Radical Making: Interviews with Bay Area Women of Color in the Arts

Radical Making Interviews with Bay Area Women of Color in the Arts

Rawley Clark

“I believe that telling our stories, first to ourselves and then to one another and the world, is a revolutionary act.� ~Janet Mock

Table of Contents Introduction

Marcela Pardo Livien Yin

Lukaza Branfman-Verissimo Yalitza Ferreras Kierra Johnson Natani Notah Eliza Barrios

Cheryl Derricotte Angela Hennessy

Looking Forward: Advice For Young Artists Acknowledgments

For my sister Ryoko, and other budding Black artists trying to find themselves in this world. Continue to dream big and the world will see how bright and magical that you are. You are already a star.

Introduction This project is something that I have wanted to do since my freshman year at Stanford, and I’m so excited to see it finally come into fruition. I’ve never considered myself to be a writer, but stories and reading have always been a big part of my life. Growing up, I always had a book in my hand. I would devour books of all genres, from teen drama to horror to manga and science fiction. But I rarely saw myself in the books that I would read. These magnificent fantastical worlds so meticulously created included young Black girls at a rate of few and far between. I would fantasize about writing new stories about Black girls like me, solving mysteries and fighting crime with the best of them, but had trouble putting the words to paper.

As I grew up, art became a central part of my identity. I loved learning how to make new things and would spend weekend after weekend watching YouTube tutorials on all things art. It was a hobby that brought me so much joy, but it wasn’t until college that I realized that I wanted art to become my career. I struggled in finding my way and in admitting to myself that art was the thing that I was most passionate about, because like my experience with reading growing up, I felt that I had so few Black artists in my life to look to that could show me the way to achieve a creative career. My classes spent little time discussing artists of color, and even less time focused on artists of the modern-day. It was only through connecting with others over a love of art and the importance of representation that I realized how deeply important this issue was to me. I decided to do a project that allowed me to combine my interests in art and storytelling and to learn more about the plethora of artists that lived and worked in my own hometown.

This book would not have been possible without the generosity of all of the amazing artists who took time out of their lives to let me into their studios and homes and shared so much about their lives and work. I traveled all around the Bay Area to speak with and photograph these amazing artists from all disciplines. Their kindness and honesty inspired me endlessly. When I felt down or lacked the motivation to create, I remembered the encouraging words that they all shared, and the paths that they had taken to get to where they are today.

The love that they have for their crafts shone through in every moment. These are some of the artists of color that are living and working in the Bay Area today, and this book is a small way of preserving their stories and acknowledging the importance of their presence and impact on the Bay Area’s ever-shifting culture. It was an honor to share space with them all, and an honor to be able to put their stories together into this book alongside my drawings, which are inspired by the conversations that we had. This book is a love letter to the place that I grew up and to those of the past, present, and future that fill it with such incredible works of art. I am overjoyed to be able to share this book with the world and hope that you are able to find inspiration and joy in these stories like I did.

Marcela Pardo Ariza San Francisco, CA Rawley Clark: Please share your name, pronouns if you feel comfortable, and maybe a short description of yourself and your art practice.

Marcela Pardo Ariza: My name is Marcela Pardo Ariza, I use any pronouns respectfully. I’m an artist, a visual artist, and I’m also a curator. I’m interested in intergenerational connection, in kinship, in creating social spaces with people that you love…

I’m interested in celebrating each other and supporting each other in very tangible ways and not creating a sense of competition in the art world. I’m all for experimenting and creating things together while also uplifting each other.

RC: When did you realize that you were interested in art as a career? Was there a process of realization, or was it something that you always sort of knew?

MPA: I thought I was going to be a musician for a really long time. I grew up doing music since I was really little, and I thought it was the bomb. I especially enjoyed playing with other people, I really didn’t like being the main person playing. And then, when I went to college I started taking more art classes, and I had always been drawing and stuff, but I took a photography class and I did a project where I was photographing people interacting with their exes. And you know, I did this photo sequence and I felt like people were letting me into their lives in a way that I had never experienced before. Like, they were just opening up in a way and sharing their vulnerability in such genuine ways that I realized that photography was such a powerful tool of both understanding other people and also hearing their stories while also creating something that kind of existed over time, so that it wasn’t ephemeral.

RC: So you’ve always sort of been interested in exploring human connection through your work?

MPA: Yeah, I don’t really like literal things and I felt like art was so poetic in making you feel things that were inexpressible in some ways while also making you feel connected to other people. Yeah, it’s like, how can you be so moved by something you don’t completely understand?

RC: Could you explain a little bit about your artistic process, if it’s able to be put into words?

MPA: Totally! I really like thinking about my artistic practice as stepping into a space of possibility and creating something that didn’t exist in the world beforehand. So, there’s this sense of freedom, but also this sense of responsibility when you’re thinking about art and thinking about representation, especially how representation has been misused in history and how I think that so many generations have come before me in order for me to make the work that I do now. And so, I think a lot about the responsibility that I have in creating the work, and also utilizing the way of making the work as a way of kind of simplifying the idea that we all have a creative side and that we all don’t have to exist in competition with one another.

So, specifically with my art practice, I think that a lot of it comes from specific gestures. I feel very moved by the fact that you know someone through their gestures, and not through like, how they look as a person? You can see someone in class, you could see them every day, but you might not know anything about them just by looking at them, but when you spend time with them you might be like “oh yeah, this person does these specific things.” So yeah, I like taking those particularities and fragments and representing them through photography. It’s kind of like those things that we often overlook that I’m so drawn to.

RC: I noticed that your work is very tied to identities, people, and interconnectivity, so how does being a woman of color sort of affect the art that you make?

“There’s this sense of freedom, but also this sense of responsibility when you’re thinking about art and thinking about representation, especially how representation has been misused in history and how I think that so many generations have come before me in order for me to make the work that I do now.”

MPA: I think that’s a really good question. You know, I grew up in Bogotá, Columbia, and I was looking at a lot of images, mostly images that we look at when we’re not in the art world like advertising images. And so, our ideas of our visual imaginary are actually very contrived and inherently kind of manipulative. When I started doing photography I started thinking about how to use the visual language to create spaces where we can consider different bodies, consider different interactions between ourselves and others, and also kind of still uplifting a sense of the impossible, or magic or the absurd. That is really what keeps me going sometimes too, the sense that despite everything going so terribly there is a spark of hope or a spark of something that sometimes we don’t understand completely that keeps us moving forward.

RC: What is something that you feel is integral to the work that you make?

MPA: So there are two things: in my artistic work, I’m more interested in celebrating the erroneous, and kind of making space for the

Marcela Pardo: improbable, absurd and magical, and in that way that extension to bodies and people and connections that we don’t think are as valuable as a biological family. In my curatorial work, I feel like I’m interested in distributing resources differently and uplifting people of color, queer and nonbinary trans folks who are in the art world, women who haven’t gotten their due, and making that space while also creating a sense of connectivity. Because I feel like in the art world there are people of color, there are queer people, trans folks, women... and we often feel isolated because we don’t have that sense of collective power. But once we’re there, we actually realize we’re so strong and that we’re taking over.

RC: Yeah, so like creating community but also creating community agency?

MPA: Yeah. That can only happen, you know… a lot of people do it in very transactional ways.

Institutions are like “oh, we don’t have someone of color, just call an artist of color!” Which is just such a detrimental way of enforcing diversity, and there is something so beautiful that can happen when we are actually thoughtful about how that happens and how people get included and uplifted and how they all get to know each other so that more opportunities come their way.

RC: And what are some ways that you’ve been able to do that in your work, curatorially or otherwise?

MPA: I think that in the curatorial sense it comes from connecting people, just being like “I think this curator needs to know this artist because they are definitely on the same wavelength.” And it’s not only for a show but like kind of seeing how those connections can move forward, right? Because once you work with that curator, ideally you don’t only work with them once but you keep working with them throughout the years. I love connecting people, it’s my favorite thing. And then distributing resources! So whenever I am curating a show and there’s funds that I can use, I love paying people!

No unpaid labor, ever!

RC: How long have you lived in San Francisco?

MPA: I’ve been living here for five years. I moved for grad school.

RC: And how does living in the city influence your work, if it does?

MPA: Yeah, it definitely does. I think that when I was living in New York, I felt like the art scene was a little bit more about who was your family. Like where you came from, what kind of connections you could get out of people.

And like that’s my take on it, I’m sure it’s very different for other folks. But, I felt like when I came to the Bay, I was taken much more at face value, kind of more merit-based. I felt like even the art world that’s very problematic is still trying to create space for people to live here and stay here despite all of the contradictions. I felt so much more supported, in terms of being like “oh I’m trying to figure this out,

Marcela Pardo: who can help out?” and people always show up; or in looking for gigs, or models, all the things. I think people always come through, and there’s a sense of accountability that I find very powerful in the Bay Area. And I think it comes from a sense of scarcity also, but it really makes us all show up for each other more. Yeah, San Francisco has been good to me, I can’t complain.

RC: You’ve talked about this a little bit, but your work centers around narratives and people. What has it been like building those connections, and what is your creative community like that you’ve built for yourself here?

MPA: Love the creative community here. It’s so sweet, it’s so hardworking… everyone’s trying to make it work. It’s so expensive to be here, we’re all choosing to be here to be with each other because everyone’s a freak living in a really expensive city to be with each other. And that’s great, I feel very lucky to have those folks by my side. I think a lot of that has come from, you know a lot of people are models that I’ve photographed throughout the years, or friends that I’ve seen kind of grow, and kind of finding those people that are doing similar work in different disciplines and showing up for each other has allowed for more collaboration.

I feel like I had to do a lot of unpaid artwork for a really long time and now that things are sort of

“That is really what keeps me going sometimes too, the sense that despite everything going so terribly there is a spark of hope or a spark of something that sometimes we don’t understand completely that keeps us moving forward.” manifesting differently not only for myself but for people around me, there’s this sense of trust and celebrating our paths and how they’ve intersected at a very specific moment in time.

RC: Who are some people that really inspire you?

MPA: This is so cliché.

RC: Go for it.

MPA: My mom inspires me! I mean, my mom came from a very big low-income family in Bogotá, and she decided to do theater. And because she chose to do theater my grandfather didn’t speak to her for two years. There’s just this sense of what was important to her at the time, during the 70s and 80s where there was so much violence in Bogotá, and I think my mom understanding that this was a tool that she needed in order to find a space of hope really inspires me because the world is so crazy right now. And sometimes, I question art’s ability to change it or change our minds but I go back to the fact that it’s so powerful to feel moved by something that somebody else has made.

RC: What does it mean to you to be an artist in the world right now?

MPA: Very good segue! And to touch on more people who inspire me, there are so many people of color doing work right now, so many photographers unseen throughout history and so many people that I didn’t get taught. I feel like there are always these surprises. Zanele Muholi was someone who I was like “Woah.” Claude Calhoun… all these people who were being queer, unapologetically queer in a moment in time where that wasn’t really allowed, or a space where that wasn’t allowed.

What does it mean to do art right now? It’s interesting to see how many people have gotten into making more political art, or kind of being more upfront about all of the injustices that we are dealing with. And for me, it’s hard to think about it. I talk a lot about it with my friends and I say that I just don’t want to become didactic. And I know that this is a discussion that has happened for so many decades. It’s like, so silly. But I think that we still need, you know because everything is so violent, I also want to have spaces where I can feel a little bit of joy. I think that joy is so important, humor is so important, celebration is so important. I’m such an optimist so I think that that’s a side that I can bring into things. And I know that other people are so much more serious and into very practical ways of changing the world right now. I think that both of them are just as important.

RC: Similarly, what do you believe is the role of an artist in society, if there is one specific role?

MPA: I think that in a utopian society, everyone would have a creative outlet, so I feel very lucky to be one of the people that have that outlet right now. It’s also a very vulnerable thing in the sense of dealing with a lot of self-doubts. You know, you’re making something and then you’re presenting it to a lot of people and there’s such a sense of vulnerability that I think it’s so courageous, and I’m grateful for other people doing it as well. Like I think that if people didn’t have the courage to show people what they created, we all would be in little corners being weirdos. There’s such power in sharing that it becomes sort of relatable. In another way, it’s this way of making connections that are nonverbal.

To Lean On One Another Is a Gift

Livien Yin Berkeley, CA Livien Yin: My name is Livien Yin, my pronouns are she/her. I would describe myself as a first-generation Chinese-American artist who works in sculpture, painting, and photo-based practices. Currently, my work is motivated by looking at how humans have tried to control natural resources and the kinds of relationships that develop between us and the organisms that then accrue value through their utility to us. For example, I have been researching the history of the tea trade starting with British botanical expeditions into China and the transport of tea outward to colonial plantations in India. I’m interested in the joint migrations of the botanical specimens and the migration of workers who tended to them.

RC: And when, if there was any point specifically in your life, did you decide that you wanted to pursue art?

LY: Hm. I would say.... art as a career is a very different question than “when did you start doing art?” I was an art major in undergrad. I started as a math major and then I switched to art and my parents were extremely disappointed at that time. I always thought that art couldn’t be a feasible career, so I investigated art and architecture, web design, other ways to incorporate visual art with something that had more stable trajectories. So I tried that for several years after college. In 2017 or so, I started setting aside more and more time to do my own art and exhibit in DIY gallery spaces in the East Bay. And I realized that every autumn I would think about applying for an MFA program but I held off. That happened enough times that I finally decided, okay, if I come back to this each year then it’s something I want to pursue more seriously.

“These kinds of misdirections, I guess, were fascinating to me: the intention of one object that uncontrollably led to widespread ripple effects. I wanted to, in my sculptures, pull some of these narratives through the materials that carry these histories.”

RC: And did you feel like doing the MFA program was the next logical step in your practice, or what changed that made you actually apply?

LY: I wanted to be able to have that kind of discussion and critique environment, especially after being outside of that environment for so long. And also to diversify the voices that influenced me. I felt like, and you absolutely don’t have to do grad school to be an artist and you can definitely grab people and have a conversation, but that grad school could provide all of that in a much more concentrated setting. In undergrad, I mostly learned with one painting professor. I went to Reed, a small college, and most of the painting influences I was inspired by were within the realm of abstract expressionism. I wanted to be exposed to other art forms too, not just painting.

RC: The next question is, if you could explain a bit about your personal practice and what goes into what you make? You shared a bit about your background, but what goes into the creation of an actual piece?

LY: I’ll speak to the most recent projects because I think it differs quite a bit. I typically arrive at visual ideas while my mind is occupied by reading. I’m reading about colonial botany expeditions in Plants and Empire as well as 1493–about the series of ecological changes stirred by the post-Columbus world. While looking into the tools that were used in botanical trade, I came across my most recent project focus: the Wardian case. The case was designed to transport plants overseas and help them survive months at sea. What attracted me to that as an object was that it had a really hermetic purpose of transporting organisms, but it also inadvertently transported fungi, other invasive species, insects that then brought about a lot of unintended ecological shifts, like blight to critical food crops. These kinds of misdirections, I guess, were fascinating to me: the intention of one object that uncontrollably led to widespread ripple effects.

I wanted to, in my sculptures, pull some of these narratives through the materials that carry these histories. I incorporated tea because it’s the physical material of the subject I researched. Or for the piece that’s in my studio right now on the floor, I focused on the fraught stories surrounding the colonial desire for silk. I wove with silk to reference the textiles from China, wool that was traded from England and cotton that was traded from the US for the silk. I wanted to compress these textile materials the way they had historically compressed the ambitions of distant continents.

When responding to the cultural and ecological shifts leading up to now, I can understand the histories in an abstract sense but not through my bodily experience of what has taken place. I am curious if sculpture can begin to collapse the gap between abstract knowledge and the first-hand knowledge stored through one’s body.

RC: So, when you talk about histories and your work being driven by these narratives, how do your own identities that you hold influence the work that you make?

LY: It’s a big influence. Both of my parents grew up in Beijing during the Cultural Revolution and immigrated here after the Revolution ended. They were both at a young age separated from their families to work on farms in rural labor camps. One of the political ideas at that time was that if man could control nature then he could also control the fate of the country. This is a theme that I continue to probe in my artwork. I wanted to learn my parents’ experiences to learn about the generations I am continuous with. This is especially felt at a place like Stanford where many early Chinese immigrants came to work for Leland Stanford. Where I grew up on the East Coast, we didn’t learn about the Transcontinental Railroad, Chinese Exclusion Act or the history of Chinatowns in America, but those histories are so rich in San Francisco. While looking into Stanford’s employment of Chinese railroad workers, all of these histories came up at a time that I felt was relatively late in my life to know about them. I researched why it was that so many Chinese immigrants came to work in California, and a lot of that was due to the fact that the Chinese economy was destabilized by the European trade for tea and silk. So I stepped back and back in time, and paused at the 18th and 19th centuries for my current projects.

RC: In sort of navigating the art world as a woman of color and as a person with marginalized identities, have you experienced issues? Or how has that process been, generally?

LY: Well, when I started painting, my aesthetic values were guided by a desire to create “universally accessible” abstract paintings… artwork that didn’t appear to be narrowed by autobiography. I didn’t see my cultural identity reflected in the museums I visited and assumed that making identity-based art wouldn’t have an audience among my non-Chinese peers. While at graduate school, I wanted to use art as a way to understand my own ancestry better, so I started to make pieces that were very culturally specific. Works included Mandarin characters, or materials that aren’t readily identifiable like a jujube fruit or kumquats. When I use materials that have been personally significant, it’s both more meaningful to me while appearing less recognizable for some viewers. I have been weary of using materials that may “alienate” people who are unfamiliar with them. I believe when you speak more truthfully to your own specificities as a person of color that even people outside of a Chinese American background, for example, can respond to how an artwork carries a parallel to their life or not. As a viewer, my attention is held by the unfamiliar.

RC: Does the Bay Area as a place have an impact on your work, or do you feel that it’s separate?

LY: In terms of the themes in my projects, many of the immigrant narratives I focus on hold a relationship to the Bay Area. We also had a guest artist come in two years ago and he looked at a collection of the thesis works that were on display and he said, “wow, Californians use so much color and you all must love found objects.” Which does seem to be true at the moment! That definitely shows up in my work. The vibrancy of the natural environment here plays a huge role in shaping the forms, textures, and palettes I work with. Sometimes I wonder if the love of found objects stems from the Bay Area’s embrace of repurposing materials rather than generating waste.

RC: Shifting a bit, what is something that you feel is integral to your work?

LY: I would say the hand–the evidence of interpreting content through my body. This is seen through the manipulation of paint, wood or woven thread using manual, low tech means. I try to test the limits of physical touch when altering materials.

RC: Yeah, your work doesn’t have figures necessarily, but you can see that you did the labor and that it is bodily in that way. How do you feel that your work has changed over time?

“I’m drawn to sculpture for its potential to offer both imagined and physical extensions of the world that I inhabit.”

LY: As a younger painter, I valued painting as a way to create a fictitious world, an illusion that you could inhabit psychologically. Over time, I exposed myself to sculptures and performance art all of which influence me to make objects that occupy the same space I do, rather than the imagined space of the picture. I’m drawn to sculpture for its potential to offer both imagined and physical extensions of the world that I inhabit.

RC: And do you have a favorite piece of work or era of work that you’ve created?

LY: My current favorite is this piece that’s on the ground called Bombyx Papaver. I named it after the latin classification names for the silkworm and the opium poppy flower. While I was thinking about the intimacies between the nations that were trading textiles it made me think about the kind of micro violence that happens when a thread is being extracted from a silkworm cocoon. The worm can’t move on to the next stage of life if that’s the case. I saw this gesture as a lead-in to the turbulence of the Opium Wars and the political conflicts initiated by the desire for silk. This was the basis for the sculptural weaving using silk, cotton, and wool.

RC: What is the best piece of advice that you feel that you’ve been given?

LY: One was at a studio visit with Sheila Pepe last year, the fiber artist. She was here and she was really engaged. I was talking with her about some of the issues that I mentioned earlier about feeling like my focus is too narrow by only looking at the Opium War between England and China. And she sort of shook me and said, “you owe it to your ancestors to look back into this history that you came from.” And I do, I want to honor the generations before me. Even when ancestral histories seem obscure or distant, they are entirely to credit for the contours of our present.

RC: And then the last question is just, one thing that you hope for yourself moving forward as a practicing artist?

LY: To not be afraid to change direction. Because after something like a thesis project or working in one series of narratives for a while, it feels like this is something that I ought to stick to. Especially for the sake of public perception as an exhibiting artist. But, when I catch myself saying this is what I should do, that alerts me to reconsider why it is that I should stick to something. There’s no growth in inertia. And I think that most artists whether we see it or not are attracted to really varied types of art-making, yet there is pressure to create work that appears cohesive. It has however proven much more rewarding to take on new directions and in the process, welcome expansion within yourself.

Illuminated History

Lukaza Branfman-Verissimo Oakland, CA

Lukaza Branfman-Verissimo: My name is Lukaza, I use she/her/hers pronouns. Let’s see, my work is centered around storytelling in many ways: telling my own stories, as well as prioritizing telling the stories of queer and trans people in my community, my family, my history. My practice itself kind of changes forms depending on the content and what I’m talking about. Right now I’m making a lot of paintings that will turn into sculptures, and I also have performance as a big part of my practice. So, drawing on many different kinds of mediums for sure.

RC: Could you explain a bit more about your artistic process?

LBV: I spend a lot of time gathering material from being in conversation with people in my community, from reflecting on experiences and things that I’ve lived through. I do a lot of writing and note-taking in my life, whether that is like going to a protest and taking pictures of the signs, or just trying to stay present and keeping my ears open to dialogues that are happening around me. And I think a mix between the deep-listening practice that I have and kind of surrounding myself with artists and creatives and performers all kind of solidifies it in my mind so that I’m able to process and make the work. Like I said earlier, storytelling is at the center of my work, and thus I’m really interested in all of the different ways that stories are archived or not archived, or saved or told or written down or sung.

So, always kind of having an eye out for that kind of way of saving. As someone who comes from a mixed background and just knows how important it is that all of the aspects of my identity are told and saved, I’m always inspired and that is at the center of my work, like how am I going to make sure that those stories live on forever?

Lukaza Branfman Verissimo: Sometimes that does look like making a list and then coming back and making a painting, or noticing these inequalities around me and then making them into a performance piece that enacts a future where queer and trans people of color are at the center of our thoughts and world and work. It comes through in different ways, and I think I’m always just trying to broaden the ways that I process all of these stories and experiences.

“As someone who comes from a mixed background and just knows how important it is that all of the aspects of my identity are told and saved, I’m always inspired and that is at the center of my work, like how am I going to make sure that those stories live on forever?”

RC: You mentioned making stories last forever, do you find yourself building on past projects a lot that you’ve done, or do you sort of just tell a story and then move on to tell another story?

LBV: I mean, in some ways all of my work is threaded together. I think they often look different but are continuing to tell similar stories or broaden the way that I share those stories. I definitely think that as someone who makes work that looks very different or can look very different, I am often using these different mediums as an influence for the other form. And there are big overarching themes that I’ve been looking into since undergrad and expanding and always going back and chewing on those. So, kind of both.

RC: How does being a woman of color and your other identities affect the art that you make?

You touched on it a little bit in that it’s storytelling, but how else do you think that that plays into your work?

LBV: I mean, obviously every touch that I make has that as an influence and has that in mind. I feel like especially as a young queer woman of color, these things have a big impact and take up a lot of space in a good way. It feels like my art form is a way of processing so many lived experiences and also really claiming and highlighting that. Really using these parts of my identity as a way to center the thinking when folks view my work or really questioning people to honor those lives. So, I’m like, it’s me, it’s part of everything I touch and do, and also it feels like so many people I love and people that I think are killin’ it in the world are queer women of color and that’s amazing. And also, there’s still not enough. And even within a city that I love and that I get so much out of there are so many ways that we aren’t prioritized, so it feels like my duty as an activist, educator, curator, storyteller, artist to make sure that that’s a part of my work and at the center. It’s all... everything is political and everything is together.

RC: You mentioned the values of the art scene here, and how sometimes they are one way and sometimes they’re another.

How have you navigated the issues that you might have experienced as a person of marginalized identities within that sphere?

LBV: I’ve only gotten better and better at that, especially in the last two years of dealing with more traditional gallery settings and all of the fucked-up hierarchies that come with those spaces. I think it’s kind of this weird balance because, on the one hand, you’re so thankful for these opportunities and on the other hand, you’re like this should not be this way! If you’re inviting me to your space I’m going to tell you how it is. I’ve found myself getting better and better at doing that. I think that’s just something that, as marginalized artists, we, unfortunately, have to stick up for. Not in every space, for sure, in that there are definitely more cases than not where I’ve felt welcomed and prioritized and listened to and all of those things. But it’s still like, okay, there’s still so many complicated layers of being an artist and being a showing artist within institutional spaces and more traditional spaces where there’s all this extra added work that we have to do.

Also, I think one thing about the Bay Area that’s so incredible is that there are so many POC-run, artist-run spaces that I spend a lot of time in, such as Ashara Ekundayo Gallery which is, unfortunately, closing in the Winter, but is a Black-woman owned space in Downtown Oakland that centers my work and centers these voices and it’s not necessarily a matter of like “how are you going to understand and know how to write about my work?” None of that is on the table which is so refreshing, to enter into those spaces and be like “okay, this is me and y’all are seeing it for what it is and loving it and supporting it.” So I guess I’ve definitely had both experiences, which is helpful-- I’ve learned so much on the job. There’s no handbook for being an artist, so you have to learn it on the job. And you have to learn it in both really hard and terrible ways and really amazing ways.

RC: How does living in Oakland or in the Bay at large influence the work that you make?

LBV: Because there’s still these really amazing kinds of DIY artist-run, artist-activated projects and spaces, that has really influenced my work big time. I also run a small gallery inside of my house in North Oakland and I think that is in part doable because I live in the Bay Area and because there are other artist-run spaces in weird places. The whole kind of culture and history and legacy that the Bay Area holds in terms of artist-run spaces and social justice and community arts work affects me in really incredible ways. And also it’s a really hard place to live in and is becoming harder and harder. I’ve just watched so many friends be pushed out of this place. Just so much of this new, terrible, corporate tech culture and the feeling that it’s taken over our city without asking or permission. Not like colonization-esque but you know, all of those things! We’re still here, even amidst all of this change, and I don’t know for how much longer but all I can think is that we’re here,we’re doing it now, and hopefully it can last a little bit longer.

Lukaza Branfman Verissimo: I definitely feel like people ask “how does the Bay affect you?” and want to focus on the negative and I think that it’s a big thing, a huge problem; there are so many inequities that the Bay is facing and that need to be talked about. And also, it’s because of these amazing spaces that artists and activists have set up that I’ve been able to make this the center of my work and my life.

RC: Kind of similarly, you talked about how it’s changing constantly, and I noticed even in growing up here that the way that art exists in the Bay Area is something that’s constantly changing. So, what are some of those changes that you’ve noticed and how have they affected you? Because you’ve lived here for nine years, how have you noticed from since you started school to now how the art scene has changed here?

LBV: I think it’s changed in hard and helpful ways. To start on a good note, I think in the last two or so years there’s been more recognition for artists of color in my community in a way that’s really exciting. It feels like finally... I mean I say this all lightly because everything is interwoven and dependent on each other, but I feel like even amidst the hard times that we’re in, there are so many fucking incredible shows up right now that are artists of color or artists that I’ve known for so many years that are finally getting shows or awarded grants. That part feels really exciting and feels like we’re able to take back and steer the boat in a direction that feeds us.

“Even within a city that I love and that I get so much out of there are so many ways that we aren’t prioritized, so it feels like my duty as an activist, educator, curator, storyteller, artist to make sure that that’s a part of my work and at the center.”

LBV: I think at the same time of us pushing back and making sure that these spaces notice us, there’s also just the tempting tech money corporate thing that’s everywhere that’s like “oh you could get money from Facebook or blah blah blah” which is complicated. They’re kind of working at the same time. I’ve seen that shift change, where there are more corporate spaces that artists are getting recognition in.

There also feels like more and more recognition for people that have been doing the work for years.

RC: Do you have a favorite sort of project that you’ve made or piece of work that you’ve done in your time here?

LBV: I’ve done a lot of projects here! I mean, a year ago slash this last spring I was awarded this public art grant to show my work on bus stop kiosks on Market Street. It’s hard to pick a project, but I feel like that was very Bay Area-specific and was, in showing my work to thousands of random strangers, an incredible honor to be able to have my work be recognized in that public space and get my first grant from the Art’s Commission and felt like “yeah, I’ve been working in the Bay Area and getting recognition for my work.”

Lukaza Branfman Verissimo: That was a really amazing moment for me, and also felt like I was able to kind of show the world a little slice of my practice.

The project was: I worked with marginalized communities along Market Street, so a lot of folks who are unhoused, trans elders, low-income folks who live in the Tenderloin... through the process of building community together we were in discussion about their stories and their experiences living in San Francisco. Together we made these text pieces of their stories that were on these bus stops.

It was a project that I’m proud of, and that’s very site-specific to changing San Francisco and was an opportunity to highlight the changes in my own community and highlight the experiences of folks who have lived here for a long time and whose voices aren’t being heard. Of course, my work is always site-specific in a way, but it felt sort of like, this is Bay Area work. And this is really asking our community members that are hurting and not being prioritized to be at the center of attention, and for our visitors and new residents of San Francisco to read these stories while they’re waiting for the bus and listen to the folks that are here.

RC: Was this the first time that you’ve had such a... I mean, all showing of art is public but this is to a different level. How was it for you, and how was it received?

Did you get to interact with people who were seeing it?

LBV: It was scary, just knowing that so many people were looking at this work and also this is why I’m making work, is to share these stories. It was one of my first public-public works. Lots of people shared stories about their experiences viewing the work. I think the best part was that the folks in these communities that are thought as the afterthought of San Francisco were like “yes, our stories are here!” And they’re in a space where they’re not often told even though we live like two blocks away from the Twitter building or whatever. All of these sites that are so often mentioned in San Francisco never necessarily mention the incredible work and history that like the Compton’s Cafeteria district is doing. So it felt amazing for those folks to have ownership, visible ownership of the city.

RC: What does it mean to you to be an artist in the world right now?

LBV: I feel like it’s my greatest honor. And also, I know that forever artists have been the ones that have made the change and have also created sustenance during the hardest times. I’m like, if I can add to that and also use it as a tool for survival then this is the only thing I want to do. I really do think that artists have helped us survive. My most favorite Toni Morrison quote that I don’t remember off the top of my head really just shows how important and how at the core we are throughout so many movements, forever. I’m like, be an artist if you need to be! If you need to do that and that’s the only thing that feels right then like, fucking do it. And work hard, so that future generations don’t have to struggle in the ways that we have.

Connected By Our Stories

Yalitza Ferreras San Francisco, CA Yalitza Ferreras: My name is Yalitza Ferreras, I’m a writer, primarily a fiction writer. I am from the Dominican Republic. I was born in the states, but I lived in the Dominican Republic since I was little so I consider myself Dominican, even though I’m technically American I guess. I had a few lives before I became an artist but I was always interested in art. I worked in the music industry, the fashion industry... just a lot of different things.

And then when I went back to school to finish my bachelor’s at Mills College, I went for pre-law, and then I ended up taking an introductory writer’s workshop that changed my life. After that, I was applying to law school and writing programs, but the law school applications sort of just fell by the wayside and I ended up just writing.

I’m working on a collection of short stories that I started in grad school, but right now I’m focusing on a novel that I started on my last semester in grad school.

RC: So you realized that you were interested in art as a career when you went back to school?

YF: Yeah, and I think that that happened then because before that I was very much a worker. What I mean by that is that I often had more than one job and that I had a lot of responsibilities. I don’t have children but I helped out my parents, a sibling, extended family. I come from a really poor background, and so there were just a lot of responsibilities. I had the fortune of working at really interesting and kind of fun jobs, but I didn’t always think about what I wanted; it was more about surviving.

I grew up in New York, and when I moved out here I looked into schools and I got a scholarship to go to Mills College. And I think because I had the support I was able to kind of just explore, take different classes, see what interested me. As I said I had always been interested in art but I had never been able to make it because there was no time.

And I think, maybe even more importantly, I didn’t have any... even though I grew up in New York and had a lot of access to art, it wasn’t something I thought I could do because, as I said, I come from a poor background, very much the immigrant experience, and it was work to survive. It wasn’t “make art.” Not that my family doesn’t think those things are important or that they don’t appreciate those things, it’s just like, “how would you fit that into your life?” And so, even after there were times that it was maybe something I could do, I just wasn’t programmed that way.

“I’m really interested in writing about characters who, like me, are trying to make art, but how do you make art when you’re trying to survive?”

Yalitza Ferreras: It took having the support of an institution basically to help me kind of just be free and figure out what I really wanted to do. When I was at Mills, my teachers were amazing and they really supported me, and when I took this workshop they were like “oh, you’re a writer!” and I was like “no... what?” I’m like, I’m not an artist, I’m not a writer, that’s not something that was ever in my radar. But I sort of just kept doing it. I was like you know what, this is fun, and I have the time to do it, so I’m just going to keep doing this and not really thinking that anything could come out of it.

RC: You talked a little bit about your personal background, but how do you feel that being a woman of color and maybe your other identities that you hold affect the work that you do?

YF: Well, there’s so much to say! But I’ll tell you a little bit about my novel and why I’m writing what I’m writing about. Because even though the character is not me, there are so many aspects of my life. I’m writing about a Dominican woman who works as a domestic, and domestic work is something that I’ve done in the past to make money.

So she goes to Spain to work as a domestic, and the novel is set in 1992 which is the year that a Dominican domestic was killed in Spain, which is a long story but it was because of racism and xenophobia and all of the things that are happening here today.

I came up with that idea because I’m really interested in writing about characters who, like me, are trying to make art, but how do you make art when you’re trying to survive? So there’s the economic component, but also just in terms of race, the Dominican Republic is a former colony, and a lot of people from former colonies used to-- I mean, it’s still happening, just not as much-- go there to work, much like they do here. But there was a lot of racism. The Dominican Republic was colonized by the Spaniards, and slaves were brought over... and there’s a whole rainbow but most people are dark. So Dominican people would go to Spain to work and would encounter a lot of racism. I set it around this murder because one component is trying to make art while trying to survive, but also how do you become civically engaged when you’re trying to make art but also just trying to feed yourself and your family?

I feel like those are things that I’m constantly thinking about now, especially living in San Francisco.

I’ve lived here since 1999, except for those two years that I went to Michigan [for grad school]. So ever since I’ve lived here, the city has changed a lot. It’s a strange place! It’s not very diverse, not just in terms of race but also age and socioeconomics and all of those things. And it’s hard for me to work here sometimes, I feel a dissonance.

Yalitza Ferreras: Personally, because I’m doing better economically now than I was when I was younger, and part of that is because my husband has a great job that allows us to live here because it’s very expensive. But, I’m writing about poor people.

I’m writing about people of color. It’s a challenge to live here, even though I love so many things about it.

RC: What is something that you feel is integral to your work?

YF: Something tangible, or...?

RC: Anything. Physical, mental...

YF: There are practical things, like just making sure that I’m taking care of myself. I think as a woman of color, that doesn’t come naturally for me. That’s certainly not true for every woman of color.

But for a woman of color from my background, who’s used to taking care of people... occasionally putting myself first is the most basic thing I need before I even think about the specifics of what that means. That can be anything from getting enough sleep to eating right to looking at my grandmother’s picture to looking at my nephew’s picture. Or, there’s a pinecone from Djerassi [Resident Artists Program], because Djerassi was my first residency. It reminds me of when I was really supported. I created great work. And it’s hard for me to toot my own horn and say I created great work, but what I mean is that I was free and I was really prolific and someone believed in me and fed me good food and allowed me to just work on my art.

So, having things around me that remind me of... I have a stone, a larimar stone from the Dominican Republic. It’s only found in the Dominican Republic. So things that remind me of where I come from, people and place. When I go to residencies, I bring some of those things with me and put them on my desk.

RC: You said that you’ve lived here since ‘99, and you said that you’ve noticed that it’s constantly changing. So, how has maybe the writing scene changed and how have the general changes of San Francisco affected you as a person who lives here as a creative?

YF: Well, I feel like an old fogey now. I mean, every place changes, New York has changed, the Dominican Republic has changed. But I think especially in San Francisco, we’ve all read the articles. It’s the most expensive place to live and yet you walk out your door and there’s homeless people, people that are mentally ill and not getting the things that they need in order to survive.

Yalitza Ferreras: And so the disparity is really... San Francisco is not very big. So maybe in other places, it’s not as in your face as much, but you definitely see it here, no matter where you live, who you are or where you come from. So it’s hard. Sometimes I feel that thing that I’ve always felt, a part of it is like guilt. At one point, I had to tell my family that I was an artist, and that was hard. My family is supportive, but also it’s like that thing where it’s like “oh, but you’re not a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer, and you’re not making a lot of money!” It’s hard when you’re faced with these kinds of problems, just thinking about your responsibilities as a person.

I’ve lived here for a long time. I still consider myself a New Yorker and a Dominican, those are my primary identities. But pretty soon, I’m gonna have to start calling myself a San Franciscan. But I can’t! I don’t know if I ever have, because it feels like a fake place to me. People come here, they work and make money and they leave, and they’re not always engaged with what’s going on around them. We’ve actually, my husband and I, we’ve talked about moving for years. We just don’t know where to go! There are so many great things about San Francisco, we’re comfortable here in a way.

But the lack of diversity! I walk around as a woman of color, and I don’t see many [others]. I see less now than I did when I moved here, and that’s hard. When I go back to New York I always notice, like oh, there’s elderly people walking around, there are children! It’s like a real place! So just grappling with that. I mean I’ve met a few people who have said okay, but maybe staying here is making a statement. So we’re kind of trying that on. Like, okay we’re staying here, so we’re part of the fabric of the city too. It’s still an experiment, thinking about it in that way is a kind of experiment to see if we feel more comfortable staying here, that we represent some kind of diversity and that staying here is a good thing.

RC: What, if you have one, is one of your favorite pieces of work that you’ve made thus far?

I know that might be a hard question, choosing from your babies.

YF: It’s actually not! I had gone to Hawaii on vacation because I was obsessed with volcanoes. And that’s a long story, but I almost got killed because I got too close and I almost fell through a lava hole. So I wrote this nonfiction essay about my obsession, but we had a prompt which was to use an object or a thing or some sort of device, and I thought, what am I going to do?

“I feel like art is at its best is when you can have a conversation with the world through your art. And so, I just feel it’s important to engage with the world as an artist, even if that means at the very least just trying to put your work out there.”

YF: I couldn’t think of anything for a really long time because I thought, let me use a rock or a mineral, but it just wasn’t working. So I was reading this geology book and there was an alphabetized list of famous geologists. I was looking through the list and I was like huh, it’s all men, and it’s all white men. So I came up with this idea to kind of tell my story of how I didn’t become a geologist through the descriptions of these men and what they discovered or what they were famous for. The essay was called “An Alphabetical List of Famous Geologists and the Failed Geologist Who Loved Them.”

Yalitza Ferreras: So I wrote this essay, and it was alphabetical because that’s how the list was in the book, about the different things they were known for and how those things related to my life. This was before I was a writer writer. When I handed in that essay, my teacher at the time was like “you should do more with this!” And in order to do more with it, I had to turn it into fiction, because I had reached my limit with it in nonfiction. So I turned it into a fiction story and I worked on it forever, like ten years. It was one of my application stories for my MFA and I worked and worked and worked on it, and it eventually got published and was my first published story. It ended up in Best American Short Stories, which is a dream come true but kind of crazy for my first published story. It’s my most personal story, and I’ve turned it into a novel. I’m not working on it right now, I’ve worked on it a little bit, and the story ended up being really long but in order to get it published in a literary journal I had to cut it down. So I had all of this extra material that I still have, so that’s going to be my second novel but I’m so excited about it! I feel like because I worked on it in the beginning when I was not even thinking about being a writer, every time I work on it I tap into that energy again.

RC: What does it mean to you to be a writer, to be a creative in the world right now?

YF: Well, I always think about my personal experience of reading. So, I write primarily fiction, and there’s a lot of reasons for that. But one thing... so, when I learn about something that happens in the world when I read nonfiction, whether it’s a newspaper or a nonfiction book, a biography or an autobiography, those things are still filtered by a person and a point of view, so you take that into account. I feel like when I read a fiction book, or a fiction work, or a story... When you read a fiction piece you have to do some of the work. You’re not just being told something, interpretation comes into it. I feel like I take that information and retain it more than when I read nonfiction or journalism.

And so, that’s how I feel about reading. I mean, when I’m doing creative work, I’m not always thinking about my responsibility as a person, I’m trying to let go and create art. But because of what I write about, I feel like for me, my work and other writers and other artist’s work who are... I don’t want to say tackling issues because it’s just... representing. But not representing in a way necessarily that, as I mentioned before, there are expectations of women of color and people of color when they make art. But, because even if you’re a person of color creating work that is about white people or something, I don’t know, I feel like it’s important to exist as a writer and make the art, because we’re having a conversation. I feel like art at its best is when you can have a conversation with the world through your art. And so, I just feel it’s important to engage with the world as an artist, even if that means at the very least just trying to put your work out there. Even if you’re not someone who’s comfortable speaking about your work because not everyone is. It’s just important for us to be out there making art.

Finding Balance, Finding Strength

Kierra Johnson Oakland, CA

Kierra Johnson: My name is Kierra Janae Johnson, my pronouns are she and her. I am originally from Decatur, Georgia. I’ve been out here... it’s really insane to say this, almost ten years now. I’d say about eight, let’s keep it in reality, but it’s almost ten. My practice really involves the investigation of everyday rituals, space, memory, interpersonal relationships. That of people of the African Diaspora, that’s what I’m interested in exploring. And the ways that we hold onto our culture and pick up more things along the way. It’s mostly staged portraiture that I do, and I place people mostly in their homes. Sometimes I’ll make up an entire scene, but mostly I always want to bring a piece of them to the shoot.

RC: When did you realize that you were interested in art as a career?

KJ: It’s so funny, your family knows you before you know yourself. Every time I’ve gone home and become more myself, my family always reminds me like “yeah, you were always taking pictures.”

I was always doing albums and things like that just making sure I was documenting things. But it didn’t become a viable career option for me until about four years ago. I was always taking pictures-- Instagram was largely responsible for that because I didn’t take the traditional route and go to art school or anything like that. And so, it was through Instagram and sharing my work and being super intentional about making images. I’d say that probably happened a good four years ago, and it wasn’t until two years ago that I began showing.

RC: Could you explain a bit more about the process that you take in creating your images?

KJ: Most of what I want to capture comes to me in a dream. I’m also really drawn to film, especially Kasi Lemmons work, she’s incredible and I’ve loved her stuff since I was a child. Sometimes in order for it to be authentic to me, I have to go back home. I do a lot of shoots back home with my family members, and I’m trying to change that up a bit but it’s just... it always turns out better when it’s with the people that I share these memories with and that I want to bring forward. So my process really involves something that comes to me in a dream and trying to set it up and remember exactly what that memory was and trying to replicate it as closely as possible. I don’t know if you want to get into the technical stuff but that’s really the gist of it. I ask people if they’re okay with it, if they’re comfortable sitting for me, and then people are just like going along with it. I shoot digital now but I’m moving more into film, and that’s been quite a journey as well.

RC: What is it like shooting with your family? Is it an easy process to direct them to what you want?

KJ: Yes, for the most part, because they want to see me win so they’re like “what do I need to do??”

I just went home a few weeks ago and I was there for two weeks, trying to get some work out and nobody was willing to do it which I understood because of what I was trying to do. So I guess as long as I don’t press any emotional scars or buttons everybody’s like “yeah, what do you need me to do, I’m here!” The first person I ever shot was my mother, she was down for the ride.

RC: A lot of your work is centered around the Black experience, so how does being a woman of color or other intersecting identities that you have affect the art that you make?

KJ: It makes it deeply personal for me because I’m sharing my view with the world and how I see Black people in particular because that is my main focus right now, it may change. I think the way that we, particularly Black women, the way we see each other and ourselves and our people is very very special. I don’t really have a reason why yet, but I feel like it’ll become clear to me soon.

There’s a certain tenderness, a certain authenticity with it, to me it makes it that much more powerful. Even when I’m witnessing other Black women, Black films, other Black folks work, it feels like a hug. That’s the best way I can say it, it feels like a hug to me! So I’m always trying to make work that focuses on some sort of healing because I’m always feeling that when I’m taking in another artist’s work who is a Black woman or a Black femme.

RC: As you have sort of made your way into the world of showing and being in the art world, have you experienced any issues as a woman of color in those spaces?

“There’s a certain tenderness, a certain authenticity with it, to me it makes it that much more powerful. Even when I’m witnessing other Black women, Black films, other Black work, it feels like a hug.”

KJ: There was one time I turned down an opportunity because... you know this is always the thing about racism, it makes you crazy and paranoid! I don’t know if you’ve ever had a pest in the house and it’s like “did I just see something??” To me, that’s what racism sometimes feels like, like “did that just happen?” So anyway, there was one opportunity that I turned down which is crazy because I’m literally emerging, I’m at the very beginning of my career. I just kind of felt like they wanted me to dance for them, to perform my Blackness. It felt very much related to old, very hurtful archetypes of Black folks and it didn’t really feel like they were seeing me for who I am. It was just kind of like “okay we need a trans person, we need a gender non-conforming person, we need a Black woman, we need some really quirky white girl.” It was just like damn, do y’all even really care? It’s not even that deep, but I felt that and I felt paranoid about it, and I’m still not sure if that was the right idea to turn that down.

But that has been the only icky feeling I’ve gotten in the art world, everyone else has been so welcoming. The first time I’ve shown was in a Black woman’s gallery, Betti Ono, and was a part of a show dedicated to Black women called Black Women over Breathing, co-curated by Danielle McCoy and Adrian Octavius Walker. I’ve just been very blessed to be in safe spaces like that and other spaces that have opened up for me because a lot of my work touches on spirituality and religion sometimes, so I had the opportunity to show in a Catholic church. Even that, like Catholicism is not even what I grew up practicing, I’m a Southern Baptist and that’s what I was raised with. I’d say my work has always found the places where it was welcomed the most, and the one weird time I said no to. So, it’s been positive, mostly.

RC: What is something that you feel is integral to the work that you make?

KJ: Ugh, I don’t want to be all woo-woo but it’s love! It’s love, it’s a really deep love for Black folks in our every day...something I didn’t grow up seeing in mainstream media.

And that is starting to change, thankfully, because a lot of artists are sort of answering the call. I would say it’s like, an ancestral call to undo all of the things that the mainstream media has done. To me each time an image gets out there, even if it doesn’t reach mainstream status, that is a new way for us to look at each other and the things that we do and see the beauty in it. Even when it’s not beautiful, to still see the beauty and to know that we are not other.

Kierra Johnson: Even in the midst of our mess, there is beauty. I would say that that part is just love and an alternative offering of seeing ourselves in a mirrored sort of way.

RC: You said you’ve lived here for almost ten years, so do you feel that living in the Bay Area influences the work that you make? Because you also mentioned that you go home a lot to create your work, so how does that tie in?

KJ: So, to be honest with you, it wasn’t until I went to Ghana that I began to think about the idea that culture travels. Being in the South for so long, for most of my life I didn’t really think about, it’s silly but I didn’t really consider that I was a part of a culture. It was just, this is what it is. When I moved out here I was like okay! Y’all do the same things we do. And being from Georgia, California is way over there. And so it’s like, we do the same things! And when I went to Ghana it really, really cemented in my brain and I was like, I want to explore this more. So, being in the Bay, witnessing little things that make me homesick and make me miss my family and seeing it in the people here I’m like, we are a part of a way bigger thing. And then going across [to Ghana], like “this is the Diaspora.” I felt it in my bones instead of just reading about it. So the Bay has influenced me in helping me understand the Diaspora in a practical way and helping me understand the interconnectedness of our culture.

RC: Who or what are some of your inspirations?

KJ: Deana Lawson. Simone Leigh. Liz Johnson Artur. Mickalene Thomas. Kennedy Carter, she’s young and she’s out here! My friend Adrian... the list could go on forever, but really it’s just people out here telling stories in a way in which like... let me find my words. Deana Lawson was the first person I’d seen that photographed work that looked like where I grew up, that looked like my family, that looked like my everyday life. And I’m seeing this in museums, she’s in the MoMA! It’s regular degular life, up in a gallery! To me, that was another validating moment for me. For a moment I felt like my style had to be glitzy-glam, because that used to be the only time that I saw Black bodies in a museum. Or where it was showing the ugly side of our history and it’s a retrospective look of what things were like in the past. Those were the two extremes and I’m like “I don’t know where to fall.” Deana Lawson was the first person to kind of set me free, like this is beauty as well. And Simone Leigh, she does a lot of social practice work and sculpture work. She’s just wow. And of course Carrie Mae Weems is another photographer where it’s like, the everyday aspect and how she uses her body to tell a story, and that came out of necessity. I’ve read so many articles about her work and why she was the subject in her images and she was like “I was all I had.” It’s just real and raw and that feeling of still needing to get the work out. And then Deborah Willis, she’s a curator. She’s introduced me to a lot of different artists just by me consuming the work that she’s curated.

RC: What does it mean to you to be an artist in the world right now?

KJ: Well, I kind of feel like I’m one of the number. And that feels really good because there are so many voices right now that are out and that are really pushing to make sure that there are a plethora of stories and not just one type of story of a Black person. And I’m specifically going to talk about Black folks because that’s what I know best, that’s my perspective.

Kierra Johnson: I feel very privileged to be able to be doing this right now, and that I’m able to make a living from it. I also feel a huge responsibility too, to make sure I continuously tell the truth and show beauty at the same time. I feel that heavy on my shoulders but it’s a weight that I can carry, I’m not carrying it alone, I’m contributing to what’s already out there and that feels really welcoming. It’s like going to church for me, it’s like I’m sitting in a pew, I’m here. I’m not by myself, I’m not building the church, not making something out of nothing; I’m a part of the number, and that feels very, very beautiful to me.

RC: And similarly, what do you believe is the role, if there is one, of an artist in the society that we live in?

KJ: The role of the artist to me is actually, it’s a quote I keep right here. Amiri Baraka, “my responsibility is to truth and beauty.” That’s the role of the artist. To always tell the truth--shake shit up of course, but tell the truth and show beauty [in different ways]. Because beauty is subjective, I believe that too. It’s just to always being on the quest of telling the truth, but the truth is also subjective! So it’s like, finding some sort of reconciliation between the two, and just... don’t be irresponsible.

RC: And for the last question, what is your dream for yourself and your work in the future?

KJ: I want to continue being in a space where... I’m going to cry, and I’m trying not to. It’s hitting me hard because I had no idea the impact that it would have on people. When I go to openings and some women, especially older women, start crying. I just always want to be in a space where Black women feel seen, and I want my work to offer just a little bit of healing and a little ease because life is hard. For so long, Black women have been overlooked in a multitude of ways. And the fact that my work gives a little bit of breath, you know? I want to forever be in that space. In whatever medium, I want to be able to contribute to that because I truly believe that’s what I’ve been sent here to do, to make a difference. It’s what my mom says my name means, and I just want to do that for Black women because so much has been poured into me. My cup is overflowing and I just want to always be able to do that.

“I just always want to be in a space where Black women feel seen, and I want my work to offer just a little bit of healing and a little ease because life is hard. For so long, Black women have been overlooked in a multitude of ways. And the fact that my work gives a little bit of breath, you know? I want to forever be in that space.”

We Continue On, With Love at the Center

Natani Notah San Francisco, CA Natani Notah: My name is Natani Notah, my pronouns are she/her/hers. I would say that my artistic practice currently explores contemporary Native American identity through the lens of Diné womanhood. On my father’s side, I’m an enrolled member of the Navajo Nation and on my mother’s side, I’m part Lakota and Cherokee. I grew up primarily with Diné beliefs and customs, so I identify strongly with that. Much of the art that I make draws upon my personal background and Diné philosophies to make artwork that highlights the importance of Indigenous knowledge.

I often ask myself, “who am I making the work for?” It usually starts with an impulse to create based on my emotions. From there, I think about my family and how I want them to be proud of what I do. Then, it’s like a ripple effect–– I think about the Navajo Nation and Native communities from all over Indian Country. Then, I think about other people of color who can relate to certain things that I’m talking about. And then, it is for everyone else who is invested in raising their own awareness and is interested in having difficult conversations about the things that we go through in life. I’m hoping to foster an allyship and make work that speaks across lines of division. When I can do that, that’s when I think my work has been the most successful.

Rawley Clark: You mentioned earlier that you were the first person in your family to pursue art as a career, when did you realize that art was what you wanted to pursue?

NN: I first realized when I was about five and a half or six. I was in kindergarten and there was a Father’s Day project where the teacher recorded me answering questions about myself and my dad. At one point, she asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said that I wanted to be an artist. I actually still have that cassette tape recording and listen to it periodically.

It makes sense that I said this early on because I come from a family of artists. My father was a welder by occupation and worked predominantly with aluminum to make seating such as bleachers for stadiums, but he also had this assemblage practice of taking cast-offs of scrap metal and welding them together.

“I knew when I was very young that I wanted to be an artist, and I knew when I was very young that it was going to be hard, but I don’t really know what else I would do with my life.”

Natani Notah: These pieces would turn into weird, funny sculptures that he would then give to family and friends for Christmas or birthdays.

He also did a ton of other things, he was a traditional singer, pow wow dancer, regalia maker, and silversmith. In all these ways, he has been a key influence on my art practice. My siblings are all very creative as well. My older brother is a talented musician and writer. My younger brother plays the banjo and writes as well. My older sister makes jewelry and does beadwork–– she is actually the person who taught me how to bead, which now heavily defines my practice.

In all, I am very fortunate to come from a family that supports the arts and has encouraged me along the way.

Being an artist has always been my dream, but there’s a lot of society telling you not to do it.

You have a lot of people telling you that it’s gonna be hard, that you’re gonna be poor, and you’re not going to make it because only a few people do, but I’ve never been someone who listened to the naysayers. I’m someone who often swims against the current and tries to prove those people wrong.

Pile on top of that, being someone who didn’t grow up with a lot of money… being a woman… being a woman of color… being a Native woman… it hasn’t been easy. Inherently, there are all kinds of hurdles that you have to learn to maneuver and overcome. So yeah, it’s hard, but I don’t know what else I would want to do with my life.

RC: You’ve definitely touched on this already, but how does being an artist of color and the intersection of your other identities affect the work that you make?

NN: When I was younger, I didn’t think about it as much as I do now. It wasn’t until I went to college and took classes in Feminist, Gender and Sexuality Studies, that I started learning and realizing how unfair the world has been to women and especially women of color. We are confronted every day with situations where we are reminded of how low our position is in society. Do I want to be thinking about this all the time? No. Do I feel like I have to be thinking about it all the time? Yes. And it’s through reading, making art about my lived experiences, and connecting with other people, that I’m learning to unlearn certain things and challenge much of the conversation surrounding art and identity politics today. Thus, I do feel like my identity is central to my work and I’ve had to really lean into that, which is challenging at times, but I feel like I have a responsibility to use my platform for the greater good. Ultimately, it is my hope to have my work be something that women like me can look at and see themselves represented in. I think this makes my practice very valuable and worthwhile because it’s not just about me. In fact, it’s about everybody else, future generations, and lifting others up along the way.

RC: How long have you lived in the Bay Area?

NN: I have lived here for three, going on four years. I initially moved to the Bay Area for graduate school.

RC: What has it been like building a creative community in the Bay Area? Has that been strictly through grad school, or have you been able to build it more after your program?

NN: One of the reasons why I wanted to get my MFA was to work alongside a cohort and have the opportunity to engage in meaningful dialogue with dedicated faculty. Being a part of that community was very important to me. When I started my graduate program, I definitely hit the ground running.

I feel like I connected with a lot of different people in and outside of the department. Now, I am connected to a strong group of folks who are supportive and inspirational. In that way, going to school has been great.

After graduating it’s been a bit more challenging to consistently produce my art because I don’t have the structure of a class with deadlines.

However, I am very lucky to be at the Headlands [affiliate artist program] where there is a great sense of community and a lot of programming, which encourages us to talk about and share our work with one another.

As you know, networking is huge in the art world and I am grateful to be plugged into outlets that provide constant engagement through open studios, exhibitions, and even social media. Nowadays, there are a lot of different avenues for communication, so I am trying to keep up with those too.

Natani Notah: Finding that balance between being social, retreating to my studio, and going back home is important. I often fall back on my family and friends to recharge, because they ground me in ways that the art world doesn’t. Like most careers, I think you need to find that sweet spot between your work life and personal life. Sometimes it’s hard! One of my best friends is not an artist, and I love that about her because she’s able to put things into perspective. The other day, she was like, “You know, your job has gotta be really hard because you can’t just shut it off. When you leave your studio you’re still thinking about the project on the drive home. It’s your whole life.” What she said is true, you can’t separate art from the artist.

RC: It is hard to remember that you don’t have to be making something all the time, but it feels like that sometimes!

NN: Yeah, I think I have a really strong work ethic. When I look at artists that I admire, they are extremely hardworking in the studio, and making new work all the time. Not all of the work is going into shows or is what they’re known for, but they don’t give up on their daily practice. I admire that because it’s not as easy as people might think, or as glamorous either!

RC: What is something that you feel is integral to your practice?

NN: I think having my unique hand in the work is really important. I mentioned earlier that there is a found aspect to some of my sculptures and series. Some might critique that and say that I’m not fabricating everything from hand, while some would argue that finding that fragment or object is relevant because there’s my hand that picks it up.

I would go on to include that my hands not only choose to pick it up, but they take it back to the studio, wash it, polish it, or alter it in some other way, whether that’s through sanding, slight mark-making or physical manipulation of the material because it happens to be malleable. Many times I’m able to twist and turn something on its head and add more details like applique beadwork to transform it into something else entirely. I spend hours upon hours handling various materials with much technique and skill. In general, I have to be in my work, or it doesn’t feel quite right. I don’t think that I will ever fabricate something to an extent where my hands don’t touch it.

RC: Do you have a favorite piece of work, series or era of work that you’ve made to this point?

NN: Yes, I keep coming back to a series of work titled Seven Generations of Bolo Ties from 2018.

That series took me about two years to complete. I started it in the second semester of my first year in graduate school and finished it after graduating. I think I like it so much because it encompasses everything that I’m interested in. There’s applique beadwork, the incorporation of found fragments in the composition, and working with fabric–– in this case cutting leather into long strips that I then braided together to form giant bolo ties. Then there’s the installation of it, all seven are installed to float within the space. They have an element of movement that depends on the air that is circulating in the room and if someone walks by them, they end up swirling, shifting, and dancing within the space.

As objects they are extremely intricate and beautiful, which is something that I’m proud of, but it does raise more questions for me. I continue to find inspiration from this work and have found that it’s led to many other series. Eventually, my goal is for them all to be acquired by a museum. I want this to happen one day because I would like the work to be taken care of. I know there’s a lot of critique surrounding museum acquisitions (they could go about it differently), but I can appreciate institutions that have an infrastructure for taking care of contemporary artwork and making sure that it has a long life and is periodically taken out of storage and shown to the public. Also, then my work is in a museum, which would mean that people like me are part of the conversation. I think that is powerful.

RC: What is the best piece of advice that you feel that you’ve been given along your journey?

NN: I feel like I’ve been fortunate to have a few people that have given me some sound advice. One of the first people that comes to mind is a professor during my undergrad that had a huge impact on my trajectory. I was in an advanced sculpture class and I was trying to figure out how to make something in response to a “public versus private” prompt. I was really struggling and the professor took the time to sit down with me to help me brainstorm. He asked me if I did any creative writing in my free time and I was like, “well yeah, actually I do, but I don’t know, it’s just a stream of consciousness.” At the time I was downplaying my own writing by saying that it didn’t matter. He asked if I could share a little bit so I did. He listened to me read some poems and told me that my words were important, that my voice was important. I kind of just sat with that for a while and thought about how significant it was. He saw value in something that I had yet to see the value in myself. Now, I always make a point to tell my students or the other people in my life that their voice matters, because sometimes you just need to be reminded that you have a lot to say and a lot to contribute to the world.

“Now, I always make a point to tell my students or the other people in my life that their voice matters, because sometimes you just need to be reminded that you have a lot to say and a lot to contribute to the world.”

Your Voice Has Power

Eliza Barrios San Francisco, Ca Eliza Barrios: My name is Eliza Barrios, my pronouns are she and her. I would say I prioritize site-specificity with my practice. I fully consider the space when I create a piece.

And where that takes me is working out the logistics, the subject matter, and also working out my audience-- being mindful of who the audience may be..

RC: How does the audience change the work that you make?

EB: I would say that it changes it in a way that...I make my pieces keeping in mind various elements including knowing that different audiences will receive the piece differently which is part of its beauty. I try to build that openness, versatility, possibility into the piece. I typically begin with a framework that sets up the execution of my piece, and during the process, I consider the context of my work, such as the piece itself, the space, show and audience.

RC: And when did you realize that you were interested in pursuing art as a career, was it when you went to school for it?

EB: More like when did I take myself seriously as an artist. I knew I was navigating towards the arts beginning with my City College phase, now pursuing art as a career was not necessarily an intentional process. I only use my academic timeline as a marker as they define when my thoughts of pursuing the arts could be a possibility. It wasn’t until undergrad (SFSU) and graduate work (Mills) did the possibilities enter my mind. I always took my work seriously and I just followed my nose which led to more and more art opportunities. The road to grad school was an auspicious one.

When I finished undergrad, I sort of played Russian roulette in that I only applied to one program. I looked at maybe five or six different programs but only applied to one. Mills was the only institution that appealed to me because of a certain caliber of artists coming out of the program.

“I fully consider the space when I create a piece. And where that takes me is working out the logistics, the subject matter, and also working out my audience-- being mindful of who the audience may be.�

Eliza Barrios: Many years out of the institution, graduates from Mills were still pursuing their work and they happened to be part of the circles I was running around in post undergrad.

My decision to go to grad school was to teach, to be a professor. So, I went to grad school and was a TA because that’s what you do. And I realized... that I didn’t want to be a professor! I was not aligned with the fact that as a professor, you’re required to maintain a semblance of prestige in order to support the institution you worked for. It transpired as sabbaticals that then adjunct professors would then teach, leaving your students under another professor’s advisorship. I had the unfortunate experience where I was under the impression I was going to study under a certain professor, but instead basically had two years of my grad school under 2 different professors.

And then I considered my age, like “what am I gonna give these students?” I was 27 at the time, I felt like the professors and teachers that impressed me and inspired me and gave me a lot and had this lifetime of experience. So, after I graduated, I went straight into the Financial District for work, but I promised myself not to stop my practice, [with the idea that] once I stop showing, maybe I’ll start teaching. And going forward from there, my being active in a lot of artistic communities and collaborations led to a consistent practice. For example the Mail Order Brides/M.O.B., we always had projects going on, as well as a layer of a sisterhood. We talked about art, about strategy in art, about the challenges of being women of color in art. My conversation about queer art and being a queer artist was actually minimal and it was because at that time I wanted to be known for my art.

I didn’t want to be known as a female, Filipino, queer artist. That was never a big conversation but it was a huge consideration because I felt it but perhaps I never sought out the language for it.

RC: You sort of were talking about identity and how you originally sort of strayed away from it, but do you feel that identity plays a big role in your work now, or do you still feel a little bit opposed?

EB: I think inevitably it does, with or without my control or consent, and I’m totally fine with that. But I feel like it plays the same important role as it did before, but now I’m much more aware of it. I think I was very focused on perfecting my craft rather than thinking of the ramifications or perceptions. So, having an art practice for many years, the conversation regarding identity is something you can’t stray away from. So, when I’m in a show about survivors, which was very specific. Where it was very clearly curated for and by queer trans women of color, I didn’t have a problem at all being part of it. There also have been a lot of panel discussions that I’ve done specifically for Filipino-American women or queer women of color or even, and when I was doing filmmaking it was all gay and lesbian film festivals. Ultimately as time evolves and languages and perceptions are becoming more and more developed, identity does play a bigger role now than it did before but I see these forces swirling around me. It is a consideration for me, but not a driving force behind the work I create.

RC: How long have you lived in San Francisco?

Eliza Barrios: I actually came up from San Diego, started doing my undergrad work at San Francisco State in 1990. I graduated from San Francisco State in 92-93, and from 93 to 95 I did my graduate work at Mills. I’ve been working on my art practice, as well as working, as we all do. And luckily the jobs that I’ve had work well with my art, i.e. I can work around the 9-5. My 9-5 jobs allowed me to switch up my schedule, which enabled me to do a few residencies where I’ve been gone a month at a time or a couple of months at a time. That’s one thing, the second thing is I think because I got to this apartment at the time that I did around ‘95, I have rent control. And that is the only reason I’m here. If I were to get kicked out of this place now, I don’t think I could be here in the city at all. All in all I’ve been in SF since 1990.

My art studio space came in a weird way. It was through my collaborator Jenifer. When she got back from Prague, I got her an apartment in my building. While living in my apartment building, she used to sit at the Dailey Method Studio near our apartment. The owners knew she was interested in an art studio and they said: “oh, you should talk to the landlords because they have this weird storage space in the garage, it totally would work as an artists space.” From there, five years ago, we’ve established an art studio for ourselves. My collaboration with Jennifer goes back to 1996 and where we set up our collaborative group called Mail Order Brides/MOB. Me, Jenifer and another artist named Reanne Estrada. She used to live in Oakland but she moved to Los Angeles over ten years ago, but we still do work together.

RC: How does that work with her being gone?

EB: By the time she left for LA, our collaboration had been established for at least five or six years, so we already had a relationship. How it works now is either one of us receives a reach out from a curator about a project and we decide whether or not we can do it. Then if we decide to, we pretty much plan out the year. We travel and have retreats, the Madonna Inn is our big halfway point. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Madonna Inn, you should because it’s one of those interesting experiences. It’s right by San Luis Obispo. We meet there or we go over to LA, or she comes up and stays with us and we work on the projects. We’re actually working on a project for next year. We’re actually working on a project for next year, we have a show at the Wing Luke Museum in Seattle in May. So yeah, it’s worked out really well, we’ve been able to maintain a practice. While being distributed with Jenifer and I in SF, and Reanne in LA, we’ve managed to do projects in the Philippines and San Diego to name a few.

RC: How did you arrive at the name Mail Order Brides?

EB: It was actually a joke, and it had nothing to do with our collaboration. How we originally met was through a gentleman named Carlos Villa, who was a professor at the SF Art Institute. He was Filipino-American artist/professor, and basically his whole being was about bringing in voices, voices of Filipino-American artists. He was part of the whole multiculturalism conversation in the mid-80s. He was in the midst of doing a big research project of research on an older generation of Filipino-American artists in San Francisco, who he related to as “manongs,” a term of respect for men who are

“I think art-making and art sharing are totally different now.

At the time I graduated with my M.F.A., being a successful artist was bound by space, ideally, one would show at a gallery. But now folks are doing and exhibiting work everywhere like sidewalks, random projections, random walls, Instagram, wherever. “ Eliza Barrios: like uncles. These “Manongs” we researched came over from the Philippines in the 1940’s-1950’s and had their own art practice.

During that time, while in SF, they were painting these really pastoral images of the Philippines.

They were here in SF for work, either working on farms - think Salinas, or working odd jobs around San Francisco. What we (Jenifer Wofford, Reanne Estrada, Maria Medua and Hope Reyes) were tasked to do was to collect their stories. So we divided and conquered, I believe we researched five manongs, interviewing them and excavating some historical works. These men were in their eighties and nineties. We collected their history, what it was like coming here, what it was like doing work, how you did they manage to do your artwork here in SF, etc.

Also, alongside our research project on the Manongs, Jenifer had a connection to a curator at a gallery, and her friend was like “hey, do you know any Filipina-American women who make art, I want to do this show about Filipino-American art.” And it was like okay... all of us were Filipina-American and had our own art practice, so we decided to do this show called Mail Order Brides, which we thought at the time, resonated due to the (mis)conceptions of Filipina women. The only thing we had in common was that we were Filipina-American artists who worked in different mediums. There were a couple installations, sculpture, paintings, photography.

RC: What has it been like navigating the art world in the Bay Area as a person of color?

EB: More recently it’s awesome. I feel like there are a lot more spaces, and even the very distilled elite spaces are trying and making an effort. But for me what’s more exciting are the artist-run spaces, the pop-up spaces that come and are not really an established gallery. Not to say established galleries aren’t fun to look at, but I feel like there are more venues, more opportunities for folks of color to show. And I think art-making and art sharing are totally different now. At the time I graduated with my M.F.A., being a successful artist was bound by space, ideally, one would show at a gallery. But now folks are doing and exhibiting work everywhere like sidewalks, random projections, random walls, Instagram, wherever. There are all these opportunities now that do not require a white cube anymore. It doesn’t matter, too, because you find folks creating in every way. It’s exciting because San Francisco used to be the place.

It seems to not be the space where exciting art happens anymore, it seems like Oakland is.

RC: What is something that you feel is integral to your work?

EB: That’s a bit tough to zero in on one thing. But for right now, what comes up for me, in a weird way, is my day job. There was a period of four years where I was an artist. I traveled around, lived in Buenos Aires, Mexico, did some things in the Philippines and Thailand and Indonesia - no 9-5, but dedicating my days and nights to art and art making. And I found myself struggling. The reason why I was struggling is that all throughout my education I was accustomed to working full time, because I put myself through school, and going to school full time. And so, the requirement of time management and seeking things were pressing. When I didn’t have that pressure, I just kind of felt too adrift, and I needed that structure. So, what’s integral is not only does having a day job give me structure, it also financially helps me do my work. And, what I do during the day gives me access to new technologies which inspires what I do for my art practice. Working for a Foundation which is the 7th most visited website in the world pertaining to free knowledge exposes me to a bunch of awesome things happening around the world, including technology based ideas and thoughts.

RC: And has your work always been centered around technology or has that been an evolving thing?

EB: It has. Basically, my medium was photography. The joke is that I got through grad school without taking painting or drawing. I think I had to take a design class in community college but I never took any painting or drawing. As a photographer I evolved into film and video because I became intrigued with moving pictures. I evolved from there. Video, then projectors, then projections, mapping and now VR. Since these technologies are becoming more and more accessible and my inner tech geekdom takes over, I find myself dreaming about how to create art using these technologies as a medium.

RC: And what does it mean to you to be an artist in the world right now?

EB: It’s complicated. This is something that came up when I was part of a project called Capitalism is Over if You Want. We organized around art against capitalism in 2010, prior to the Occupy Movement. That was the first time I realized there was this very fine sliver between being an activist and an artist. Because in my mind, up until then, you were a political activist and that’s it, and then art is art. But this project opened my mind and made me realize that artists can be activists and be a political representation to a certain degree whether it’s obvious or subtle, those are the considerations that I think of when I make art. So I think that being an artist today is really important. It’s important because the strategies that were used, I’m just thinking about the actions that took place around climate change and how they organized in San Francisco with all of these paintings on the street, making the world aware in such a way, I think that’s really key. But I also understand that there are varieties of artists that want to paint their landscapes and focus on that and improve on that and that’s also very necessary. Because we can get so focused and caught up on everything around us that just standing still for a moment is very important.

The World Sees You One Way, But You Know Who You Are

Cheryl Derricotte San Francisco, CA

Cheryl Derricotte: So my name is Cheryl Patrice Derricotte, I am a visual artist and my work is primarily on glass or on paper. My work on paper involves monoprints and more recently handmade books. I also am a person who works a day job, my day job is in facility operations and corporate real estate for a tax startup. Educationally, I have both a master’s degree in regional planning as well as a master’s in fine arts, and there was like 25 years between those two things. My pronouns are she and her, and I have been in the San Francisco Bay Area for about eight and a half years at this point. I’m originally from Washington D.C. Rawley Clark: When did you realize that you were interested in art as a career? Did you get your MFA first or the other degree?

CD: No, I got the other degree first. I think my story is going to be familiar to a lot of people. I always knew that I was an artist. I come from a pretty traditional, as my mother would call us, lower-middle-class Black family, and so art was not thought of as a career to financial stability. And so in school, I sort of had to figure out what was the thing that I was going to do if I wasn’t an artist, and at the time I was deeply involved in the performing arts. I realized that I’d always liked cities, so I started to figure out how that love of cities and places could also become a career. I went to undergrad and grad from ages 18-24 in the city planning arena and then worked in that field consistently.

RC: Could you explain a bit about your artistic process?

CD: For the glasswork, as well as the work on paper, I am driven by an idea. For a lot of people when they think of glass, the first thing that they think of is blown glass, and blown glass is called hot glass because you’re working at temperatures of about 2,500 degrees. I work with what’s considered warm glass, and it goes on the high end to maybe 1,500 degrees. I’m very interested in the idea of the artwork, and glass just happens to be the way that I express that.

Cheryl Derricotte: I don’t really start and say, “gee, this is beautiful red glass and I’m going to make something.” I’m much more driven conceptually. So usually, I would say I live under the tyranny of title. Some phrase gets stuck in my head that gets triggered somehow, and I usually put that down in the journal or sketchbook and then over time begin to develop work around it. I have around three or four series that are still open in my mind that I continue to make work around. The imagery I use traditionally is drawn from public domain library collections and so I’ve used a lot of imagery from both the British Library and the New York public library as they had heavily digitized their collections. I’m not the best photographer but occasionally I’ll sneak in one of my old photographs! I haven’t really explored doing a body of work that’s just my photographs that I then translate onto glass.

So, just to give you a feel for the idea, one of the series that I have that’s still open is called Ghosts/Ships, and it takes imagery from historical photographs and historical books of slaves and slave ships. And so that work initially was presented at the Museum of the African Diaspora in my first solo show. More recently, I did some new work under that umbrella for a show called Ancestral Journeys in the South Bay at the Euphrat museum about a year ago. It’s kind of open, you know, I still feel like I’m kind of working under the Ghost/Ships idea whenever I draw on this historical imagery of slavery in the Diaspora.

I have a residency coming up in New Orleans, and I’ve already started pulling imagery for some of the work there. So, that’s how the idea starts, it’s sort of this phrase that gets stuck in my head and I figure out how to make work around it. From there, we get into getting big sheets of glass, deciding how big the work should be, actually cutting the glass down to the right size… I put the imagery onto my glass with a variety of glass powders. So either screenprinting on glass or what’s called powder printing, just dry powder versus wet powder, which is enamel. Things can be fired two to four times depending on how many colors I’m putting down and how many images, but it’s safe to say that a firing is an overnight endeavor.

RC: What you’ve been mentioning is that a lot of your work draws from history, so how does being an artist of color or the other identities that you hold influence the art that you make?

CD: Well, I think that my art is heavily influenced by first and foremost a sense of place.

“I think that who I am informs the art I make and there’s certainly an element of Black contemporary politics or race pertaining to Black people that are some of the topics I deal with in my artwork.”

CD: I think that also draws from me being a person that was always interested in cities and has a love of cities and has worked a variety of day jobs related to place and buildings. There’s an overarching theme for me of interest in places and memory. I think the historical drawings and photographs that I use, I always think of those as a way to put a collective memory into a present contemporary dialogue. And so, whether it’s looking at historical images of oil fields in the city of L.A. to really understand why there’s so much oil in California, and how central that was to the way the state’s economy developed and the collective memory around that is interesting to me. Or, looking at images of Black people with their hands up in books from the 1800s is a way for people to understand that this concept of “hands up, don’t shoot” is a very old concept. And so, I think that those are the things that me as a person who is interested in art and place get expressed through my art.

I don’t know that I’m necessarily putting a feminist lens on my work. I mean, I’m certainly very conscious of being a woman artist, and I always joke that it makes perfect sense that I had my first solo show at 50, because the trajectory of the career of a woman artist is often much later and longer than our male counterparts who might hit big at 30! I think that that combined identity as a woman artist and also a Black artist certainly puts a lens on the way that I might view issues related to race in my work or the way I might see issues of urbanism. But, I don’t think I set out to make “Black Art.” I don’t consider myself a person who is making art either exclusively about Black topics, or specifically for Black audiences. I think that who I am informs the art I make and there’s certainly an element of Black contemporary politics or race pertaining to Black people that are some of the topics I deal with in my artwork.

RC: How have you navigated the art world as a Black artist and a Black woman?

CD: You know, I think that there are layers to the navigation of the art world. They’re two-fold, one is that glass is a very small community and I came out of a studio initially in Washington D.C. that was very open to a diversity of people making work and one of the cofounders there really pushed me to meet as many people in the glass world as possible, both women glass artists as well as the most famous Black glass artist on the planet, Therman Statom. He was an early first-gen glass artist, working with Dale Chihuly. Therman studied at RISD. The connection there is actually a place called the Penland School of Crafts, which is the oldest craft school in the U.S. in North Carolina.

So I’ve been fortunate to go to Penland around five times at this point in the past fifteen years and really study with these master artists, both Black and women; and all other races as well. So I think for me, navigating the art world in my particular mediums of glass and also print and work on paper really is about building community and staying in those communities. I think that fundamentally I know my practice is analog in a digital world. It’s like, there may be a little photoshop, but at the end of the day the final product is going to be 80% analog and 20% digital. I think that these communities of makers, (glass and print/paper) are pretty tight communities and in terms of navigating the art world, there is an even smaller number of galleries that are interested in [showing] that kind of work, too.

RC: Speaking about community, what has it been like building your creative community in the Bay Area? Was it hard in moving from another place to create those connections or did you draw mainly upon the ones that you had already built?

CD: I think it was drawing from the places that I mentioned before as well as… this is Bay Area 2.0 for me. I lived here very briefly… wow, a long time ago when I think about it now! I lived here for about six or seven months in a job situation that didn’t work out well. And out of that though, I had met a lot of glass artists in the Bay Area and a lot of those folks are still my friends. That was actually part of the way that I found my studio here when I relocated from Oakland into San Francisco, because I had friends in this building who were glass artists and knew that it was welcoming. I also have met artists in the Bay Area just through doing shows and showing up, whether it’s the application or pre-application meetings for certain grant opportunities or public art opportunities. Out of that I actually have met other artists that I enjoy as friends as well as competitors because we often compete for the same things! And then there is actually a group of black artists in San Francisco that I’m a member of. And so once I moved in one of the co-founders invited me to join the group, and it’s called Three Point Nine Art Collective. So that’s like another community. I feel like being in San Francisco now, I kind of have three really present art communities that I’m really a part of, so Three Point Nine Art Collective, this group of glass artists in Yosemite studios, as well as where I live, because I live in the Mission in one of the old artists buildings there.

RC: So you said you’ve lived here for 8 years or so? How does living in the Bay Area itself influence the work that you make?

CD: Well, I definitely think it influences my interest in my series Oil and Water. As I alluded to earlier in the interview, I’m very interested and struck by how many oil refineries are in the Bay Area or in the state. I feel like whenever I go to the beach in California there’s an oil tanker out there somewhere, and I’m like wow, I’m on the beach and there’s an oil tanker. I think that more than anything has really influenced a series I created in San Francisco or even when I was living in Oakland that I feel like was really driven by being in this environment and traveling around the state.

RC: How have you noticed that the Bay Area art scene has changed in the time that you’ve been here?

CD: It definitely has changed. I’ve been here for eight and a half years, and so many people have left which is very sad to me but I understand it because it’s just so expensive and it seems like it keeps getting more and more expensive to live here. I know artists now that were friends or colleagues that are now living in New Mexico or in Seattle or they moved back to the East Coast. Coming from D.C. and having gone to college in New York State, I’m just like wow, Brooklyn is cheaper than Oakland or San Francisco now! It’s just completely different! I think that is a huge change. I think that in a lot of ways, the positive community shift is what’s grown at Minnesota Street Projects and what a great home that’s been for galleries that were struggling in the old Geary Street model and those rents that escalated and went up. So I think that is a wonderful new ecosystem that has helped strengthen and boost the arts community and the gallery scene.

“For me, navigating the art world in my particular mediums of glass and also print and work on paper really is about building community and staying in that community.

I think that fundamentally I know my practice is analog in a digital world... [but] that community of makers is a pretty tight community.”

RC: What do you feel is something that is integral to your work or to sustaining yourself as a creator?

CD: I pay a lot of attention to my physical, mental, and spiritual health as a creator. There was a woman who taught yoga at Penland. I’ll never forget when she said that part of the reason that we’re doing this yoga before you go to the studio is because one day you want to be an elder in your craft. You know, the only way really to be an elder in your field is to stay in good health and make sure that you can lift the glass or that you can move the shelves, or in my practice that I do have the hand-dexterity to cut and sew and do all of the things that I do on glass and paper. I’m probably in better physical health now at 55 than I was at 25, so I’m glad that I figured it out! On the mental side, I mean I definitely take time out of all of the screen things, whether it’s photoshop for my artwork or one of my day jobs, I really make sure that I spend some time just reading a real book, talking with people face to face as opposed to text. And then on the spiritual side, I do meditate, which is really important to me. I feel like meditation makes me a better human and you can’t be a better artist in my opinion until you’re a better human. And given that I deal with some difficult topics in my artwork, whether it’s the history of slavery or the relationship of man and environment or of oil to our natural environment… police brutality is something that I’ve been working with a lot over the past few years.

So, all of those topics give me an opportunity to pause and reflect and be still in meditation.

RC: And how did you come to the decision that you wanted to pursue your MFA? CD: Yeah, that was a big decision. It was a combination of some difficult things that happened in my life and always wanting to do it. The difficult thing that happened in my life was that a little over ten years ago, my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and it was four months from diagnosis to death. Seeing how fast that happened, and she was only 64 with a lot of regret and things she didn’t get to, I really had to sit with that and think about it in a big way. So, out of that I began to think that I really should do more with my art and should be more serious with my art. I relocated to the Bay Area for a job. After working them for several years and having my own health challenges, I just sort of said gee, that little seed that was there when you were thinking about your mom and her death, maybe you should think about what you’re doing and what you want to make happen. And so out of that I decided, “I’m gonna find an MFA and go.” I actually went to a weekend program at California Institute of Integral Studies and it was great! At the time I started I was still working full time, and you really have to have your own studio practice to do that because they don’t have studios on site but they have a great faculty and it’s the kind of rigor around critique and engagement that I think that everyone wants when they go to an MFA program. So that was kind of the decision making, just sort of understanding to go back to meditation in Buddhist terms, that these bodies will break down and it’s all kind of impermanent, so while you’re in this human form maybe you should think about what you’re doing and be more intentional about it.

The Journey is Yours To Take

Angela Hennessy Oakland, CA Angela Hennessy: Angela Hennessy, she/ her pronouns. So I would say my practice is based on the definitions of a word that I found in the Oxford English Dictionary called Blackwork, and there are several definitions of Blackwork that all kind of resonate with me and my practice. Blackwork is a term that means “undertaker’s work” so it has to do with a relationship with the dead. It’s also a type of lace, a type of embroidery from the 15th century. It’s a Black-on-white embroidery. It also has to do with a kind of metalwork, specifically ironwork, which, my background is in metals so that also resonates for me. But, basically, I talk about my work in relation to the dead. And the question that is sort of motivating me is “how can I be in conversation with my dead people?” And so, my materials, my gestures, my labor, my processes are all about communicating with my dead people. Color palette, all of that contributes and becomes a language in a particular way.

RC: And when you say communicating with your dead people, are you talking about people in your family or in your relations, or just in a broader scope?

AH: I would say both, but certainly people in my family and certainly like my lineage.

RC: And when did you realize, or was there a realization that happened, when you decided to pursue art as a career?

AH: You know, I’ve always made things and when I was little I said that I wanted to be an artist and a writer. So, I think that it’s just who I am, and I don’t know that I actually made a conscious decision to pursue it professionally. I did make a very conscious decision when I went to graduate school, that I wanted… I don’t know how to describe it. Basically, when I went to grad school I was thinking about art therapy, I was thinking about going to do a psychology program, I was looking at arts administration, museum studies… and I asked myself, you know, how did I actually want to spend my time? What did I want to see myself doing every day? Could I see myself in an office in a therapy kind of situation, did I want to be in a museum? You know, there were things that were attractive to me about some of those environments but really what I wanted was to be in my studio. To be making things. So, I made a conscious decision to go pursue an MFA, and teaching came out of graduate school. But I didn’t go to graduate school intending to be a professor.

“For me, it’s not necessarily a future-oriented experience, because death is happening all the time: everywhere, every minute, someone is dying. So there’s a kind of urgency that I approach my practice with, even though the things that I actually make and actually do are really slow and laborious, I kind of come into the studio with a sense of urgency.”

Angela Hennessy: I have a commitment to make work and to show work and there are lots of different ways of doing that. So I guess when you say professional, you know to be a professional artist, part of that means like participating in the art world, gallery and market-driven environment. And I have some ambivalence around that, but I also like many of us have been conditioned to some types of art spaces, museum and gallery spaces being the primary venue for exhibitions. So there’s a certain aesthetic that I actually like and appreciate about “white-box” spaces, even though they are “white-box” spaces and assume a sort of neutrality that doesn’t really exist. But I have grown to see my work in that context, and in a way as always responding to that context.

RC: So, you talked a little bit about your practice in the beginning and communicating with those who you’ve lost, and that that is something really central to your work. How does that in conjunction with your other identities influence your work?

AH: Well, one of the effects that it has, doing work in response to the dead or in response to death in the bigger picture, it has this kind of immediate way of resetting priorities. So, I think sometimes, trivial things that maybe in the past I would have gotten caught up in I’m able to set aside at a quicker pace. And there’s a way that, especially in the hospice work that I do, it’s something that is always present. For me, it’s not necessarily a future-oriented experience, because death is happening all the time: everywhere, every minute, someone is dying. So there’s a kind of urgency that I approach my practice with, even though the things that I actually make and actually do are really slow and laborious I kind of come into the studio with a sense of urgency. So that experience helps me edit a lot of things out. And also, I’ve been doing this for a while, so I know what it feels like to be distracted by things that I don’t want to be spending my energy on. So it supports my intuitive process in a lot of ways.

Angela Hennessy: In terms of identity, the relationship between Blackness and death is incredibly complicated and complex, and I think I used to kind of shy away from it, feeling like the weight and the burden of that was just kind of overwhelming. But then it seemed like things in my life kept telling me “this is what you’re supposed to be doing!” so now I’m stepping into it in a more confident way.

RC: How has your practice changed over time? You mentioned that you’ve come into this work more confidently, so have you always sort of been interested in the same subjects, or did you start off doing other things?

AH: I think I’ve been working on the same themes my whole life. What has changed or what has evolved is my access to language, my words, and my ability to articulate those ideas. To some degree, my sense of knowing when to be direct or indirect, knowing when I want to be literal or when I want to be ambiguous and speak in metaphors, when I want to use representation or when I want to use abstraction. So that in terms of my own evolutions as an artist, I just know more about myself and I know more about how I want to communicate, but it’s literally the same things that I’ve been thinking about my whole life! Like, I have drawings from when I was, I don’t know, four or five. It’s not even that the drawings are the same or anything like that, but it’s so clear to me: I’m thinking about Blackness, I’m thinking about loss, thinking about my father, and I’m thinking about stars and constellations. And I’m literally doing the same fucking thing!

RC: That’s incredible that you have those from when you were so young, and that it just reflects the same, I love that.

AH: I have these drawings that I used to do, and I remember making these drawings. They were kind of stick figures, with triangle bodies and stuff, but I would draw all these stars piled up on their heads and I remember thinking that those stars would protect them. It was all about this energy out there that would protect the people. And then I have this other one that was like flowers and stuff, and I had written the word “Black” over and over in crayon. And like there’s one with three people that says “mom and dad” and there’s a little girl I’m sure is me, but I didn’t grow up with a dad and didn’t have anyone in my life that I called dad and never have. So in this drawing I can see that I’m trying to like, create this image of family. And I remember wanting that, I remember realizing that all of my other friends had people that they called dad, and I didn’t. So I was drawing images of it. I mean, I’m literally doing the same thing; different materials, different forms, but the same ideas.

RC: I feel like when I think about what I was doing as a four-year-old, it’s definitely completely different than what I’m doing now. So it’s really amazing that you have kept that path throughout your whole life.

AH: Well I think the important thing is the ability to just reflect and recognize what you were doing, right? Whether it’s the same, or different or any of that, each person is going to have their own path and their own practice. So the ability to reflect and think critically about what you were doing or what you’re doing now, that’s the skill.

RC: Yeah, you have to be able to think back on your entire body of work! And I guess I never considered when I was a kid as part of it, but it is! Sort of shifting gears a bit, you mentioned the “white-box” space and how you have come to think of that as a part of your work. So, how ,as a woman and a woman of color in the art world, have you navigated those spaces and gotten to the point where you can consider it a part of your work and not something else?

AH: I think of it as the work being in conversation with the space. Whatever kind of venue I am showing in, that venue becomes part of the work in that it makes a contribution in terms of the history and the context and what is already there that I am bringing my work into. So, I navigate those spaces delicately, I would say. Sometimes completely transforming those spaces and literally painting white walls Black. But whether the walls are Black or whether the walls are white or whatever color the walls are, that is going to contribute to the meaning of the work. I mean when I’m trying to figure out a new installation, I spend a lot of time sitting in the space beforehand trying to feel out what the energy is. I think a lot about movement through the space, like what do you see when you enter through this door or what do you see when you enter through that door? Where do people gather? I try to get a sense of what’s happening in the space on an energetic level. Another thing that’s really important is how light is working in the space. Whatever I am making, the relationship to light is very important. So I spend a lot of time looking at what’s already happening and what I want to bring into the space or how I might want to alter or transform all of that.

RC: And you said that you’ve lived in the Bay Area for 25 years?

AH: It’s been 25, yes.

RC: What has it been like sort of building a creative community in the Bay Area?

AH: Well it’s a lot of work! I mean usually, it means I go to a lot of openings, a lot of exhibitions, I do a lot of artist talks, and on occasion trade studio visits with other people. When I’m in my studio it’s a pretty solitary practice in terms of making. So I have to put a lot of effort into sustaining community and remaining engaged. I can be a total homebody, too, so I have to generate the energy to go out and stay connected. I always love it when I do, so it’s good.

“I think I’ve been working on the same themes my whole life. What has changed or what has evolved is my access to language, my words, and my ability to articulate those ideas.”

RC: Do you have a favorite piece of work that you’ve worked on thus far or one that you’ve enjoyed more than others?

AH: So one of the pieces over at MoAD right now has these beads that I’ve carved out of ivory soap, and I’m really excited about those beads and want to do more work with those! I started working with ivory soap in grad school, I did a few pieces out of the soap but it’s been a long time so that was a material that I just recently returned to. I’m super excited about that. The carving is incredibly satisfying, it makes me sneeze a lot though! I think about the way that the soap, this white soap, I mean every soap has a really interesting history and they produced some profoundly racist soap campaigns in the 1800s. So it’s a material that I’m interested in working with because of that history, because of the way that it talks about whiteness. Blackness and Black identity is so often spoken of and put in a context of whiteness. So I think that how we talk about whiteness on the level of materials is something that I want to explore more.

RC: What does it mean to you to be an artist in the world right now?

AH: It feels like a big risk in a lot of ways, but it’s also like, I don’t know how to do anything else. So it feels like what I’m supposed to be doing. I think artists are in a particular place of empowerment right now, especially being in the Bay Area and in the Oakland art culture, there’s so much happening between musicians and painters, weavers, fashion designers… there’s so much collaboration and energy around building community through aesthetic practices. And right now, Oakland has been talked about as having a Black Renaissance, like the films that are coming out of the Bay. So there’s a lot of energy and I think there’s a real opportunity in this particular moment. There are so many fucked up things that are happening in the world, whether it’s the local or the global. So I think there are artists in the Bay Area that are willing to take that on. Not everyone wants to make work that is responding to the times that we live in. But there are a lot of people here in the Bay Area that are really consciously choosing to speak out, to make their platforms visible, and are willing to take a stand for something in their work. So I feel really blessed that I’m in this particular moment.

Preserving Memory

Looking forward: advice for young artists What is one piece advice that you would give an aspiring young artist of color, or that you wish you knew when you were an aspiring young artist?

You can do it! Just keep doing it. Don’t stop. Yeah, even in those moments of selfdoubt, just keep going. Because I think that the moment that you stop, the harder it gets. And I talk a lot about it with other artists and you know, the scariest moment-and it happens to artists of every age-- it’s like, you have a big project and you stop because it’s healthy to take breaks, I’ve learned, work-life balance is great. And it just gets harder and harder to start over. And I think, just being soft on yourself, but keep on working. And apply to as many things-- artists are the best with dealing with rejection, we’re so good at it. Because it’s just not personal, it’s not. You apply to ten things and you get maybe one, and that one is great.

Livien Yin

Marcela Pardo

My advice would be, and it’s very broad, but to make work that you know is true to what you’re interested in. Even if the entire class doesn’t really get it, or if it’s not the kind of artwork that shows up in galleries. Because the more public art world is always going to go through these waves of what they want to show at museums and what feels like is hot right now. That can shift the direction of the work that you make, especially if you want to apply to residencies or other opportunities. What we see in the public art world now can really steer the direction of what you make, but that’s always going to change. So, the advice would be to do you to the best of your ability.

I would just say that like, it’s gonna be a lifelong battle. I think as a young person, we look up to a person like Mikalene Thomas and are like “what?? She’s killing it!”

Like that’s the only image I have of her, but I have to remember that she also went through these times of searching for a studio and not being recognized and getting the recognition and fighting for it and having a day job... For us, it’s not handed to us.

Maybe there are rare exceptions, but this is a commitment that we make to ourselves and to our work that looks so many different ways. But yeah, just trusting yourself and knowing that it’s okay to make art at night time after your job, or it’s okay to do weird random art jobs to make the connection to be able to say that you know a person and use that to help further your career. I think that the path is so rocky and unknown and not one thing.

Lukaza BranfmanVerissimo

Specifically for people of color, I would say to find your people. Find people who support you. I think that’s the best advice. For me, I feel like that’s when I started thriving.

Because I had the support of people of color very early on, honestly I don’t know if I would have been a writer if I hadn’t had that.

Yalitza Ferreras

To keep going. To keep pushing. Those ten thousand hours that you’re putting in that seem to be in vain, like nobody’s listening, nobody cares-- keep going. Keep at your craft, that’s all you have. No one can take that away from you. Keep showing up and doing the work, keep showing up and finding the truth. Always be on a quest for the truth, stay curious, investigate things that make you say “hmm, that’s interesting.”

Connect the dots, do the work, and keep at your craft.

Natani Notah

I would say that, and it might sound kind of cliche, but don’t give up on it. Don’t let society, other people, other artists, the competition, the statistics, the odds, don’t let those things stop you from making your work. It is challenging and hard and sometimes feels very lonely to be an artist, but I would tell any young artist or artist of color to not give up. Don’t let the negativity win, don’t let the self-doubt win. Keep making, even if that’s small in scale or seemingly small sketches. Sketch. Keep a sketchbook or use a piece of computer paper and a ballpoint pen. You can say so much with very little. I try to live up to that too, it’s not to say that it’s easy, but don’t give up on yourself.

It’s all going to sound cheesy but it’s true, it’s really to follow your nose. And to know that your nose is going to want to do something sweet one day and in the evening it’s going to want to do something sour! And know that that is going to change, everything is going to change. Don’t second guess yourself. That’s always really key.

If there’s something that you want to do you can do it. There are a lot of powers out there that will try to keep you from doing that, and I think we all know that those powers are illegitimate. And, you know, you find your community. Feel strongly about who you surround yourself with, that helps too. Be good to yourself.

Cheryl Derricotte

Kierra Johnson

Eliza Barrios

I would say to pay yourself first. It’s a piece of advice that we all hear, but I don’t know that we really hold onto it. It’s certainly something that I have put into practice later in my life rather than earlier. But I always tell young artists, artists of color that you really want to own your stuff. Yes, I rent this studio space, but I own the kiln thanks to the generosity of my community through a Kickstarter, I own my tools and my glass and all of those things. I used to own a house when I was in D.C., in the Bay Area… Oh well, we’ll see!

But that’s a whole different question. I would really just encourage folks one hundred percent to pay yourself first and to make a plan for how you want to control your assets.

You just keep showing up. I think when you make a commitment to something, then all of the things that get in the way or that try to get in the way of that commitment will sort of dissipate. Like, I know that I’m an artist, there’s no doubt about it in my mind.

Even if I never made another piece of art the whole rest of my life, I know that I’m an artist. It’s how I see, it’s how I move, it’s how I dress. It’s just who I am. So I don’t have to question or challenge that in any way, and there isn’t anything that anyone else could do to make me challenge that. But like I was saying, I’ve been doing this for a while. So that kind of confidence has come out of continuing to show up every day. Also, to surround myself with other artists and other people who make things, I have built a community that supports my own growth, and I support the growth of other people in the community.

Angela Hennessy

Acknowledgments There are so many people that I want to thank for their support over the year that it took for this book to be made. Thank you again to the artists, who so willingly shared their stories with me. It was an incredible gift to get to know each and every one of you and to learn so much from the journeys that you have taken in the art world and beyond it.

Thank you to my family for always supporting me through every long night, neverending project, and chaotic class. For the long phone calls and the warm arms to fall into whenever I come home, and for the endless laughs and abundance of love.

Thank you for always encouraging me to pursue my dreams, no matter how big they may be, and for encouraging me when I didn’t think I could make it to the end. You have always believed in me and made me feel like any path that I chose would lead to greatness.

Thank you to my friends, at home and at school, for always being shining lights in my life and for making me feel like anything is possible. I am so inspired by each and every one of your passions, bravery, and kindness. From long nights at McMurtry to watch parties in our dorm rooms to the countless adventures in our home city, each and every experience reminds me that I have so much love in my life all around me.

Thank you to my advisors, mentors, and my amazing honors cohort! I loved working with all of you, bouncing ideas off of one another, and sharing this experience. I am so excited to see what all of us do in the future.

Lastly, thank you for reading this book! It was such a labor of love, and I will hold it near and dear to my heart for the rest of my life. I learned so much along the way and met so many amazing people. I hope that you found something inspiring in these pages and enjoyed this small exploration of these artist’s lives.

With Love, Rawley

My Ever-Expanding Universe