Artist and abolitionist Patrice Cullors discusses the power of spiritual protection, the importance of constant creativity and why we need to give artists the space to speak their truth.
My first solo show, Between the Warp and the Weft: Weaving a Shield of Strength and Spirituality It’s currently on view at Charlie James Gallery in Los Angeles. What strikes me about this exhibition is that you dedicate each piece to a different Black woman in your life who you feel you would like to give spiritual protection to. What prompted you to make that decision?
Many victims of violence go through multiple stages: emotionally, mentally, and psychologically. During the recent hell I went through, I was in a stage of deep sadness and pain and wanted to shrink myself. It was a new experience for me. It’s not my trauma response. I’m a public figure so that’s obvious. My [previous] My response to trauma was to fight and seek positive attention, but I think I hit myself so hard that I kind of withered away.
my [recent] The work was deeply introspective and quiet. This show was deeply contemplative. I feel stronger and I want to fight again, but in a different way. For me, these works are an opportunity to think about what protection actually looks like in a world where women in general, and black women in particular, are not only not protected, but are actually harmed. I can’t actually harm, I don’t want to, but I can make these objects that provide spiritual protection. I believe deeply in spiritual protection, that the unknown is a source of protection. These items are based on using what we already have. How do we use materials like metal, fabric, cowrie shells to create these symbols of protection? I dedicate these to the women in my life because I want to infuse them with women. These are women that I have seen, who also deserve and need this protection.
I was thinking a lot about Oya, the warrior goddess. Her possession is a full-blown machete. She’s the gale. When there’s a wind or a storm outside, it’s her. She’s the market goddess. She’s the entrepreneur. She’s the business woman. She’s all these really fierce things, and so I’ve been invoking her while building these pieces.
“Ogbe Oyeku” is dedicated to my mother, Sherice Foley.
I really like the symbolism of the swords and daggers in your work. Do you do tarot?
Yeah, I’ve been doing that since I was a teenager.
It makes a lot of sense when you consider the duality of the sword being not only a weapon but also a tool that can be used to discern, the sword represents the element of wind and intelligence, similar to what you’re saying about Oya.
That’s exactly right.
Was the number of cowrie shells used and the patterns in each piece intentional? When I was researching for this interview, I was relating it to the I Ching.
Yes, this is a system of divination. This system of divination is actually older than the I Ching, some say it’s the first binary code. It originates from the Yoruba people, and the actual code that you’re looking at is Odu-Ifa. Similar to astrology and the I Ching, you’re given an Odu when you’re born. You’re given one of these symbols. There are thousands of poems for each of these symbols. This is oral history, so a lot of it has never been written down and has just been told over and over again. This is our divination system that I am documenting through these works.
Ogbe Ilson dedicated to my mentor Angela Davis.
What is the interpretation of the copper dagger?
The pattern is Ogbe Ogundaand that particular odù is actually mine, so I’m dedicating it to myself. There’s a lot of oya in that odù. There’s a beautiful story in this odù about oya being crowned as king. She’s one of the orishas among us who are queer and transgender. She’s seen as kind of transgender. She transitions into kingship. She’s a really interesting goddess warrior.
How can we protect creative practice while at the same time leaving room for change?
I’m interested in signs and symbols as a way to decipher and discern not only what’s happening in the present, but what’s happening behind the scenes. Much of my practice takes place in my own body first. What do I feel? What do I see? What do I know? What don’t I know?
I think a lot about the use of art before colonialism, when art wasn’t really hung on walls but used in everyday life like tarot cards or odu, the symbols I’m creating. All these tools, as you mentioned, are literally inherited from my family and my ancestors, so how do I bring them out and beautify them?
I’m really interested in the materiality of it, and that’s why I’m committed to making all 256 Odu, however long it takes. These are the next 15 of the 256. The first 16 I made were just Malian mud cloth and cowrie shells. Then I was sitting and thinking about conservation and Oya came on board and I thought, “Oh, now I want to use metal.” I’ve been working with these materials and giving myself a lot of space.
Well, that process does happen. It happens a lot in nature. It happens around trees, around water, when you’re sitting with cowrie shells, when you’re sitting at an altar, it happens just plain goofing around.
Ogbe Ogunda, dedicated to Patrisse Cullors.
Yes, as an artist, especially if you are in an overstimulating environment, you have to consciously create space to sit still and listen to yourself, what the universe is telling you, etc. Do you practice visualization techniques or meditation?
Yeah, I practice mindfulness meditation following the teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh’s mindfulness meditation. I’ve been doing it since I was 19 years old. I do a lot of meditation and visualization. I have a whole bunch of methods for using my imagination. I don’t know if I use that necessarily in the visual art that I make. For the show, I wouldn’t say I necessarily used my meditation practices, but I feel like everything is used. Everything I do is used. Some of it I use intentionally, some of it I don’t.
You use the term “abolitionist aesthetics” to embody the idea of abolition. I think it’s hard for some people to understand what abolition looks like. Abolition also involves a process of change, and change can sometimes seem very vague, especially when it comes to social systems and structures and so on. Could you talk a bit more about that and how it connects to your recent work?
absolutely. If you understand the aesthetic nature of the present in which we live—the aesthetics of violence, of patriarchy, of racism, of homophobia, of transphobia, of harm—and understand that in all the ways in which the present system is shaped, you see that it is a system that privileges police violence and policing, that privileges the military and military weaponry, that has centered our culture on punishment, shame, and revenge. If you’re talking about an abolitionist aesthetic and the aestheticization of abolition, you’re talking about building a new culture, a new visual aesthetic. And that looks like building a culture of care, an economy of care. It’s like walking into someone’s society and seeing that they’re centered on humans and plants, the earth and the universe, before profit. You wouldn’t even understand billionaires, because they don’t exist.
For me, abolitionist aesthetics are part of the legacy of the intersection of art and abolitionism. The museum displays all the art that was looted and plundered from Indigenous communities and villages. Some would say they are imprisoned in the museum. What would it mean to liberate them? My work is not about, “I’m an abolitionist.” That’s not the visual aesthetic that I’m approaching, but I think about systems of care, I think about systems of protection for the most vulnerable. That’s the visual aesthetic that I approach my work with and the conversations I want to have with my work. I want to create works that make people who see them feel cared for, and I also want to create works that make me feel cared for.
“Ogbe Ika” dedicated to my late mentor, Kikanza Ramsay Ray.
Apart from my own personal artistic practice, I think about the collective activity of humanity. What would our art world be like if we lived in a truly abolitionist society? What would museums be good for? Would they be of any use? What would be archived? I often think about what would happen if we abolished the use of police and prisons. Because we will, just as we abolished slavery. We will eventually abolish the use of police and prisons. Will we archive those prisons? I think a lot about how Auschwitz is archived, how the Japanese concentration camps here in California are archived. It’s a way of reminding communities of what we did and what we’re not going back to. That’s how I think about abolitionist aesthetics.
What do you think is the responsibility of artists in 2024? Not all art needs to touch on politics or current events, and escapist art has its place, but with the world in a state of crisis, it feels like a confusing time to be an artist.
I believe artists should get in touch with and create from the parts of themselves that feel the deepest sadness or the most healing. I feel very uncomfortable telling artists what to do and giving them the opportunity to access their own body and know where it needs to go. I think a lot about the Black Arts Movement and how some of the art was so on point, like Gil Scott-Heron’s song “The Revolution Won’t Be Televised” and that refrain that repeats over and over again. And then I think about the work of so many other Black artists, like Noah Purifoy, who looked at assemblage, or Betty Saar, who was developing a new visual language using things around us. Or I think about Black abstract artists who didn’t really say anything about what was going on in the ’60s or ’70s, but our context was our context, and they were imagining something different and expressing it.
There needs to be diversity in how we approach things as artists and what we share. That diversity is really important to me. I don’t need to be censored as an artist or told what I can’t say for fear of collectors or museum board members. This is very tricky territory. What artists need is the space to be honest and speak the truth about where we stand. Sometimes that looks like speaking the truth about what’s going on and asking us to see it, and sometimes it looks like a visualization of the future we all deserve.
