Queer Art Inspires Activism and Self-Actualization
A shout out to the queer artists who inspired me to activism and propelled me toward self-actualization this year.
“Art should be something that liberates your soul, provokes the imagination, and encourages people to go further.”
—Keith Haring
During the rainbow delirium of pride month, I reflected a lot on the queer artists who inspired me throughout the year. In a year of political tumult in which our queerness remains under attack, these artists inspired me to examine my queer identity, assert it, and lean into it as a tool for personal activism.
For perspective on just how influential queer artists have been to my personal journey this year, I scrolled back through my iPhone and captured the list of queer art I experienced since last Pride Month:
Kehinde Wiley (June 2023) | Sean Kelly Gallery, New York, NY
Mickalene Thomas (August 2023) | Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven, CT
Joey Terrill (October 2023) | LA MOCA, Los Angeles, CA
Keith Haring (October 2023) | The Broad Museum, Los Angeles, CA
Lyle Ashton (November 2023) | Duke University Art Gallery, Raleigh, NC
Freddie Styles (March 2024) | The DuSable Black History Museum and Education Center, Chicago, IL
Davion Alston (March 2024) | Atlanta Center for Photography, Atlanta, GA
Leia Genis (April 2024) | Hawkins Gallery, Atlanta, GA
Kiyan Williams (April 2024) | Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, NY
Pipa Garner (April 2024) | Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, NY
P. Staff (April 2024) | Whitney Museum of American Art, New York, NY
Beau of the Ball, James Van Der Zee (April, 2024) | Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY1
Mildred Thompson (May 2024) | Mildred Thompson Legacy Project, Atlanta, GA
Nicholas Hlobo (May 2024) | Goodman Gallery, New York, NY
Francis Bacon (May 2024) | Marlborough Gallery, New York, NY
Stan Clarke (June 2024) | Atlanta Contemporary Art Center, Atlanta, GA
Three things thrill me about my list. The first is that I never set a goal to see work by queer artists. As you can see from the spread these artists are embedded into our nation’s top institutions, exhibits, galleries, and collections. Second, I was ecstatic to see that each letter of the queer alphabet soup was represented: L-G-B-T-Q. Finally, it occurred to me that while these artists are queer, looking at their work one would not immediately clock these artists as “queer.”
This final realization underscores a core aspect of the LGBTQ+ community: While we seek to understand, name, and garner respect for our identities, our identities don’t restrict our self-expression. This freedom to explore and defy categorization is part of the beauty of our esprit de corps. The willingness of these queer artists to explore, amplify, remake, and dismantle spoke volumes to my own journey.
Artists as activist
Kiyan Williams (they/them) exemplifies the powerful intersection of art and activism today. Witnessing their sculptures atop the Whitney was beyond epic. I squealed when I saw the first sculpture, a crumbling, earthen White House that embodied Williams' core message of "decomposition as decolonization." But it was the accompanying human-scale, silver-plated monument to trans activist Marsha P. Johnson that had me completely gagged. Her steely gaze pierced directly at the decaying White House, one hand gripping a sign that declared "POWER TO THE PEOPLE," the other holding a defiant cigarette. The juxtaposition of Marsha's enduring form with the inevitably eroding symbol of power served as a potent reminder: the LGBTQ+ community's fight for justice will outlast the fleeting bigotry of the nation.
Of course, for queer artists the fight against bigotry started decades ealier, ignited by the AIDS crisis. Indeed many definitions of ‘queer art’ revolve around the artistic identity that arose in response to the gender and identity politics of the 1980s the AIDS epidemic.2 At that moment, queer art becomes bolder and more political, intending to force viewers to see queer culture, underscore inequities, and call attention to national hypocrisy that gave life to homophobia and fomented death.
Joey Terrill, a young artist in the 1980s, harnessed his power at the intersection of his Chicano and queer identities in service of the fight against AIDS. I had the honor of hearing Terrill, now 68 years old, speak about his art and activism at an event celebrating queer elders at the One Institute, the oldest LGBTQ+ organization in the country. A long-term HIV survivor and leader in the HIV/AIDS movement, he recounted his journey. Hearing about the devastation and the victories transported me to a time I can only imagine as an elder millennial. I was moved by the haunting gratitude with which he spoke of his survival and the influential work that reflected both his personal struggle and that of his community. The next evening, while strolling through LA MOCA, I serendipitously encountered Terrill's work. The fiery, colorful, seductive canvas vibrated with the same life force I felt from him the day before. Witnessing the raw vulnerability in Terrill's art and hearing his powerful stories rekindled a fire within me, inspiring me to recommit myself to my HIV advocacy work. And Terrill’s work galvanizes just the combination of joy and resistance required to pave the way for change.
The universality of queer artists’ self-exploration
If the work of queer activist artists extends outward, becoming overtly political, then the work of artists who explore their identities compels us to look inward, into the deeply personal. Mickalene Thomas, Lyle Ashton, and Nicolas Hlobo, with their introspective works, have solidified my commitment to revisiting my own complex queer identity.
Mickalene Thomas is perhaps the most influential queer artist in America right now. Her iconic work, often photographic and mixed-media love letters to Black women, is a powerful testament to her artistic vision. I'm particularly eager to see her upcoming exhibition, "Mickalene Thomas: All About Love." However, it was the quiet power of her exhibit, "Portrait of an Unlikely Space," that truly resonated with me. This exhibit told the untold story of Rose Prentice, a formerly enslaved person, whose rare miniature painting was discovered by descendants of the family she worked for as a paid domestic worker. I instantly felt Thomas' steadfast devotion to uplifting the stories of all Black women, past and present. This was evident in her curation of the exhibit. As co-curator, Thomas designed living room tableaus to frame each gallery. But most impactful to me, was Thomas' agility in ceding space in service of Prentice's story. Her humble positioning reminded me of the importance of lifting up others when you are on more solid ground. Namely, how critical it is right now, for the LGB+NB (non-binary) communities to uplift all trans folk who are under attack daily.
Perhaps no exhibit sparked more self-awareness of my he/they identity than Lyle Ashton's "Our First and Last Love." This introspection was further amplified by being accompanied by my six-year-old niece, Layana. I was deeply absorbed by Ashton's exploration of his vulnerabilities, his haunting struggles, and the sometimes dark reflections on the social and political climate surrounding Black queerness. My introspection was abruptly interrupted by Layana's innocent inquiry about the appropriateness of a black-and-white photograph of two nude men hanging at her eye level. Her genuine curiosity transported me to a new level of consideration: how could I always show up authentically to my niece as a Black queer person? During our infrequent one-on-one outings, which always revolve around experiencing art, I'm keenly aware of being a tiny portal into the Black queer world for her, a world dwarfed by societal expectations around gender. In my best nonchalant guncle voice, I assured her that it was appropriate because it was art. She found that response acceptable and urged us on to the next exhibit.
A final encounter with an artist I'd just discovered nudged me further on my path to self-actualization. Nick Hlobo, a South African abstract artist, uses swirling, tactile works of thread, ribbon, acrylic, and other mixed media to capture the complexities of his queer identity within the context of his South African heritage. How ironic, yet special, that I experienced his work in a closet at the Goodman Gallery in New York. (The piece was actually in storage, but the gallerist generously made a special effort to show it to me). Standing in the intimate space, gazing upward at the piece, I resonated with Hlobo’s exploration of identity through abstraction. His disregard for representation was liberating, his focus on movement allowing him to imbue each multi-colored tendril unfurling across the canvas with significance. At that moment, this piece became a powerful metaphor for how I see myself moving through the world as a queer being – a vibrant tapestry of colorful experiences, unique and delicate. Like Hlobo's tendrils, I send out my own extensions, threads of my identity, purposefully exploring and connecting with the spaces around me, forever evolving, forever seeking my ultimate form.
I list this experience by the title first, because by all accounts the artist, James Van Der Zee was not a part of the LGBTQ+ community. But his fabulous photograph documenting Harlem queer culture should absolutely be here.