Tasha Dougè

You describe yourself as a "cultural vigilante"—how do you define that role in your artistic and activist work?

TASHA DOUGÉ: For me, it is a crime that my culture—Black culture—is not honored in the ways it should be. It is a crime that Black history is not taught and celebrated as it should be. I have always been proud to be Black, specifically a descendant of Africa by way of Ayiti (Haiti), born in Queens and raised in The Bronx. However, it wasn't until I stepped into my purpose work as an artist that I realized the magnitude of the systemic suppression of Black contributions to the U.S. and the world. I was learning about James Baldwin, Amiri Baraka, Lewis Latimer, Lorraine Hansberry, and Anna Murray-Douglass, to name a few. So, as a global citizen, I claim my role to right these wrongs by excavating and illuminating what is hidden in plain sight. In taking this stance, my art has become one extension of my activism.

Your art is described as both a megaphone and a portal. What do you hope people hear, and where do you hope they're transported when they engage with your work?

TD: I want people to hear how their voice sounds individually and within a collective. I want people to hear the whispers of messages long suppressed within them that are screaming to come out. I want people to hear the downloads that may be uncomfortable in the moment but will shift them toward their own dreams. I want people to be transported to spaces and planes that honor our WHOLENESS. I firmly believe in acknowledging what has happened to us, but I also want to travel back—to remember the ways that pre-existed those traumas—and conjure up and manifest a world where BEing is the way of living.

This, for me, starts with modeling. My art is and will always be an extension of me, and that begins by understanding that "my voice is the first tool within my art arsenal." My evolution has shown me when to speak and how to speak. Learning this has helped protect my voice, even to the point where I have had days of silence. That silence has created space for clarity and saved my energy because when I need to speak, I want to ensure that I am in a space to be heard.

You center Blackness and womanhood in your practice. How do those identities guide your decision-making in form, material, and message?

TD: Blackness symbolizes endless possibilities. I was just sharing with someone that my Blackness is not defined nor tethered by my phenotype. I am Black because I am made of stardust. I am Black because I am related to black holes. I am Black because, like soil, I am fertile. While I have not birthed children, my womanhood has allowed me to birth art and ideas that have already shifted perspectives and incited behavior change.

Being in this Black woman form has taught me how to be hard and when to be soft. Most importantly, it has been the experiences of Black women, young and old, that were the catalysts to an art practice I didn't even know was calling me. I am forever grateful to those women because of them, I emerged as con-vHER-sations.

How has performance, especially site-specific work like Wade-In These Waters, shifted your relationship to history, audience, and space?

TD: Even though I already applied the idea for myself, during my artist talk for this residency, I think that was the first time I publicly shared that I no longer use the word performance when the context of the work relates to the Black experience. There is nothing performative about the reasons why we shapeshift to survive systems attempting to kill us.

I call these artistic moments when I lend my body to convey these messages offerings and/or rituals. When I do these offerings, I am clear with the audience that they are not bystanders. The ask is for folks to show up as witnesses who will hold each other accountable to the intention of the space while I transform in their presence.

Being an active witness makes it harder to separate oneself from history. Sharing the labor, like washing fabric on a washboard, makes history real when the body is engaged. This was further emphasized when I asked the witnesses to use cell phone technology via the accessibility tool to bring the photographs from the past into the present. This offering was a ritual of remembrance because so many of the folks from the town of Asbury Park were unaware of the history of Rev. James Frances Robinson, the visionary behind wade-ins. It was for that reason that it was extremely important for Black people from the town to be present with me. Many of the witnesses came to me offering gratitude for revealing this history to them. Some thanked me for the opportunity to enact memories they had with their grandmothers, while keepers of this history showered me with love because they never envisioned that an article about this truth could show up in an offering such as mine. Wade-In These Waters was a turning point for me because through the documentation, I got to be a witness too.

Our September issue centers on Inheritance: Deconstructing Our Shared Histories. What do you feel you've inherited—artistically, spiritually, culturally—that shows up in your work?

TD: Sometime within the last two years, I started having this conversation with myself about what is inherent and what has been inherited.

Culturally, Haiti's legacy is rich with dynamic stories of resistance, beauty, and mysticism. Artistically, I AM the artist in the family. There is no one of my blood that I know of who has walked this path. So this practice is a gift inherent to me.

Spiritually, there are things both inherent to who I am and what I have inherited. Being curious and questioning from a place of love is a spiritual practice for me. It is how I deepen relationships and communication with my Creator, the people, and the things around me. This way of being is undeniably inherent, but I inherited the spirit of rebellion and freedom from ancestors and lwas that continue to surround me.

This shows up in my work when I create the American Flag with hair, chicken wire, and cotton balls, while I am reminded that this country would not be what it is without the Louisiana Purchase. Deities reveal themselves in the shadows of some of my photographs. My purpose spirit's name is tattooed near my left wrist as a reminder of what I am here to do.

As I reflect on where I have been and the trajectory of where I am going, I am amazed by how what is inherent has fused with what I have inherited to create the helix of my DNA.

In your work, there's a deep engagement with memory, especially collective and ancestral memory. How has your own family history—particularly around Haitian lineage or dementia—influenced that exploration?

TD: My connection to family is what made it possible for me to explore deeper into my lineage of being a daughter of Ayiti. After Aristide was ousted from Haiti, my parents' desire to go dissipated. My mother hasn't been back since her wedding in 1979, and my father has only been back for two funerals. It has been a long dream for my sister and me to return home, and she made it possible through a trip hosted by her alma mater, Penn State. She was the vice president of the student-led group Project Haiti and the catalyst for making our dream a reality. That was back in 2007 or 2008, and since then, I have seen more of Haiti than both my parents and my sister. My last trip was ancestral on so many levels. The itinerary was created as if my soul designed it. I got to visit Palais Sans Souci and Citadelle Laferrière on Ancestors' Day.

You're deeply intentional about honoring Black contributions, especially women's. How do you think about legacy—what you're leaving behind, and who you're building it for?

TD: I recently went to the soft opening of Gladys Books and Wine, a Black lesbian bookstore owned by tiffany dockery and named after her grandmother. I purchased The Conjuring of America: Mojos, Mermaids, Medicine, and 400 Years of Black Women's Magic and asked tiffany to sign my copy as a way to commemorate the day and the work she is doing to preserve and honor our stories. In my book, she wrote Gwendolyn Brooks' quote: "We are each other's harvest." This is how I think about my legacy. When I requested that Black people from the community be present for my offering of Wade-In These Waters, we all witnessed different lineages of women come together to engage in ceremony. Little did I know that offering would forge bonds strong enough for me to return a year later and feel a sense of home. I am building and doing this for me, the women and young girls that came before, the ones that never made it, and those who will come after.