Clifford Prince King

Interview by Se Young Au

The work of Clifford Prince King beckons the viewer closer, like a voice that hums low in a soft, familiar murmur. His images are both sweeping and poetic; a palette distinguished by the honeyed glow cast around a lover’s form or an embrace emerging through a bursting verdant field. There is nothing rushed or hurried about the world King has constructed with such intimacy. His lens moves easily between subjects: ephemeral flashes of blurred flora; couples seeking both connection and anonymity within nature; domestic scenes radiating a tenderness that is often not afforded to folks at the intersection of being Black, male, and queer.

Among three practices shortlisted for Foundwork’s 2023 Artist Prize, Clifford Prince King’s work has given rise to solo shows on both coasts and a monograph, Orange Grove, published by TIS books in 2022, which was recognized by Aperture and Time Magazine. King’s work is a love letter to the archive. With him, making images goes beyond posterity and transcends worlds into self-actualization. The personhood he so intentionally uplifts in his work is given roots as a monument to a heart-centered legacy that effortlessly unfurls as resonance held within the blooms of multiple generations.

Clifford Prince King’s exhibition with Public Art Fund is on view through May 26, 2024 at JCDecaux Bus Shelters and Newsstands throughout New York, Chicago, and Boston.

Se Young Au (SYA): Okay. Alright. Well, thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me. I really appreciate it. I've had such a wonderful time reading, scouring the internet for your interviews, and looking at your work. I had the privilege of seeing your show, “RASPBERRY BLOW” at STARS Gallery in Los Angeles in 2022, but had admired your work before.

Clifford Prince King (CPK): Thank you.

SYA: Your photographs convey such a vivid sensory experience that I'm not sure, in present visual culture, people necessarily tend to encounter because we're inundated with so many images on a daily basis. What sensory elements do you associate your work with, and do you have any core memories you'd like to share?

CPK: I think the best way to put it is just, I guess, sight—because I feel like I'm very much in my head a lot of the time and I really try to pay attention to the things that flash in my mind, such as what I've seen earlier that day, or memories that reverberate within my psyche. And then I try to understand why that is. Sometimes those flashes of an image hold some deeper personal meaning. Like thinking about shame or guilt after a night out and everything is blurry. I think that's what I was trying to talk about with “RASPBERRY BLOW:” a spiral of events over a traumatic era, which was the pandemic, and how things move so fast.

We have these little moments that we keep without really knowing why those moments, specifically. And so, a lot of that work was out of focus. After realizing this, sight and those temporary moments really became important to me. It was like I stopped caring about things needing to feel complete or fully realized or sharp, or having the nicest camera; it wasn't about the technique or the process, it was more about the feeling and the release when I do end up creating something physical and tangible from what’s been flashing in my mind for some time. I kind of went on a little tangent…

“We have these little moments that we keep without really knowing why those moments, specifically.”

SYA: No, no, no, no. No, I'm going there. Thank you. So, beyond these moments that you feel viscerally—and then you sort of keep them in your memory and hold them in your body—do you ever associate a certain smell, or an auditory, or a song when you're reconstructing these moments in your photographs?

CPK: Smells, no. I think it's a lot of echoes. I feel like the only person in an empty space where I’m speaking to myself and I have this vibration of my own voice. I think there's a lot of anger sometimes, or just frustration. And I think that’s because a lot of these moments that flash I believe to be feelings of regret and remorse for a lost time, and for moments that have come and passed, but that I'm trying to hold on to. So I feel like it's a little violent and whiplash-y sometimes, but then over time it becomes softer and there's warmth, healing, energy, and just silence. I listen to a lot of harp and birds, and I guess I try to take something that feels somber and make it into something through which that somberness is continued and remembered, but it's also forgiven within myself.

SYA: You were raised in the desert in Tucson, Arizona and later moved to Portland and Los Angeles, and now you reside in New York. Can you speak to how the effects of place are perhaps translated through your images? Do you feel like each unique geographic location evokes a different approach or mood in your image making?

CPK: I would say it’s not necessarily an approach, but being in different places allows me to see light in different ways. As I've come into my practice a lot more, when I want to put wording to where I am geographically, light really plays a part in the information that I can take when I'm somewhere. Obviously, a lot of my work is indoors, specifically in LA, because there's so much privacy indoors and I think there's more agency. But in Portland and Arizona there was this nature element that I really longed for but didn't get to experience in the way that I would've liked to, looking back on it now. Also, in Arizona and then Portland, my biggest issue was finding community and people to photograph; or, at that time in my life, I wasn't necessarily able to digest or figure out what it is that I wanted to do with the camera. I always just had one and took pictures of whatever I was around, but it wasn't really forming into much of anything because I wasn't asking myself those questions at the time. I slowly started to form my photography practice when I moved to LA because there was this bigger, more diverse city. I was already out in Portland, but it was the beginning stages of that. And I feel like I was still pretty confined to a heteronormative lifestyle, up until maybe about six months before I moved to LA. Then I started to hang out with queer folks, and queer Black folks, and there's this freedom in just letting go of what you used to know to be appropriate or normal, and starting to do the things that you want to do and explore. I think LA gave me that space and also the community that I needed to start unpacking all these desires and feelings that I had built up for so long. Does that answer it a little bit?

SYA: Oh yeah, definitely. I'm a firm believer that there's no right way. Also, my questions are a little long-winded, so take as long as you need to process.

CPK: No, I like it. It gets me thinking a lot, because I didn't really study photography or anything, so I think it's hard to know when and where I started to make work, and what that process was like. There were never really any stages that were so set.

SYA: Formal. Yeah. I just think it's so incredible that it culminated with, whether you intended or not, you being able to articulate an experience that you were actually going through and turning the camera on yourself, as well as with collaborators. And I think a lot of people would shy away from that because it's so personal and it's so intense. A lot of people wouldn't choose that.

Our Last Blunt Together, 2019

CPK: Yeah, it surprises me sometimes, but I feel, I don't know it's like an out-of-body experience… you kind of just do it. I feel like I did it at the right time because there wasn't really much that I was doing it for, other than myself. And I'm always thinking about how I might look at myself in the future. I think about archiving and having this sort of documentation of yourself, almost to reward yourself and see specifically where you were at a certain time, like looking at a self-portrait and it's like, "Oh, wow, I was really having such a bad year." But now you look at it and you're like, "It wasn't so bad, but I could see myself feeling..." You're able to see how much you've grown through your own lens, which I think is the most validating, versus moments that are noted as successful by other people.

For artists, I think there has to be this other element of success within your own journey and growth, and it comes from being able to sit with yourself. And I think if I’d gone to school, I would've been so focused on making work for the actual program instead of having those moments when you're sitting with yourself but not really knowing what's going on, but you just continue because it's what you need, and then all the rest comes later. I'm grateful for that.

“For artists, I think there has to be this other element of success within your own journey and growth, and it comes from being able to sit with yourself. And I think if I’d gone to school, I would've been so focused on making work for the actual program instead of having those moments when you're sitting with yourself but not really knowing what's going on, but you just continue because it's what you need, and then all the rest comes later.”

SYA: I did read that you said that you will be making photographs, whether you receive more accolades and attention than not, and I think that's really special. And I think that it's something you can just keep for yourself as your work continues to get bigger, and that's pretty sacred to have as an artist. I'm going to ask you something more about formality. How did your images evolve when you began to experiment with larger format cameras? Did you feel pressure because of the time and expense associated with composing in that manner? And then the conspicuous presence of that type of camera, which can provoke strong responses from those being photographed?

CPK: I had gotten the Mamiya just to play with it, and I know I'm not a camera person at all. I've only had the Canon AE-1 for the majority of the photos that are available to see. But it's so funny because before I really learned how to use it, I used it as a prop. It's 10 frames and I think the first roll that I used, I only got three images out of, and they weren't great, and it was like $30 to process. But I've still been practicing, I'll bring it along and I get better at it as I go.

It's definitely a studio camera and it takes a long time to set up. Depending on the circumstance of what I'm photographing, I often feel like I'm missing the moment, or I become tired of trying to think so much about this one frame. So I compartmentalize when it is appropriate to use it. But I typically will try to shoot one to two rolls on any shoot, or I'll just have it ready by my bed somewhere in case there's something... I'm becoming much quicker at it, but I definitely find so much more joy in being more careless with taking pictures, especially personally.

SYA: Absolutely. Do you feel that using your Canon versus using a camera that has a larger presence changes the dynamic between you and your subject?

CPK: I think it does. With a bigger camera it just feels like the person is waiting a lot longer and slowly being taken out of their natural relaxation and element. And also for myself, preparing to take a photo with a medium or large format takes me out of the moment, versus just reaching over and grabbing the 35 and winging it because the settings are so flexible. And even if the result is off, sometimes I find beauty in it being distorted and overexposed or underexposed, because I'm still within that moment.

In general, people are always in awe of larger format cameras because they don't really see cameras like that. And so, I think it becomes more of a self, or an awareness of my practice, whereas I feel like I want to be as removed from that as possible sometimes. I get excited to go somewhere where I'm just another person.

SYA: I believe it. Thanks for being so patient and detailed about that. I'm definitely not a gearhead myself, but I was curious about your relationship to working in those different formats. You’ve touched on before that, as a young person, you were interested in making images as well as the archival aspect of your family photos, and the personal nature of your work and dedication to uplift the lives and stories of queer Black folks expands upon this presently. It seems like image-making is the ultimate act of care or service for less visible communities—a defiant act of just existing against erasure or, worse, somebody else trying to tell your story. If a person 20 years from now were to unearth your work, what do you see as the most important aspects of your legacy?

I Told My Baby to Meet Me on 24th Street, 2020

CPK: I think, generally, community care and happiness, because despite what people of color and queer folks have to deal with, creating images alludes to a positive lifestyle and a richness in community and health and sustainability. That's why in some of the images that I've made, even if there’s no furniture, the people are just cooking and they're happy within themselves and what they do have. Then in other works, there's queer Black folks in really expensive settings, like a hotel in San Francisco. I think it’s important that people see queer folks in a limitless way of living...

Growing up, most of the time it was depictions of living in these crazy artist lofts with no hot water—you're sick from AIDS, you're in this red nightclub, there’s leaky pipes and red leather. That's an entirely different vibe. That's another conversation. But it’s only those few narratives that have been highlighted even in cinema, like in Cruising. There's only these white-led erotic narratives that people can't really see themselves in. I didn't. Not that I wouldn’t maybe enjoy some leather some time, but nothing really felt like it actually resonated with me and a lot of people who I was getting to know at a certain time.

I think my legacy is just documenting the people that I spend time with: dinners, picnics, friendships. I think Nan Goldin did that with her work. It’s stepping outside of yourself as a person and recognizing that time is moving, and so pausing and capturing the feeling, the people, the place, just as your own personal memento of existing. Think about a family photo album—that's usually the first thing an elder goes to get when you visit home, just to reminisce and storytell. I think photographs have been the most sustainable way to archive families and connections, and to have records of people.

"I think my legacy is just documenting the people that I spend time with: dinners, picnics, friendships. I think Nan Goldin did that with her work. It’s stepping outside of yourself as a person and recognizing that time is moving, and so pausing and capturing the feeling, the people, the place, just as your own personal memento of existing.”

SYA: I feel like you've touched on this a little bit, but your process involves initially conceiving the idea for an image from your life experiences, and then oftentimes you'll ask friends to recreate it from your mind's eye. The care piece, the trust and the consideration for those involved, is palpable, and community is so tenderly and intimately centered. Do you see your friends as collaborators in the world-building aspect of your practice?

CPK: Absolutely. My friends help me to reiterate these images that I've thought of and become models to help me build what it is that's going on in my brain. Or if I see something outside that I think is really beautiful and tender between strangers, I have a hard time asking people on the street to take their photo, out of my safety and theirs. I also don't necessarily want to go around a neighborhood and just take images if I have no connection to that place. Sometimes it's really hard to see something and just walk away from it, but it's ultimately not my image to take. And so, I'll remember that image and feeling. And then I will try to recreate it within my space, within my community, if people are willing and available. It definitely is a collaboration a lot of the time, or an exchange. It's a collaboration with really close friends if I have a clear idea. But sometimes, if I'm photographing someone for the first time who I just met on the street or online, I make it a collaboration in a different way; maybe I have this idea for a portrait and in exchange I'll take photos for them, of whatever they might want. I never want to just leave. I never want to have someone in my presence, and me taking their photo, and then leave feeling like they just gave and didn't receive. Recently, I started taking Polaroids sometime during a first-time shoot or meeting someone, just so they have something to take with them at that exact moment.

SYA: I love how you utilize your discernment of what you choose to include in the frame, as much as what you don't, and the ways in which you break the frame between you as the photographer and also the subject. Your works such as Poster Boys and Our Last Blunt Together invite the viewer to imagine themselves in your world as a lover or a friend, perhaps more easily because of what is omitted. In your own words, it’s a way for folks to see themselves. Does the work of any of your contemporaries feel like it extends you the same invitation?

CPK: Devin N. Morris takes photos as well, but is primarily a painter and sculptor. Lately, it’s people who are breaking down the idea of home and what that looks like. As people of color or children of immigrants, we have been striving to dismantle the American dream. We've been told all these things to achieve, but we're realizing that it's such a rat race, it's not sustainable, and it doesn't ever stop. I went to one of Devin’s talks and he touched on that, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately as well.

There's also D'Angelo Lovell Williams. They're in New York and a Black photographer making self-portraits very focused on the body and desire and agency over one's sexuality—very Toni Morrison vibes, but through images. There’s also this filmmaker, Savanah Leaf, who made the film, Earth Mama. Have you seen that?

SYA: I have.

CPK: I'm a film head; I really wanted to be a director growing up, but it just seemed so far away, as far as resources and having a whole crew. I feel like photography is a solo person's journey. But anyway, I watched Earth Mama—my good friend Kelsey Lu did the score—and all the pieces were put together in such a beautiful way: the way such beautiful imagery tells a sad story, but there is still this level of hope, is very much like what I aspire to create.

There is tragedy, but they're not sulking in it. It's great to tell stories that show minorities overcoming traumas, and then also to tell the story of something else, as humans. It’s inspiring to see how simple storytelling can evoke so much emotion. Thinking about my photography, it's very bare bones. I don't have a lot of lighting or budget for much, but it's the slowness and the care, and just the overall story that it is told, that hits differently.

SYA: I can definitely see how that work and your work are in conversation. The alchemy of elements that come together with filmmaking, with the score, and how she decided to frame things. And, of course, the captivating performances. You have both domestic settings and elements of nature and landscape in relation to your subjects. Do you see these environments as an extension of each other or in direct opposition? And, a secondary question: a lot of non-white people do not feel that nature provides refuge or a sphere for limitlessness, softness and most importantly, safety. Is part of photographing your community in these spaces a reclamation of this space?

CPK: Hmm. I think they're an extension, because most of the places where I have photographed people outdoors, which hasn’t been very often, have been incredibly abandoned, like on Fire Island, or very queer-safe places. I feel like I would be a little less hesitant now, because at the time I was so afraid of conflict. I’m thinking of some of the images that most people have seen, like the two boys in the field and behind the tree, which were taken at a park in Fort Worth, Texas. I wanted to protect them. Being intimate as a couple in public… I had this anxiety about people possibly saying something to them. At that time, I was trying to make work that was talking about Black men loving each other in a more anonymous way, echoing DL culture, because that's the reality for a lot of people, especially in the South, but everywhere, really. A lot of the work had people's faces covered, which is a whole other thing, and I was usually also within walking distance of people’s houses, so in very close proximity to inside. Recently, I was in Syracuse, and I wanted to make this photograph of myself and a friend kissing on the side of a freeway, handcuffed, to put an image to those feelings of being afraid of being a queer, Black person outside and in the middle of nowhere—to capture that all in this one image.

Lovers in the Field, 2019

Guilty of Love, 2023

SYA: I feel like, because you're so rooted in care and your embodied experience, it's hard not to be hypervigilant when thinking about every single aspect of safety... plus you're trying to construct an image. So, there's lots of things that you’re considering. Like I said, I was fortunate to get to experience your show here in Los Angeles. It was one of the first shows I had gone to post-lockdown. Everybody was craving intimacy and trying to articulate what had been lost, being physically apart from each other. Your show was definitely a balm for that. And it would be impossible not to think of the history of HIV/AIDS as a parallel, and the cruelty of loved ones being physically separated and ostracized. The lyrical quality of these works through the use of motion, light, and perspective illuminates what grief looks like when it transcends the binary of sorrow and joy. Do you feel pressured to uphold a particular narrative because of the political undertones of your work and identity?

CPK: I don't feel any pressure. Lately, I've been tapping in and out of HIV and AIDS politics. I'm obviously out and I am HIV positive, and when I do tap into talking about it, I think normalizing it as much as possible is something that I try to accomplish. Just being open about it, and almost in a joking way as well, because there are some people who are positive who are just really not comfortable with being positive. I think the more that we normalize speaking about it in a way that is playful, or just not so rooted in disaster, the more we can alleviate the stigma against the virus.

I feel like “RASPBERRY BLOW” was trying to show all those things, going back to flashes of memories and trauma—but there's always going to be something to tackle and jump over. Once we can jump over the shame or guilt or insecurity about one thing, like HIV, or whatever it might be that you're stuck on, the better we can move forward and tackle something else, or just simply move in a different way that will be at ease.

SYA: Your images intuitively bridge worlds between mediums, and you cite poet Essex Hemphill as one of your references when creating work. What unique relation do you see poetry having to the physical form and gesture?

CPK: I think the attention to detail. Poetry can be very descriptive and slow. I try to read poems slowly to really visualize the words. With Essex Hemphill's poetry, I feel like there are multiple meanings within the same line. It's not just what it seems like at the surface and that's something I take into my practice as well. Everyone will take away something different and have their own interpretation.

Communion, 2019

SYA: One of the most compelling aspects of your work is how you're able to give gravitas to seemingly everyday moments. However, given the knowledge that you carry your elders' experiences with you and consider your position in the context of a greater history, I think time seems like it collapses and figures appear to exist in several different planes. Do you believe in the possibility of folks coming through from different realms and their presence being felt in your work?

CPK: Yeah. I purposefully don't really like to have any sort of indication of time in photos. There'll be maybe one or two things that would give it away but, for the most part, I try to make things feel timeless. I think that stems from having wanted to see these images when I was younger. It's almost like I want to make an image that you could put in 1993—it's like I'm backpedaling and placing it back where it should have been, but then also moving it forward. As far as a presence, I feel like sometimes—and I don't know if it's definitely a spirit—but sometimes I feel this overwhelming joy and gratitude to be able to do this work, especially because we lost so many artists in the ’90s. I know that a lot of people have done this before me, but either they were never seen, or their work wasn't considered to be art. So I guess there are moments when I feel really just grateful, and maybe that's also me being a Pisces moon.

“I purposefully don't really like to have any sort of indication of time in photos. There'll be maybe one or two things that would give it away but, for the most part, I try to make things feel timeless. I think that stems from having wanted to see these images when I was younger.”

SYA: Me too.

CPK: It's so crazy, right? Yeah. It's really hard not to deeply feel what someone I care about is feeling. I'm a firm believer in the universe and things happening in the way that they should, trusting the process and letting things naturally build, rather than trying to force something to flower. There are moments when I see those things happening and connecting, and it feels like a wink from someone.

SYA: Your film, Kiss of Life, it's a multi-generational vignette that you made for Visual AIDS, with folks speaking frankly about their lives and their status. It's layered with poetry, intimate scenes and nature subjects, dancing and moving in graceful and languid movements, and repeated use of water imagery. There's a feeling of calmness, acceptance, and ownership over each story, and softness and possibility are allowances and privileges often not granted to folks with intersecting identities. In what ways does rendering your community's world give way to unexpected expansiveness?

CPK: That's a good question. Whenever I start a project, and the way I started Kiss of Life, there is a bit of a skeleton outline, but within my practice it's important for me to have flexibility in how things end up going, for the sake of creativity and openness. Being open with whoever I'm working with allows for the work to carry on more than I expect it to. I didn't really give anyone any prompts or pre-discussed dialogue. I just let things take form, and I have been liking that for myself because I think it allows for other people to have a part of themselves within the work as well, versus it being so directed.

I’m a really big people watcher, so while being out and going to a lot of queer spaces and nightlife, I have moments when I think about the collective and what might come up in conversation that I can see being a story. I think I’m a really deep listener and very observant within my community, and that has allowed me to see what people are thinking about during this time, and for a lot of things to form together as one.

I also have a lot of friends who are older than me. One of the people in Kiss of Life is going to be 74. I really find value in knowing different generations and listening to their perspectives, then also listening to people who are a little younger than me, because there are always similarities, but there are also a couple things that divide generations. Collectively it’s the same love and care for each other, but there are different ways of moving and showing up. I'm getting close to the point where I can't really be at the club at 3AM to get all those hot takes and deep personal conversations, but there are people who are creating space for queer folks to gather during the day in more healthy environments, and there's a Black Trans Liberation dinner once a week in New York. I think, slowly, there's a catalog of spaces being built to bring up these conversations between multiple generations and to create ongoing discourse.

DJ and Ryan, 2023

SYA: There’s a psychic element to your work, so it makes sense that it's coming from those places. You’ve said that you are interested in doing more work with moving images in your future. What does making work in this medium help you express differently than stills? What do you find to be challenging about it?

CPK: I love cinematography and long silences in films. I think it would be a challenge to convey a story within that framework—making something that people could follow and understand without there being much that needed to be said. With moving images, there are words and dialogue that make the interpretation much easier. I think I would make something that would be a little bit of an abstract, art house-type of film. It would still be very open-ended.

SYA: Less narrative focused, perhaps? Even with Kiss of Life, you have full, undulating water scenes that bookend a lot of the poetry and the interviews, and you have that arresting shot of water droplets cascading gracefully from fingertips. I don't know. I just feel like I would be interested to see that in a longer format.

CPK: I'm thinking about a lot of those things, but I realize that a film might not have the biggest budget, especially a first film, so for now I’m just focusing on the construction of the story. I think all of those things will come later. Even with sound, there are some films that have zero music, but then when the one song in the whole film comes on, it's like this imploding moment. So I've been thinking about that a lot too.

SYA: The last question I'd like to ask you is, how do you stay present in this world?

CPK: I really try to stay off my phone when I'm in the presence of other people, or even when I'm walking. I'll put on headphones, but I think it's easy to avoid things that we don't want to participate in. Sometimes it's important for me to listen to what people are saying around me. It's good to know what's happening around you on the street, or how people are speaking about certain things, even though it might not be the most pleasant thing. I think we feel really informed about opinions online, but then, in person, the information is just floating around. So I try to take some time to be an ear, like a fly on the wall, especially in New York. I think just being open to having small banter with people is really nice, whether that’s at the grocery store or the post office. LA started to feel a little challenging because it was hard to feel like I was present, because a lot of the people around you aren't present and there's enough space to kind of dissociate. But yeah, I feel like you know when you've met someone good when you can spend an hour or two without seeing them on their phone. I can always be more present.

Se Young Au

Se Young Au is an artist and writer currently working in Los Angeles. Their work is at the intersection of personal archive, installation, and olfaction. In addition to their personal practice, they are a co-founder of Errare, a sensory spatial design studio. Au authors a quarterly dispatch, Transmissions, built around worldmaking and scent memories. Their work has been shown in Los Angeles, New York City, Copenhagen, and Seoul.