My job as an artist is to go as deep as I can, into the unconscious, into the unresolved, to reveal the unspoken. I just want people to see the authenticity, to help them realize that, yes, you don’t have to hide.

We all are looking for a sanctuary and my studio is my sanctuary. I don’t have to hide in there. Every time I walk in, I know that something is going to happen that I did not expect. I don’t wait for the right tool. I take whatever I have and I just improvise.

The title is Black on Black and here we have what is called Black and Blue. The focus is how do we feel? How do we feel now? And for me, I feel restrained, controlled, restricted, confined. When people see black and they see blue, that looks like a police uniform. Blue with zip ties around it and metal clamps, all that tension, that physicality, that restriction.

Regardless of the color of your skin, we’re all being treated in a way where we all are being marginalized. All of us.

I grew up in a small town in North Carolina. My parents knew how to raise a Black child in a police state. They didn’t quite know how to raise a queer child and a Black child in a police state.

So to help my parents navigate the uncertainty, I use painting and drawing. They can see me sitting at the table doing my homework, painting and drawing. So, “Okay. He’s all right.” So that’s how I got started. My mother and my grandmother and my great-grandmother, they all were quilt makers. They all made quilts. They expressed their worldview all in fabric.

My grandmother, one day when I was about 10 or 12 years old, she said, “Come here, boy, help me with this quilt.” And I thought, “The last thing I want to do is be sewing with my grandmother.” And all she said was, “Here, any color, any pattern you want. I’ll show you how to add it to my quilt.”

Now, she couldn’t change the pattern outside. She couldn’t do anything about Jim Crow or homophobia, but she can help me calm myself enough to navigate a hostile environment. So what these are, these are, crocheted individual tapestries. All these over the last year and a half, I have created and I crocheted. And it’s a metaphor for the legacy of my grandmother.

I cut the strips, then I attach them. I’m very cavalier about it. I don’t worry about how long the fabric is. I don’t measure it. These are all my choices, these are all my colors. It’s bound to be beautiful. So with this, you know, the idea of letting go, of using, you know, single stitch crochet.

I’m able just to let my mind let go of all the things that are happening around me and enjoy all the colors, all of the choices and just crochet back and forth, back and forth. And they all look continuous, like one large continuous tapestry.

Taking up space means not having to deny the history that has created me. All of it. Whether people give you the space or not, don’t wait for it to be given. Take it. I moved here in ’91 on my way to LA. I’ve never gotten there. San Francisco has been able to embrace my sexuality and my creativity. It has helped me become who I am as an artist.

I am in the work. Everything. All of who I am is in everything I create, because I don’t see what else I can do. Who else can I be? What else can I do? If I don’t give it everything, I’m wasting my time.

This is my story. This is my song. This is my journey. If I was a writer, I would write about it. If I was a poet, I’d write poetry about. If I was a musician, I’d play music about it. Right? But I sculpt.