BmoreArt

Since 2019, Pinkston has been sketching, playing, and conceptualizing ways to remix plexiglass, a material difficult to shatter and strong enough to serve as a foundational element mirroring the false perception of Black women’s Herculean abilities.

“Plexiglass as a material is transparent and hard,” Pinkston describes. “I like the way that an image can both fade behind and lay on top of this transparent material and still feel like it can take up a space.” 

Ten mixed-media works make up the exhibit centering Pinkston’s crawl image layered under vibrant tones. A quiet, dreamlike power exists across the work, which utilizes ink and transparent sheets under repurposed plexiglass sourced from the artist’s temporary public installations. 

In “Remember there are real people in those buildings,” the mix of materials—transparent sheets, ink, and glue—present moody and faded horizontal lines and blocks as Pinkston’s body jets out securing space along the bottom left of the work. 

In “Ghosts of Delusions,” Pinkston’s body is blurred, barely seen as the ink play pushes out dark spaces between the Supreme Court’s columns. The haunting depiction speaks to the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the lasting effects of this decision on reproductive rights.

A pinkish inkjet color on the central image serves as wallpaper behind a video projection of Pinkston’s crawl. Pinkston scrapes her way up the steps of the Supreme Court, ignoring the gaze of tourists, lawmakers, and random onlookers as they cringe and gawk. Pinkston narrates the video as she drags her body, leaps, and interacts with the police. 

Her crawl persists, rendered with inkjet ink, alcohol ink, and acrylic paint on one side of a 4 ft x 4 ft sheet of plexiglass. Bridges are etched on the other side, a reference to the bridges between perceptions, feelings, and facts. This is one of the exhibit’s largest pieces and it floats over Transformer’s main window; the sunlight dancing throughout highlights imperfections while creating new patterns that give off a stained-glass effect.

It hangs above Pinkston’s superhero costume which is sprawled on the gallery’s fire-engine-red painted floor as if to signify Pinkston finally relinquishing her cape both literally and figuratively. 

In a high corner of the gallery, another large piece takes on an archival texture. Incorporating a portrait etching, it shows a close-up of Pinkston’s face during the crawl, her grimace suspended in time. 

On the opposite walls, “Flying past the denials,” “You know that she could see through that,” and “Flying past the breaks” no longer position Pinkston at the center, instead dance Icons Kathrine Dunham and Othella Dallas pose, glide, and connect in varicolored collages. 

Pinkston’s works remind viewers that time can also serve as medium, form, and concept. The looped videos establish a visual rhythm and cohesion reflecting the cyclical nature and persistence in the ongoing struggles Black women face—gender and race-based violence, exploitation, discrimination, occupational segregation, health disparities, and more—with the perception that to somehow push through unharmed and unscathed is an honorable feat. 

The practice of making performance in the context of art or an art object isn’t new to Pinkston who in 2012 began to develop immersive performance works with a community of artists in Baltimore. Her investigation of the body in public places deepened in 2015 with the project LandMarked: Making Memory Move: which Pinkston described as “an exploration of the architectural objects that we call monuments.” It consisted of workshops, public performances, and a future vision to democratize public memorials through crowdsourcing objects of memory utilizing 3D printing technology.

Pinkston’s public performance “Recitaf II” on October 19th at Logan Circle Park, a four-minute walk from the Gallery, really brought home I’m Not Your Superwoman’s intentionality. The performance featured Pinkston along with Black women collaborators, including artists Sheila Gaskins and Kelani Redman who dressed in superhero uniforms to take over the park. It was vulnerable and subversive, with Redman and Pinkston sweeping leaves before engaging in a crawl and other calisthenic-like movements. Draped in an American flag, Gaskin continuously recited the chorus of Karyn White’s “Superwoman” and words from Pinkston’s exhibition statement. 

Since the 70’s, Black women artists have been at the forefront of feminist arts movements creating work that advocates for social change and cultural pride; work that challenges the dominant narratives of our bodies and history. BmoreArt had the opportunity to speak with Pinkston about how I Am Not Your Superwoman connects this legacy with our present moment and her practice as an artist. 

The following conversation with the artist reveals more of her concept and practice.

Are you a recovering Superwoman? 

Sometimes, I am just tired. Oftentimes, when I get too tired, I don’t have the ability to just sit down or to sleep. The grind of our society continues to flatten, dampen, or mute our ability to fully rest. That being said I think that we are all recovering superwomen whether we would like to admit it or not. 

What are you saying with this work and to whom? 

The aim is to speak to anyone who will listen. Or anyone who will stop to look up and see the invisible labor that surrounds them. And the invisible labor that took place to get them to where they are now. My grandmother sold tamales to get through high school. My other grandmother cleaned clothes and was a maid and a cook to help support her family. She got third degree burns on her right hand as a result of a work accident. I know that without their hard work, I would not be here today. 

Oftentimes, this type of labor is invisible to families. Oftentimes this type of labor is invisible in the public. Oftentimes this type of labor is visible in private. Folding clothes, sweeping floors, cooking food, caring for family, and etc. This type of labor is unpaid. I developed the performance score and installation in consideration of these facts. 

Can you speak a bit to the performance element? 

I wanted to create an ephemeral moment, a happening of Black women in a public park that would make the average park attendee consider their position in the world more deeply. For many years, I have done endurance performances that last at least two hours. Since I was the only one out there, I did those performances a lot longer than the October 19th one. 

I did the performance at the Supreme Court, The Library of Congress, and the State Capitol Building. It was an incredibly hot summer day, so I was sweating a lot as I did this physical exercise. The Capitol Police and building security responded differently according to where I was doing the action. The staff at the Library of Congress knew exactly what the work was referencing, and they went out and took pictures. At the Capitol Building, some people responded with wonder, some people took photos. 

I think in the context of Instagram and social media, seeing someone crawling on the ground at a huge tourist site did not seem out of the ordinary. The Capitol Police did show up on a bicycle and from 20 feet away asked me, “Ma’am, are you okay?” I politely replied yes and kept going along the route that I had planned. It was not until we arrived at the State Supreme Court. That was where I was told that I could not crawl on certain parts of the steps. Niajea Randolph who is an amazing photographer and documentarian took great photos documenting these interactions. 

How does this connect with your other performance-based work? 

The first public performance I did was a collaborative one in 2009. Myself and a group of other Black and Brown artists were in Berlin and wanted to create a series of artworks along the Berlin Wall. When we did the performance at a site in Mitte, a news crew came out of nowhere to record us and said they were there to document a new multicultural Berlin. 

We were young and so we conceded to the news crew, but there was something about that moment that was illuminating to me. Another moment during this performance was an older Afro-Deutsch woman who also seems to have come out of nowhere and told the entire ensemble in a stern but soft voice: “Black is never quiet.” 

Both of these occurrences demonstrated the power of public performance, improvisation, and what it means for a group of Black people to convene to share a ritual in a public space. 

What inspired this approach to the work? 

I wanted to create an object that mirrors the considerations of the concepts that I listed above. In the end, the materials were remixed, and the performance was a remix. The remixing of the form of the material became the foundation upon which I interwove my gospel of Black performance. I have always been inspired by William Pope.L and his work. When he passed away, I thought about what it would look like to make a body of work that honors him. 

How do the pieces featuring other Black women icons specifically connect? What is it about those particular women? 

There is a tale about enslaved people flying away from plantations. I was thinking about this mythology of how the people could fly in relationship to a Black woman performance whose work has always inspired me as well: Katherine Dunham. I knew that if this show was not only about. There is one other person in the images: Othella Dallas. She learned her technique from Dunham and the images that I found of both of them are a reflection of what it could look like if we could actually fly. Or a demonstration of the feeling of flying. In the ritual of dancing, we often go into a trance, and sometimes, it feels like flying, like freedom. Which is the opposite of oppression or the confines of the archetype and illusion of a perfect woman.

I’m Not Your Superwoman by Ada Pinkston is exhibiting through November 9, 2024 at t r a n s f o r m e r, 1404 P St. NW, Washington, DC 20005
www.transformerdc.org | @transformerdc
Exhibition Hours: Weds – Sat | 12 – 6 PM