Code Z has been paying attention to a quartet of male artists in Atlanta, Georgia and a quintet of female artists in Austin, Texas. Here we present the Atlanta four.
Go back ten years and you'll see just how much shit has changed in Atlanta. The Olympics have come and gone, Outkast is no longer known as "two dope boys in a Cadillac," and when Southern contemporary Black artists are discussed, Radcliffe Bailey isn't the only name mentioned. In recent years, Atlanta has emerged as not solely a city synonymous with peaches and 101 ways to prepare the "yard bird" (read: chicken), but an edgy metropolis in matters of business, music, fashion, education, and, more than ever, the visual arts.
Racially, economically, geographically, however you square it, Atlanta is no easy read. It presents neither an open book for outside interpretation nor a complex algorithm shrouded in indecipherable code. Despite its obvious attraction to brown folks in flux--traveling, working, exploring, and looking to settle down--Atlanta can come across as impenetrable to the uninitiated. It keeps its secrets close to its vest and stores those interests in a well-hidden chest. Where it conceptually begins and spatially ends has been and will continue to be open to interpretation.
The year is 2006, and contemporary visual artists Kojo Griffin, Eric Mack, Charles Huntley Nelson, and Fahamu Pecou find themselves in a familiar position. Meeting in a semi-neutral space as if a preverbal line has been drawn between two seemingly opposite, though parallel, genres, we meet, we commune over drinks to unpack the complex riches of Atlanta's art scene.
Reflecting on the same question that has been posed to me since returning to Atlanta, I ask, "In one word, how do you view the city's art scene?"
"Giving" --Charles Huntley Nelson
Hospitality is a thread woven in the very fabric of the city's personality. With the several-decades-long reverse migration of Blacks to the South from the North, West, and other places, individuals list myriad reasons to return, within which exists a recurring need to experience something more personal and gracious. According to Nelson, "Atlanta is a great place for emerging artists. Over the last ten years that I have been here, I have seen that Atlanta is a very giving city. People are willing to reach out to one another. I think it helps everyone succeed when that happens."
Unofficial ambassador to Atlanta's visual arts scene, Charles Huntley Nelson is definitely hip to the game. He refuses to play on any terms other than his own--allowing for several points of entry as a writer, teacher, and curator, but consistently from the perspective of a practicing artist dedicated to other artists. This type of giving nature is southern hospitality personified--leading by example and creating bridges to continue the legacy.
Granted, it is easy to get caught up in the delusion of grandeur that is Atlanta, given its general openness, but what happens once you're "let in"? Photographer Daniel Hoover agrees with Nelson, asserting that "Atlanta switches easily, but with this sudden and sometimes drastic change, many artists are left in the wind...." Reflecting on this all-too-common statement heard in many cities, one picks up on the universal need to have steady access and support, to get that microphone. But what happens during this pursuit in a city that is giving but not necessarily discerning?
"Problematic" --Kojo Griffin
For many Atlanta-based artists Kojo Griffin represents the explanation for living in Atlanta. Proving that you can gain a significant level of success nationally and live outside New York or Los Angeles, Griffin believes there is considerable buying power associated with living outside of these large, contemporary art markets. Presenting a quote that he is famous for, Griffin notes that "moving to New York to become an artist is like moving to LA to become an actor. You've got to wait in line," thus driving home the idea that location can play a large part in moving you to the front of that line.
Embodying the idea that "bad boys move in silence," Griffin has followed the tried-and-true formula of being committed to the work. Instead of being one of the most visible faces, this self-described "art ninja" is more about his practice and creating lasting bodies of work.
Being all about the work presents many of the pitfalls that can arise, according to our collective conversation, which include misrepresentation and shortsightedness. Re-establishing his own career to include work that is a departure from his mixed-media inter-species figures, Kojo Griffin has, on many different fronts, developed strategies for not only sustaining a career but also "creating a place in art history," which he mentions as most important. By living outside of dominant artistic epicenters, Griffin, Nelson, Mack, and Pecou highlight the importance of hustle. However, along with the economic necessity of selling one's work outside city limits comes the sometimes rude awakening regarding how that work is being judged on the home front.
Identifying with the divide between people of color and abstraction, Eric Mack earnestly strives to connect the viewer to his work.
"Isolated" --Eric Mack
"Un-Black Black art" is Eric Mack's response to how some people view his vivid arsenal of non-representational work. Whether speaking of his experience several years back as a student at the Atlanta College of Art or his present incarnation as an emerging artist, Mack conveys the sense of an inner conflict brewing, as if he traveled the world in his practice but remains home physically. Identifying with the divide between people of color and abstraction experienced by Barbara Chase-Riboud and Howardena Pindell in the 60s/70s and Julie Mehretu and Jina Valentine within the past five years, Eric Mack earnestly strives to connect you to his work. Noting, like Nelson, Griffin, and Pecou, that it is imperative to see beyond Atlanta, Mack also proposes that the failure to properly connect the viewer, gallery owner, collector, etc. to your work breeds isolation in a city committed to those connections.
In many ways, the landscape is changing, but no matter how the city evolves structurally and ideologically, 'it is Atlanta's geographical location that dictates the flexibility of moving within different spaces based on race, subject matter, and gender. "Being a fine artist in a still-conservative scene can be difficult," Mack states, and receives a unanimous collective head nod in agreement. Luckily, difficulty doesn't deter any of these artists from continuing to create. However, that response does leave you wondering what's in store for the future.
"Getting a good momentum" --Fahamu Pecou
One-third vulnerability and two-thirds sheer bravado, Fahamu Pecou's paintings are frontal assaults that carry no qualms about taking prisoners. Placing the artist as icon, while employing a coded language shrouded in art history and popular culture, Pecou creates sensory overloads that pose questions and challenge assumptions. Some of these same descriptions for Pecou's work apply to his perspective of being in Atlanta. As if the many singular faces on his painted magazine covers came to life, Pecou notes that each individual artist sees an element of the art scene that is less than desirable; yet she or he holds the power to change it.
Although the evening drew to an end, the conversation is far from over. Some topics will be revisited and new ones will emerge as the evolution of Atlanta's art scene continues.
