In Conversation with M. Pittman
M. Pittman is a poet, photographer, Black Joy enthusiast, and emerging artivist located in the South. During their Spring 2024 New City Arts Fellowship, Pittman explored Black hair as being in conversation with the idea of a landscape. This “conversation,” so to speak, began two years ago, inspired by a series of self-portraits that Pittman shot with flowers arranged in their hair and a hair journey that followed after cutting her hair in January of 2023.
Regarding choosing their own Black hair as their fallow space, Pittman recounts, “I thought they were either going to like my pitch or think it was kind of an atypical response. People think of land, but not how the land is groomed and it’s something that needs to be cared for, needs water, etc. So, I wanted to marry these two things, because even though I love my hair journey and it was my choice to cut my hair, it’s also been a grieving journey.”
M. Pittman was interviewed by Kitty Smith (Summer 2024 New City Arts Intern). The photos in this interview were made and shared with us by M. Pittman.
What I think is so interesting about the way you're interpreting things in particular is that your “fallow” site is the site of your art, but also your body and your own story. This has been an experience of making art that has so much to do with the body, your life, and your hair—do you think that’s fostered a new relationship with yourself?
I don't think it fostered a new relationship, but it certainly deepened my relationship with myself. I say it was an introspective journey to cut my hair because I learned many different things about myself within the process. One thing about showing your face all the time is that it has to become signature—you're going to see all your angles and there’s no obscuring with hair as a distraction. I fell in love with the way that my face looks when I cut my hair. I also upped my skincare.
I've always had kind of exuberant makeup choices, but I feel like they became even more exuberant. You know, I even upped my accessories, because why not be more playful like this? It's not like I was going to be extending the exuberance towards my hair. In addition, with having to look at myself on film, I decided that I'm not the best judge of selecting what is actually going to go on the show. So I had a loving little informal caucus of people in my corner and I’d say, “Does this photo belong in the show?” It removes my personal judgements and makes the art more communal as well.
When it's so personal, I feel like it would be really hard to think about what is best for the art versus what's best for your own perception of yourself. Those lines are blurry.
I don't think I've shared this just yet, but I don't inherently make the art. I have a Grand Vision that comes to me that tells me what the art should look like, and I work towards that vision. This Grand Vision never considers my actual skill sets; it doesn't consider my time constraints; it doesn't factor in my life. It's just like, if you learn how to do these five things, you can make some really great art— and I'm like, “Why don’t you ever come to me with skills that I just have within my arsenal?”
I was talking to the Photo Caucus, and I said, “Oh, this probably won't go into the final show, but I really liked this photo. It’s a true personality shot.” They were like, “Why don't you put that in? That's a great shot. Why are you policing the images that you're trying to put in the show? If you're saying you're doing a show on Black joy, then why isn't this innocent, joyful personality shot of you included in that?” I think that the hardest thing about my current photography practice is that I'm my own muse.
I have to do my makeup and purchase and prepare the wardrobe. I'm shooting it, and I'm also the subject. When I'm the subject, I'm going to be harsher on the photos. Versus, if this were someone else, I would just go with what is the superior photo, regardless of how I feel about the value of it. I have this Grand Vision and I’ll adjust my vision to approach that in the moment. Including the photo—is what the vision says, right? If it’s me as the subject, I'm like, “No! One of my eyes is less open.” Alas, I can’t argue with the Grand Vision and the Photo Caucus is there to protect that Vision.
One might think, “Yeah, why am I smiling like that?” Yeah.
I have to take the photos to other people who are not me who will tell me what it is. They are familiar with the dialogue that exists between the Grand Vision of my artistic practice and myself. They know my work enough to say, “This might not be what you wanted, but this is fine to put in there. You can't keep prescribing what the work is going to be, at a certain point you have to leave it alone.”
During this Fellowship, what has nourished this artistic practice? On the note of calling other people into the process and deciding what actually goes into the show— do you feel like community has played into the fellowship a lot for you?
Truly. For this series, I had struggles with shooting indoors for the first time and coordinating the best time to do that. Figuring that out was quite tricky. When you live in a disabled body, you don't know how long your leash is going to be so to speak. Navigating chronic pain while creating isn’t new territory for me, but the methods that I use to create with a conscious respect to my body and its limits are.
Some of the things that nourished me was the presence of the people that were in the space (The Bridge,) like Anica, Jess, and even artists that kind of work to themselves. It was helpful to be surrounded by people, and I got to share time with them while navigating our works in progress. A couple aspects that I added, during my Fellowship, was incorporating weekly field trips and craft studies. A lot has nourished me, mostly community, and people being like, “You've got this.” And I love that.
How do you feel like that vision evolved? What did letting this voice guide you look like during this?
I think the Grand Vision started to loosen its reins and release me from thinking about what the final installation was going to look like. I came into the fellowship with a fixed mindset: “I want to make things with these elements, and boom!” However, about halfway through the Fellowship, I was like, “What would it look like if I didn't worry about the final result? I just kind of stayed with a focus on what's actually driving me.” That loosened things up and was a game changer for me.
I also ended up running into my fellow cohort members, Eboni and Elena, a few times. Talking to each other about what we're doing, what we're interested in: that helped. I also think that having a space where I could be very messy was helpful. As I saw the mess around me accrue, that felt encouraging to me somehow, because I could not do that in my creative space that I have in my home. Tragically, it's carpeted, and I declutter often. I can’t be messy there. It’s quite different.
It sounds to me like you think about the idea of space in general a lot. Does having different spaces to work in fuel your work?
It comes from my approach as a disabled artist, and how space really affects where disabled people can go. If I'm dialoguing with a space, I'm thinking about the limitations on accessibility or what the space is meant to do. If you go into a public bathroom, for example, technically, all of the items in the bathroom should be measured specifically for ADA guidelines.
So, a sink can only be this height, and the distance from the soap dispenser and the sink should only be about a certain height, so that if you were perhaps in a wheelchair or you use a mobility aid, in theory, you'd be able to reach the sink without having to mess up your clothes. I think about how space dialogues with the body, and how the body dialogues with what a space has prescribed it to do. So artistically, for me, I'm thinking, do I want people to walk or traverse through something? Do I want whatever I'm displaying to be able to be touched? How do people explore the space and take it in?
What do you feel like you’ve learned through this process?
I feel more certain as an artist. I feel more certain, just going in having a place to practice outside of my space at home, because I associate that more so with an office-adjacent creative space. I call it my creative space, but I don't often create in there unless I'm writing. Photography also requires some varying degrees of surprise and spontaneity. Adjusting to these facets in the moment with my photography practice has informed my writing practice a lot more. That's one of the ways that I've come into myself. At times, I have wondered, why is it that with photography, I am so much more comfortable with chaos?
For example, with shooting my brother's elopement, I just went for it. I never do that with my writing. I typically need a specific environment and headspace. With my photography, I've found that I am simply willing to live with the moment, then let creativity come to me. I frequently shoot on a phone because I feel like that’s something that’s quite accessible to people- so we’re talking about space and the body again. It physically hurts for me to endure the weight of adorning a camera at times, but I almost always have my phone on me.
So much of your work, I think, is playing with the idea of joy, which at its essence is ephemeral- you stumble upon it when you’re not looking for it. So I feel like it makes a lot of sense that something you have on hand like your phone is part of your creative practice.
I actually shoot everything on the live feature so I can go back and see the moment happen. Most of the photos I truly enjoy have been happy accidents. I shot my own headshots for a publication that I got, because a lot of people don’t know how to shoot dark skin Black women. Of course, I’d like to look like people should read my work [and take me seriously], but I also want to be joyous [in the author/ artist photo].
I haven’t always been able to write about joyous things. While I don’t perceive that to be a deficit, it’s certainly a privilege to knead the joy in. Now I’m getting back to that. I want you to see a picture of me not sulking when I’m talking about heavy topics, or simply just because. I’ve written about police brutality, explorations of grief, and even ideas for adjusting to an apocalypse, but when one looks over at my headshot, I want them to see that I have joy in my life too.
Have you ever felt a pressure for your work to have a serious tone or discuss more somber topics?
I don’t feel pressure to have a serious tone. I do feel pressure to cover somber topics. It’s a balance. I know that I feel fulfilled when I’m covering a range of topics on the grief and joy spectrum. I’ve found that to be sustainable for me. I also don’t think that I could solely cover somber topics in a tone that lacks joy. They’re intertwined to me. That’s why I refer to them as being married. For example, my hair journey wasn’t all positive: it’s a diasporic space constantly dialoguing with many generations of Black hair. It also includes many things I’ve been told to believe about my Black hair versus what I actually feel towards it.
It’s not that this has been some kind of overwhelming Joy Fest, but what I share is the joy. My focus on joy is that it’s often left out of the work. There’s several ways to look at the somber. Do I cover those topics? Absolutely, but perhaps in a different way where the joy is braided in. Maybe this is the nature of my family— we will talk about the saddest thing with humor. I don’t feel pressure to share things in a certain light because I’m so connected to my Grand Vision. If I was untethered from that creative source, I probably would give into pressure.I do feature some things from my hair journey that are probably lesser known, like I use my granddaddy’s old pick. He’s deceased, but it was important to me to bring that in.
I think my late grandmother appears in the work as well, even in the ways that I adorn myself. At times, it mimics the way she might’ve adorned herself. Reflecting on those aspects is a somber topic for me because they dredge that intangible essence. That’s death. That’s grief. But I think that my work explores the marriage of grief and joy, because I can’t separate those things. There’s always some joy in the grief. Like, my grandmother has passed and what a tremendous loss that is , but I’ve also gained her as an ancestor. Now I always have her with me. When she was earthbound, I had to commute to her. Now that she is in an ancestral space, I have constantly have her as a guidance and witness.
Do you feel like your work has been a way to explore that generational thread?
Very much so. In my writing, in my art, I’ve explored so much. My creative journey is very much a thread with my family journey. Only now do I see how much that shows up in that work. Sometimes it’s putting my family in literature: like talking about my mom doing my hair imperfectly, or talking about my grandmother teaching me about adornment, or talking about my dad and how he stored my granddaddy’s ashes. So it’s showing up. They’re definitely in conversation, sometimes admittedly unwanted conversation. But—I can’t control what the Grand Vision wants. I’ve told you, it’s not fair.
So, I loved what you asked Anna Hogg at her opening, so I want to pose you the same question. Is there an experience you can recall during your fellowship that was just a moment of joy?
Yes, it was the last night of my Fellowship. I finally spent a night in the space. There was this wall that I wanted to use during the whole Fellowship that became available maybe 3 days before the Fellowship ended. The photos that I shot there that night have been the photos I’ve shown the most when I’m talking about what I’m doing in the fall. I already knew how it was going to make everything look, and it pulled everything together. Everything started clicking. I started changing my earrings, wigs, how I used the props. It was a really big victory for me; I felt very playful. That was on my to-do list at the time: Keep the play alive, because that’s what keeps me fueled.
I love that you keep talking about gut feelings and following your internal compass. Is that an attitude you feel you carry outside of art?
Yes and no. I’m very type A, but everybody around me is the opposite of that way of thinking. I can have Type A instincts in my life, but they don’t really work, not with the people you love. So it only applies in my art, really—like, I’m creating the art, I know when I’m gonna show up. But I always have a journal with me just in case.
It’s interesting when we’re talking about being type A and control. On one hand, you are the author of anything you’re creating. You have control in that sense. But there is also that spontaneous element where something captivates you and you just have to follow that calling.
Yeah. Like, myself in practice, I take myself very seriously as a person. And some people, especially when they’re first meeting me, think I’m very formal, and that’s just kind of how I operate. But in my artistic practice, I have to allow play and spontaneity. Even if that would annoy me in my regular day-to-day life because I crave predictability, I have to allow myself to discover things in the moment, because that’s where the art is. That’s where I’m meeting myself for the first time.
The 2024 New City Arts Fellowship studio space was located at The Underground: A Center for Creative Collaboration (The Bridge Progressive Arts Initiative), an artist-run creative co-working space on the Downtown Mall in Charlottesville, Virginia. A cohort of four artist Fellows received a month-long studio space grant, a $500 stipend, and a stocked pantry with their favorite drinks and snacks. The Fellowship season (March 2024 - July 2024) culminates in fallow, a group exhibition at Welcome Gallery in September.
The 2024 New City Arts Fellowship is made possible with support from anonymous donors, the Anne & Gene Worrell Foundation, the Community Endowment Fund at the Charlottesville Area Community Foundation, Pam Sutton-Wallace and Maurice Wallace, and a partnership with The Bridge Progressive Arts Initiative.
