My artist practice, like all delicious things, starts in the kitchen. Watching my grandmothers create magic, pulling ingredients out of cupboards and knowing intrinsically how much is just enough. The ways that my mother’s and aunts’ bodies dance through the tight enclave, communicating in mmhmms, laughs and gentle nudges. This level of intimacy, movement and unbounded communal creativity is what I strive for in my art. It is my favorite way to be and make.
An ethos I oft return to is “if my Mama can’t get it, I don’t want it.” This translates to if the art is not accessible for the wider community to not only observe but enter fully into, it is not art I am interested in creating. This pushes me to build performances with access points that can be deciphered kinetically, sonically and emotionally across all socioeconomic markers.
But my art sits distinctly and unapologetically in its queer Black womaness. It is impossible to separate my work from my experience as a queer Black cisgender woman creating art in the American south. Just as impossible as separating the legacy of slavery and oppression from the land and salt from the stew. My truths are bound to my art; it tastes better that way.