Na'ye Perez

Interview by Folasade Ologundudu

Na’ye Perez honors his Caribbean heritage in striking mixed-media artworks that amplify the Black experience. Born to a Cuban mother and Haitian father in Los Angeles, where he spent the first four years of his life, Perez moved around a lot as a child and has lived in Columbus, Ohio, Camden, New Jersey, and now Brooklyn, New York. An MFA graduate of the Pratt Institute of Art, Perez incorporates photography, cut-outs from old Hip Hop magazines, Swisher Sweets cigars, and discarded plastic potato chip bags he sources throughout Brooklyn to bring attention and consideration to underserved Black communities. His figures are made from blunt wraps and sand found in Coney Island, he transfers old images of historical figures onto his canvases, and his use of vivid colors commemorates the everyday lives of individuals in some of Brooklyn’s predominantly Black neighborhoods, such as Bed-Stuy, Canarsie, and Flatbush. A staunch advocate for accessibility through community, Perez centers his practice around empowering symbolism found in the work of Black thought leaders, and fashions his mixed-media paintings through remixing and sampling materials, similarly to how rappers borrow musical elements from blues and jazz artists. Live and direct from his studio in Industry City, Perez shared with me some of the most precious inner workings of his practice, where he celebrates Black culture and community through vivid depictions of the day to day.

Southside Dreamer, 2019

Acrylic, spray paint, newsprint, gel transfers, COTA Bus passes, Backwoods.

Folasade Ologundudu (FO): You grew up in Columbus, Ohio, Los Angeles, New Jersey, and New York. Tell me about your experiences living in these places. What are some of your most vivid memories?

Na'ye Perez (NP): The reason I moved around a lot was because of family related issues. In LA, where I was born and lived for the first four years of my life, one of the things I remember most are the homeless shelters. I remember my life interspersed between a lot of hardships; growing up in poverty as a young kid, it was hard to focus on the positives.

I remember meeting one of my dad's ex-wives, alongside my auntie Amiera who told me about the other side of my family that I didn't know existed at the time. That opened a world of greater experiences to me. Learning about my Haitian roots was something I cherish and those moments played a big part in my art over the years.

I did a piece in 2019 called Southside Dreamer, which was an ode to these kids on bikes that would hang out around the corner from my old high school. That was a very pivotal moment. It's so simple, and minuscule, but that's something I had to latch onto, to forget about moments like the shelters and some of violence I had to deal with, like getting a phone call that one of my friends was shot and killed in high school. In Jersey, I had some of my most traumatic experiences, but also some of the most blessed ones, because that's where I connected with a lot of my half siblings. Living on the south side of Columbus, when I got out of the final homeless shelter there, being the last sibling who was still in school and didn't drop out or get a GED sparked a determination in me to push myself to finish school. Ninth grade was probably the first time I actually cared enough to get straight As. I always knew I was capable of doing good in school but I hid my intelligence because I had to deal with shit like, if I was considered too smart, I was an easy target.

FO: Where does your family come from? How does your ethnic background inform your work?

NP: Both sets of my grandparents immigrated to the United States. My grandparents from my dad's side immigrated from Haiti. My grandmother fled Haiti during the turmoil between the Dominican Republic and Haiti. It was during that period that she made the decision to leave for what she believed was a better opportunity, despite being warned of the racism in the United States. In fact, my family does not really care for the US. My grandmother first came to Puerto Rico, where she would meet her husband, then together they drove a banana boat to the US. She found her way up to New York and settled in the Bronx, where my father would be born.

As for my mom's side of the family, they're Cuban, but they're more on the conservative side and fled during Fidel's rise to power. They left and immigrated to Boston first, and then to Ohio, where my mother would be born. My parents met in LA, where I would be born a second-generation Caribbean-American child. Even with those roots, I personally felt I was very Americanized because of my limited time with my parents.

My aunt, who was present on the day of my birth as a stand-in for my dad who wasn't there, was able to convince my mother to give me my name Na’ye, which means “a flower of God.” When I was an adult, I really embraced my name and my roots. When I was a kid, I felt more disconnected from being in this country, and felt the need to be Americanized so that I didn’t feel different.

In the Midwest, I might have known just one or two Jamaican kids. Most people were African American. So in terms of Caribbean culture, it was very limited. I always felt more aligned with African American viewpoints and sensibilities when I think about some of the issues that affect us in this country. When I became an adult, I pushed myself to learn more of the history I wasn't taught in school. Even though most of my artwork has American-based backgrounds and landscapes, I'm taking references from Haiti that contribute to culture and music. I do a lot of sampling and remixing with my art.

Laugh Now Cry Later, 2021

Acrylic, spray Paint, Swisher Sweets, Backwoods, MTA cards.

FO: You often center Blackness in your work, even though you're of mixed heritage. Why do you choose to center the Black experience specifically?

NP: I choose to center the Black experience specifically because that’s how I identify. I am a Black person first, from my dad's side of the family, and I’ve learned to cherish and protect that. Also, thinking about the issues of colorism, I had to understand that those dynamics are affecting me and granting me privilege over some of my peers, colleagues, and friends. I was thinking of the way those differences were already starting to set me apart, even from some of my siblings through my mom's side of the family. The Cuban side of my family was very hostile to me because of who my father was. They made it very clear that I was different from my siblings. It was through my two aunts who brought me to Jersey, showed me a different side of acceptance, and helped raise me to be proud of my Blackness, that I was pushed forward to accept my identity and realize that I didn’t have anything to prove.

When I became older and I started developing my artwork, I wanted to center those issues and celebrate the people who were most important to me. I didn’t really care for the label of “Afro-Latino.” I also felt some type of way when people, specifically my Latino side, would try to deny my Haitian roots. It angered me because it was trying to deny certain parts of me.

FO: That’s incredibly insulting; this other side of you that's closer to whiteness—whiter skin, straighter hair, different features—this value goes back to a European standard of beauty and the rejection of anything that comes out of Africa.

NP: Exactly. In school we were taught about European artists and European standards of beauty. When you go to museums you predominantly see large collections of work by white European artists. You don't see many representations of Blackness and Black beauty. Some museums are doing a better job of representation now, but we still don't have access to history in the way white artists do.

I remember being in my early college courses and saying "Oh, I'm not seeing myself in any of these pieces." The wickedness of this country and our society has warped our perspectives of our lives, our perspectives of beauty, and our understanding of the diaspora as a whole, not just within the African American lens, but within the Afro-Caribbean, Afro-Latino, and Afro-European lens. It's not our fault that some of our histories feel ignorant to African history, Jamaican history, or Haitian history, because in the US, we're barely taught about world history unless it's through the European colonial framework. We’re rarely taught about Black history through any other lens.

Never Catch Me (Yon Jou Pou Chasè, Yon Jou Pou Jibye), 2021

Charcoal, conte, chalk, spray paint, lino relief block print rice paper on paper-mounted wood panel

20 x 16 in.

Girls Dem Sugar/Pressure, 2021

Charcoal, conte, chalk, spray paint, gel transfer, rice paper on paper-mounted wood panel.

20 x 16 in.

"The wickedness of this country and our society has warped our perspectives of our lives, our perspectives of beauty, and our understanding of the diaspora as a whole, not just within the African American lens, but within the Afro-Caribbean, Afro-Latino, and Afro-European lens. It's not our fault that some of our histories feel ignorant to African history, Jamaican history, or Haitian history, because in the US, we're barely taught about world history unless it's through the European colonial framework. We’re rarely taught about Black history through any other lens."

FO: That's a good segue to talk more about the core themes in your practice. Can you talk to me about your use of materiality, and how the materials themselves dial back to those core ideas?

NP: I have two core tenets of my work. The first is the idea of shared experiences and community presence. This feeling of Black presence that spreads across memories and experiences beyond myself. Sharing stories about vulnerability, intimacy, and day-to-day life moments—not grander moments, but the very quiet moments of life. In my work, the Black presence is ever powerful, ever reaching, and it can be felt even within the very places we inhabit; that's why a lot of my work is tied to real world environments. The other core tenet dives into materiality and execution. I think through the lens of sampling and remixing music. When I was learning to become an artist, I took lessons from Hip Hop. I sampled photos and a lot of Hip Hop magazines, such as Vibe, XXL, and The Source, which my older brother gave me. These magazines are from 1992 to 2005. There's a connection between my first core tenet and my sampling.

There are also moments where I'm taking images of historical figures and trying to capture a range of emotions and moments. I find objects in specific neighborhoods. I’ll find a discarded Flaming Hot Cheetos bag and take it home, wash it, and flip and remix it into a new object—now it's the rollie (Rolex) on someone's wrist. I go by the storefronts of Black-owned businesses and see fashion displays, both contemporary and traditional, and that inspiration also helps build different layers of my artwork. The first core tenet is the experience, the feeling. The second digs into the history of neighborhoods, objects, and materials that connect the Black experience and Black presence.

FO: Let’s talk about specific works. Your new mural on view at BRIC in Brooklyn, What You Know Bout Love… is titled after a popular Pop Smoke song. Can you describe the work, what's happening in the piece, and why it’s important to you?

What You Know Bout Love, 2022

Acrylic, spray paint, newsprint, gold leaf, gel transfers, lino block print on rice paper, skateboard grip tape, Swisher Sweets, fanta leaves, Coney Island sand, plastic packaging, molding paste, McDonald wrappers, MTA cards, ink, active QR codes (featuring playlists by myself and guest poet Asia Bryant-Wilkerson) on wood panel.

132 x 72 in.

NP: BRIC reached out to me and I did a solo proposal alongside two other artists. I wanted my first big piece (it’s six feet) to be celebratory and tie into one of the Black neighborhoods that represents history, culture, and community in Brooklyn. I wanted to create this celebratory environment, like a mural you might actually see in Flatbush or other neighborhoods in New York. I always try to include a community aspect in my work. I look for historical figures. Almost all my pieces are named after music that I listen to—specific songs. It's not exactly one-to-one; for instance, Pop Smoke isn’t from Flatbush, he was from Canarsie. But I wanted the piece to still contain a celebratory moment about him and his remembrance. That's how some of those dots start coming together.

I took sand from Coney Island to build up the larger figures. Within the painting, I hid QR codes. Someone can scan the QR codes through Spotify or Apple Music and have access to one of my studio playlists. I encourage people who see the piece to listen and get a feeling for the music influencing my thoughts while I was making it. I had a few folks from Flatbush reach out and tell me how much they love the piece. That was one of the best compliments I’ve received, and those are the things I look forward to.

"I always try to include a community aspect in my work. I look for historical figures. Almost all my pieces are named after music that I listen to—specific songs."

FO: I love that. I want to talk about the symbolism in your work. When I begin to look more closely at your layered paintings, there are so many cultural references being explored, from your use of Swisher Sweets to elements of graffiti to the ways that you're transferring imagery from the magazines you mentioned onto your canvases. Why do you think you insert hidden meaning into your work, and what do you want to convey to your audiences with that approach?

NP: I’ve always been big on symbolism with regards to world-building, history, and spirituality, even if my newest works don't always convey that. I think our people are tied to so many things, across our spirituality and our communities. Hip Hop music and culture was very important to my upbringing and what grounded me as I was growing up. There have been a few pieces in which I took the word scraps from magazines to create my own short poem or statement. That takes on the symbol of the experience or feeling I had at that time, navigating this world I grew up in.

When people talk to me about the hood they always say, "It's falling apart, decrepit, devoid of color and life," and I'm like, "That's far from the truth." Is there poverty and violence? Yeah. I'm not going to deny or ignore that, but there is also a lot of beauty. Some of my favorite art growing up was stuff I saw just walking down the street. There were these powerful, colorful murals everywhere. I still walk through Bed-Stuy and see some really dope-ass murals. There's even symbolism with the scaffolds and walls being marked up with posters, new and torn apart. It creates texture, and that I think is a symbol in itself.

Summertime in LA, 2021;

Spray paint, charcoal, conte, gel transfers, lino relief block print rice paper on wood panel.

20 x 16 in.

FO: Lastly, what do you have on the horizon? What are you working on right now?

NP: I'm preparing for two fairs in the fall—a group show at the Armory and a solo booth at MECA in Puerto Rico. Then I have a group show I'm curating around the idea of migration. I’m thinking about the history of migration and its importance within the Black community, whether through the Great Migration from the American South to the North, or the migration of different Caribbean communities from the islands to the US, or vice versa. It’s about what it means to be first or second generation. There are certain things that might get lost in transit. What is lost? What is given up? What is kept? What is cherished?

My work spans painting, drawing, and social engagement pieces. Some might still focus on domestic, everyday settings, but now I'm working with pieces that are more celebratory and powerful in nature. I'm working on something with a Black skateboarder named Briana King, and the history of Black skateboarding from the '90s to the early 2000s. I think about Kareem Campbell, a prominent skateboarder from Harlem, and Tyshawn Jones from the Bronx. One of the biggest things for me is not having enough representation in galleries and museums. I think a lot about accessibility and engaging our personal communities. It means nothing to me if my friends and family don't feel welcome or invited to these spaces.

Some of my original pieces were formative. I did a card table where I invited peers and friends into the Brooklyn Museum and the New Museum for free. I invited them to look at the work, but then we converted a table, started playing spades and UNO, and used the gallery as a community space. I did later interpretations of that idea with my first show at Syracuse University, inviting people to participate, transform, engage, and rethink our involvement, dialogue, presence and accessibility in these spaces. My New Wave residency gave rise to one of my best moments, when I partnered with a social justice bookstore and we did a performance piece with jump ropes. We had kids engage with the art simply through the act of jump-roping and double-dutching. The kids had all these amazing questions about the work. That sparked conversation. Engaging with the community that the work is meant to be seen by and for, and actually bringing them into these spaces to feel welcome and contribute in their own ways—that’s very important to me.

"One of the biggest things for me is not having enough representation in galleries and museums. I think a lot about accessibility and engaging our personal communities. It means nothing to me if my friends and family don't feel welcome or invited to these spaces."

Folasade Ologundudu

Folasade Ologundudu is a writer, podcast host/creator, and multidisciplinary artist whose work explores issues of identity, race, and culture as it pertains to art, fashion, and design. She is the founder of Light Work, a creative platform rooted at the intersection of art, education, and culture.