Untitled (Robin Hood)

I tried numerous times to sit down with Denver’s own Zach Reini to catch up and talk about art and music. But the more we tried to sit down to interview, the more we were distracted by Goldeneye for Nintendo 64, skate videos, or eating Chipotle. Finally we hunkered down and let it rip. For those who don’t know Zach Reini, he is one of the few young Denver artists gaining attention while still in college. Known for his large black on black paintings, Reini attends Rocky Mountain College of Art and Design where he will be receiving his Bachelor’s degree in a few months. Reini is represented by Rule Gallery in Denver.

Interview by Michael Bhichitkul

Why do you use such iconic imagery in your work? Why blur the imagery to extent where it nearly unrecognizable?

The iconic imagery is attractive—it seduces people. I fell for it as well. It’s something that I know and am familiar with. Since imagery of such pedigree is so readily available, everyone has interacted and constructed their own histories with it at some point. I abstract these forms to place them outside of their recognizable context, stripping them of their pictorial power, allowing the viewer to reconnect with their histories from a new tilt. This delay of decoding, finding out what information is there and what it represents, is of great interest to me—especially with the instant satisfaction induced by the Internet and other popular media.

Black is a dominant color in your work. Why?

In my work, I’ve tried to maintain focus on the visual information that is important and trim off all of the remaining fat. With black, there are fewer allusions to things outside of itself that other colors tend to reference; i.e. blue, sadness; red, passion; yellow, happiness. I don’t want an easy of a trigger in my work, but rather the essential elements in the piece to engage that emotional read, not the color. I’ve found black to be as far reduced as something can be while still possessing a particular visual weight about it.

You mostly work with paint, but you also use ready-mades as sculptural pieces. What draws you to sculptural work?

I wouldn’t label myself as a painter, that’s far too limiting for me. My attraction to sculpture is based on necessity. If a piece needs the physicality that a painting cannot provide, then another form is required. There is no need to make a painting of person when photography can do this much easier, without the romance of the artist laboring over the rendition (unless this is a part of it). It can get a little fuzzy at times, but I like to make work where the content supports its physicality and vice versa.

You’re close to earning your BFA from Rocky Mountain College Art and Design, but you are already represented by one of the most respected galleries in Denver, Rule Gallery. This distinction would be considered a major milestone for an artist post-BFA, but you happened to reach this milestone early. Can you talk about your relationship with Rule Gallery?

I’ve been affiliated with the gallery for about a year now. It all came about pretty suddenly and spontaneously. A friend of mine, Joseph Coniff, was interning at the time Robin was putting together a group show of emerging artists at her old space. He called me up and asked if I had any pieces to bring down and show her. Understandably, I jumped at the opportunity. It turned out that she liked my work and even sold a piece. The relationship built pretty naturally from there and I was then featured on her website which is where we stand now. I’m really appreciative of the opportunities she’s given me and can’t wait to see where it goes in the future.

Another big achievement is a solo show titled Suburban Lawns at the Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art, which just recently closed. As a BFA student, what did you take away from this experience?

It definitely opened up my awareness of the opportunities available for a young artist, as well as the difficulties of gaining exposure at this stage. It has helped me take a more professional stance with my work, and realize that confidence paired with the right people, work, and presentation can go a long way. It is 100% different than showing in an academic environment, because when you show in the academic space it immediately gets categorized as “student” work. I urge my fellow emerging artists to branch out as much as they can, to open themselves up to the available opportunities. But, then again, the school environment is great when people are still experimenting and trying to solidify their ideas.

Some people might not know that you have multiple music projects. Can you give us a teaser of what these musical projects are and what genre they fall into?

I’m involved in several projects primarily centered around Hardcore Punk, Noise, and all of its subsequent sub-genres. Two of the projects, Civilized and Cadaver Dog, have tapes coming out soon on Youth Attack, both of which I am very pleased with. Another, Polyurethane, which started as a solo project, is more on the Noise side of things with definite cues to Hardcore. Hopefully a release will be coming with that project soon too.

You also make small zines, which link back to the punk/hardcore sub culture. Is there a way to get a hold of any of them?

I post all my zines for sale on my webstore: http://shop.zachreini.com

What other influences outside the art/punk DIY realms help you develop new work?

The Internet, chance observations, people interacting, pretty much everything. This question is assuming I attempt to pigeon-hole myself with my influences, I gain something from everything I experience. Similar to everyone else, I assume.

Along with being a visual artist, and a musician, you’re a man of many stories. Do you have any that come to mind in particular?

I heard a quote about Chris Farley saying that he only had one character, but he did it at different volumes. I think I have one really great story that I try and tell differently each time for a new effect. What I’ll say about this one (without getting too graphic) involves the following in semi-specific order: half a vegan pizza, bad beer, breakfast burrito from Viva, garbanzo bean salad, a pair of unsuspecting shorts, the light rail, an unfortunate bowel mishap, and a good friend and an unknown old lady to witness an awkward run home. I think you can piece it together from there.

2011 was a great year for you: multiple gallery shows, Suburban Lawns at BMOCA, voted best artist of 2011 in Denver’s 303 Magazine, and a feature in New American Paintings. What do you have in store next for 2012?

I’ll take what I can get and what I can make for myself. I plan on continuing to move forward and see what happens from there. I don’t want to become stagnant or regressive just yet. Keeping busy is the key.

Rossana Martinez, See the World in Orange and Blue, 2011

“Telefone Sem Fio: Word-Things of Augusto de Campos Revisited” was a 2011 exhibition at The Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts organized by Telephone, a journal of translation edited by Sharmila Cohen and Paul Legault. The exhibition used Brazilian concrete poet Augusto de Campos as a point of departure for a group of poets, translators, and artists to “translate” across mediums using text, sound, and visuals. The exhibition featured exquisite original works by de Campos and a plethora of new work including highlights by Tom Moody, Rossana Martinez, Steve Savage & Jean-Sebastien Baillat, Macgregor Card, Angela Detanico & Rafael Lain, and Kenneth Goldsmith. A limited edition catalog produced by Ugly Duckling Presse became Telephone #3.

Interview by Brandon Johnson

Is this Telephone’s first exhibition?

Yes, this is Telephone’s first art gallery exhibition. When Michelle Levy approached us, we were very excited by the notion of working with the EFA and expanding Telephone into a venue where all different forms of media could be present. In general, we have always been interested in the broadness of the umbrella under which poetry translation lies—this gave us even more room to explore.

How did you first learn about Augusto de Campos? Why base an exhibition on his work?

Actually, I’m not really sure. I think I’ve had a vague idea of his work for a while, but it was during the formation of this project that I really became familiar with him and his history. The more we researched him, the more he seemed like the perfect choice for the exhibition. Augusto de Campos is considered one of the founding fathers of the Brazilian concrete poetry movement—his work and ideas have been an influence on poetry, design, and art even up through today. Who better to pay homage to than a poet, translator, and pioneer of visual (and sound, shape, etc.) poetry?

Being that his work features such a wide range of media—written poems on paper to sound recordings to videos to websites and so on—it really suited our goals of creating an exhibition that featured poetry in translation while simultaneously fitting within a gallery setting. We really wanted all of our translators to branch out/feel free to vary their form and medium—de Campos’s poetry really seems to promote that.

His website with examples of his work and concrete poetry manifesto can be found here.

How did you decide on whom to curate into the show? It seems like a very
specific niche.

We always look for a mixed group of “translators” in order to get at as many variables, or differing interpretations as possible. Michelle Levy was in charge of bringing in artists and Telephone curated a group of writers. Of course, there is some overlap in these groups. On our end, we tried to get writers who seemed open to the idea of extending their work beyond the standard words on a page, or who were particularly interested in de Campos’s work, concrete, and Brazilian poetry. No matter what they all share in common, it was clear to us in advance that the execution would differ greatly.

I see that original Augusto de Campos books and prints were lent for exhibition by the Sackner Archive for Concrete and Visual Poetry. Can you tell me more about this organization? Is it open to the public?

After our co-curator Michelle Levy visited the Sackner Archive in Miami, she was convinced it was essential to have the original works in the show. This is the typical effect the archive has on its ‘public’—which is any interested party really who gets in touch with them to schedule a visit. There’s also a documentary available that outlines their holdings/mission. They maintain the largest private collection of concrete and visual poetry materials and were a generous resource for our show.

As these works become increasingly difficult to come by, and somewhat overlooked by Academic holdings, collectors like the Sackners form an essential link between concrete poetry and the contemporary artwork inspired/translated over from it—in our case, quite literally.

Their website can be found here.

Telephone is about translation. This exhibition is obviously highly interpretive. There’s often a dichotomy in literary translation of staying faithful to the original versus taking a more interpretive approach. Do you have position, either within or outside of, this argument?

Being a translation journal that predominantly features highly interpretive work, I think it necessary to point out that it is no argument against faithful translation, but rather an argument for the many different modes of “translating” poetry. Rather than saying our position is by a particular type of translation, we are saying that there are so many ways to translate poetry and we find all of them valid and interesting. We always push our “translators” to approach the work in any way they see fit—our focus is to show that variety side by side, to look at the original poems from many different angles. I know that I’m arguing semantics here, but why shouldn’t, say, a homophonic or interpretive or visual translation be considered faithful, as it likely pays very close attention to reproducing specific aspects of the work.

Any more exhibitions/events in the works? What can we look forward to from Telephone?

We don’t have an exhibition planned at the moment, though we would love to continue curating and working with galleries. Outside of that, we do have a lot of exciting new things on deck. In the near future, we plan on pulling together a sound poetry issue that will likely be recorded on vinyl and provided with a sleeve insert that has scores, notes, texts, etc. We are currently in the process of becoming a press, Telephone Books.  Our first project as that incarnation, which we are making as an imprint of Nightboat Books, is a collection of English to English “translations” of all 154 of Shakespeare’s sonnets, each reworked by a different poet/translator (due out Fall 2012). That project is particularly exciting because we get to work with so many wonderful writers and they bring out so many varied interpretations of Shakespeare, texts most of us are already relatively familiar with. In the bigger picture, we also want to expand our press and start making things like art books, handmade objects, and so on. In general, we are always on the look out for new projects that expand the definition of what is considered translation and working with all different venues and types of media is always a part of the discussion.

Eagle Woman Poems, Co-Lab Project Space, July 2011
Photo by Alberto Jimenez

Natalie Goodnow is a nationally recognized teatrista, teaching artist, and cultural activist from Austin, Texas. She performs, directs, and writes; she’s been practicing some combination of these forms for seventeen years, and began teaching about and through them 8 years ago. She specializes in the creation of original works of performance, as a solo artist and also in collaboration with other performers and writers, both youth and adults. Goodnow explores the relationships between people and places, in terms of relationships to community, to the Earth, and to our own bodies. Her work asks tricky questions, and probes tough contradictions. Natalie’s solo play “Mud Offerings” is the 2011 winner of the Jane Chambers Playwriting Award, and has been presented nationally at festivals and conferences in Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, Washington D.C., and throughout Texas. She is an Artistic Associate of Theatre Action Project and a member of The Austin Project.  See her website and/or blog for more: www.nataliegoodnow.com, makinggoodnow.blogspot.com

Interview by Josh T Franco

Your work brings up questions of tradition in contemporary settings. But even stating it like that, I’ve already fallen into one of the traps I think you’re trying to avoid: tradition isn’t “back there”, but neither is it the same today, for most, as it was a hundred years ago, or a thousand for that matter. I should say the traditions I’m talking about are both pre-colonial indigenous American ones and post-colonial Catholic ones. And in your work, all of them are radically questioned through Chicana and Women of Color feminist frameworks. At the same time, there’s clearly a deep reverence. But what exactly is the nature of this reverence, as it is far from typical?

Hmmm . . . ok. Well. I’ve been thinking about what it means to be indigenous. And what indigeneity means, or could mean. And although one response might be to reproduce everything that was a thousand years ago, in the here and now, or to try to do so (because of course it isn’t quite possible to really reproduce what was, nor would we necessarily want to), I’d like to try another definition of indigeneity on for size. Let’s say it’s this: to live in relationship with the land, in the here and now. That means that, as a Chicana in central Texas, although I believe that the lessons of the Mexica (what the Aztec called themselves) are incredibly important, it’s a little silly for me to really and truly try and apply them directly to my life, without any critical examinations or alterations. And this is partly because there are lots of ways in which the Mexica society was just as flawed as any other (patriarchal, militaristic, imperialistic), and also because the Mexica weren’t really living in relationship with the land that I’m at now. They were nearby, if we consider this on a global scale, but still not quite here.

However, all that being said (and I think this is where I start to actually answer your question), I still think that there is wisdom in tradition. Especially in the traditions of folks who, at one point in time, knew how to live with the land. We don’t know how to do that now.  I’m not sure I even really need to explain why . . .  The “go green” movement is so huge . . . “Avatar” was such a hit . . . it’s in the zeitgeist. Something has to change. The way we’re treating the earth isn’t working. It’s not working at all. And yet, in our histories, we find peoples and communities who were better at this than we are now. And it’s not just about reducing/reusing/recycling… it’s about the way we treat each other, the way we talk to one another . . . we create systems that abuse and misuse the Earth’s resources when we feel entitled, when we believe we have no obligation to share what we have.

So, I take the things that I’ve learned with my contact with indigenous spiritual traditions seriously; reciprocity—no one should take without also giving. And, it sounds so simple, but, sharing—you don’t show up to an event with a bag full of snacks, or a thermos full of tea, and not offer some to everyone, even if all you’ve got is a little bit. And, you don’t assume that you have the right to speak whenever you want, whatever you want, or even to know whatever you want, whenever you want. You must ask permission. You must acknowledge the knowledge of those who have come before you. That all may seem very distinct from “environmental” concerns, but I don’t think it is.  Our elders have been here. They know how to live in harmony with all that has also been here. I think if we had all adopted, or, remembered to honor these sorts of values a long time ago, we wouldn’t be in the pickle we’re in now. And, all that being said, let me just acknowledge out loud/in print, that everything I’ve just said is very hard to do, and I struggle with it constantly in my everyday life.

Seeing past the “go green” mentality to a systematic overhaul of the ways we engage one another; this is really interesting. It brings to mind a couple of things: one, Alice Waters and the slow food movement in general. It prioritizes caring for the earth, and even caring for peoples’ bodies, but a repeated criticism from Women of Color is that it does not take into consideration contemporary conditions, especially for mostly person of color sections of the population that are poor, have no access to land to grow their own food, and much less the time or energy to spare after working minimum wage jobs all day. Like I said, your response brings up a couple of questions for me, but what do you think of this one first? Perhaps you thought through this, or can, through Eagle Woman Poems, your recent performance at Co-Lab in Austin?

Yep, yep, yep. The system is so, so broken. The communities whose ancestors were guardians of this knowledge, of how to live in relationship with the land, are often the ones most devastated by the rupturing of such relationships, and least capable of doing much about it.  I’m talking about, for instance, the indigenous peoples of Mesoamerica who once knew how to grow corn, squash, and beans all in one field, in the milpa. Indulge me while I talk about this a bit—I think it’s just so amazing. These plants complement each other; the corn stalks provide a trellis for bean vines, their leaves provide shade for the squash, and while each takes certain nutrients for the soil, its companions give those back, so that there were fields in which this mixture of crops was cultivated continuously for thousands of years, without ever laying fallow or needing to be fertilized. What’s more, eaten in combination, these three crops provide all the nutrients a human body needs for a complete and healthy meal. Brilliant!

Yet, here and now, the descendants of these very same people find themselves, like you said, with little access to land to grow their own food, and even less time and energy to spare to do so. There’s a line in Eagle Woman Poems that this reminds me of . . . “How can I clean up an oil spill when there are dishes in the sink?” A lot of that piece comes from the frustrations and contradictions of trying to live in relationship with the land in a world order that doesn’t quite allow it.

So, we’ve got to change the system. Change it completely. I think some answers can be found in collective action; does any one working class family have access to enough land to grown all their own food? Or time to do so? Perhaps not. But what if many were to work together to tend a community garden? And then cook together? There are oppressed communities across the globe trying such solutions on for size. As an artist (and as a teaching artist), I’m also inspired by Una Chaudhuri, a pioneer in the field of Ecocriticism:

“[I]f one thing has become clear from a century of ecological thought and effort, it is that the earth cannot now be saved by half-measures, by tinkering and puttering and fiddling around with rules and regulations and practices and customs; whether we like it or not, the ecological crisis is a crisis of values. Ecological victory will require a transvaluation so profound as to be nearly unimaginable at present. And in this the arts and humanities – including the theater—must play a role.”#

That’s where I see my performance work living. In this transvaluation. A remaking of the old cultural symbols and stories and yes, values, towards something new. Something new which draws upon the forgotten wisdom of the past, but is refashioned to function in the here and now. In Eagle Woman Poems, for instance, I’m confronting not only the systems we’ve inherited, but its values as well.

So the stakes in your work are particular, and particularly high. The way you present your own work—it’s tough to call you an artist. Or simply artist, I mean. And I wonder about how you consider art; is it functional? A tool? Necessary? Could you do what you want to do in the world any other way? Obviously, these questions have been hashed over by many, but what do you think? For instance, do you take to the term “cultural worker”? How important is naming your activity anyway? I’m also thinking about your performance of Muntu at Space12, with the invited Austin city council members. Maybe you can respond to these questions by talking about that work, the East Side, Space12, and so on.

I do believe that art is absolutely necessary. I also believe that thinking of art as only functional, only a tool, is a trap, though. And it’s a trap that I’ve fallen into myself. When I first became politicized, I wanted, needed to see that theatre could DO things, make things happen. I needed the link between art and action to be explicit and concrete. Muntu, and the accompanying exhibit, “Muntu: Reflections in East Austin,” came from that place. I was figuring a lot of things out. I was finding my voice as a solo playwright (this was the first piece I wrote all on my own, not ensemble-based or devised), discovering/developing my processes as a solo performer, and also learning how to fund, produce, and market/publicize my own work out in the “real” world! On top of all that, I was figuring out where all my ideas about community engaged art, etc., fit in to the puzzle.

So, what I ended up doing was writing this solo play (I’d have called it autoethnographic if I’d known that term/genre, then) about the lessons that trees had taught me, or, the lessons that looking at trees in a mindful way had taught me. And these lessons had a lot to do with Austin, about my relationships with different communities in Austin, so I performed the piece in as many of those different communities in the city as I could, doing a mini-tour with musicians Travis Jeffords and Josh Casiano (Travis composed some brilliant music/instrumentation for cello and percussion that accompanied the play), mostly over the course of about 12 weeks. Which I learned is really not very long!

At each performance, I asked the audience to respond by writing or drawing their own muntu stories (Muntu is a Kikongo word that means both tree and person—I don’t know a lot about East African culture, but I found this insight inspiring). The mini-tour culminated in a multimedia exhibit called Muntu: Reflections in East Austin, held at community center Space12. My play mentions East Austin specifically, so it made sense that the exhibit was held at a community center in East Austin, too. Space12 was a brand new community center at the time, with a mission very similar to mine in that piece, to bring diverse communities together in shared conversation/reflection.

The exhibit consisted of a display of my audiences’ responses to Muntu, plus portraits of East Austin residents old and new (East Austin is a historically poor community of people of color, now facing massive waves of gentrification) by photographer Rama Tiru, plus imaginatively decorated tree sculptures by students in Theatre Action Project’s afterschool classes, mostly from East Austin as well, plus a bit of information contextualizing the exhibit—about the neighborhood’s past and present. Whoo! How on earth did I get that all together?!

At the opening, I performed, and Rama spoke; on another evening, my fellow exhibit organizers and I invited PODER, an organization of grassroots organizers, to host their City Council Candidates’ Forum at Space12 as part of the exhibit.

My goal in the exhibit was to bring together as many folks as possible from Austin’s diverse communities together in reflection upon, and hopefully conversation about, the issues that my play addressed, and to do so in multiple ways. I hoped that the issues affecting East Austin, discussed in the candidates’ forum, might take on greater potency if this conversation took place amidst the names, faces, and stories of the neighborhood.

All in all, this was a successful experiment. We had a wonderful turnout at the exhibit, and to this day I still love looking at the photos of city council members leaning in to peer at Rama’s photography, of the beautiful and thoughtful audience responses I received to the piece, and of the playful exhibit I curated, which turned out quite nicely considering I had never done anything quite like that before . . . but I was a wreck! It was an awful lot of work to coordinate all that, and to find the energy it took to perform . . . and forget writing! My creation of new work came to an absolute standstill, and I wasn’t very happy.

I’ve slowed down a bit since then, giving myself more time to both create and produce/tour my work. This is funny considering that this is the exact same advice I was giving to myself within the text of Muntu . . . slow down, slow down, slow down . . . Also, as I continued working, I found my drive to engage communities in direct conversation through art was satisfied more and more through my work as a teaching artist (in that work, my classes often culminate in some sort of service-learning project with the youth; one of my favorites is documented here), so my solo work became more about just trying to piece together some really interesting words and moments.

Though it was fun to bring together so many different kinds of reflection and conversation in one place, I realized I could also ease up a bit and just trust the universe to provide my audiences some spaces like that, too; I didn’t have to do it all. I could contribute my little bit and then send the people on their way to let what they experienced with me bounce around against their many other experiences, and trust that, if I’ve done my job, they will go home talking about what I’ve shared with them. If I’ve really done my job, they won’t be able to help it!

And I’m kind of a busybody. I’m pretty good at organizing and coordinating, and sometimes gravitate towards that kind of work as an escape from my creative writing when the writing gets tough. I crave the satisfaction of checking off items on to-do lists, so it’s easy for me to create items to-do just so I can check them off, rather than revising that rough draft, or telling that story that’s too scary to think about.

All that is to say that yes, art is necessary. And it can be functional, it can be a tool to get us talking explicitly about matters of direct and practical importance, but that’s not the only reason it’s necessary.

Art is how we shape the story of who we are. Sometimes that’s a bigger, slower conversation than who to vote for in the City Council election tomorrow, and that’s ok. Those “who are we, who will we become” questions are important, and I want to participate in formulating some answers. I see it as part of my mission as an artist, my responsibility, even. In that sense, I guess I am a cultural worker, though I’ve tended to use the word “cultural activist” to reflect my political commitments. (That’s a term I first heard from Adelina Anthony; thank you, Adelina!) I’m not too stressed about the label, though. If somebody wanted to call me a cultural worker, that’d make a lot of sense and I wouldn’t really mind.

Perhaps most importantly, though, art is sacred. The activism can and is indeed achieved in other ways . . . but that sacred something that speaks directly to the heart of our humanity, that’s what art provides. And that is necessary.

Josh T Franco is a graduate student in Art History at Binghamton University. He writes on contemporary Chican@ art, art of the 1960’s, and the possibilities of decolonial aesthetics.

Lucky DeBellevue is a Louisiana-born, New York-based artist most well known for his voluminous yet delicate, textured sculptures made of colored chenille stems (aka pipe-cleaners). Lucky has exhibited widely, including many one-person shows—most recently at John Tevis Gallery in Paris. Lately, Lucky has been focused on 2-D work, such as his collaboration with John Armleder for DISPATCH.

Interview by Brandon Johnson

We just published a project of yours titled Collaboration in the new issue of zing, #22. It’s one of the most printophilic projects of the bunch—xerox, collage, black-and-white, hand-cut, typewritten—all the qualities of a low-budget ‘zine. Do you have a history of ‘zine-making or is this your first go in the aesthetic? 

I definitely wanted to reference zine making, but it was my first actual go at it. However, I have been planning to make a zine named “Choicez” for many, many years. I always had the cover mapped out in my mind, a sad hand-drawn font, a photo of a woman with a pitchfork I found in a book entitled “Weavings you can Wear”, but I never got around to actually making it. Now we live in a world of blogs, maybe I will finally make it that way, but I love zines, so maybe both? Probably never happen.

As you say in your curator’s note, the project involves a reinterpretation of documents from a scrapbook made by women prisoners convicted for murder in the South. You mix in images of your own work with newspaper articles letters, and forms to create a “forced collaboration.” Do you feel that there is a degree of affiliation with your work and the documents from the prisoners’ scrapbook or is it a more happenstance juxtaposition?

A little of both. I wanted it to be kind of absurd. After all, this was a record of these peoples’ lives in this amazing scrapbook, and I was being kind of a vampire, just plopping my work on top of it. So there is a bit of subtext about how one’s life can be used for someone else’s purposes, bringing attention to themselves by association. I also identify somewhat with their marginalized status. What could be more outsider than being a lesbian cop killer in the South in the 1970s? I still want to believe somewhat in the outdated romantic idea of the artist as outsider, so that is part of it too.

Your work, Otter, was recently installed at the Dikeou Collection in Denver. It is a large, teepee-esque sculpture made of your signature material, chenille stems. What first attracted you to this material and why have you continued to use it?

At first, I thought it was a kind of dumb joke. I was at a point when I wanted to clear my head and start from zero as far as my practice. I was thinking of the pop artists and how Lichtenstein drew from comic strips as a platform to explore other things. So I went with something that was very basic and memorable to me as a child, something I assume others had used in their arts and crafts classes as children or had some kind of experience with.

I don’t use chenille stems exclusively as a medium anymore. In the last few years my process has opened up to include other mediums. I still make some work with them, and use them in printing methods, but it isn’t quite as central to what I make as it once was.

You explained to us previously that otter was gay slang—something along the lines of bear. How does the title relate to the piece?  Is sexual identity important to your work on the whole?

Originally this piece was in a show at the Whitney Philip Morris, and the titles of the works in the context of that show were important. But usually my work is untitled. I was interested in what goes on underneath the facade of appearances. The setting of the show was a public space attached to a corporate office, and I wanted the titles to reflect either the machinations of power through alluding to historical figures who grasped for it, or by using coded references that categorize interests within a particular community. So in this exhibition the titles functioned as objects kind of hiding in plain sight.

I was going for the trope of a sub-set within a set, and Otter refers to a kind of body type in the gay bear community, not the hairy/stocky/chubby/football player build that many of the bears fetishize, but a thinner body type that is either hairy and/or is self identified as being part of that community. Anyway, this sculpture entitled Otter is phallic-like, fuzzy, and becomes thinner as it rises in space. I wanted there to be some humor in the title, and the color gets hotter as it rises. While I think we should own what we are, I’m not so into being reductive about it. So usually I want titles to be more suggestive if there is one. I like that quote by Kierkegaard: “To define me is to negate me.”

In your artist statement, you say you consider Otter sort of as a drawing in 3-D due to its linear quality and gradations of color. Is this your approach to sculpture—through lines?

Mostly I was just thinking of using materials I hadn’t used before, just exploring. Initially I wanted to create a “thing” in the most economical way, so most of the earlier works were more minimalist, then became progressively more layered as my interests evolved. Part of it was a decision to make objects that were more porous and textured, not just flat massive surfaces that signified strength and stability.

What’s on your horizon?

In December I am in an exhibition entitled “December” curated by Howie Chen at Mitchell-Innes & Nash Gallery in New York. The artists in the exhibition runs the gamut from me, to Jean Dubuffet, to David Hammons, so I am looking forward to seeing what kind of dialogue is created with all of the different artists in the show.

Nobody drops into the zing office out of the blue anymore. The late, great Dan Asher used to, but no one since.  Except Jeffrey Hargrave. I first met Jeffrey when one day he randomly buzzed. Expecting the mailman or UPS, I must have looked disconcerted because as he walked up the stairs he announced he was just stopping by to pick up a couple copies of zing #21 (in which he has a project). Since then Jeffrey will stop by occasionally, when least expected, to grab some magazines. But isn’t that what a magazine office is supposed to be? People moving in and out, a center for thought, discussion, debate, and sharing? That’s beside the point. Jeffrey Hargrave is an African-American artist from Salisbury, North Carolina. Now based in New York, Hargave deals with representations of African-Americans, often putting them in the context of art history, remaking works by artists such as Matisse to include black figures, with stereotypical imagery. He currently has an exhibition, “Know Meaning,” up at The Phatory in the East Village.

Interview by Brandon Johnson

Hi Jeffrey. Good to see you earlier. We’re going to make this ZINGCHAT quick since your show closes on Saturday. The title of the show is Know Meaning and the work is pleasingly expressionistic yet deals in the imagery of racist stereotypes. What are you trying to say with these paintings?

That racism is alive and well, and although humorous, the paintings, drawings and video have an element of the macabre; which is interesting in itself because these Jim Crow-era images were used to degrade African-Americans, but there was a level of vaudeville comedy apparent in the illustrations.

Your first video piece is included. It’s of you singing a Lil Kim song. What song is this and what about it attracted you?

I love this rap because of its brazen use of sexuality and materialism. Kinda like a Warhol reinterpreted into a rap.

All of this work is concerned with representation—racist Jim Crow representations of African-Americans, Lil Kim representing herself as a powerful black female (which is then put in your context as a gay black male). Why is representation important to you?

That’s a very good question. Representation is very important to Lil Kim, African Americans, and myself as a gay black man. Society judges a person by what they represent and put out into the world. Lil Kim is a black woman talking about her sexual organs. She’s my hero. As a black gay man rapping the words of a black woman, I’m appealing to everyone: gay/straight, male/female. As a man having sex with another man, I’m both the husband and the wife. In all relationships gay/straight, male/female, one is dominate while the other submissive.

Your paintings are visually similar to examples of folk or naïve art. Is this a conscious choice or just your personal style?

Both. I am very inspired by naive and folk art. I also love children’s drawings and I’m influenced by them much the same way Debuffet and Twombly were. Drawing at its most simplistic and honest nature.

Paintings by your mentor, James Donaldson, are included in the show. How has he influenced your work?

He is constantly reminding me that the sky is the limit in regards to your life and artistic endeavors. He also showed me that nothing is impossible when it comes to art and following your heart.

Are there any other artists that have especially influenced you?

There are too many to name, but I will list a few: Gabriel Shuldiner, Noa Charuvi, Shirin Neshat, James Donaldson, Bruce Nauman, Robert Ryman, Cordy Ryman, Kiki Smith, Kara Walker, Bill Traylor, Cindy Sherman, Cy Twombly, and Walt Disney.

Interesting that you mention Walt Disney. At the gallery, you brought up the banned Disney cartoon, Little Black Sambo. What kind of influence did Disney have on you?

There weren’t too many characters of color in Disney movies and if there were they were usually singing songs with animated animals about how great life was or swinging from vines in the jungle. I was always glued to the TV whenever a Disney movie came on. My fav was The Sword in the Stone. The Disney charisma reached out to all. I have always been into the science of magic. Merlin was my own personal Houdini. But Walt was the greatest magician of all, and his magic was the ability to reach us all. That’s what I strive for in my own work.

What else are you interested in besides painting?

I love theater, modern dance, classical music, and hip-hop.

Cool!  Thanks Jeffrey!