also hint at a style influenced by the likes of Neckface and Barry McGee, and has evolved into a uniquely vibrant, colorful universe of its own. He debuted at Superchief Gallery LA in July 2019 with his first exhibition, Smile! You're on Camera, followed by a second solo show with them in Miami in December 2020.

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William Dunleavy: When did you get interested in making art, and how have you seen yourself and your style change since you started out? Sickid: I don’t know. I don’t want to say it was when I was born, but for sure when I was a little kid, I was interested in art. I was always into cartoons, and redrawing them. I liked drawing stuff from Cartoon Network, Dexter, Jimmy Neutron, the Simpsons, and Powerpuff Girls. “Him” from Powerpuff Girls definitely made me sexually confused. As a kid, I loved drawing wrestlers and toys, so I guess that was really my first form of art. I started finding artists I liked around middle school, and it blew my mind that people could do it for a living. That it could be a job was really baffling to me. Then I ended up going to a performing arts high school in LA where they were more focused on music and theatre. But

I went into the visual art department, and that was super good for me developing as an artist. I did a lot of finding myself artistically by mimicking other people’s shit and thinking about who I am, and what kind of communication I wanted to put out in the world. I think that once I finally started to become comfortable with myself and learn that I don’t necessarily need validation from people, it kind of changed into a more “me” type thing. I’m still bad at describing my style and all, but it felt way more authentic once I stopped caring. I don’t feel like I need to describe it for it to be valid. If the work speaks in its own language clearly, then it’s good. Wrestling has seemed to play a big role in your life. Yeah, it played a huge role for me. My older siblings were into it, and some of my earliest

Above: Portrait by William Dunleavy

ON THE OUTSIDE

memories are from wrestling. Like, wrestling is literally the first thing I can remember in life. That, and I grew up playing with wrestling toys and shit. Sometimes, when I get tired from working in the studio painting and stuff, or get down on myself, I’ll listen to wrestling promos to get hyped up. It’s like a self-motivational tool for me. Basically, what I’m saying is Eddie Guerrero is the shit. RIP What’s the meaning behind the name—you think you’ll keep it when you get older? The origin behind my name is that it came from a sophomore in my high school when I was a freshman. He used to bully me and stuff, and I hated going to school because of this motherfucker because he was so mean. He would talk shit about my drawings in art class, and talk shit to me about my outfits and shit like that. He was a Jehovah’s

witness kid who believed in god and all that. I’m a skateboarder, and I wore like a Suicidal Tendencies flip hat and flannels and hand-made punk shirts, Emericas. But anyway, he would always say that his drawings were better than mine, and call my shit ugly. One day I was drawing on a little postal sticker drawing, like a Creature from the Black Lagoon-type of monster, and he came over like “Oh, you’re shits nasty, you’re a sick kid, man.” Like sick-in-the-head—like not cool. But that’s where that came from and I just liked it as a name. Everyone dislikes their name, I think. I’m pretty ashamed of it. I don’t care that much about trying to restart with another, so I’m just going for it because it reminds me of when I was younger. Are you planning on ditching the name when, eventually, you’re no longer a kid?

Top left: Drag Wrestling Bottom left: Graffiti sketch, undated Right: Push a Cart, 2020

Yeah, I guess so. Recently, it’s been like, wow I can buy cigarettes. I should probably not call myself Sickid anymore. But Sickid, I guess, is like my Outsiders name, you know? It’s like I’m in The Outsiders and I’m Ralph Macchio. It’s like my internet screen name. And I like that it’s pretty symmetrical as a word; it’s like 3-3 and divisible by two. S I C K I D. You can also split it in threes. So it works really well for graffiti, which I do a lot. But, luckily, I do mostly character-based graffiti, so it wouldn’t be a huge deal if I changed my name. And, like, I don’t necessarily have to write a name every time I do graffiti. So one day I can be a 30 year old and not have to embarrassingly write “Sickid” on the side of a building. I feel like the art came first for you, since you were always interested in doing art. Then you started doing your art illegally on the street and

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ON THE OUTSIDE

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Above: An Ode to Cruz, 2020

ON THE OUTSIDE

that’s how you became a graffiti writer. I don’t feel like most artists go and do that. It’s one of my favorite parts about you as an artist. I think a lot of graffiti culture is kind of bro-ish and angsty. But for me it comes from a place of, “Notice me!” Because half the people I knew didn’t take me seriously when I was younger. But now I feel like it’s transformed into something different where it can be for other people, or a service to other people, but also myself at the same time. I definitely see it as a less selfish activity now. Right, I feel like we should mention that right now it’s fall 2020, so obviously there’s been a lot of protest stuff going on right now. You recently did a Breonna Taylor billboard and turned some of your vandalism into activism. I’m not an activist artist or anything; I’m not making protest art. But I feel like I have the ability and the skillset to do something to help spread the message right now. Not like I’m a saint or anything, but it’s something I know how to do, and if people are using their skills for the greater good right now, it’s worth doing it. I’m really not a fan of commodified “activist art” in galleries for lots of money. I think that can be really sketchy. It seems like the opposite of what it should be. That’s why I generally don’t like activist art in the art world. But yeah, my practice has become more like trying to make you feel a certain way, whether that’s awkwardness, or feeling a little bit weirded out, and it doesn’t have to be on-brand or communicate the same thing over and over again. My art is just me, so I go through a lot of changes and see it as more 3D and playful.

Above: Los Angeles, 2019

It seems like your work has become a little less offensive and irreverent recently, sometimes almost like LA folk art. What are some of the things in LA that inspire you and what are you hoping to express in your art? I think there’s a bit more quiet moments now, but I still like to go back to that stuff because it makes me happy. I like doing the gang-bang triple anal scenes as much as I like painting a scene that is reflective of my life and my city. I think the word “naive” can have a lot of negative connotations to it. But, to me, the city of Los Angeles is naive in a really awesome way, like being purely unselfconscious and just doing things because they look nice. Like if the owner of a dollar store keeps getting their building tagged, they might decide they’re just going to paint a Virgin Mary on it, like a Guadalupe. But they’ve never painted in their life, so it’s not to scale, and they never painted that large before. I think that’s fucking awesome, and it looks way better to me than someone who can render the shit out of a building and make a giant mural. That it’s so naive is what I love about it. Personally, I feel a lot more inspired by a religious landscape mural than by a “brand artist” who has painted a bunch of murals around the world, or is doing a mural to promote a product. I think sometimes there’s a direct correlation in the level of authenticity something has and its level of commodity, shit that is a product for an ad agency, versus something a person did because they wanted to create something nice there. For sure, that’s what I like about LA. You can feel the hustle and the honesty in a lot of what you see.

Like religious candles next to toilet paper, next to a 1960’s lamp. Someone from another place in the country maybe doesn’t quite get it, and that’s what a lot of “gentrifiers” are kind of missing, that inner beauty and that honesty. Like they’d rather just see a modern condo that’s just like postmodern or whatever on the edge of Silverlake. I think that’s one of the best parts of Latin American culture, in general. There’s this ethic of DIY beautification of your surroundings, maybe building an altar, painting the side of your store, or painting your religious iconography because you’d rather do that then print something out. Yeah, I feel like painting it yourself is awesome, and humans have a need to make shit. You know what I mean? I think it’s therapeutic, even if it’s challenging, because there’s more reward to it. But I am so sad to see Los Angeles dissapate into a kook town of modern buildings and condos and shit, with white people not giving a fuck, getting coffee at some new coffee shop. So would you say that there’s a lot of intentional naivete in your art that’s kind of a tribute to that immigrant art you grew up with in LA? Yeah, I think there’s some of that. But also, my own naivete too. I like seeing my mistakes. Sometimes I prefer my sketches to my paintings, you know? But there’s more of an instant, no-thought kind of feel to them. I like art that feels less experienced and unpracticed. Sickid’s solo show, Pillow Talk, will open at Superchief Gallery’s new NYC location on December 3, 2020. @sickid1

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BOOKS

Lynette Yiadom-Boakye: Fly In League With The Night There are certain painters who just have that magic aura to their paintings when you see them in person. A good Rothko can reveal that to the viewer. A Kerry James Marshall can be as if immersing yourself in a breathtaking novel. British painter Lynette Yiadom-Boakye’s portraits have that glow, this unmistakingly special quality that very few painters can capture. She is lauded as one of the most important British painters working today, but the exhibition, Lynette Yiadom-Boakye: Fly In League With The Night, showing at the Tate Britain through May 9, 2021, is her first major survey to date and obviously, long overdue. This monograph is a chronicle of this Turner finalist’s career, and the exhibition of 80 works from 2003 to the present will be overwhelmingly sublime and powerful. How she paints is timeless; if you didn’t know where to look in the history books, you would surmise her peers were Manet or Gauguin. She positions her subjects in moments of quiet power and grace, and numerous critics have commented on how she has reimagined classic European portraiture into something fresh. A writer as well, the Fly In League With The Night book will feature a new work of fiction by Yiadom-Boakye as well as essays on her creative process and evolution. As one of the standout exhibitions to close out what has been one of the most conflicted years in history, it takes us into a new year. May YiadomBoakye’s paintings remind us of the power of intimacy and elegance. —EP D.A.P./TATE, artbook.com

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WHAT WE’RE READING

Paul Whitehead

Windows On The World

How many times have we all reminisced about great record album imagery? The great artists and designers of past eras, like Mark Ryden, Storm Thorgerson or Pedro Bell, transcended the music to new levels of appreciation, providing a pictorial universe for all the sounds to exist. Paul Whitehead, the great British painter, is one of the titans of the album cover, transforming the early years of Genesis with surreal, mythical visuals for some of their most experimental albums. Finally, the Brit’s work is being collected in the new book, Paul Whitehead, a comprehensive look at his early forays into music and album cover art, as well as in-depth examinations of his various series' and long-standing relationship with Genesis. Paul Whitehead is also a fascinating look at the “genesis” of pop surrealism. From rolling billboards, those harbingers of street art, to his esteemed recognition for producing what was the largest mural in the Guiness Book of World Records at the time, to counter-culture exhibitions that thrived outside of the traditional art establishment in the 1970s and 80s, Whitehead was at the forefront of many cultural inspirations within the pages of Juxtapoz. Like Robert Williams, Whitehead loves a potent, visual pun, layering artistic genres and folklore into one work. From Genesis' Nursery Cryme cover to his creative doppelganger, Trisha van Cleef, Whitehead is a storytelling painter. While his most famed works are attached to the internationally known band, this new monograph reminds us that Whitehead has a dense, wide-ranging career in painting, and belongs in that echelon of 1960’s painters who saw creative possibilities beyond canvas, in non-traditional means such as the album cover, shaping a twenty-first century blueprint for young artists today. —EP paulwhitehead.com

On September 11, 2001, in the wake of terrorist attacks, many Americans felt like survivors, especially New Yorkers, most especially first responders and families of the victims. We read news accounts, saw their faces on fliers, journalists interviewed them. But of the undocumented immigrants who perished, there were no photos that appeared on walls and no one to comfort their families. Robert Mailer Anderson, Zack Anderson and Jon Sack have collaborated on a graphic novel, Windows On The World, published by Fantagraphics, that tells one such story of an undocumented worker working as a dishwasher at Windows of the World atop the World Trade Center. Watching the news from Mexico, his terrified wife thinks she sees him running away from the doomed building, and their son Fernando decides to go to New York to find him. Dramatic black-andwhite linework guides the emotions that grip every scene in his journey, from the perils of traveling through the desert, to the impact of arriving in New York City, only to arrive at the rescue center and be told, ”If your father didn’t officially work in the Towers, he can’t officially be missing.” From hopeless to homeless, from lost to found, we learn what Fernando discovers on reaching his destination. More importantly, we realize that the story is ongoing for “unofficial” immigrants who, during covid, are afraid to seek medical aid and a modicum of pandemic relief. The stark black-and-white drawing brands the book with the impact this story deserves. —GV Fantagraphics, fantagraphics.com

NOV. 21, 2020

FEB. 14, 2021

Sponsored in part by Bisa Butler (American, born 1975), The Storm, the Whirlwind, and the Earthquake (detail). Cotton, silk, wool, and velvet, quilted and appliquéd, 2020. 50 x 88 x 2 in. Purchased with funds from the Florence Scott Libbey Bequest in Memory of her Father, Maurice A. Scott, 2020.35. Image courtesy Claire Oliver Gallery, New York.

toledomuseum.org

Amani Lewis More Blessed to Give Interview by Kristin Farr Portrait by Alex Nuñez

F

or Amani Lewis, the portraits are much more than a likeness. Mapping inner landscapes of beloved subjects and layering materials that speak to a true human essence, they portray a lived experience and spiritual being, weaving together the personal and ancestral. Amani leaverages their work to help friends gain momentum, supporting them through kinship, honoring them in multi-faceted, sparkling light. Explaining the seamless connections between their art and community in Baltimore, the artist explains: “My work exists because these people exist.” These portraits are not commodities, but catalysts for change and healing. Kristin Farr: Art school changes everyone, and your years at MICA seemed pivotal. Now, almost five years later, how do you reflect on that time? Amani Lewis: Being a student at MICA was pivotal in the sense that It brought me closer to a city I knew not too much about. It taught me how to build relationships with new people, and It helped me understand the importance

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of having and supporting your community. Although I feel like we created a bubble within the city, it was my first step into taking initiative and doing what I wanted to do in this new community of mine. It also gave me the space to just explore and talk out various ideas or concepts with my peers and work out the issues at hand. It was also a time to build relationships with my forever friends, Murjoni Merriweather and Joanna Nanajian, who are amazing artists themselves, with a focus on identity and culture. I don’t really look back at those times, but when I do, it is the engagements that I remember the most, and the foundation of my work, which was created while holding the hands of my peers during a time of hardships, police killings and unrest. What do you like about using photography as the basis of your portraits? Something that I’ve learned by listening and researching artists like Brice Marden and Hank Willis Thomas is that the photograph often does this beautiful thing of capturing an exact moment

that cannot be repeated. It holds that moment as an archive and frames that moment with intention. I also started adding a border around my painting because I like the idea of containing the viewer’s eyes within the frame so they’re not wondering what happens outside of the image, but focus on what happens within. Tell me about all your different materials. The portraits I paint have to do with following the lines and characteristics of my subject’s body that makes them the person who they are—while also mapping the lineage of that person to the likeness of a topographical map. In my series Negroes in the Trees, I talked about migrations from the traumatic and inhuman treatments that were happening to black people in the south, to places like Baltimore and further north, where they sought refuge. That tracing of their footsteps lies in the blood and the features of all black people today. So it made sense to me to compare migration and lineage to the mapping of natural landscapes, as they are intertwined. My materials consist of tangible

Above: Negros in the Trees #2, Acrylic, oil pastel, digital collage and quilt on canvas, 62" x 42", 2019

Above: AABUGIE, Acrylic, digital collage, textiel and glitter on canvas, 60" x 76", 2020

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and intangible objects like paints and glitter, but also the realities of my subjects and the stories they wish to share. Is there a standard process for laying down each of those many layers? I start with a reference photo of the subject that I’m going to paint. That photo gets digitally drawn, altered, manipulated and then gets printed on canvas as a digital collage. After that, I add different materials, such as acrylic paints, pastels, and glitter, especially, to build up the image.

That’s pretty standard for all my pieces. I am now going back to my printmaking techniques to add a screen-printing process that will make the canvases pop even more! Do different materials have different symbolism? Not necessarily. The action of painting allows me to symbolize and represent people in my community as vibrant, content in their surroundings and beautiful. All the materials assist to make that happen. They draw the viewer

to the piece and create moments of awe where they are able to see the subject through my eyes and how I see them. In one of your works, the figure has a textile jacket made and stitched onto the canvas by your friend. Does fashion interest you? The piece you’re talking about is a collaboration between me and Ambrose, an artist from North Carolina who is also my partner. She created the textile jacket, and then it was sewn onto the piece by Baltimore fashion designer Keisha Ransome. The idea came about while working in the studio with Ambrose and watching her create textural collages with fabric. I wanted to have something like that included in this work. In terms of fashion, my personal style is quite simplistic, but I’ve always been interested in thermographic cameras. So, most times, my figures will have that thermographic style on their clothes. Besides that, I’m not so much into fashion but more so the process it takes to make the work. What are the main questions you ask through your work? When I first started the Negroes in the Trees series, I was challenging the viewer’s perspectives by asking questions like, what do you think about when you hear the title, Negroes in the Trees? Where does this derive from? And how can we reimagine these narratives that often overshadow the complex and layered realities of black peoples’ lives? In my current body of work, the questions are embedded so that they don’t need to be asked.

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You seem to be navigating an endless stream of stories to elevate. Do you impose pressure on yourself in the process? Honestly, I feel a lot of pressure by my way of working because I don’t have someone to reference or go to for advice. I feel as though I am one of the only artists who is using their work to do more than just challenge, critique or be a gorgeous image. I feel like the groundwork I do in building relationships with folks in my community and how that impacts not only the viewers but the subjects, adds an additional layer to an already very layered work. Actual folks are depending on me and the work to accomplish what I know the work can do: assist folks to reimagine themselves and their lives in a light they have never seen before, to sell and provide financial assistance for whatever it is they may need, to be somewhat of a mentor to the young men and women who are asking questions like, how can I create something that is important to me and have people support it? How can I make an impact, too? How do I get people to understand who I am and what I’ve been through without pity, and how can the readiness be a catalyst for change in my

Above: ZAY (South Miami), Acrylic, pastel, glitter, fabric and digital collage on canvas, 2020.

life? Will you stay around, or are you here for the moment? It can be hard, but I am gaining a family in the process. I have big plans for my future and these people will be active parts in the continuation of our legacy. Your recent show’s title referenced a Bible verse. How did it resonate with you and support the show’s intentions?

Above: DEV, Acrylic, pastel, glitter and digital collage on canvas, 62" x 63", 2020

That verse was Corinthians 12:14. It talks about the body being of many hosts, not one, and this means more to me as a way of working and a lifestyle, not just this exhibition. This scripture is the way I want to move in the world. I think about how every human on this planet needs each other, no matter how independent we perceive ourselves to be, because we live in an ecosystem where we need to support one another. I believe

we will all thrive when we lean into that—wanting to collaborate, be vulnerable and allow others to contribute new perspectives or things you may have never thought about. So the solo show was actually a group show of a few artists I love and respect and wanted the public to see. Are there verses that help see you through this time or are making their way into new works? AMANI LEWIS JUXTAPOZ .COM 73

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Above: Earl From Yonder Round 2, Acrylic, pastel, glitter, textile and digital collage, 2020

Above: Kotic Couture, Acrylic, pastel, glitter, digital screen print on canvas, 50" x 50", 2020

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I grew up Christian and am a very spiritual person, in general, so I carry God and those sermons with me in my heart. They were scriptures that I remember since I was a child, and that I keep revisiting and seeing in my dayto-day. And so, although these are very difficult times, I’m not calling unto God more or less than I was before, because they exist in me. What’s your experience been like in the art world, in terms of talking about spirituality? There hasn’t been anything out of the ordinary. Most of my peers are brothers and sisters in Christ. I believe that God lives in all of us and we allow God to show its face as little or as much as we want to or can in our lives. For me, I know where my talents come from, where the need to work with my community derives. I am an empathetic human who just wants everyone who has been wronged to experience a life, or even a moment, of everything going right—to feel monumental and worthy of every good thing that should happen to them in the process of working together. Who do you choose to honor in your work? Sometimes it’s my friends and family, but sometimes it’s literally random people I’ve met

on the streets and had a conversation with. Sometimes I see certain people whose energies call out to me and I just walk up to them and say hello. The conversation builds and then they begin to tell me things that are affecting them. From there, I tell them about the work I do,

"Sometimes I see certain people whose energies call out to me." and I bring them in as a part of this journey of exploration, reflection, vulnerability, and then excitement once the painting begins. Tell me about your Squeegee Boy series and subjects.

The Squeegee boys are like my little brothers. The first Squeegee boy I ever met was Nate, who came to my window when I had no money, and was so graceful when I told him that. He told me to stay blessed and to continue to think about them, and so I did. I later supported him by sending him some money to his CashApp account, a wire transfer app, and asked him to stay in touch. From there, I got connected to five or six boys altogether, who are some of the best men I have met to this day. They work hard, no matter their circumstances, and keep a smile on their faces to stay up. They deserve the best the world can give them, and I am doing whatever I can to be a support system for them. What do you want to make that you haven’t yet? A dream that I’m currently manifesting as we speak is to create a large 28 x 8-foot multi-panel painting that features the Squeegee boys as the happiest they’ve ever been. Like the idea Derrick Adams works with a lot, Radical Black Joy,and that it will be funded by a patron who will support the needs of myself, the subjects and the collaborators. I believe it’s so important for those who have acquired wealth off of the labor and resources of Indigenous peoples and lands, from the Americas, to Africa and beyond, to be returning those resources back into the livelihoods and practices of those people. So I hope my patrons rise up and do their part. I am happy to say that I believe I found someone who sees the work and wants to support the dream! What’s coming up in the new year? Ambrose and I have been talking a lot about new projects and new bodies of work that we want to exhibit, and that includes potential gallery shows with a couple of our artist friends working with the color Black. What do you love most about Baltimore? I love my community. I love the rawness, the culture of dancing and speaking, the fearlessness my people have in a city that is seen as one of the worst cities in the States to live in. It is these connotations, and lack of funding and support, that pushes the people to work for themselves in support of their community. I am just blessed to be a part of it. Amani Lewis has an exhibition on view in December 2020 with Kravetz Wheby, NYC, with artists Ambrose Murray and Murjoni Merriweather. Murray and Lewis are also included in an upcoming group exhibition at Deitch Projects in LA. In Spring 2021, Lewis will have a solo show, 1 Corinthians 12:14 ROUND 2, curated by Pittsburgh curator and director of Alma Lewis Gallery, Kilolo Luckett amanilewis.com lianaambrosemurray.com myrjoni.com

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Above: Butch Dawson (Proverbs 3:5-8), Acrylic, glitter, textile and digital collage on canvas, 52" x 52", 2020

Top: Nate and Bam ... when the city was sunny (John 16:33), Acrylic, pastel, glitter and digital collage on canvas, 2020 Bottom: Negroes in the Trees #10 (the breath to my fire), Acrylic, pastel, glitter, textile and digital collage, 60" x 40", 2019

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Brian Calvin The Waiting Game Interview by Evan Pricco Portrait by Moira Tarmy

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J

ust before I got on the phone with Ojai, California-based painter, Brian Calvin, I wrote a little note to myself: “Bridging the gap.” I wasn’t sure how this was going to infiltrate our conversation, but subconsciously this phrase sounded perfectly in tune with the prolific artist. From his 30 years of figurative painting, his love of Philip Guston, the influence of Funk art, his continued success with solo shows around the world, to the incredible coincidence of 2020 solo exhibits in China and NYC, Calvin has built a career of bridges. His work is vibrant, constant. His evolution appears dramatic when seen from above over three decades of paintings, but each show elicits a conversation with his past and present, and that seems exactly where Calvin is most happy—in the moment. We spoke on an early fall day, as California suffered through another heat wave with fires burning north to south and east to west. The paintings for Calvin’s seventh solo show with Anton Kern Gallery, Waiting, now at the gallery’s Upper East Side location through December 5, were about to be sent to the East Coast. We spoke at length about Guston, what it means to be a California artist and how the studio still excites him. 80 WINTER 2021

Evan Pricco: Your year is going to bookend in an interesting way: start with a show in China and end with one in NYC. And of course, every single thing in between. But there is a reality, regardless, that something changed in your life. So what changed? Brian Calvin: Yeah. That’s a tough one. I mean, it’s true. I would say, for me, certain parts of my practice didn’t need to change, but they did change. I got back from Shanghai a week or two before they locked it down. I was there in January. Everyone was planning their Chinese New Year trips, and then it all got shut down. My show there was closed for weeks. So, it feels like 2020 has just been this nonstop story. It has for everyone, of course. I came back and hit the ground running because I had other projects to work on, but there’s also always a lull after putting up a show, a little depression, trying to get everything back up to snuff. And then when the shutdown happened, I mean, we have two daughters, so I stayed home out of solidarity with everyone. Just like, what the hell is this? I cleared out a little space in the garage and started working from home. First drawing, then some painting, just working at a more intimate scale. I could have gone into my studio, and I did

every now and then, but it just felt off somehow. We’re all trying to figure things out. It felt off to go alone to the studio and not stay with the family. But it’s funny, because then I ended up being very productive at home. It was slow going at first, but felt better than running off to the studio to adjust colors in a painting. Which reminds me of a Philip Guston quote from 1968: “The war, what was happening to America, the brutality of the world. What kind of man am I, sitting at home, reading magazines, going into a frustrated fury about everything—and then going into my studio to adjust a red to a blue.” So certainly, for me, how can you not allow the moment to push you in some other way. I guess I was feeling that. At a certain point, I started coming to the studio a few hours every afternoon just to keep it on my mind, to know that it was still there. After some months, I had accumulated a lot of work. I knew I had a show scheduled with Anton Kern, and I gradually shifted back into the studio to translate the new work into some larger scale paintings. It’s interesting that you bring up Guston right now, as we are in the midst of his shows being postponed. He is such a pivotal painter for so

All images © Brian Calvin, Courtesy of the artist and Anton Kern Gallery, New York Above: Committee, Acrylic on canvas, 84" x 56", 2020

many people, and coupled with that quote, or idea, of him, in the midst of social upheaval, going to the studio feeling a bit out of touch perhaps, provokes reflection. As this year’s gone on, and especially as the social activism movement was peaking, did you have moments where you were like, “What? Maybe I shouldn’t be here today. Or maybe I’ll change my direction?” There were definitely moments where I just wouldn’t be here. It’s strange, because you want to be able to... I think there’s this human urge to make sense of things, to contribute to things, and yet, obviously another key part of this moment is reflecting and, most importantly, listening. Although things are coming out so fast that there’s also a need for immediate action. I think an artist of any kind, any person, but I say artist, because you’re making things, I don’t know how you can’t go through a slight crisis of, “What are these things I’m putting out into the world doing?”

about contemporary or modern art, except for little things I’d glean from magazines or album covers. It was so powerful, a shock to my system. I was like, wait, painting is still “a thing” and can be really connected to its moment. The references made a lot of sense to me, and yet the scale, the way it was painted made me think, “Yeah, I’d much rather do that than draw a comic.” We can talk about Guston all day. Referencing that quote and seeing his work in person reminds me that Guston’s move to more figurative work was so dismissed and critically unimpressive to the critics at the time. But he has built a foundation which many figurative artists nowadays use as a reference point. I like how so many figurative artists we cover now mention Guston as, like, their gateway drug.

That makes sense. I mean, he was so formative for me. I’m thinking of that time and my experiences at Berkeley and the Bay Area in general, before the internet, when everything still felt hyperlocal. Joan Brown was a professor there, and I was seduced by both Bay Area figuration and the Funk Art legacy. When I was in high school, I had an older friend who was up at UC Davis and hipped me to William T. Wiley, Robert Arneson, Peter Voulkus. I didn’t go to Berkeley knowing anything about anything, so these people informed my reality, really, when it came to art making. They certainly opened up the larger world of art. I took T.J. Clark art history classes at UC Berkeley. There were all these incredible people and resources, and I was just a sponge. I think, before then, my interest in art had been different. I came across Giotto and Piero della

And yet, at the same time, I firmly believe that artists don’t need to deal with things directly to create these pathways for people to imagine a world that’s more like what they want. So I’ve certainly been, I guess you’d say, wrestling or struggling with all those thoughts, not to mention the privilege of my position. So, staying here for a moment, if we were to walk into Anton Kern this month, will there be moments where you would remember, “Oh this painting came from this moment in the summer. This one is me reacting to XYZ…” As a painter, there’s an urgency to create, but also, during social change, there’s urgency that’s even more immediate. Do you see it yourself, these changes happening in your work as these huge moments in America are happening all around? Can you see the immediacy in your marks? That’s a good question. And I don’t know how well I can truly answer that. There’s so much anxiety all around, certainly within me, within my family, our communities everywhere. Obviously there is coronavirus, but then the issues around police brutality, systemic racism, economic inequity are massive. And everyone’s been simultaneously feeling kind of stuck in lockdown, which was strange because it’s hard to tell whether that stuck feeling helped people really reflect on these ongoing issues? Reflect on America? It seems partially, yes. It’s funny to come back to Guston, because he is one of the artists who initially really moved me. I understood he was speaking to the times without being so direct or literal. I saw my first Guston painting in person when I was an undergraduate at Berkeley Art Museum, and they had this one really incredible painting of a few hooded men riding in a little car on the outskirts of a city. The bottom section of the painting dissolved into raw canvas as if you could just paint your way into the scene. This was around 1988, so I’d only come to know his work. I hadn’t grown up really knowing anything

Above: Delayed Reaction, Acrylic on linen, 18" x 24", 2020

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Francesca my first year in school, and those paintings resonated with me in a profound way. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I saw them, these painters from 500 and 700 years ago, and thought, “I’m going to be a painter.” But then seeing those references in Guston and his ability to harness something so deep like that with this seemingly crass other stuff, too, and his beautiful movement of paint… it was just so inspiring. And the great thing is that it looks easier than it is. So, you see his work, and you think, “Yeah. I can do that.” Which is good, because it makes you try it out and you never know. You fail. You deal with the frustration. This is a huge part of trying to make images in the first place. You only ever know what you know. You make mistakes and then you learn something new. You make something that looks better than the day before, and that’s exciting, especially when you’re young. I still feel that way, like 30 years later.

I want to talk about the idea of being a California artist. I’m sort of obsessed with it because I’m from here and still can’t quite define it. You were born here, you live here, you went to school here: What does being a California artist mean to you?

"You only ever know what you know." It’s a good question, and I’ve thought about this over the years. I don’t know that I know exactly, because so much focus in the United States is on LA and New York, but so few artists in either city are originally from there. Having gone to

grad school in Chicago, you got that version, too, of people from the Midwest moving to Chicago, although that always felt practical. People have more romanticized and stereotypical ideas of California and NY. There are people who moved to California, and they really, especially in the cases of, say Hockney or Ruscha, painted an idea of California, and then they were able to really blow it out, exploit it and make amazing art, exploring and expanding the mythology of Los Angeles or Hollywood, to begin with. And, I think my sense… I never had a conceptual idea of what California meant, because it was always home base. And the Central Valley where I grew up was nothing like the California that you see in movies or on TV. So within that, I think I’ve always liked the idea of just trying to, on some level, let the peculiarities be part of what I do. You’ve had so many shows over the years, one of my favorites being last spring in Paris at Almine Rech. I just loved the gallery and the way the works hung in such a beautiful space. Since you have had so many exhibitions, what is your pre and post-game for these kinds of bodies of work? Drawing, really. Drawing is my daily practice. I’ve always got multiple sketchbooks going. I do these little thumbnails all the time. I always have one on me. If I’m out, say when my daughter is riding a horse, I’ll just take a book out of my pocket and sketch. At the times when I feel least able to contemplate standing in front of a canvas, I just draw and I repeat myself. It’s like a cow chewing on its cud. I just do the same drawing over and over or start thinking of a painting I’ve made and try to draw it from memory. At some point, something gives way to something else, something new. I’ll have a teeny, two inch by one inch sketch and I’m, like, “I think that would work really well at five feet.” So then I go into the studio and just give it a try. And then you’re working, it’s cooking. It’s like, “Oh shit, I need more of something else.” Sometimes it works. Sometimes it dies on the vine and you have to get over it, to move on. That was a lot more difficult when I was younger. Having kids, my girls are 11 and 15, changed my perspective. I was surprised how becoming a parent made me less anxious in general, and certainly much less anxious about art. I used to brood over things in the studio a lot, wake up at night thinking about some painting that wasn’t behaving. Now there is a certain clarity, like, “What the fuck was I ever worrying about?” This is not a life or death situation. Now I know I just happen to get anxious at a certain point in the process. I’ll feel that the work is never going to come together. When I have those periods, I tend to have a few nights of restless sleep, then I get into the studio

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Above: Goodbye Kiss, Acrylic on linen, 24" x 30", 2020

Above: Close Likeness, Acrylic on linen, 30" x 40", 2020

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and I get this rush of like… oh right, this is what happens every time when working on a new body of work. This is when you try to change up your speed, work more quickly, work with more abandon and welcome the mistakes. Then you look at the painting and say to yourself, “Okay, wait, this is exciting me now.” You get a little bit outside your head. You start to see new possibilities, and mainly, you just start reacting to things. I’m at my worst when I’m trying to think up a show from scratch, and now I just don’t. I start with a few drawings. Then I start a painting. Next, I start a few more paintings. They start going, they make me think of something else, and it’s just an ongoing process. And really, I just see myself as someone who makes paintings and drawings every day. And every handful of months, I edit them into an exhibition. I just trust that there’s only so much that I’m going to be thinking of at any given time. So it kind of edits itself into coherence.

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Is it weird for you to think that potentially, because you’ve been doing this for 30 years and you have a significant body of work, and so many people appreciate what you do, that you could, in a way, be somebody’s Guston? Ha, if I want to be anyone’s Guston, I need to step it up. I mean, let’s pay respect to him and his singularity. But it’s amazing already. I have certainly met and heard from young artists who talk about the moment that they saw a painting of mine or something, and it’s funny to realize you had the same thing with someone else. Art making allows you to experience time in a really different and unique way. I’ve been making images for such a large percentage of my life and that part of my reality doesn’t seem connected to how I experience the day-to-day march of time. It’s an ongoing conversation in my own mind, and paintings and drawings are the byproduct. They feel true to me, but once they are exhibited outside of the studio, they are not mine anymore. They aren’t fixed in their meaning, but take on new relevance by whomever is viewing them.

I see image making and painting as a continuum that’s been happening since humans first started scratching on a wall. The fact that I can just be part of that conversation is so exciting. It’s so peculiar, so basic, because it’s all in your body. This weird brain to hand-eye coordination that produces a means of nonverbal communication. To me, that’s where it’s at. So yeah, there’s nothing that I would love more than to keep moving it down the line, to be a link in the chain. What keeps me excited and makes me feel young in the studio is that we’re communicating with dead artists from the centuries before us, but I’m also trying to speak to this moment at the same time. If we’re lucky, we’re also speaking with future artists. And that balance is what keeps things fresh. Take Caravaggio, for example his paintings were so hardcore, speaking the vernacular of his present moment, but the vocabulary was drenched in the paintings that preceded him. And Guston… again, a perfect example. Brian Calvin’s solo show, Waiting, is on view at Anton Kern Gallery, NYC, through December 5, 2020.

Above: Land of the Living, Acrylic on linen, 40" x 30", 2020

Top left: Recession, Acrylic on canvas, 56" x 70", 2020 Top right: Passing Thoughts, Acrylic on canvas, 30" x 40", 2020 Bottom left: Waiting Woman II, Acrylic on canvas, 56” x 70”, 2020 Bottom right: Couple, Acrylic on linen, 12" x 16", 2020

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Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe You’re in America Interview by Shaquille Heath Portrait by Dan Kvitka

88 WINTER 2021

All images: Courtesy of the artist and Roberts Projects, Los Angeles, California Above: Portrait of Nyawal Tut, Oil on canvas, 36" x 48", 2019

O

tis Kwame Kye Quaicoe wants you to feel seen. And I mean that sincerely. It is at the heart of what he does. In every brushstroke, every flower, every mouth covered and eyeball exposed. He is methodical. A powerful narrator, he documents Black life by painting subject’s likeness, enriched with flourishes from his personal memory bank. It is almost historical fiction, yet his instincts are spot on. After moving to Portland in 2017 from his home in Ghana, Quaicoe was awakened by a baptism in good ol’ American racism, which inspired his first solo exhibition in the U.S., Black Like Me. He aimed to find himself in the richness of Black people around him, to pay tribute to Black existence in a country that actively works to negate it. Showing at Roberts Projects in LA, it may be the only documented kindness bestowed by 2020, finishing its run just a week before the pandemic lockdown. Quaicoe and I spoke at the end of a tireless summer, one which started with righteous black boxes, yet ended with a deluge of lip service. Still, Quaicoe prevails through the stagnation. Regardless of the outcome, he’s found new protest on canvas, and his mission remains the same. No matter how you found him, he’s glad you just might start to understand. Shaquille Heath: So, Black person to Black person, how are you taking care or finding joy right now? Otis Kwame Kye Quaicoe: My only joy is just going to the studio. Because when I go to the studio, I just shut the world behind me, and then it’s all about what I’m doing at that moment. And the colors… the brushes, the music. I listen to music from home. It calms me down, and keeps me out of all the craziness that is going on. Yeah, in this moment, we’re still very much in the midst of this “racial reckoning.” I can’t help but think about how you work actively, with intention, to showcase Black people—almost giving us this dignity that the world still does not allot to us in many ways. I’m wondering, what does it mean for you to portray that right now? I always say, it doesn’t make any difference because of what is going on now. Since I got here from Ghana, I’ve had a couple of racist experiences. It is one of the reasons why I started mainly with the kind of body of work that I was doing. And, plus, this is something that other artists have been doing for so long. It just only happens that because of what is going on currently, that people are paying attention. They are much more aware… even though they were aware before—but now they are much more aware of how crazy and deep this thing is. I will also say that, now, it makes people understand what you are working on, even more. So yeah, there’s not been any kind of change, because it is something that I’ve been working on quite a long time. Before all this. But, people get to

Above: Side Profile of David Theodore, Oil on canvas, 36" x 48", 2019

understand it even more. And they have a clearer picture of what has been going on for a long time. Have you heard that response from people? That they’re like, “Wow! I get it even deeper now?” Oh, yeah! A lot of people. Especially with the exhibition I had with Roberts Projects. There are a lot of people who reach out to me and say, “Do you know what? I’m now understanding what that piece meant. And now I understand why you did it.” People will message and tell me that. I’m just glad that they get it now. I’m curious, since the end of May, have you noticed an influx of what you might say is inauthentic attention? When all this pandemic happened, all that [Black Lives Matter] started, people reached out to me on Instagram and they were like, “We want to

support you! We want to support you! Can you do...” But you know, in some ways, it's kind of like an insult. You know? We’ve been here for a long time. You know, these Black people have been right under your nose. You walk by their shop every day, and you didn’t try to help or try to support them in any way. So the whole thing is like a trend that they are doing. If you want to support, support because you see the potential of the person. Not because there is a thing going on. I want to recognize that you’ve been in Portland during the pandemic. And, I feel like Portlanders are some of the hardest-going protesters during this entire time. What have you seen or witnessed, and how do you think it’s influenced your art practice? You know what… what I try to do, sometimes, it’s just too much when you go on the internet, and

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then you see all that brutality. Sometimes it's too much to carry, right? For me as an artist, my way of coping with that is to just continue to work more on my subjects. Because... I’m not able to voice out the way other people do. My only way of voicing out is using my brush and paint. So the people that I represent on the canvas must be very powerful. And they must be very commanding when the viewer sees it. That is my way of protesting. The figure has to be as powerful as I would like my voice to be. You know, so... with the protests, it just gives me motivation to work more. Your show Black Like Me closed right before the pandemic. As an African living within this

system, how do you think that American racism has impacted your art practice, if at all? Oh, it has influenced it majorly. Like I said, when I first arrived here, I arrived with an open mind, Right? With Black crime and police brutality on TV back home, I was like, “Oh! This is going on!” But when you are not here [in America], you don’t understand the full effect of it. So when I got here, the idea was that there was a difference between the African and then the African-American. So, I was thinking that they would treat me in a way that was different than the African-American living here already. I’ll tell you, one day I woke up in the morning, went outside to exercise a little bit, and I was jogging. And then I realized the police were

following me. This police car was following me! So this car would just drive by, and go. So I tried to slow down, and the car also slowed down. I go faster, the car moves faster. And then I realized they were following me, which they did all the way to the park where I went to stretch out. They watched me, and made me know that they were watching me. They stood there, waited as I finished my training, and followed me all the way back to my house. So that kinda, like, triggered me. And I was like, “oh okay…” So all the little experiences that I had, they were a learning process. It doesn’t matter if you are from Zimbabwe. It doesn’t matter if you are from South Africa. One: you are Black. And if they knew it, you are a target. You are a “dangerous” person. So I start to, you know, have other experiences and then you think, “You know what, it’s time to talk about this.” But how do I talk about it? I try to find other Black people that are living here. Talk to them. Photograph them. And then try to capture everything that is there in their personality, and put it in a still image. So when I paint my figures, I try as much as possible to capture their spirit. To capture their emotions. To capture what they want to say, but cannot say, in just one image. So that when you see the figure or the painting, you wonder who the person is. What kind of person? Whether they look so rigid, or so powerful or so emotional or all that. Black Like Me, it’s just me finding myself in any other African-American. Everywhere we go, we are being attacked. So, I put myself in their shoes. And that is one of the reasons why I made it Black Like Me, because no matter where you are from, you are Black. You are in trouble… You’re in America. You’re in America. Ha ha! I've heard you say that all of the subjects in your paintings are telling a story. What comfort do you take in telling a loved one’s story, versus a stranger’s? And does that make the process different? The process is the same. But, it’s just the emotions that are involved in it that are different when you're dealing with someone you know. When I am painting, I kind of put myself in the realm of the person. You know, when the person is talking to me. How the person feels. I have to put myself in that emotion to be able to get the full idea of who she is, or who he is. To be able to project that on the canvas. ’Cause when you are telling someone's story, or when you are presenting someone to the outside world, you have to get it right. You don’t have to make up something, because you start with the person and speak to the person. So, whenever my figures are involving someone I know or someone I spoke to— when I’m done with it, I show them first. And then when they see, sometimes they are stunned.

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Above: Fiona Musanga, Oil on canvas, 36" x 48", 2020

Above: Kwame Asare in Stripes, Oil on canvas, 54" x 84", 2020

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92 WINTER 2021

Above: Untitled, Oil on canvas, 30" x 40", 2020

I did a portrait of someone recently, a Black mechanic next to my studio. I walked by a few times, and I stopped by to say hi. And I had him stop by the studio once. He came and we had a conversation, and I took a couple of photos of him. And I painted him. And one day, I invited him to come and look at the painting. He came in there and he was speechless! I’ll show you the video. That alone for me… it's just an amazing thing. The ones that I paint out from my head, that’s my own way of adding my own story. My own experience. I’m not using my face, but trying to create images of different people I've seen when I’m walking around. Facial expressions, shapes… so that is where I put my own experience. Black people who I couldn’t talk to. The pieces are kind of like a collage. Just different pieces that I put together to talk about my kind of people. So, the process is the same, but the approach and the emotion are different. How do you choose what story of theirs to tell? Or are you telling multiple stories when painting? First, when I approach them, I listen to their story to know about them, and what’s going on in their lives. Once you know that, you have an idea of how to approach the work. And then, I add my life to it. My additions are when it comes to the fashions and the surroundings—what I add to the background. So, it’s a combination of both stories. The main story from the outside is capturing the emotions and the person's spirit. Who the person is. And then I add the dressing. You know how we Black people dress! You know how we want to stand out as people. We dress in a statement way. We want to look so powerful! So I add all those kinds of things. Things you see when you walk into a Black neighborhood. Things that make us unique. One piece that I love is called Steady Gaze. And I think about it particularly right now, because his mouth is covered—you can just see his nose. Oh, and his eye! There’s a way that his eye is looking at you. I feel like it’s a representation of all of the things that we can see, as well as all of the things that we can’t, when it comes to our emotions in this year. And that’s some of the things when it comes to these little details in my cowboy series. It’s like, I told somebody, “America, they tell you, land of the free. You live free.” We are free… but we are not free. That is the thing. As a Black person growing up in a Black community or Black family, I’m taught how to speak in a certain way in the midst of one people. So, it’s like, you do all the coaching and emotions just with your eyes. You just have to be constantly looking around when you go to places. Just like me. When I go out, I have to look around constantly. I have to be aware of where I’m going. To be aware of the people who are around me and all that, ya know. So, I don't like when I cover their mouth. It's

Above: Red Bandana on Green Suit, Oil on canvas, 36" x 48", 2020

just all the silence. The things that we want to say, but we cannot because it might get us killed, or get us arrested, or get us in trouble. So we kind of do all of our talking with our eyes. I walked into a grocery shop, and people stared at me in a weird way. And all I can do is just stand back. It’s just like… we are communicating with silence. It's very powerful in a way. There’s this thing going on, but we cannot say. All because of what is going on. Something that I’ve noticed walking around, particularly when I’m meeting eyes with another Black person… you know before, there was always the acknowledgement of, “seeing another Black person.” It’s always like, “Hey! There you are! You exist too!” [Laughing] Haha, so true, so true!

But now it’s almost like… it’s even a deeper love—when I’m connecting eyes with another Black person right now. Yeah! Even when I go to Chicago, I walk around the street and they nod the head, or they wink or something. You know there is something deeper. It’s kind of like saying “I got you!” I got your back, you got my back… that kind of thing. Like I said, I always have most of my experiences at the grocery shop. I was in line, at the checkout, and this Black person tapped on my shirt and said, “I’m glad I’m not the only Black person here.” And I turned around and we smiled at each other, and then we just went on. It’s just so crazy sometimes when you think about it. It might look little, but it’s a really big thing. @otis_quaicoe

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Danica Lundy The Art of Extended Release Interview by Sasha Bogojev Portrait by the artist

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Above: Kiss the Clock, Oil on canvas, 48.5" x 71.5", 2020

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can recall the first time I saw Danica Lundy’s work in person, marveling at how the layering, perspective and dimension of her visuals seemed to open before my eyes, how a gravelly surface or metallic shine took shape from her brush strokes, how color gradients transformed the flat canvas into threedimensional space. I also remembered meeting her a few days later at her Brooklyn studio and being charmed by her genuine, generous character, equally matched by a zestful energy that fully complemented such captivating work. So, in order to avoid the awkward lag of video calls and exert some rebellion to 2020 protocols, we opted for a good ol’ penpal method of communication. Over the course of a few weeks, we wrote to each other, covering everything from cars, to art and sports analogies, to the experience of being a Canadian living in the USA. Sasha Bogojev: How’s life been in the last 6 months since I last (and first), saw you? Danica Lundy: Have you ever seen the movie Dark City? It might be kind of obvious from the title, but in that city, the sun never rises or sets, and for the most part, the characters are totally oblivious to it. Looking back, I have this weird feeling the last six months could’ve just been one long night. As a Canadian in the US, how does your life journey look or feel like at this point in time? Funny you’d ask this next—in that same movie, the protagonist has this vague but enduring memory of his coastal home called Shell Beach. Everyone in the city is aware of the place, but no one remembers how to get there, and each attempt to get there is thwarted somehow. And when they finally do find it, it’s just a massive poster at the edge of the city. I’m pretty sure my home in Canada does exist, and I miss it terribly. But that’s the kind of feeling I get while thinking about finding my way back right now. It’s a strange time to be an “alien” here—maybe even stranger to be an alien in disguise. I’m assumed to be American until a certain word or two escapes, and then the game’s up. It’s even more disconcerting when I’m assumed American at a time when actual citizens are told to “go back to where they came from” by their own president. I guess any sense of stability forged here is tenuous within this kind of political backdrop. I feel focussed here. I have a studio in a neighbourhood within walking distance of a bunch of peers, a damn good man-friend—and a new dog we just adopted. I guess I feel a sense of purpose in making things, and deadlines have allowed me to side-step the over-thinking. Despite what I just said about tenuousness,

Above: Double Date, Oil on canvas, 27.5" x 39.25", 2019

there’s a totally convincing, non-illusionary feeling of home here. Does it feel, though, a bit like having a joker card, knowing you actually do have another home and this isn’t your original home, that this president isn’t your president? The only answer to this question is Orwellian: “Two plus two makes five. Oceania is at war with Eastasia. Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia.” Sort of kidding, although

I find myself watching what I say here closely. I’ve never felt more suited to a place before. New York specifically, I mean. I don’t want to leave. And it would be tempting to denounce the absolutely egregious MAGA shit-storm as, “not my monkey, not my circus.” But that would be impossible—especially because I’m living and breathing here in the middle of one of the biggest civil rights movements in US history, where systems of oppression are being challenged and deep-rooted racial and social

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inequities exposed. It would be unconscionable to be on the sidelines for that. But my American boyfriend Tim and I do talk about moving back to my island. He wants to get a float plane. We biked around on the fourth of July, fireworks popping up on the street in front of us… and Tim started singing “O’ Canada” at the top of his lungs. A little middle finger at American patriotism, I guess. In retrospect, it was funny, but at the time, I just shook my head in embarrassment and tried to pedal away. I was like, “That’s such an ironically American thing to do.”

democracy? Like I said, completely impossible to be unchanged, and I’m definitely processing it in my work and life.

Did the current situation affect your practice or maybe even the focus of your work? I mean, how could you not be altered in some huge way? There are such profound shifts happening all around.

Yeah, exactly. Can you give an example of how you incorporated some of those issues into your latest work? I usually lean away from quick, overt political responses in my work. There is certainly a place for satire and sensationalism, but I think my work tends to be better served by allusions to topical issues than direct assertions. Power structures have been a central theme… and it certainly feels as though those remain well worth prodding in this era. I listen to audiobooks while I paint and am currently three-quarters of the way through The Power Broker— all about Robert Moses’s notorious reshaping of New York City at the dawn of the car era until the ’60s.

Ha, yes, it would be worrying to hear you say “nope” to that one. I wondered more about whether it changed or redirected the focus of your work. Do you mean the Black Lives Matter movement? Or do you mean the pandemic? Or the shaky economy? Or the ongoing degradation of

And, surprise surprise, the very infrastructure of the city—many of its roads and parks and bridges—was constructed with racism and classism so sturdily that the repercussions still haunt NYC a century later. So much was built in pursuit of power and to curry political favour, without considering the needs of the city’s

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inhabitants—immigrants, the poor, and people of color, in particular. This is not unique to New York, of course. It’s not unique to the twentieth century. It’s only one example of many in which an ostensibly tremendous feat—I mean, look at the city from a distance and how could you not get a feeling caught in your throat—can prove to be a double-edged sword. In this case, it was both a triumph in the name of steel-and-concrete progress, and a terrible, terrible plight on a multigenerational human level. Not exactly sure where I’m going with this, except to say it’s all connected and feels relevant… and I’m thinking about these types of structures, and where I stand in them, when I paint. You’ve mentioned in the past that your athletic background influences your practice. Can you elaborate? My little sister is a phenomenal athlete, an absolute pleasure to watch on the field or swimming or dancing. I was more of a scrapper out there— you know, grit over finesse. I practiced and played hard. From early childhood, I was in the water for practice twice a day and at meets on the weekends, and continued this in tandem with soccer, until soccer won out, and eventually

Above left: Rust Bucket, Oil on canvas, 62" x 70", 2019 Above right: Coach, Oil on canvas, 32" x 48", 2020

I was able to play varsity at university. There’s such a brutal regimen to it. It just kind of structured my life for so long. Eventually your muscles learn to comply and you ignore the part of yourself that always resists the onslaught. But it probably helped establish painting habits, yes. How did you even end up going from being an athlete to making art, and how often do you come across artists with a similar trajectory? Are the two paths that discordant? I guess I was always into both. I think painting and sports could kind of be siblings. You’ve got the handeye coordination component in each, mental diligence, repetition of a physical task to build muscle memory. And all the while, your mistakes and shortcomings are laid bare in front of your teammates or peers—in the name of constructive criticism, or because your coach is a sadist and you are a masochist. You have to be a bit dense to keep going. And at some point, you have to shake off the critical eye of the coach or the weight of your own judgement and trust your body’s current. To me, they both provide a release… a fierce, kind of ecstatic labour that belongs intimately to the body.

"I think painting and sports could kind of be siblings." In soccer, like art, you have to look at a big field that is constantly shifting and figure out where to put yourself in order to best receive and then pass the ball. They are both a conversation, a series of give and goes. A swimmer gets fast with one kind of stroke, and the next year she’s confronted with two brandnew, swollen bumps on her chest. Suddenly, that technique no longer serves her and she has to adjust. I think the same mentality is required of an artist. There’s a need for nimbleness in making and thinking to ensure your conceptual desires—and your more concrete objectives— align with the way in which you go about bringing them to life… Oh, god. I’m that guy with the sports metaphors! Yes, you are and I love it! Those are such great comparisons and parallels. So, since you’re so good at it, then who would be the coach in the art side of the story? I guess while in school, profs and peers? Then, hypothetically, the critics, if you’re lucky enough to get something critical out of them.

Above: Snip, Oil on linen, 36" x 72", 2019

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The audience—whether actual or perceived. The people who’ve been generously brutal… the deliverers of tough-love in your story often become the people whose opinion you weigh in your head. And I guess when you’re alone in the studio, you become your coach. Scary thing when she’s in a mood, though.

Your last body of work was built from your perspective outward, mostly based on personal experiences, memories, and feelings. Is this still the way you go about it? The last body of work had loose ties to personal experiences—largely teenage ones—but no knots holding them there, if that makes sense. I’ve got

this decade gap between my adolescent self and so much new content and refurbished memories to throw at that poor sucker. I puzzled over teen movie tropes until I was older—teen movies are not made by teens, but by adults looking back, right? So I get to go back to visit Heathers, Mean Girls, Bring It On, Wet Hot American Summer… smart movies disguised as dumb ones, and more contemporary ones like Lady Bird or Call Me By Your Name, and think about this funny snake eating its own tail scenario. The teenagers who consumed the former generations’ projections and altered memories—they grow up and make movies about their own experiences. Which then helps shape the next teen generation’s understanding, or misunderstanding of itself. It really feels like time travel to me. What’s with the cars in your work? I thought you’d never ask! Ha ha. Well, the car… anything can happen in a car. In a larger sense, it’s a North-American coming-of-age symbol— and sort of tucked right into the trajectory of modern art. There’s this obsession across cinema with it too that aligns with real life somewhere. Bad guys chasing bad guys… violence… teenagers. You hit 16 and bam, you do whatever you can to get your hands on a puttering hunk of hand-me-down metal to just get you outta there! And suddenly the world opens up. It’s a room you can speed around in, where you can collect private conversations. Sneaky sex. It is safe until it’s not. You can stuff so much in a car. And with all that, it’s such a kind of perfect metaphorical and compositional armature for a picture. So, teenage-hood and cars… this has been some of the enduring subject matter, but I definitely play house with composition—start with a foundation borrowing from stories, news, lyrics… insert a ghost story here and there from paintings past. And once the beams are in, I’ll give ’em a little whack and hope they’ll stand up with the full force of the painting’s inhabitants and all their junk. I loved how some of the works are connected to each other, depicting the same scene from a different angle or slightly different time. How did that concept come about? Honestly, at first, mostly out of necessity. Trying to sharpen up a completely invented space can be frustrating, especially if you’re building form and trying to coax paint into light. After spending so much time willing that space into existence, I’d just pivot slightly in the scene, imagine turning the viewers’ head to the painting’s periphery. That way, I can borrow the feeling of that space and push it into the next painting. Like eliminating one variable. Then each painting has space to change but also something to hold on to. It really just helps me move through ideas without having to go back to the dark, you know?

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Above: Sport Knot, Oil on canvas, 48" x 80", 2020

And clues from one painting might inform another later on, or give light to one I painted years back, or solve questions whose answers might currently be remote to me. Nice sometimes to defer to a future version of myself who has her shit figured out. “The dark” being having to think of what to paint? The dark being the place behind your eyes before the world shapes itself in paint. So, is that how you go about making a painting for a new body of work? Sort of. It’s all evolving slowly. I was listening to a podcast that described the Supreme Court making moves at snail-speed. If you have a lifetime appointment, there’s decades-long three-dimensional chess to play… in that context, it’s incredibly unsettling to think that a small group of people have so much time, and ultimately power, to warp the country to their will. But I’ve been trying to apply the concept of snail-speed to my work. Thinking about it as a slow, lifelong thing. You seem to be focused on rendering surfaces— aluminum sinks, gravel, droplets of water, hair, skin. Why this interest in creating such tactile surfaces? Before I start a painting, I take the idea and figure out of the gist of it in a drawing. That’s like establishing the power lines—or like I said before, the foundation of the house of the painting. But then it takes time to come into focus. It’s like being in a dark room and willing it, or feeling it into existence with your fingers. Maybe it’s an argument for a specific kind of experience. One that’s full, unfolds over time, sometimes uneasily. A 10K compared to a 50-metre dash. There’s nothing wrong with fasttwitch muscle paintings… it’s just not what I’m doing. I want to make a painting that acts on the viewer like a slow-release pill. I’m holding onto an archaic medium that some might argue is still dead and just experiencing a temporary resuscitation. But I can’t get the feeling I get looking at a painting—that really works on me in such an abrupt, physical way—anywhere else. So imagining there isn’t room for more of that feeling, or no possibility of pushing its evolution or proving it’s worthy of pursuit…what a brutal place that would be. I am not after a painting that looks real, I just want it to feel sharply familiar. I think about authors like Haruki Murakami or Jennifer Egan who can express in one sentence what most people can’t get at in a whole blabbering book. In real life, I’m probably more of a whole-blabbering-book person. But I’m certainly trying to find— and make— sentences inside paintings that can encapsulate

a feeling you’ve experienced many times—that you know in your bones, but that shrinks away whenever you try to put a name on it, kind of like a dream does. I am looking for a painting that has so much in it that it sticks to your ribs and rides along with you even after you’ve moved on. Did I actually answer your question at all?

I want to learn how to sew my own clothes and I’m hoping to be able to dance in an all-night techno rave. And see my family again. Art-wise, I am excited for my solo show in Brussels with Super Dakota in January and some other semi-secret projects. I’m also hoping to become a little more mysterious, you see, so this is a start.

Perfectly. So, what are you hoping for in 2021? I’m hoping to step into my thirties… gracefully?

Follow @danicalundy for information on her upcoming shows

Top: Three Hole Punch, Oil on canvas, 48" x 36", 2020 Bottom: Sharpener, Oil on panel, 10" x 8", 2019

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David “Mr. StarCity” White The Year of the Big Bless Interview by Nathaniel Mary Quinn Portrait by Colin Brennan

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few years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Dave— widely known as Mr. StarCity— in Los Angeles on occasion of his gallery solo exhibition, a medley of color-filled, figurative paintings and portraits, expressionistic in nature, embedded with a rare, unique form of honesty and vulnerability, an already courageous and ambitious exhibition made complete with live performances and video works. Prior to our physical encounter, during which we talked and laughed, embraced each other, and touched on a wide range of topics, Mr. StarCity had been in contact with me, for quite some time, via Instagram, where he has a strong and committed following of believers and dreamers, for Mr. StarCity is a magnificent mixture of affirmation, faith, and uninhibited hope for an optimistic future. With seamless consistency, he bestows upon me inspirational and benevolent quotes, normally capped with the phrase “Big Bless!” And he means it. I had the

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pleasure of speaking with him in advance of his much-deserved and irrevocably earned piece in Juxtapoz, from which the following questions were produced, along with his responses. Avid readers and followers, and those of you newly arrived, I present to you, Mr. StarCity… Nathaniel Mary Quinn: I think that it is important and insightful for your audience to understand your art practice, in particular as it relates to your spirituality. How do you intertwine your art practice with your sense of spirituality? David “Mr. StarCity’ White: Where do I begin, so much to unravel when it comes to my spirituality and my creative practice. Well, growing up Jewish and coming from a large family where my father would read from the Bible to my family of nineteen brothers and sisters, my sense of morality stemmed from biblical storytelling. Although my spirituality does not lie exclusively in Judaism, but rather the universe, I think growing up this way impressed

upon me the same innate need to seek and share a belief in order to find solace. One could say my delivery of art is similar in the sense that I routinely address the world on the subject of personal healing with love in the form of storytelling, reminding myself and others of our human essence and the importance of sharing and supporting our basic human needs with the people around us. As a recurring theme in my bodies of work, I often use vulnerability as a tool for healing and uplifting (especially applied for the exhibitions “Fractured” and “After Party” earlier this year). It’s important for us as individuals, and as a society, to be understanding, to be aware of another’s suffering in order to have sympathy and ultimately have genuine love for one another. I think art has become my platform to deliver this message of love and spreading that love in which I so strongly believe and uphold.

Above: LOVERBOY: Moonlit Roses And Heartache (installation view), Kantor Gallery, Los Angeles, 2020

Above: My Teardrops Watered The Soil, Mixed media on canvas, 36" x 48", 2020

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It is rather exceptional that you personally deliver many of your works to collectors at their homes. How did this journey begin and how does it impact both you and the collector? I appreciate that you appreciate that! My hope is that my collectors genuinely share that same sentiment. This journey stems out of my need to document every single portion of me being an artist, making myself accessible in some way, outside of the gallery walls. It is all a part of me, the art, the experience of my art. Me and my art are one package, inextricably tied, so we take this journey together. Each and every piece I create is my baby. I want to ensure my child is in good hands, you know?

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It is important that collectors have a good understanding of who I am as a person and equally important for me to convey how I consider each work a blessing, a piece of love that I’ve prayed over with positive energy, and that by this art entering their home, they are receiving all the blessings I’ve received in my lifetime as well—keep the love moving and spreading! What was it like growing up in Brooklyn and New York, and what were some pivotal influences—and people—propelling your interest in pursuing art and an art career? I grew up across Bed-Stuy, East New York and

Brownsville. It was tough. During the ’80s and ’90s, those were some of the roughest, toughest neighborhoods that you could be raised in. Not unlike today, a lot of the youth were losing their lives at an unsettling rate. So, we were all trying to find ways to endure the pain in these poverty and crime-ridden areas. Heavily influenced by the hip-hop and graffiti culture I grew up around, one way I was able to console myself and my community was by creating murals and portraits in my neighborhood to memorialize these young kids. I would draw massive murals throughout all of the hallways of my project building. It got so disrespectful, in terms of scale, that the building

Above: We Were Left To Die, Oil, acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 70" x 71", 2018

"We deserve to be vulnerable with one another." management ultimately put out a “wanted” poster of $5,000 for the hallway graffiti artist. $5,000 was a lot then! Shit, it’s a lot today! Even though everyone knew, nobody told on me since they understood my intention was pure and it was to honor and memorialize their sons, our brothers and our community. From that moment, I refrained from painting so as not to get my family kicked out of our home. That’s when I explored music for many years. Ultimately, when I returned to painting later in life, I genuinely felt free for the first time, like a return to my truest, purest self. I understood that this was all I needed and have not put down my brush since. I fell deeply back in love. Without doubt, you have a strong social media presence and use that platform extremely well. Why do you suspect that social media— particularly Instagram—operates as an effective means of expressing your art, heightened positivity, and all-around love and grace?

Above left: Yashi At The Barber, Acrylic and mixed media on paper, 18" x 24", 2020 Above right: I Scream, Acrylic and mixed media on paper, 12" x 16", 2020

here for—to support one another in those trying moments that test us and ultimately keep the love pushing together.

For me, art serves as a platform for teaching people how to love themselves and love each other, so Instagram is just an extension of this teaching and my creative practice. As a tool of communication, Instagram assists me in the instant and simultaneous injection and transfer of love to my family, friends and fans. Whether they know me personally or not, anybody can receive the love, the lessons and the intention of my messages. Instagram is my daily journal, a mirror to reflect current thoughts, old thoughts and any inspirational notes that I put out there. Often they’re notes to myself. Because I use my Instagram as a diary of sorts, I make myself pretty vulnerable. I allow people to go inside of my mind, my heart. I suspect this, in turn, frees people to be vulnerable with me. There’s a lot of stigma surrounding vulnerability, but it’s quite liberating to be that way. We deserve to be vulnerable with one another, that’s what we’re

You are clearly capturing the interest of a growing number of strong and influential collectors. Who are some of the major collectors who currently own your work? Beth De Woody, whom I love and respect greatly, is important to our time as someone who forges sincere relationships with all the artists she collects, while building a tremendous, historic collection. We first met at Spring Break Art Show where she was the first to acquire a piece from my After Party series, the piece entitled Champagne and Reefer. I had the honor to visit and personally deliver the piece to her Los Angeles collection, something I am proud and very grateful to be a part of. Actor, best-selling author, philanthropist and collector Hill Harper has been an avid patron and collector of my works as well. I am sincerely honored to be included in his collection as he is making incredibly positive changes for people of color, specifically in the city of Detroit, through his philanthropic endeavors.

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Top: Through The Twilight, Oil, acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 35" x 38.5", 2019 Bottom: On Our Journey, Oil, acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 128" x 60", 2018

In my lifetime, I hope to leave a legacy that creates positive change in peoples’ lives, taking ownership of my history and all those before me from my community of African Americans. Generational wealth is the only way this change can happen, so being collected and having ownership over our own history is key. How have you been able to navigate your studio practice and work—and manifest inspiration and motivation—in the midst of the pandemic, protests, and the current social and political climate? I have focused my energy into spreading love, peace and harmony into humanity. I don’t focus on spreading words of hate and destruction. My existence is only powerful because I understand we are all one—our actions influence one another, so I like to be conscious, respectful and accountable. Having a simple routine helps with motivation: waking up and “Big Bless”–ing the world, grateful for the great day that’s ahead, drinking my tea and meditating all subsequently lead me to some peace within myself in this noisy world. This sort of routine allows me to create the inspiration for my works. Sometimes you have to let silence guide your mind and your heart. When you go far enough inside yourself, you’ll learn to be ok with not knowing because it takes time to understand what you’re not meant to understand. We have to appreciate those times you get to sit with your soul in silence and create. It’s priceless. There is a ritual, a routine of fasting, that I implement throughout my creative practice. It is my spiritual and physical sacrifice and mental preparation before the creation of each body of work and each mounting of an exhibition. Specifically, in the midst of the pandemic, protests and socio-political hysteria, I applied the power of fantasy amidst all of this turmoil to bring mental and emotional relief. Through this self-medicated art therapy, what transpired was a fusion of painting, poetry, theatre, jazz, storytelling and design presented in the form of my latest solo exhibition entitled LOVERBOY: Moonlit Roses And Heartache. You have created this interesting body of work based on the character by the name of Loverboy, a really beautiful series of paintings embedded with an uncanny and captivating story. What is its story, and do you have plans for mounting another exhibition of Loverboy? LOVERBOY: Moonlit Roses And Heartache recounts the story of a hopeless romantic named Loverboy—a restlessly traveling jazz musician, chronically falling in love, who finds himself habitually alone and heartbroken. The only companion that remains is his melancholic saxophone. Each piece in the exhibition illustrates

Above: Brother And Sister, Acrylic and mixed media on canvas, 65" x 48", 2020

Loverboy’s different states of internal torment as a hopeless romantic torn between two loves: music and his lover. Ultimately, Loverboy chooses his music and, as a result, leads a lovelorn life, hopelessly falling in love with every woman he meets, and broken-hearted by the time he must travel to the next city. While my practice is highly experimental and constantly evolving—from painting to poetry, music to film, fashion to sculpture—my desire to convey an uplifting, positive message has always remained constant. With each new lens, each new material and texture, there is a wholly new experience for me. I am excited and eager to share the continued evolution of new mediums and techniques. With that being said, LOVERBOY II is coming soon!

Any final words you’d like to add? Oh, yeah. I want to offer thanks to you, specifically. As an artist whom I consider a contemporary master and someone whom I respect so considerably, I am honored and grateful to have shared a dialogue with you over the years. Also, to all my friends and family, continue to carry your heart with both hands. Concentrate on finding inner beauty, inner happiness and inner love, and then allow those qualities to extend to the people outside of your relationship with yourself. Take care of yourself. Say “I love you” more than you think it’s needed. Manifest good energy, give good energy. Drink more water. Live the life you’ve been given. Feel blessed, be blessed, stay blessed. And last, but certainly not least… BIG BLESS. @mrstarcity

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Maria Qamar The Essence of Hatecopy Interview by Sarah Hagi Portrait by Eddie O’Keife

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Above: Baby, I Just Can’t JEE Without You!, Acrylic and digital, 2019

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hile most of the world has been scrambling to figure out how to take their work digital, Maria Qamar (AKA Hatecopy) has been riding that wave since she first began making art for public consumption in 2015. After splitting from a copywriting job, Maria created the Instagram account Hatecopy where she began embedding her identity as a Canadian woman of South-Asian descent on recognizable Pop art. Familiar and relatable to brown kids across the diaspora who find themselves straddling two distinct cultures, Hatecopy quickly turned from hobby and stress relieving sidehustle into a passion project, a very popular one. Five years later, the Toronto based artist has amassed a 200k Instagram following, written

a book (a survival guide on dealing with overbearing family members), and been featured in publications like Vogue India, Elle Canada, Toronto Life Magazine, and the New York Times. As a fellow Torontonian, I long admired Maria as an artist, a bit of a local legend—and over the last few years, as a friend. While visiting her home in September, we sat and talked about what it has been like to carve out a personal digital space in her profession, what it’s like to deal with identity politics in art, and the journey of choosing art as a livelihood. Sarah Hagi: What has the last year been like for you? Maria Qamar: So, what month is it already? September? It feels like last month was, like, March, it feels like covid just began. It feels like nothing, like time is just meshing together.

Above left: Library With Preeti,Digital, 2015 Above right: Sharam, Acrylic and digital, 2018

So, what were you doing before? What were your plans before the pandemic hit? This year was just going to be just focusing on doing more physical shows and painting more and just taking some time to relax from social media. It’s funny that, at the end, everything ended up being digital anyway. I ended up having a digital exhibit as opposed to a physical one. And that’s probably going to be the norm for a little while, compared to last year, when I had three physical shows. Where were they? One of them was in San Francisco, one of them was in New York, and the third was Paris in December. I came back to Toronto, and then a few months later, everything went into lockdown. It’s a weird change from the high energy and big crowds, shaking hands and talking to people and getting to know everybody, to everyone freaking

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out because of this pandemic that’s taking over. And the art world is panicking because nobody has a social media presence. Now everyone’s trying to hoard followings. One thing I found remarkable about your rise to success is how you etched out your own space online. Would you say that has worked to your benefit in a big way now? I think so, because I didn’t have to panic. Because the people that I wanted to talk to, like my friends and family and the people that follow my work, are a very close knit community. Even though it’s hundreds of thousands of strangers from across the world, it feels like we’re one community and talking to each other about things that concern us. So, in that way, I was kind of already living in

my little bubble. It’s about time that people stop discounting social media. When we were growing up, people would be making up personalities or like pretending to be somebody else online, but now that’s just who you are in real life. I think galleries, in particular, and art curators and collectors are looking on Instagram and social media now for artists to have a presence, because, obviously, there’s no other way. But I think it’s going into a good direction for people that don’t have the privilege to go to art school and make those connections and shake hands with people that run galleries. Describe the trajectory of your career—you, very much your own person in your own space,

making art that is so original, but also very familiar to so many people. It’s one of those things where you go, “Oh, right. It makes sense.” It wasn’t made to be something that you would look at it in a gallery and tilt your head and go, “I wonder what this means?” It’s pretty obvious stuff. What surprises me is people assume that because it’s online, it’s made to please a mass audience. These are snippets of things that I’ve experienced. Whenever I make something I don’t ever assume that people are gonna like it. I actually assume the opposite. And then when people start commenting like, “Oh my God, this was my childhood,” or whatever, it surprises me. It’s like, Oh my God, I can’t believe we were all living the same kind of life. It seems that you have stayed true to yourself and your background, that you see the world without falling into the traps of being marginalized. Was that something you actively fought against? In the beginning, there were many things that a lot of people would say when talking about my work. They’d be like, “Oh, this South Asian artist…” And it’s like, well, I live in Canada, I work from Toronto, I am South Asian, yes. But would you say that about like a white artist? I’m a South Asian artist. I’m an artist who’s making work about my life as a South Asian woman growing up in the West, which is how I describe it. You’re so well known worldwide now. Do you feel any pressure to fit certain expectations of your own community? I don’t leave my house and I talk to five people, that’s how it’s always been. I don’t have a focus group of people that I run my work by before I put it out there. It’s literally just me sitting at home and making stuff and then going, “Okay, well maybe I’ll post this today or maybe I’ll paint this today.” If a gallery wants to acquire a body of work to do a show, I’ll just go, “Okay, well, I have this and this and this.” It might fit the theme of the show, or I’ll come up with a new theme entirely. It’s just me sitting at home tinkering away at things until I get what I want. What I want from a gallery and from the art world is to see some of that seriousness gone. I’d like to be able to walk into a gallery or museum, look at the art, and not feel that tension where it’s like, “Do I have to whisper?” I don’t want somebody to walk into one of my exhibits and feel like they can’t do something or talk about whatever. I want it to be an experience where you can just come in, laugh if you want, hang out on the ground, or do whatever you want. I mean, art can be really alienating to some people. How does it feel making yourself accessible through social media? Was it hard to figure out where to draw the line between Maria and Hatecopy? I thought I wasn’t that private until recently,

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Above: Presidential Thappar!, Digital, 2017

Top: ME MERASELF AND I, Acrylic and digital, 2020 Bottom left: Bakwaas, Acrylic and digital, 2015 Bottom right: Dhoklas Before Chokras, Acrylic and digital, 2018

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Above: Does This Kurta Make Me Look Cultured?, Acrylic and digital, 2017

when I posted a thing about PTSD and getting cheated on, and other personal stuff. I had thousands of women sharing their stories and going, “Oh my God, this is so open and real.” I thought I was always being real and open, but I guess not in this way. Now I realize that I guess I’m not the type who talks about my personal life online. I always thought I did that through my work. I suppose people don’t realize that your work really draws from your real life. The aesthetic throws people off because it’s cartoonish and lighthearted. One of the things I think is very interesting is when people come into the gallery, and they go, “Oh, you painted this?” So, I think that's kind of a similar way in which people approach the personality angle of things, like, “I thought this was a curated experience or persona.” But Hatecopy is really who I am! You managed to do something really difficult for Canadians and that was in becoming an international sensation and finding so much success abroad. What was that experience like for you? I wasn't even thinking about getting recognized by anybody. Because it was such a slow process. I've been doing this for six or so years. I was always talking to other Desis, and the way I’d put out artwork would be to send it to my brother and somebody who understands me, and if it would make them laugh, then I’d know it was good and I’d put it up. Would you say you were trying to relate to the people who knew you best? Yeah, I would send something to my brother and he would say, “Yeah that’s something that happened to you, I remember that.” So, it’s like, cool, this made sense and he understood it immediately. WIth something as literal as my artwork, I have to be able to communicate it clearly, and when you’re scrolling on Instagram, you have somebody’s attention for like three seconds before they scroll away and find something else. So it has to be an easy read, a quick pop of colour, easily digestible, and they can scroll away. That was my process, and a very universal insight about people having short attention spans. I’m also not just talking to the Desi diaspora in Toronto, I’m talking to people everywhere. What has the journey been like for you, from posting art on Instagram for fun, to evolving into someone who has these huge interactive physical pieces? When I was working in advertising, we used to get briefs with these massive budgets for these big brands. Our job was to create these experiences that were huge parties with DJs and I want to be able to do that, for just myself, and do that in my work.

Above: Str8 Like A Jalebi, Baby!, Acrylic and Digital, 2017

My career as an artist means making these experiences and having a good time, and as well as a place where we can go and look at art, and talk about some serious topics, both politically and socially, but still be able to feel comfortable and have a good time and laugh about things.

happen?” Connections are one of those things that I didn’t understand. I’m pretty antisocial— I can’t schmooze. They can’t put me in a room and have me shake hands with everyone. If people ask where they can see more of my work I just tell them to look on my Instagram.

You made it your own way without any connections, so do you think emerging artists are also forgoing traditional routes? I didn’t come from money. My parents left everything behind when we came here. So, for me, I’ve always had a kind of mentality of, “Okay, how do I get this for myself? How do I make this

I don’t want to follow a predetermined path for what an artist should be or what a woman should be, or what a South Asian woman should be, or whatever. I think those kinds of rules are literally made to be challenged. So, why not just challenge them? @hatecopy

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Trey Abdella Still in Detention Interview and portrait by Sasha Bogojev

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Above: Last Call, Acrylic, glass, fabric, glitter, beads, and oil on canvas, 68" x 78", 2020

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om and Jerry was created by two young cartoonists under the age of 30, convinced there was no need for dialogue if you provided non-stop action and visual humor. In a hundred different ways, at a hundred miles an hour, cat chases mouse, and mouse thinks of a hundred ways to outsmart him. High speed, and the proverbial hijinks that go with it. Trey Abdella grew up on Tom and Jerry, and in the end, outsmarted the doubters. He's a young guy who has arrived at record pace, and lets his art do the talking. I first talked to Trey at the small studio booth set up at the New York Academy of Art, the place where he made works for solo shows in Rome and at Frieze NY, with T293 gallery. Quickly surpassing this setup like a certain mouse, he moved to his own home studio only a few days before NY went into lockdown. We got back in touch the night before the opening of his solo show in Berlin at König Galerie, and learned that he is currently working on an international museum debut. This kind of extreme trajectory absolutely keeps pace with his utterly radical body of work, which,

while pictorial at its core, skewers traditional figuration. From having zero interest or references to classical art, but grabbing a profusion of cartoon and movie references, to literally covering strokes by using the airbrush, his work exists in its own parallel universe. And while the concept of slapping up an actual object on a canvas might feel like cheating, the masterfully painted scenes are a confident middle finger to anyone making that assessment. Engrossed in blurring the lines between painting and sculpture, influenced by the aesthetics and ambiance of the ’50s and ’60s, and somehow recalibrated to view reality through a cinematic lens, Abdella finds a way to wallow gleefully through the moments of personal misery we all experience. Sasha Bogojev: Describe your journey arriving to the art world. Trey Abdella: Actually, what got me into art was that my parents grounded me as a punishment. I didn’t want to do art, and I used to live for cartoons and stuff. But I did something that really pissed them off—I always did some shit or another. I was horrible as a kid. So, they were so pissed off they took away my TV, and I couldn’t go on the computer, I couldn’t go outside, and

Above: Cutting You Off, Acrylic, glass, cotton, denim, fabric, wig, hot glue, fake leaves, thumbtack, and beads on linen, 100" x 50", 2020

I was just like, “Oh what am I supposed to do?” Afterward, I would do chores and stuff and they gave me pencils and paper and said, “Why don’t you just draw your own cartoons?” At first, I thought that was lame, but I started trying to draw my own and then I kind of got into it. I would just draw more, and I guess that's what I’m still doing. How did you actually decide to go study in a formal way? I remember I was in high school and had a meeting with this guidance counselor, and she asked if I really thought I could get into a college with what I was doing, actually asked me about my plans for life, and suggested that maybe I could get into community college. I was like, “Maybe?! What, you think I don’t have 300 dollars?” When she asked what I would be going to college for, off the top of my head, I just kind of spit out, “Art. I’m going to college for art.” And I kind of did it to spite her a little bit. My friends even asked me later if I really wanted to go, and I was like, “Fuck you guys! Yeah, I wanna go to college!” Then one thing led to the other, and I sure wasn’t expecting that, a few years later, I would be teaching at one.

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What was the school experience like? I think I started when I was in high school preparing my portfolio, and I really got into it. Before I went to the School of Visual Arts, I went for a year to West Virginia University. I remember being there, really excited about it, and no one there except for my girlfriend at the time, who was actually into it. No one really gave a shit. People were basically just trying to get high and get a degree. My girlfriend then was, and still is, really talented, super good, and I was always trying to be on her level. At one point she said, “I’m going to go to this school in New York,” and asked if I was coming too. I just said: “Yeah, I’m going to go. Totally. Fuck yeah, I’m going to go to New York for school.” Though I never fucking thought I’d do that. But at SVA, I felt really far behind. A lot of people I went to school with had a more traditional upbringing. They went to art high schools, all those kinds of things, and I didn’t know how to draw traditionally. I just drew shit at home. I felt

like I needed to work ten times harder to catch up to everyone else, so, for five years, I didn’t hang out with anyone. I didn’t go out. I really didn’t talk to anyone. I basically just buried myself in my studio and talked to, like, five people. I would try and work as little as I could, and paint as much as I could. I would paint until I passed out, and I’d be asleep on the floor sometimes.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!... [Editor’s Note: At this point Trey realizes that some black paint that caused an accident earlier in the day has seeped into a finished painting that had been leaning on the side of the studio booth. He jumps out of his seat, grabs a piece of cloth and manically starts rubbing off the splatters. We take a break and continue once he assesses the damage.]

It must have been hard being that far behind, and you must have felt like giving up. What stopped you? Yeah, I was really close to giving up. I wanted to do way more things before I was a painter. But I was always very stubborn and kind of angry at myself, so I thought: “Fuck this! I can figure it out.”

So, yeah, we were gonna talk about the experiences behind some of your works. Well, the sink and mirrors one, for example, is from the bathroom at Art Basel. I remember I was just taking some time after seeing all the work there, and just kind of reexamining my life and thinking, “I’ll fucking never be good enough to be here.” Just like crying in the bathroom. I wasn’t really crying, but I was just sort of depressed.

You mentioned before that most of your work, if not all of it, represents moments that you personally experienced or are metaphors for those experiences. Can you describe some of them, like the one with the sink and mirrors… You mean the one… HOLY SHIT! God dammit!

You seem pretty comfortable about sharing those personal moments with the world. It’s fine, I think. For my last show, there were some super, super personal ones, but I don’t mind it. Except for those times when people ask really specific things, and I give them the specific details, and they say, “Oh, is that what this is?!” Then I’m like, “Oh, you better back the fuck up!” The narrative and characters in your work are really connected to you personally. Oh yes, I think my work is autobiographical, so most of the paintings are about me in some way. Kind of like a weird diary entry from different days in my life. Seeing your work and how it’s evolved in these past few months, I’m really impressed by the clever way you blend techniques and styles. What do you enjoy about mixing it up? I’m really unsatisfied by just figuring something out, and that being it. I’m always trying to figure out a new way of approaching a painting or changing things up. I like playing with materials and different painting languages, finding things I can throw in to just surprise myself in fresh ways. I just find that really exciting. I wouldn’t say I have a super consistent process in which I plan out some of the waysto integrate different techniques. I try and plan them out as much as I can beforehand in the sketching process, but then sometimes, when I’m in the middle, I’ll see something in the store that I would like to incorporate. For example, I found this dog collar at a shop and thought that I absolutely needed this particular collar with its printed name, Roxy. I needed that in my painting! Or I’ll be at Michael’s Crafts, and see their bead selection for friendship bracelets, and go: “Oh my God, I really want a friendship bracelet. One that says “KILL ME!” I’m totally going to use that.” Whenever I’m going anywhere I always look around for things that I can use somehow. Since you like incorporating all these techniques, do you have a favorite, something

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Above: Hot and Heavy, Acrylic, urethane, and glitter on linen, 68" x 78", 2020

that, at the moment, is the most challenging or most satisfying? I don’t know if there’s a favorite, as they change from time to time. It’s more that I’ll plan things out beforehand, and try and think of how I’ll make something new. It is not so much, “Oh, this, I’m super feeling this," but more along the lines that the image I make will dictate the materials which I will use and incorporate. When planning out my images, I try to think about how I’m going to really play around with the materials later on. I love glass. I’ve mixed in a lot of glass beads. I also love painting water. I’m a sucker for liquids of all kinds. Liquids? Why is that? It’s all around us! I feel I just drink so much water, and it’s everywhere. It is weird how water and liquids can represent so many different things— it’s tears, it’s also what you’re constantly drinking,

like booze and all kinds of drinks, they’re always there. I feel that, depending on how the water is shown, it can really be specific to the context of the situation. Wherever I go, I always have drinks, not always the same kind, but I always have something. I’m curious to know how you prepare your work before approaching the canvas. First, I sketch things out in my sketchbook, and I’ll write ideas down constantly, doing a bunch of thumbnails and going through random bits. From there, I start planning things out in Photoshop and doing digital sketches. I go to libraries or bookstores and search through their image collections and things like that. I try and find pictures that I feel I could use, putting those together. Or I’ll just go through my thousands of movie screenshots out and take pictures for reference, do that kind of thing. Then I just

Above: 8th Grade Farewell, Acrylic, urethane, glitter, and shredded rubber on canvas, 60" x 48", 2020

manipulate those for a while and follow that by making a couple of sketches. I usually make tons of sketches. I can have around six or seven going on at any one time on my computer. Then, out of six or seven, maybe one or two of them survive, and I just kind of sit with them for a while. Sometimes, I’ll really hate something, and the next day think, “That was stupid.” Back to the surprising mixture of styles and visuals that have really become your signature, I want to know more about why you feel compelled to have, for example, a realistically rendered fabric surface with a cartoonish face? I think that so much very realistic art has been made, and I loved growing up on cartoons and things like that, so right now, with the internet, everything is just this conglomeration of all these different languages, and everything’s kind of tied together in some way. So, I feel like my TREY ABDELL A JUXTAPOZ .COM 123

work should be the same. As far as it being this hybridization of all these different techniques, and other materials and things like that. To me, that’s just the world we’re living in. You reference growing up on cartoons, but what are some other influences you remember? What are you obsessing over? I remember just being really obsessed with Tom and Jerry, obviously. When I was a kid, I used to always watch that show because I had to get up at 4:00 a.m. for some reason. My dad would get up really early for work, so I would just be up, and it’d be the only thing that was on, so I would just constantly watch these shows every morning. The Looney Tunes, the

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older cartoons and such. I grew up on these, and the art in them was way better than what the newer ones have. I loved the slapstick humor and the art, the ways they animated those chaotic fight scenes, and those effects that they would use. I thought that was really interesting, and thought about how that could play into a more traditional painting sentence. Of course, I grew up with a lot of other things, like Goosebumps. So I try to bring all of these influences from my childhood back, and put them into this fine art scenario. As far as current influences, I spend so much of my time going to lots of art shows. How did you transition from working out of a studio booth at the New York Academy to

having your own home studio? Did that affect the work and pace of your practice? At the Academy, as you saw, I was in this room and my paint was literally spilling off. I still haven’t fixed that piece, actually. Anyways, I was really cramped, the hours were more limited, and it was hard for me to work on a large scale. The whole experience was very nice and I really appreciate that the academy gave me space for a year, but when I got my own studio, I finally had more room and could work whenever I wanted. And it’s easier for me to work larger. At the Academy, I couldn’t get my paintings as big as I wanted them. And if I did, I would do

Above: Another Year Older, Acrylic, glass, glitter, urethane, wig, rhinestone, fabric, collage, and birthday card on linen, 86" x 78", 2020

nothing else in the studio. I couldn’t move, and that was a pain in the ass. But now I have more than enough room to make the work I want, including being able to work on sculpture. What are some downsides to having a home studio? Living in my studio has been actually killing me, like on a physical level. Mentally, I like being able to just work whenever I want, and work as much as I can. But then, health-wise, I use all of these really toxic materials like airbrush, epoxies, and resins. I sleep here, so that’s not the best situation. I have actually gone to the hospital and to doctors from the reactions I’ve had, like breathing problems, things like that. It’s one of those things I can’t escape. I’ll have my windows open and I also have a giant ventilator fan to help with air circulation, but sometimes I have to sleep with my respirator on. Plus, since I live here, I feel like I’ve started to hate my paintings! What do you mean? I liked the separation—you go to the studio and you make plans that you’re going to get some work done, and then go home. Now, every morning, I wake up and I’ll think, “Oh my god, that fucking sucks.” You can’t leave. I try to have people over, but not in a studio visit kind of way. I don’t have anything in that apartment besides paintings that I’m working on. I literally bought a hundred dollars futon and have this cheap ass mattress. Ah, so you really are living in a studio, and not working from home. Yeah. So what I have to make it home are a bunch of weird creepy toys just laying around. Since the work reflects your mood and experiences, did the whole lockdown experience and pandemic experience come through your work in any way? I don’t really think the pandemic has. I do think it’s made me more introspective in my work, at least. I’ve been thinking a lot back to the past, especially my childhood, and things like that are in some of my more recent paintings… this kid squirting glue all over his desk, while being really frustrated and just stuck in detention, which is kind of what living in 2020 feels like. Are you able to see any fun in the misery during this past half-year? Yeah, for me, it’s also been a great time. Like, it’s been the worst time, but also, career wise, I’ve been doing better than ever. Making a lot of work, and also just being where I am at right now. It’s just all happened during this particular time. So, it’s just been weird, all of these things working out for me as the world goes to complete shit. Trey Abdella’s solo show, Growing Pains, was on view at KÖNIG GALERIE, Berlin, this past fall.

Top: An Itch You Can’t Scratch, Acrylic, glass, chalkboard paint, and pastel on canvas, 68" x 78", 2020 Bottom: After the Rain, Acrylic, urethane, glitter, resin, glass, and gravel on linen, 68" x 78", 2020

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Bianca Nemelc Soul of the Earth Interview by Jewels Dodson Portrait by Austin Willis

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our coconuts bobbing in the glow of a golden round orb, tickled by a frame of large green agave plants. Another look, and in the right top corner a flourish of handwriting reveals a notation that reads, “4 breasts in conversation with the sun.” The round mounds perched on the voluptuous female figure come into focus, and they are indeed breasts. She, this ubiquitous female form is composed of soft, clean lines, embossed in rich brown hues, and enveloped in lush tropical colors. This combination of tawny tones, feminine silhouettes, and island landscapes filled with sun, flora, and serenity has become the signature aesthetic for emerging artist Bianca Nemelc, who creates her very own Garden of Eden, where black and brown female bodies are not only celebrated, they are safe.

Jewels Dodson: How did your artistic journey begin? Bianca Nemelc: I’ve always been creative and I’ve always known how to draw.So, drawing, I couldn’t even tell you when or how I learned how to draw. That was just something that I’ve naturally done. I was more a paper and pencil kind of person. I would sketch in my notebook, then put it away, and no one has to see it. My

grandmother’s brother is an artist in Holland and I’ve always been around artistic things, but it was never like I didn’t take drawing. It was just something that I didn’t think anything of, it was just drawing. For a long time, my practice was drawing myself naked. For the majority of my girlhood I was drawing myself naked [motioning to her waist] from here down. I would look in the mirror. I’ve always been very connected to my body. I’ve always been connected to the physical part of myself. It was just something that I took up. I looked in the mirror and drew what I saw. I was never really good at drawing faces. So my face was never the center of what I was drawing. It was always the breast, the body, the curves of the body. From there, I took it onto canvas. My partner is a painter too, and we’ve been dating for almost eight years now. When we first started dating, I would help him, so I learned how to mix paints and how to work with paint. I took what I learned and I applied it. My style came from that naivete of not knowing what I’m doing and creating shapes out of what I know things look like with pencil. And my painting practice organically grew into this beautiful passion for a whole other

world that I didn’t even know I was going to enter. From there, it’s been like a learning experience, me just painting and nurturing that aspect of the craft. I didn’t go to school for art, that wasn’t my trajectory. It’s just something that happened. In the last few years, it’s picked up and now I’ve taken it on professionally. What is your familial background? Tell me about your family. Around the time I started painting specifically was around the time I was doing some documenting with my grandmother about her family lineage. She’s very, very about oral history and storytelling. She did extensive research on things like her family and our family back to like the 1700s. I even have an heirloom! So she’s always told stories, but, as an adult, I was like, tell me and I’m going to write them, and we’re going to do this little project together. I was learning a lot about my identity, the places I come from. On my mother’s side, Dominican, my father’s side Indonesian and Surinamese. My great, great grandmother was an indentured servant in Suriname. She came over from Indonesia, on a boat, unknowingly. It was around the time that slavery was abolished in Suriname, and they were looking for indentured servants. So they went to Indonesia, and India, and a little bit in China, and that’s how they got the labor. So that’s how my great-great-grandmother ended up in Suriname. My great-greatgrandfather was on a plantation in Suriname, which now is a Dutch colony. So my family goes back and forth between Holland and Suriname. Then I have family who was in the Nazi rebels. There’s all this stuff happening, I have Jewish family, Indonesian family, Dutch family, Surinamese family. You know, all these different cultures melding together. Then there’s my Dominican side and some Portuguese; there’s all this stuff happening. So when you’re being told all these stories, you realize the complexity of identity, really, of what makes me up. The melanin in my skin is so much more complex than what it is you’re looking at. And that kind of goes for everybody. It’s so complex because I think, especially in this time, there’s this black and white looking at things, your identity, where you come from. Your experience here in America is different from a person’s experience in another country and all these different things play into identity and who you are. I think for me, this was a very powerful moment because I needed a way to kind of put that out there, express who I am. What does it mean to live in this body? So, I started painting these figures that are different shades of brown, and they’re kind of taking up the whole canvas and you’re

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Above: Home Grown, Acrylic on canvas, 20" x 20", 2020

kind of in their space and they’re okay with it. It’s also the safe space where they’re apart from all of those projections that people put on you. There are assumptions people make, of brown skin or black skin, the sexualization of black and brown bodies of color, female bodies specifically, and living in this world where that doesn’t exist. You’re just in nature, it’s a neutral place where you can relax, you can just exist in your most vulnerable way and be exactly who you are and all those

Above: Sun Bathing, Acrylic on canvas, 36" x 36", 2020

complexities that exist in reality don’t really exist in this world because you just are. For me, it’s celebratory, celebrating the beauty of brown skin and celebrating the beauty of having a safe space to exist, without any type of the limits or boundaries that you put on yourself or that exist in the regular world. Tell me about the gaze? The male gaze, the female gaze.

I can’t control how viewers are going to look at my work. At the end of the day, I have no control over that. It’s looking through my gaze. It’s a safe space lens, it’s a kind of vulnerable openness. A lot of these poses that I’m doing, I’m looking at myself in the mirror, trying to find inspiration for what these poses are. So, that’s me, essentially, that inspiration comes from me being in the mirror with my legs open and there’s this vulnerability and kind of protection. BIANCA NEMELC JUXTAPOZ .COM 129

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Above: Mujer Y El Agua #1, Acrylic on canvas, 46" x 56", 2019

I’m looking at myself so there’s a lot of love that I’m putting into these figures, you know; and that’s the intention. But I totally know that what you have as an intention can be switched into something else when someone sees that from their point of view. The bodies are black, they are going to get politicized, that’s out of your control. But it also doesn’t mean you shouldn’t paint it, you know? I think if there’s anything that I’m trying to challenge, it’s that. Yes, it’s a brown body and she’s naked and she has her legs open and her breasts are out. Is that all you see? You know, and if that is all you can do is sexualize it, then I think that’s a conversation you have to have with yourself internally. Why? Can you look beyond that and see there’s this sense of comfort? There’s this sense of belonging where she feels okay with doing that. There is nothing to me, sexual, that I’m putting into the paintings. She’s not doing anything sexual. She is just lounging. I think that is a conversation viewers need to have with themselves if they’re seeing it in another way. Have you ever overheard viewers discussing your work? What were the responses? What’s interesting in the dialogues I’ve heard is that a lot of women do see the sexual aspect of the work, but they see it as an empowering thing, they don’t see it as an objectification of the body. I like to listen to that, because it helps me figure out whether that is what I’m trying to say. Maybe there are things that I’m trying to say that I don’t know that I’m trying to say. I enjoy listening to it too. Sometimes I’ll ask my partner, “Hey, what do you think of this? You’re a man.” And a lot of times, I will say in all honesty, that I battle that within myself, where I’m like, does she look too sexual? But it’s like, what’s my intention here? Why am I asking that? Am I scared of someone sexualizing her? That’s going to happen anyway. Is that something that I need to push back against? Or can she just exist? You know, does she have to stay with her legs closed? I like a lot of the poses that I do, I like the leg-open pose. I like when she’s open. Do you think that openness is more about a spiritual openness, a representation of something more internal? Yeah, I think there’s a connection. I also think, what are you doing when your legs are open? You’re creating or you’re giving birth, that’s a very powerful pose. A lot of times you think of legs open—who taught you to keep your legs closed? Why? Because there’s this sexual connotation to it. But there’s a whole other aspect besides that part. When your legs are open, you’re pushing something out of you. You’re open to receive, there’s this strength. My legs are open, I’m grounded. There are so many other aspects to being open, and I love that pose because I feel that when I put that on the painting.

Top: Head Underwater, Acrylic on canvas, 24" x 24", 2020 Top: Quiet Lounge, Acrylic on canvas, 30" x 30", 2020

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Even the colors, a lot of the colors that I use are very connected to nature. I’m looking for colors that exist a lot of the time. Specifically with the ones that you’re looking at here [motions to paintings on studio walls], those are inspired by colors of the sky, sunset, those twilight hours, which is something that I’ve been thinking about a lot recently, because in a lot of my work, the women, since they are existing in an actual environment… I like to pull from that a lot. Is this world something you’ve totally imagined? Is it a story in your mind? Have you met the women you are painting? There is a story. It usually starts with the pose, and I add the rest of the environment. And a lot of times what I’m playing around with is, how does she interact? So there she kind of looks like rocks, she kind of looks like a part of the landscape. Putting the figures together, I want them to feel like they are part of the environment that they’re living in. I’ve been thinking a lot about this quiet time, in day and night, either like the sun is setting or when the sun is coming up, and it’s that time when everyone is asleep and it’s quiet. What does it feel like to exist in that solitude of that peace? What does it look like in my mind? What does the feeling look like to just lounge in water? You know, there’s this horizon and there’s a breeze. Does she ever have a name and does she ever have a face in your mind? In the beginning I was like, man, she’s missing a head. What am I going to do? Then I thought, no, she’s existing outside of this canvas, what I am painting is a zoom-in of a part of her. For me, when you don’t include the neck up, it gives me the freedom to play around with body language a little more, to try to convey a thing that you would probably convey better with a face. It also gives me the opportunity for her to kind of be anonymous, you know, for her to kind of be everybody and nobody all at once. I like that aspect of her. No name. She is at her most basic level. She is me. When you boil it down, the inspiration is coming from me, butt naked in the mirror. And me applying poses and emotions and feelings, and also injecting, you know, what it feels to be hugged by my mom and what it feels like to be nurtured by my grandpa, like injecting all of those things into it. When she’s done on the canvas, she isn’t me; she exists in a whole other world. I’m the painter. I’m ok with saying that it comes from my hand, so there are parts of me in her. I’ve never been selfconscious about painting naked women, or I think for me, the biggest challenge is always overcoming, like my own resistance. Wondering, is someone going to objectify this painting? Or sexualize her in a way that I didn’t intend? I’ve asked people, and they say it does come across that there’s this nurturing in the work. And I think that’s very important. That’s a very important part, that the intention in some way does come across because I don’t have control over what anyone else thinks.

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Top: Going Deep, Acrylic on canvas, 50" x 50", 2019 Bottom: Floating, Acrylic on canvas, 50" x 50", 2019

Tell me about the body taking up a lot of the canvas, about the body taking up space. Originally, when someone used to ask me, “What is the point of your work?” I would say, “To take up space,” that’s it! I wasn’t seeing enough of it in paintings, in terms of people that look like me. My work was big from the beginning, my first canvas was like 72 inches high. I was like, okay, she’s really here and she’s really taking up space. This is exactly what I want for this narrative. I was exploring my identity and all those things that make me happy. It was a way for me to put it out there. Size makes the figure monumental. I feel like there’s a realness to it, like size wise, but I also feel like there’s this thought about, she’s bigger than you, her breasts are bigger than your head. I’m bigger than your head. You have no choice but to look upon the body. And I feel like that also helps you kind of command that respect of the gaze, where you’re like, “Oh, she’s bigger than me,” she’s almost intimidating in a way. She’s beautiful and there’s all these colors. Size helps me convey that nurturing aspect of the work. Speaking of being monumental, is it true you transitioned to being a full-time artist just this year? What inspired the jump?

Above: Bianca Nemelc in her studio, NYC, 2020. Photo by Austin Willis.

Yes! I recently resigned from my job. I wrote my resignation like ten times over the span of a few months, not to actually give it in, but as more of an important exercise for me. I was exercising the confidence that I didn’t actually have to do it yet. I am a very pragmatic person. I’m always looking at all the options for any type of decision. That’s just who I am. I’m always looking for stability; if anything, that’s me. I want the stability. I thought, 2020 is going to shit, I got to do something different. I decided I’m just going to make the jump. I have confidence in myself. I’ve been working full-time, then going nights to the studio and painting. I’ve proven myself to myself. You know, for me it was, like, okay, then I have to also, you know, take a jump and take a risk and see what happens. There’s so much energy this year, good energy, bad energy, tired ass energy, just like exhaustion. It feels like a now or never kind of year in terms of being the time for change. Now’s the time to speak up. Now’s the time to do it. Well, now’s the time to put your money where your mouth is in all facets of your life. So, for me, it was kind of like, just trust yourself. Just do it.

I got to a place where I really wasn’t in love, but what I was doing outside of work… it didn’t match up. I started to feel a disconnect that had nothing to do with the job itself. It was just me personally. I had a disconnect with where I was, where I wanted to be, what I love to do. There comes a point when you’re doing something that you love, and you’re also dedicating 40 hours a week to something that you don’t love, and it takes a toll. Fatigue sets in, you’re not investing the time into yourself that you are investing into someone else, that isn’t something you love. It’s not something that you feel is going to help you to become the person you want to be, essentially. At a certain point, you’re serving two masters. Your job, you’ve got to be there 40 hours a week, your attention has to be on that, but in the back of your mind, you’re like, oh, that paintings going to be dope. You’re tired, you’re like, I don’t want to get out of work at six in Brooklyn and come to the Bronx to paint. But that’s the drive and it’s like, you want to prove to yourself that this is it. Bianca Nemelc’s current show, As it Ripens, is on view at the Cheryl Hazan Gallery, by appointment only, through November 28, 2020.

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EVENTS

WHERE WE’RE HEADED

David Park: A Retrospective @ SFMOMA, San Francisco Through January 18, 2021 // sfmoma.org “As you grow older, it dawns on you that you are yourself—that your job is not to force yourself into a style, but to do what you want.” Not quite 40, David Park, a professor at the California School of Fine Arts, a master of colorful abstraction, loaded his 1935 Ford, crammed with non-figurative canvases, drove out to a local dumpsite, did the deed, and drove back in a car devoid of said cargo. With full command of bold strokes and rich, dramatic impact of color, he wanted to paint what felt “natural … subjects that I know and care about,” in his case, friends and family who surrounded him, musical tableaux that recreated the rhythmic tempo of playing jazz with colleagues, and the swimmers and sunbathers who recalled his boyhood summers in Peterborough, New Hampshire. A natural draftsman who swore off the glasses prescribed for limited vision, Park literally drew from memory and drew from all his senses to create mood, aroma, stillness and humility. Over 140 paintings, gouache on paper, drawings and sketchbooks, including The Scroll, a 30-foot wall poem, are all on view at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art through January 18, 2021.

Romancing the Surface @ GRIMM, Amsterdam January 10–March 1, 2021 grimmgallery.com “This is a group of artists who obviously enjoy the challenge of playing with form, texture, color and light and who don’t shy away from being hyper-attentive to surface," enthuses the critically acclaimed painter Loie Hollowell, who is on the precipice of curating her first show at Grimm in Amsterdam. It’s definitely time to pay attention when an artist like Hollowell, whose recent bodies of work are so unique, emerges on the contemporary art world stage and curates a show. Her ability to merge abstract and figurative elements into an almost surreal modernist aesthetic is at the vanguard of a group of likeminded painters who work with texture and material in original ways. Romancing the Surface is a group exhibition curated by Hollowell and on view at Grimm Gallery in Amsterdam across their two locations from January 10 through March 1, 2021. Hollowell’s sharp curatorial eye sought out artists including Angela Heisch, Daniel Sinsel, Louise Giovanelli, Sascha Braunig, Matthew Ronay, Camille Henrot, Lui Shtini, Thaddeus Mosley and, of course, herself, who tell stories but also excel in the process of making. Their lively cross pollination results in a rich and lively exchange between abstract and figurative artists that enlarges and engages the entire art world, painters and viewers alike. "The work in Romancing the Surface creates an interesting dialogue with one another, allowing for multiple influences and styles to converge and play off each other,” Hollowell said to us. “Every artist in the exhibition approaches their process differently yet they all consider the sensorial nature of materiality to hold great significance in their work.”

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WHERE WE’RE HEADED

Radical Tradition: American Quilts and Social Change @ Toledo Museum of Art, Toledo, OhioOpens November 21, 2020 toledomuseum.org When the world is changing around you, even by the minute, and as you are in the middle of curatorial prep for an exhibition titled Radical Tradition: American Quilts and Social Change, you have to be willing to evolve, too. Lauren Applebaum, Associate Curator of American Art at the Toledo Museum of Art, has created an exhibition that helps put into context how Outsider Art traditions have helped shape narratives of understanding the intricacies of social change.That we have come to understand the quilt as a voice of change is a tangible example of how history is passed down through the generations. Quilts “have been used to voice opinions, raise awareness, and enact social reform in the U.S. from the mid-nineteenth century to the present,” and the show illustrates how the construction of a quilt is deeply embedded in America’s racial history over the last 200 years. Also fascinating is taking in the entire scope, from contemporary voices like Fall 2020 cover artist Bisa Butler, fast becoming one of the leading voices in American textile arts, to projects like the AIDS Memorial Quilt or the Gee's Bend tradition. The Museum presents an encyclopedic view of how the quilt has been used and embraced in “military action and protest, civil rights, gender equality, queer aesthetics, and relationships with land and the environment,” so it’s clear and comforting to embrce the quilt as true American art, as well as a medium to better understand where we have been, and to chart a better path forward.

Amir H. Fallah: The Facade Project @ ICA San José, San José, California On view through spring 2021 icasanjose.org There would always be questions about how museums could involve themselves as reflections, as well as resources for information during the 2020 elections. The San José Institute of Contemporary Art stepped forward with a powerful message with the unveiling of their newest outdoor facade project with Amir H. Fallah. In fact, the California museum became a voting center where ballot drop-offs and in-person voting took place from October 31— November 3, 2020. With so many conversations circulating about the role of art institutions during times of social change, and the sort of historical perspectives that should enter an art historical lexicon, the ICA San José took it a step further to literally be a place of action. And to up the ante, they presented a contemporary artist whose career is propelled by navigating and exploring cultural tensions in the context of examining his own Iranian and American identity. As presented in the voting center and continuing into the new year, Amir H. Fallah: The Facade Project features a fifty-foot mural on the front of the building, as well as two six-foot circular paintings seen through the windows that the museum proposes will present, “an entirely new conception of the relationship between the street and the building’s architecture at a time when the galleries within the building must remain closed.” As museums find new ways to connect to the public in times of covid and social change, ICA San José is at the forefront.

EVENTS

KAWS: WHAT PARTY @ Brooklyn Museum, New York February 12–September 5, 2021 brooklynmuseum.org Synonymous as he is with Brookyln, there is indeed something special about a hometown show for KAWS. The Jersey City-born artist has long called the borough home, and as a mentor to a group of fantastic artists who have come from his studio, the KAWS name identifies as a hub for contemporary art in Brooklyn. The artist’s connection with the Brooklyn Museum itself is significant in that he has played host to the annual Artist Ball in 2017, released his now legendary Air Jordan 4 collaboration there, and authored an iconic sculpture work, ALONG THE WAY, in the museum entrance from 201516. And now: KAWS: WHAT PARTY, in what is being called a sweeping survey of the artist’s nearly 30-year career. From graffiti drawings, notebooks and advertising interventions, to paintings and sculptures, smaller collectibles, furniture, and “monumental installations of his popular COMPANION figures,” as well as new works and his move into the digital space with his hit app with Acute Art, WHAT PARTY puts into context how KAWS has obliterated the typical blueprint-to-blue-chip success and completely rewritten the rule books to become one of the foremost artists and collectors of his time. The show will also include new augmented reality works that KAWS has explored throughout 2020, giving visitors a chance to join the party and interact with his sculptures in new, personal ways, giving us all the opportunity to celebrate art.

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SIEBEN ON LIFE

SIX-PACK Scott Hobbs Bourne Proposes An Act Of Imagination Scott Bourne has worn a myriad of hats in his lifetime: professional skateboarder, magazine columnist, skate company owner, writer, poet, model—and he can now add author of children’s books to that growing list. His new project, An Act of Imagination, is a collection of poetry for kids, with illustrations by Todd Bratrud, a titan in the world of skate graphics. I hit Scott up for a quick six-pack to get the scoop on this latest endeavor. Michael Sieben: An Act of Imagination clearly draws inspiration from Shel Silverstein. Did you grow up on his books, and have you read them to your children? Scott Bourne: Yes, yes, and yes one more time! For me, Shel brought poetry; he introduced me to poetry. Before Shel, there was no such thing as poetry for children. Poetry was totally and completely adult stuff. I love Todd Bratrud’s work and it pairs very nicely with your words. Were the two of you friends from the Consolidated Skateboards days? Yes, we met at Consolidated and worked on board graphics together. For several years now, we’ve also worked on projects that incorporate my words with his drawings, but, oddly enough, this is the first book project we have actually completed. We have a half-illustrated longform poem I would really like to see finished that hits 136 WINTER 2021

so close to the world we are in now, but it’s certainly not for children. What do you think is missing in the landscape of children’s literature today? Content! You have this incredible canvas and it’s been turned into screenscapes, algorithms, and statistical discharge to keep you tuned in your entire life. Reading is sacred and no one should everknow what you are reading, much less what you are reading to your child. If you read or buy books online, you are playing into the algorithms that will follow you your entire life. Do you think at some point there will be a tech backlash and people will crave tangible items such as books over screens, or do you think the war is won? There will be a backlash, for sure. Technology, for all its convenience, has stolen all the romance from people’s lives, plain and simple. We need the unknown to have romance, and technology has turned us into an epoch without surprises. It’s painful. As far as art goes, we are certainly living in a sort of anti-renaissance sort of era. Their message is share or follow. Our message is create and lead. As a father, do you have any advice for new parents out there?

Absolutely not. Parents begin with an inner connection that no one could ever know—a private genetic map to the treasures of their child. No other person can access that map. The trick is to follow it wherever it may take you, regardless of what others may think. Is there an overall message you wish to instill in children with your poetry? The message is absolutely clear from the very first poem to the last, and that message is to just create—build a book, paint a picture, write a poem, be who you are, or you will end up being something you are not. Now, more than ever, the world needs individuals. We are looking for the magic, looking for little people who still see it, still believe in it, and are casting their own spells. Scott Bourne’s An Act of Imagination is available now.

Above: Illustration by Todd Bratrud

Todd Schorr

Atomic Cocktail ON VIEW THROUGH JANUARY 31, 2021 Todd Schorr: Atomic Cocktail was organized by the Virginia Museum of Contemporary Art, Virginia Beach.

Todd Schorr, The Hydra of Madison Avenue, 2001. Acrylic on canvas, 60 x 84 in. Collection of Mark Parker. © Todd Schorr

POP LIFE

SAN FRANCISCO AND NYC

Hashimoto Contemporary, SF and NYC 1 Leading the charge back to the galleries, the Hashimoto Contemporary crew, Raul Barquet, Jennifer Rizzo and Ken Harman savor the works of Sandra Chevrier in their NYC space. 2 And in the San Francisco West Coast space, Michael Reeder is on hand to kick-off his sublime Brick and Mortar solo show.

Ross + Kramer Gallery NYC 3 Celebrating a new space in the Big Apple, Ross + Kramer Gallery opened the fall season with a group show of proud New Yorkers, How ‘Bout Them Apples? Gallerists Todd Kramer and Ryan Ross with artist Erik Parker, held court. 4 Spring 2020 cover artist Ana Benaroya, here with Charlotte Durkee, graces this magnificent painting in Apples, while her solo show, The Softest Place on Earth, shows through December 18, 2020 at Ross + Kramer. 5 Following a few big projects this fall, Nina Chanel Abney hung with Todd Kramer. 6 One of our current favorite painters, Ludovic Nkoth, showed up and struck a pose by his work alongside younger brother, Archie Raphulu. 7 The man himself, David “Mr. StarCity” White is the most stylish man in The City… 8 As in his portrait in this issue, Trey Abdella knows what the camera wants. 9 After a September solo show in Berlin, Timothy Curtis was back showing in NYC and shared the stage with painter Asif Hoque.

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Photos: Courtesy of Hashimoto Contemporary (1), Shaun Roberts (2) and George Etheredge (3—9)

POP LIFE

EUROPE AND BEYOND

Zagreb, Croatia 1 After documenting pandemic life for our series, Art In Uncertain Times, Grgur Akrap is all smiles at Galerija Kranjčar in Zagreb.

Brussels, Belgium 2 Outside The Vessel, the Jerk and the Edge of Reason at Super Dakota, Brussels, Bent Van Looy is one cool cat.

Antwerp, Belgium 3 Among the beautiful displays we saw in Europe over the past few months, Adrian Ghenie’s Belgian return at Tim Van Laere Gallery was a favorite. 4 Across town, Jux contributing editor, Sasha Bogojev, curated the group show, Melancholympics at The Wunderwall.

London, England 5 Playfully exploring new mediums, German painter, Cathrin Hoffmann, opens her solo show, It Still Smells of Nothing, at Public Gallery, London

Amsterdam, The Netherlands 6 After years of planning the STRAAT opened, celebrating the history of graffiti and street art, who better to kick it off than Dutch graffiti legend Niels SHOE Meulman? Here he is with Hyland Mather.

Budapest, Hungary 7 Just to go on record, Akos Ezer is making an impact across central Europe, here centerstage at Artkartell Projectspace, Budapest.

Berlin, Germany 8 We will take that painting for our living room, thank you very much. Painter Kristina Schuldt with Gerd Harry Lybke at her solo show, Sans Souci at Eigen + Art Galerie, Berlin.

Stockholm, Sweden 9 Paul McCabe, Oli Epp, Carl Kostyál, and Ben Spiers joined together for Midnight Sombrero at Carl Kostyál Gallery, Stockholm.

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Photos: By or courtesy of Sasha Bogojev (1, 6), Anja Vanooteghem (2), Tim Van Laere Gallery (3), Inneke Gebruers (4), Public Gallery (5), David Biro (7), Shao-Yi Hou (8) and Carl Kostyál Gallery (9)

Audio conversations with the Juxtapoz Staff on all things contemporary art, culture, music, street art, graffiti, art happenings and more.

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PERSPECTIVE

Home is Where the Heart Is Arinze Stanley is Staying in Nigeria I don’t know how many times I’ve said it since November 2016, or had friends voice the same thought, but there has been a major sentiment among many who have discussed moving out of the United States for the greener pastures of Canada, Sweden or, in my case, the Japanese countryside. We consider these things in the face of adversity and in times of absurdity, given this country’s turmoil. “I’ve had it!” “There’s no hope!” Change is sought overnight, not in measured steps that can take decades to formulate. The last four years in the USA (and to an extent the UK) have been shocking and eye-opening culturally and politically, and the desire to extricate oneself from the scenario and start anew, minus the cultural baggage, can feel like the only rational decision.

reached out to him in celebration of his solo show Paranormal Portraits at Corey Helford Gallery in Los Angeles. Yet the urgency of the conversation grew as, on the eve of the podcast, Nigeria’s Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS) had openfired on protestors, resulting in death, lockdowns, curfews and more confusing unrest. After its establishment in 1992, SARS has truly terrorized its citizens with unlawful arrests, bribery, theft and killings. For years, the government has promised to dissolve the force, but as Arinze told us, those empty gestures have given SARS more power and rogue authority. During these latest peaceful protests, the situation in Nigeria grew more dire, and during our conversation, Arinze was forced into a nightly curfew.

We broached this topic in a fall Radio Juxtapoz podcast episode with the hyperrealist illustrator from Lagos, Nigeria, Arinze Stanley. We initially

So, with his mounting success in America and Europe, and over a quarter million Instagram followers, we asked Arinze if he thought of moving

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abroad, to capitalize on his international fame and immense talent. This was the time for him, right? And yet his response was quite introspective: why would he dedicate his life to creating these deeply humane portraits of Nigerian citizens in the hopes of developing a better understanding of his homeland… and just leave? “Nigeria connects me with my work,” he told us, “I won’t leave until my job is done.” This put a lot in perspective. Uncertain times, unrest and dismay makes you want to turn away, but Arinze spoke with courage, of hunkering down, hiking up the bootstraps and getting back to work to make a better world wherever you are. That may not always be possible, but it's a spirit spoken in any language. The urge to document difficult times with creativity and conviction is the ammunition of art, perhaps a more noble fight than that flight. @arinze

Above: Photo courtesy the artist

PERSPECTIVE

Above: Arinze Stanley, The Machine Man #7, Charcoal and graphite on paper, 20" x 16", 2020

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