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"slug": "bay-area-hip-hop-1980s",
"title": "How Bay Area Hip-Hop Found Its Sound in the 1980s",
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"headTitle": "How Bay Area Hip-Hop Found Its Sound in the 1980s | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927363\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the mid-1980s, after years of street dance, DJing and graffiti sharing equal space, rapping took center stage. The Bay Area’s bass-heavy sound would arrive at the end of the decade. (Clockwise from top left: Too Short, MC Hammer, Dominique DiPrima, Club Nouveau, and Motorcycle Mike.) \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images; Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images; SFSU Television Archives; Raymond Boyd/Getty Images; Hodisk Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>t’s a wintry January evening when Bas-1 brings me to Del the Funky Homosapien’s house in the East Bay. For much of the afternoon, Bas — the \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/old-school-fool-1/\">Oakland native\u003c/a> who’s worked with Digital Underground and released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=bas-1+full+album+mentally+astute\">his own solo records\u003c/a> — has schooled me on the origins of the Bay Area hip-hop sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas lists numerous rappers from the ’80s, and not just Todd “Too Short” Shaw, the East Oakland rapper who famously hustled homemade cassette tapes. I’ve never heard most of the names Bas mentions: MC Chocolate Milk, Windell Baby Doll, Davy Def, Buddy Bean, Reggie Reg Rock Ski.ter, M.C. Tracy, Rock Master Fresh, Nic Nack, Kimmie Fresh, and the Acorn Crew with Grandmaster Fresh (a rapper later known as “DJ Daryl” Anderson, famed for producing tracks like 415’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuZ6CAwZmys\">Side Show\u003c/a>” and 2Pac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAJfDP3b5_U\">Keep Ya Head Up\u003c/a>”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924126']Many of these early Bay Area rappers never put out a commercially available record. Instead, their work is mostly confined to locally distributed cassette tapes — collectors call them “gray tapes” — that are now nearly impossible to find. They publicly broadcasted these tapes throughout neighborhoods, utilizing boomboxes and car stereos as well as stereos at house parties. “None of them sound like Too Short,” says Bas. “Some of these people didn’t put out recordings, but they were known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1980s, Bay Area hip-hop was an artistic movement struggling for a distinct identity. The first half of the decade was defined by street dance and aerosol art as much as rap and DJing. But as local youth began to absorb the sounds emanating from national hotspots like New York, they created a distinctive style all their own — one that would make a global impact in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Del’s house, Bas queues up an extraordinary live video clip of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\">Mac Mill, Emperor E, and DJ Anthony “K-os” Bryant\u003c/a> performing at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11690787/when-oakland-was-a-chocolate-city-a-brief-history-of-festival-at-the-lake\">Festival at the Lake\u003c/a>, a now-defunct annual event held at Lake Merritt, in 1988. (Alex “Naru” Reece, who organized the showcase where Mac Mill performed, clarified in a follow-up conversation that it didn’t happen during Festival at the Lake. He also says the showcase was filmed in 1986 for a 1988 video compilation.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mac Mill and Emperor E go back and forth, trading sound effects and dense Oakland slang as K-os cuts and scratches copies of Long Island band Original Concept’s deathless bass classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai4VC0NUxl4\">Knowledge Me\u003c/a>.” Bas praises Mac Mill’s unusual “Arabian” style, which the latter deployed nearly a decade later with the 1995 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_f0TB3Igro\">Arabian Hump\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then, Bas-1 calls Chris “CJ Flash” Jourdan, an OG who worked with Timex Social Club, the Berkeley teen band whose 1986 electro-funk classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\">Rumors\u003c/a>,” represented the first national breakthrough for Bay Area hip-hop culture. As Bas broadcasts CJ Flash’s voice from his phone through Del’s stereo equipment, CJ Flash spends the next hour or so describing a fledging scene where poppers and boogaloo dancers, not rappers or DJs, were the prime attractions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These ensembles drew from a street-dance tradition that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891300/reclaiming-the-legacy-of-oaklands-boogaloo-dance-culture\">dates back decades\u003c/a>. Their kinetic performances ignited crowds at high schools, house parties, and public spaces like Justin Herman Plaza and Union Square in San Francisco and UC Berkeley’s Sproul Plaza. Battles even took place on the street, with crews traveling to different neighborhoods around the region to seek out rivals. “You could meet with people on their turf and get down, and hopefully not get thumped in the process,” says CJ Flash. Many Bay Area hip-hop pioneers got their start in dance crews, including Club Nouveau’s Jay King (who pop-locked with The Unknowns), DJ King Tech (who was known as Wizard, and danced with Master City Breakers), and Flash himself (who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\">performed with UFO\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By contrast, rapping was a relatively new and undeveloped skill, the lowest element on the hip-hop totem pole. “Anybody could rap. Anybody could say a bunch of basic rhyme words with no style and flavor,” says Bas, noting as an aside that “most folks couldn’t understand the lyrics anyway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How is a discussion about street dancers connected to an exploration of the Bay Area hip-hop sound? It’s important to understand the conditions under which the genre emerged locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Turntables, Casios and Homemade Tapes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As KQED’s Eric Arnold explains in “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924126/the-bay-area-was-hip-hop-before-there-was-hip-hop\">The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop\u003c/a>,” foundational elements such as spoken word, funk, and rhythm & blues existed locally well before New Jersey trio Sugarhill Gang arrived with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” in the fall of 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923978']At the same time, the Bay Area was not the Bronx, where breakbeat culture catalyzed and fermented. Bronx DJs, MCs and B-boys like Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Grandmaster Caz, the Rock Steady Crew and many others gained renown among mid-’70s New York youth long before “Rapper’s Delight.” By contrast, as CJ Flash explains, it took much of the 1980s for Bay Area youth to develop the cadences and rhythms we now associate with modern rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, enterprising musicians couldn’t purchase studio software and distribute their own music on an internet platform like Soundcloud. Recording equipment was expensive. An unsigned artist needed the financial and business expertise to manufacture vinyl and cassettes with artwork, much less convince record stores like Leopold’s Records in Berkeley to carry them. (Recordable CD-Rs weren’t widely used until the 1990s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This helps explain why so many rappers utilized turntables and Casio keyboards, and then recorded their songs using the microphone input on relatively cheap stereo equipment. Captured on recordable cassettes like Maxell and TDK, some of these “gray tapes” simply had stickers with handwritten titles. More often, they weren’t labeled at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927410\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A box of handmade Bay Area rap tapes, part of Naru’s home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those days, Too Short was an outlier, a Fremont High School student who canvassed East Oakland spots like Arroyo Park, \u003ca href=\"https://medium.com/@bayareahiphoparchive/in-conversation-with-56fae687e9c\">selling copies of “Game Raps”\u003c/a> at a few dollars a pop. Since Short was originally from Los Angeles, he relied on rap partner Tony “Freddy B” Adams to show him around the Town. The duo \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">made customized tapes for local drug dealers and players\u003c/a> in the city’s nightlife — now known as “special request” tapes — shouting out the customers’ names in their raps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Short was a hustler,” says CJ Flash. “He had a style of telling stories that was so outlandish and so funny that word got around.” Short and Freddy B developed the trademark “Biiiiitch!” catchphrase, and Short has often said that he and Freddy B intended to get famous together. Unfortunately, Freddy B was in prison when Short released his landmark “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>” tape in 1987. (Adams is \u003ca href=\"https://www.dailyrepublic.com/all-dr-news/solano-news/local-features/from-too-hort-colleague-to-christian-missionary/\">now a minister\u003c/a> at Mount Calvary Baptist Church in Fairfield.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927341\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 676px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"676\" height=\"455\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927341\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg 676w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short in 1984, at the age of 18. \u003ccite>(Katy Raddatz/San Francisco Examiner/Bancroft Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Others like Sir Quick Draw, Mac Mill, and Chief Naked Head (later known as Premo; he passed away in January of 2023) simply gave away their tapes or let friends copy or “dub” the originals. As Richmond rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike explained in a recent interview with Dregs One\u003c/a>, dubs of his tracks circulated as widely as Germany. “It was more or less trying to make a name for yourself…you had to make a tape,” adds CJ Flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Bay Area hip-hop in the ’80s was a primordial soup of youngsters figuring out what the local sound would be. The answers wouldn’t arrive until near the end of the decade. “The Bay Area was behind,” says CJ Flash, comparing it to more advanced regions like Los Angeles, South Florida, and New York. “We never thought about radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘A Pivotal Moment’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alex “Naru Kwina” Hence remembers the first time he heard the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” as a 14-year-old preparing to attend Oakland High School. “When the song went off, everybody ran outside, like, ‘Did you hear that song?!” he laughs, calling it one of the best moments of his life. “It was a pivotal moment, bro. We literally started rapping the song and trying to remember it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Naru called himself Sir Quick Draw, an alias inspired by Hanna-Barbera cartoon \u003cem>Quick Draw McGraw\u003c/em> as well as the fact that, as a runner, “I was hella fast.” He took inspiration from Kurtis Blow, the Harlem rapper who scored major hits like 1980’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzl-2g5HhaI\">The Breaks\u003c/a>.” And Naru almost immediately began recording his voice on tape. His first original song was “The Caveman Rap,” which was inspired by Brooklyn rapper Jimmy Spicer’s 1980 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkGLco0tGqc\">Adventures of Super Rhyme\u003c/a>.” Naru can still recite those verses from memory: \u003cem>Now people come and take a trip in time with me / Back to that sweet year one million B.C.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still got that old-school flavor, man,” he admits. “Hip-hop was more fun for me back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927368\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927368\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Naru Kwina, who recorded under the names Sir Quick Draw and Em Cee Quick, poses with his home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But rap in the Bay Area didn’t take off right away. “Most people would rap other people’s songs. They’d just repeat what they heard on the radio,” says Naru. Aspiring MCs honed their craft by congregating at Eastmont Mall, “trying to impress the girls, and getting our names on our derby jackets.” And when Tom Tom Club’s 1981 hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECiMhe4E0pI\">Genius of Love\u003c/a>” dropped? “Everybody rapped over that joint, man. Too many people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s worth remembering that hip-hop was a phenomenon developed essentially by Black and Brown children. Rapping, pop-locking, spray-painting aerosol art on neighborhood walls, even DJing: These were youthful forms of play and creative expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas, who grew up in North Oakland, remembers \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#at-fishermans-wharf-a-street-dance-destination-emerges\">popping and “roboting” at Pier 39 on Fisherman’s Wharf\u003c/a> in the late ’70s as a child. “You have people like Ben [James] from Live Incorporated doing pantomime and roboting,” he says, noting one of the better-known dance crews. Dancers competed for attention and tips that they could spend on Snickers bars and arcade games. “Battle-wise, you had to have skill and talent to a certain caliber in order to truly be out on the Wharf or on Market [and Powell] in front of the cable cars,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927321\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A street dance crew called The Vita Family perform at Pier 39 in 1986. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Local newspaper stories focused on the emergence of hip-hop as a youth obsession. Enterprising teachers incorporated it into their lesson plans. On high-school campuses, fledgling DJs like Joseph Thomas “G.I. Joe” Simms Jr. at El Cerrito High School and groups like the Devastating Four proliferated. At house parties, mobile DJ crews spun the latest electro, boogie-funk, and rap hits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gatherings at schools, churches, and community centers typically reserved a few minutes for fledgling local rap and dance crews to perform. This was also the era of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#nancy-reagan-visits-oakland-and-coins-the-phrase-just-say-no\">the Reagan Administration’s “Just Say No” campaign\u003c/a>, and kids were often asked to help spread an anti-drug message through raps. “Inspired by rapping groups such as Sugar Hill, Run DMC, Jeckyl and Hyde and Mell (sic) and the Furious Five, teen-agers create their own raps mostly for fun and to bring attention to themselves,” read a June 29, 1985, story in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13925415']In the first half of the decade, street dance remained a focal point. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/12/04/1140504217/double-dutch-fantastic-four-holiday-classic\">Double Dutch jump-rope competitions\u003c/a> sponsored by McDonald’s drew thousands to Lincoln Square Center in Oakland. The San Francisco Street Breakers held a fundraising benefit, “Super Break Sunday,” at San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts in 1985. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ironically, street dance “got played out” after the success of Hollywood movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, and rap music moved to the center of hip-hop culture. Quickening the process were concerts by Black music stars like the \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-fresh-fest-comes-to-oakland\">Fresh Festival\u003c/a>, the first national hip-hop tour, with headliners Run-DMC at the Oakland Coliseum. Local radio tentatively began to experiment with rap, notably KMEL-FM and its mix DJs such as Michael Erickson and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13828163/watch-cameron-paul-give-a-masterclass-in-early-djing\">the late Cameron Paul\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927323\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"952\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13927323\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-800x1190.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-768x1142.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1033x1536.jpg 1033w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_.jpg 1345w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flyer for the Fresh Festival, which arrived in Oakland in 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“By 1985, there was this incredible scene in the South Bay,” says Adisa “The Bishop” Banjoko. As a teen DJ in San Bruno “who looked like Urkel,” he remembers traveling far and wide to buy records, from Creative Music Emporium in San Francisco to T’s Wauzi in Oakland. Meanwhile, nightclubs like Mothers and Studio 47 brought a fusion of hip-hop, freestyle and techno. “San Jose had underage hip-hop teenage clubs, and no other city had those,” he says. (Banjoko later became a rapper, a journalist, and now promotes jiu-jitsu, meditation and chess with his company \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/real64blocks/?hl=en\">64 Blocks\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Oakland, Naru continued making tapes. “I come from a musical family. My cousin’s the Maestro” — a.k.a. producer Keenan Foster, who has worked with Too Short, Dru Down, and Askari X — “and a lot of my family sings. I got a drum machine, a little Yamaha keyboard. I would play my bass lines. We had double-cassette decks.” He collaborated with Taj “Turntable T” Tilghman, “who was dope on the turntables.” Turntable T eventually bought a Roland TR-808 drum machine, the instrument du jour for def beat MCs. “When that 808 came, that was it. Everyone loved that deck. \u003cem>Boom!\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gray tapes” that circulated weren’t the EP and album-length releases we’re familiar with today. Some tapes only had one song per side; or maybe just one song on one side, period. Artists were judged not only by their ability to rap engagingly for several minutes, but also to chop up a familiar beat like Whodini’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5r0i2ZAbCc\">Friends\u003c/a>,” transforming it into something fresh and original; or even make rudimentary 808 beats. For example, Too Short drew attention for “rapping the longest,” as Bas explains, leading to songs that lasted eight or nine minutes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927334\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-1020x870.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-160x136.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-768x655.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Adisa Banjoko in the 1980s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Adisa Banjoko)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Those tapes were everywhere. Everyone was trying to see what was possible,” says Banjoko. In 1987, he began making raps under the name MC Most Ill. His first song was “Rhyme Junkie.” “The truth was, some of it was really cool but a lot of it actually also sucked, because [the art form] was brand new. … The quality control was not there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On August 18, 1984, the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> published an article called “Rapping with Too-Short,” the first story on the 18-year-old prodigy. Pacific News Service journalist Anthony Adams called Short’s songs “preacher-like yarns over pre-recorded music,” and noted that one of them was about automaker John DeLorean, whose conviction for cocaine trafficking made national news. Short claimed he and his partner Freddy B sold over 2,000 tapes. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Chronicle-Examiner\u003c/em> also frequently interviewed \u003ca href=\"https://www.dominiquediprima.com/\">Dominique “Lady D” DiPrima\u003c/a>, a New York transplant and San Francisco State University student who rapped, sung, and organized events. DiPrima possessed a rich family pedigree — her father was the jazz writer Amiri Baraka, her mother the beat poet Diane DiPrima. In late 1984, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#home-turf-premieres-on-kron-tv\">KRON-TV recruited her to host \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Saturday-afternoon program that became appointment viewing for local teens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone had a crush on Dominique,” says Naru, giggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"541\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927320\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-768x520.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1536x1039.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_.png 1540w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dominique DiPrima, pictured here hosting a 1987 episode of ‘Home Turf’ on KRON-4. \u003ccite>(SFSU Television Archive)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Bay Area Rap Record Opens the Floodgates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the under-acknowledged aspects of early hip-hop is the way elder Black musicians shepherded young artists into the recording industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Sylvia Robinson, who was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022, initially emerged in the mid-’50s as one-half of Mickey & Sylvia, who scored a national hit with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SwMB9v1pQ4\">Love Is Strange\u003c/a>.” As a ’70s solo artist and producer, Robinson made slinky, Eartha Kitt-like erotic disco capers such as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA2X1040_gY\">Pillow Talk\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPScEJ66_m4\">Sweet Stuff\u003c/a>.” After discovering hip-hop when she heard DJ Lovebug Starski at a party, Robinson formed Sugar Hill Records, and turned three rapping teens she found in New Jersey into its first act, the Sugarhill Gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This process of soul veterans working with young people resulted in independent 12” singles that mirrored — if not yet accurately capturing — the nascent rap sound at a time when big companies virtually ignored it. With his Mercury Records contract, Kurtis Blow was the only act with a major album deal. A handful of other pioneers like DJ Hollywood scored one-off 12” deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A similar process played out in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2R_h9BCuvBE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first Bay Area rap record is widely considered to be Phil “Motorcycle Mike” Lewis and the Rat Trap Band’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4Odk2Vu70s\">Super Rat\u003c/a>,” a 1981 boogie-funk single notoriously released by East Oakland heroin kingpin Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore’s Hodisk Records. The name “Hodisk” was a cheeky reference to his onetime side business as a pimp. (Moore has since reformed and is now a pastor in West Oakland.) In fact, Mickey Mo boasts in his 1996 autobiography \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qy6RNV6f5w\">The Man: The Life Story of a Drug Kingpin\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, “Hodisk Records became the first record company on the West Coast to release a rap record.” (The first L.A. rap record, Disco Daddy and Captain Rapp’s “The Gigolo Rapp,” was also released in 1981.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mickey Mo has another claim to rap lore: In 1980, he \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-first-rap-performance-on-a-major-stage\">helped finance an Oakland Coliseum concert\u003c/a> headlined by L.A. funk band War, with the Sugarhill Gang as a supporting act. Journalist Lee Hildebrand’s pre-concert interview with the Gang in the \u003cem>Oakland Tribune\u003c/em> was the first mention of rap music in the local press. A second funk-rap novelty, Steve Walker’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB9jCLUWwBY\">Tally Ho!\u003c/a>,” also appeared in 1981. In 1983, San Francisco’s Debo & Brian released the electro-funk EP \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgv_AfTbEng\">This Is It\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. The momentum had started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had made this vow that I would never ever do anything having to do with rap,” laughs Claytoven Richardson. During his long career, the Berkeley-born, Oakland-raised Richardson worked with Aretha Franklin, Kenny G, Whitney Houston, Elton John, and Celine Dion. But in the early ’80s, he was best known as a singer, producer, and arranger with hot dancefloor jazz-funk bands like Bill Summers & Summers’ Heat. His anti-rap stance reflected the music industry at large in the 1980s. “Nobody had the foresight to see that it would morph and change and do the things that it’s done,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927369\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 625px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"625\" height=\"352\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927369\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg 625w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson-160x90.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 625px) 100vw, 625px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Claytoven Richardson pictured in March 2023 in Los Angeles, California. \u003ccite>(Steven Simione/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Richardson couldn’t avoid the increasingly popular genre when he scored a production deal at Fantasy Records, the onetime Berkeley jazz label also known for innovative acts like Sylvester and Cybotron, as well as one-off singles generated by a “throw it against the wall and see if it sticks” philosophy. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the records Richardson produced in that anything-goes environment was Mighty Mouth’s satirical complaint, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU1hAFnrtU8\">I’m All Rapped Out\u003c/a>.” (He wasn’t the only one annoyed over rap; perhaps out of wishful thinking, a 1985 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article referred to the “fast-fading hip-hop scene.”) A vocalist named Lawrence Pittman didn’t show up for the session, so Richardson performed the lyrics himself. However, Pittman showed up to rap on Mighty Mouth’s second single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqfQcLbemE4\">The Roaches\u003c/a>,” which parodied Whodini’s electro hit, “Freaks Come Out at Night.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other scattered local raps appeared between 1985 and 1986. Former boogaloo dancer Jay King, just home from a stint in the Air Force and splitting time between Sacramento and Vallejo, formed a group called Frost and released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hObIekxeoSg\">Battle Beat\u003c/a>.” His friends Denzil Foster & Thomas McElroy produced it, as well as another electro-rap track, Sorcerey’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ap6uw-kX8o\">Woo Baby\u003c/a>.” Pittsburg rapper James “Red Beat” Briggs issued “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dUlMEZUSc\">Freak City\u003c/a>,” which was later remixed by N.W.A. co-founder Arabian Prince. And there was Rodney “Disco Alamo” Brown, from Richmond, whose 12” “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6K-pXg1DY98\">The Task Force\u003c/a>” is \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#richmonds-task-force-memorialized-on-wax\">an early example\u003c/a> of Bay Area rap chronicling street life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927313\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"484\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927313\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-1020x618.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-160x97.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-768x465.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short, pictured at his manager’s house in Oakland on September 21, 1987. \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Too Short’s rising buzz led to a deal with deep East Oakland entrepreneur Dean Hodges’ 75 Girls label. Released in 1985, the resulting \u003cem>Don’t Stop Rappin’\u003c/em> was the first official album by a local rapper. While fans of a certain age still treasure protean electro-funk tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ywke376NQ\">Girl\u003c/a>” — which E-40 referenced on his 1998 hit, “Earl, That’s Yo Life” — the album couldn’t compare to his raunchy and wickedly hilarious “special request” tapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this period that Naru finally got his chance in the studio. Since 1984, UC Berkeley station \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#college-radio-makes-its-mark\">KALX-FM\u003c/a> served as home to “Music for the People,” a Sunday-morning community affairs and music show hosted by the late Charles “Natty Prep” Douglass, as well as DJs like Billy “Jam” Kiernan (who also broadcast on San Francisco State University station KUSF-FM), David “Davey D” Cook, and funkster Rickey “The Uhuru Maggot” Vincent. When Naru won \u003ca href=\"https://wfmu.org/playlists/shows/107287\">a 1986 rap contest hosted by Billy Jam on KALX\u003c/a>, he earned a deal with Bay Wave Records, a local imprint distributed by Hollywood-based Macola Records. Richardson was hired to produce the session.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Quick Draw] was a great rapper. He had a lot of great lyrics and ideas,” says Richardson. On “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\">Rapaholic\u003c/a>,” Richardson and session engineer Michael Denten (who later worked with Spice 1 and E-40) accompanied Quick Draw’s dexterous and energetic raps with sharp-angled percussive edits and sound effects reminiscent of The Art of Noise and Mantronix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Respect to Claytoven,” says Naru, who not only continues to make music but also owns a company, \u003ca href=\"http://hiplearning.org/\">Hip Learning\u003c/a>, that promotes childhood education with rap. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the “Rapaholic” experience: “They made the record sound hella more polished. It was [supposed to be] a little more underground than that.” However, he adds, “[Claytoven] taught us a lot in the studio about the mics they use and how to mix. It was a good experience.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927411\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"889\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927411\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi-160x237.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photocopied flyer advertising Sir Quick Draw’s single ‘Rapaholic.’ \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Radio Breakthrough — And a Kid Named Hammer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As the trajectory of Bay Area hip-hop waxed and waned, three catalyzing moments brought the scene into focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first was an R&B track. Timex Social Club’s “Rumors” captured the pulse of Bay Area youth culture, from Marcus Thompson and Alex Hill’s skittering electro-funk bass and drums to singer Michael Marshall’s distinctly regional accent and coy recitation of schoolyard gossip (“Did you hear the one about Michael? Some say he must be gay…”) Produced by Jay King and Denzil Foster and released on King’s Jay Records in February 1986, it mushroomed into a top ten \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> pop hit and dominated radio all year.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But by the summer, Timex Social Club was falling apart and trading accusations with King over money and credit. The group’s only album \u003cem>Vicious Rumors\u003c/em> — by that point it was just Michael Marshall — featured drum programming from CJ Flash and a shout-out to KALX’s Natty Prep, who helped break “Rumors” on his “Music and Life” show. Marshall retreated from the spotlight before \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#i-got-5-on-it-remix-a-meeting-of-greats-recorded-in-alameda\">re-emerging as the hook man\u003c/a> on the Luniz’ 1995 smash “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERtkpnXLrL4\">I Got 5 on It\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After breaking with Timex Social Club, King formed a group called Jet Set and signed a deal with Warner Bros. Records. The group changed their name to Club Nouveau before debuting with the single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWhkjXV5uM\">Jealousy\u003c/a>.” A follow-up, the Bill Withers cover “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbyjaUJWWmk\">Lean on Me\u003c/a>,” went to number-one on the \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> Hot 100, while Club Nouveau’s debut album \u003cem>Life, Love & Pain\u003c/em> went platinum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927310\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"489\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927310\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-1020x624.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-768x470.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Singers Samuelle Prater, Jay King and Valerie Watson of Club Nouveau performs at the U.I.C. Pavilion in Chicago, Illinois in August 1987. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>King’s growing stardom rippled across the Bay and reached Felton Pilate, the Vallejo keyboardist, singer, and producer best known as a driving force in Bay Area funk stars Con Funk Shun. The two had already worked together on King’s onetime rap group Frost; Pilate engineered that record. Pilate soon added one of King’s projects, Sacramento R&B/rap group New Choice, to a growing slate of projects he produced and engineered at his Felstar Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felstar Studios was the culmination of work he had begun while not touring and rehearsing with Con Funk Shun. At his home studio on Sandpiper Drive in Vallejo, Pilate helped assemble records for fledgling local artists. “I never thought of myself as just a studio,” he says, where he simply records his clients. “I have a little experience here. I’ve got several gold albums. Here, let me pass on some of this knowledge.” When asked if he considered himself a mentor, he demurs, even though that’s arguably what he was. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Pilate opened Felstar Studios on Sonoma Boulevard, his trusted associate was James Earley, a young engineer whom he credits for adding a more contemporary sensibility to the Studios’ output. Among the locals who came to them were M.V.P., a family trio consisting of Earl Stevens, Danell Stevens, and Brandt Jones. Their 1988 12”, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfLuAL6DueI\">The Kings Men\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also included Tanina Stevens and Angela Pressley, who called themselves Sugar ‘N’ Spice. The members of M.V.P. updated their stage names to E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit, added Tanina as Suga T, and \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-clicks-down-dirty-ushers-in-mobb-music-era\">evolved into The Click\u003c/a>, arguably becoming the most famous rap group to emerge from Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927370\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927370\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">M.V.P., a 1988 Vallejo rap group featuring Busy D, E-40 and Legit (L–R). The three would later add E-40’s sister Suga T and become known as The Click. \u003ccite>(Gerry Ericksen / Rushforce Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1986, Pilate and Earley both had solo deals at Berkeley’s Fantasy Records. It was there that Pilate met a former Oakland A’s batboy named Stanley “Holyghost Boy” Burrell through Fantasy Records producer Fred L. Pittman. “Fred would often hire me to do keyboard arrangements for him,” says Pilate. When Pittman asked him to play keys for Holyghost Boy, Pilate responded, “Hey Fred, why don’t you let me take the reins on this?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a classically trained jazz and classical musician, Pilate didn’t think much of rap, even though Con Funk Shun not only included a rap verse on a 1982 single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ9GHVTI-EE\">Ain’t Nobody Baby\u003c/a>”; but also made “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmmzvN7raB0\">Electric Lady\u003c/a>,” a 1985 hit produced by Larry Smith of Whodini fame that landed in the top five of \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em>’s Black Singles chart. “Musically, I wasn’t a fan, but as a producer, I said, ‘I can do this,’” he says. “Like everyone else, Con Funk Shun wanted to be relevant, and rap was all over the radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks Burrell brought to Pilate consisted of him rapping over sparse Yamaha RX5 drum-machine parts. Pilate responded by going into “study mode.” He listened to the rap stuff that was getting airplay like Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew. As a result, the skittering percussion on Burrell’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akVWFiptGNY\">Let’s Get It Started\u003c/a>” is reminiscent of the go-go-inspired arrangements on Doug E. Fresh hits like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sGw9GSCiYU\">The Show\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UtqnKIF7kE\">All the Way to Heaven\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"565\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927325\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-1020x720.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-160x113.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-768x542.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer films the music video for ‘Let’s Get It Started’ at Sweet Jimmie’s nightclub in downtown Oakland, March 19, 1988. \u003ccite>(Deanne Fitzmaurice/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My thing was to make it more music-driven than beat-driven,” says Pilate. In many cases, he simply “listened to what [Burrell] was talking about and wrote a straight R&B song underneath it.” He also gives credit to Earley, who helped refine the drum programming and brought “that younger ear” to the project. They incorporated stock horn stabs from a battery of Juno, Roland, and Yamaha drum machines. Meanwhile, Kent “The Lone Mixer” Wilson and Bryant “D.J. Redeemed” Marable added rhythmic scratches by cutting up Curtis Mayfield and Beastie Boys records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the demos were finished, Fantasy Records dropped Pilate, Earley and Burrell from their deals. “They weren’t really sure how to market any of us,” says Pilate. Then, he chuckles, “The next time I ran into the Holyghost Boy, he had changed his name to MC Hammer.” After forming Bustin’ Records in Fremont with financial help from Oakland A’s ballplayers like Mike Davis and Dwayne Murphy, Hammer turned the Pilate demos into three 12”s — “Ring ’Em,” “The Thrill Is Gone” and “Let’s Get It Started” — and the 1987 album \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em>. “I was like, man, those were rough mixes! You were supposed to come back and let me fix that!” Pilate laughs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everyone involved in Bay Area hip-hop has vivid memories of MC Hammer blowing up. Near-mythical stories of his local takeover abound, like attending local concerts surrounded by a massive crew; or tearing up the dance floor at The Silks, a popular nightclub in Emeryville.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927324\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"727\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927324\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-1020x926.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-160x145.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-768x698.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate.jpg 1058w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer and Fenton Pilate in modern times. Pilate engineered and co-produced MC Hammer’s first recordings. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Felton Pilate)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Today, it’s worth revisiting \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em> and 1988’s \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em>. Released after Hammer signed with Capitol Records, \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em> found Hammer and Pilate remixing those original demos while adding vital new tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sZVcXzSE3M\">Pump It Up\u003c/a>.” The results are bombastic and vibrant dance-floor jams as ecstatic as anything by Kid ‘n’ Play and Salt-n-Pepa. Hammer’s subsequent leap into pop superstardom with 1990’s \u003cem>Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em\u003c/em> and the ubiquity of “U Can’t Touch This” obscure just how great those early tracks are.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Eight Woofers in the Trunk\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer’s major-label arrival in 1988 capped a year of Bay Area hip-hop on the cusp of national exposure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Too Short issued \u003cem>Born to Mack\u003c/em> in the fall of 1987 on his Dangerous Music label, Jive Records picked it up. (Dangerous Music also issued \u003cem>Dangerous Crew\u003c/em>, a compilation of vital Bay Area acts like Spice-1, Rappin’ 4-Tay, and the female duo Danger Zone.) Digital Underground’s playful and psychedelic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zQ1frcgSbI\">Underwater Rimes\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpBNB20wVo0\">Your Life’s a Cartoon\u003c/a>” led to a deal with Tommy Boy. Local talent waited in the wings, including rapper/producer Paris (A.T.C.’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHpiPWfOBk4\">Cisco Jam\u003c/a>”), Sway & King Tech (\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBJujmVXiwE\">Flynamic Force\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP), Dangerous Dame (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Frj4j09GE\">The Power That’s Packed\u003c/a>”), and MC Twist and the Def Squad (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lZz7qhjfjw\">Just Rock\u003c/a>”). And the late Cameron Paul, known for his “Beats & Pieces” breakbeats, remixed Queens trio Salt-n-Pepa’s 1987 track “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPkdk1oMmtE\">Push It\u003c/a>” into a global phenomenon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13828164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-800x496.jpg\" alt=\"Cameron Paul reveals his mixing secrets.\" width=\"800\" height=\"496\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13828164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-768x476.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-240x149.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-375x233.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-520x322.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cameron Paul, who provided the spine of New Orleans bounce music with ‘Brown Beats’ and recorded a smash-hit remix of Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It,’ was also a prominent club and radio megamix DJ in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Incidentally, the first local group to score a major label deal wasn’t Hammer, but Surf MCs, a Berkeley group that Profile Records promoted as a Beastie Boys-like rap/rock crossover. Their 1987 album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojCAqdBA7uA\">Surf or Die\u003c/a>\u003c/em> proved a flop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet the third moment that catalyzed Bay Area hip-hop wasn’t a singular record like Timex Social Club’s “Rumors,” or an artist like Hammer and Short. It was the sound of walloping, all-enveloping bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Made for surgically enhanced car and jeep stereos, the bass colossus is as much a feature of hip-hop in the mid-’80s as the pounding Roland TR-808 machine, from Rick Rubin’s production on LL Cool J’s “Rock the Bells” and T La Rock’s “It’s Yours” to Rodney O and DJ Joe Cooley’s “Everlasting Bass” and Dr. Dre’s work on Eazy-E’s “The Boyz-N-The Hood.” It also mirrors the crack-cocaine epidemic that began to blight and distort communities across the country. As street life turned treacherous, the specter of the hustler, and whether to become one, cast a growing shadow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13925761']“Then the new style came, the bass got deeper / You gave up the mike and bought you a beeper / Do you want to rap or sell coke? / Brothers like you ain’t never broke,” Too Short memorably rapped on his 1989 hit, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvfUUOO0xoM\">Life Is…Too Short\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Banjoko recalls how the presence of gangs transformed local shows. “You would see a bunch of people dressed up together [in the same gear], and you might assume they were a rap or dance crew. They were young drug lords,” he says. “You could get trampled, beat up or robbed by any of them. I remember 69 Ville being massively deep at the Fresh Fest and the [Run-DMC] Raising Hell tour. They were terrifying, straight up. You were going to tuck your chain, you were going to take your Kangol off, or they were going to take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"409\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927326\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hugh EMC, the San Francisco rapper whose 1988 single ‘It’s the Game’ unflinchingly chronicled street life. \u003ccite>(Soul Sonic Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rap imagery became more honest and explicit. Some like Richmond rapper Magic Mike, San Francisco’s Hugh EMC (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_p7L0eJfKI\">It’s the Game\u003c/a>”), and Oakland’s Hollywood (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/641778-Hollywood-Stay-Heart-And-Soul-Raps-Just-A-Battlefield\">Gangster Rap\u003c/a>”) seemed to embrace the hustler ethos, while cautiously adding verses about the consequences of that lifestyle. Then there was Oakland rapper Morocco Moe, whose “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogNoOCIVPrI\">Task\u003c/a>” criticized how law enforcement brutalized communities in the War on Drugs: “Their intentions are good/But their actions are wrong.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every Black neighborhood was infested” with crack, says Vallejo producer Khayree Shaheed. “There was an influx of money coming into young Black men, but there was also a lot of death occurring.” The epidemic also marked his entry into the world of rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a descendant of the Bay Area’s vaunted funk tradition, Khayree spent the ’70s and early ’80s playing bass guitar for bands like Grand Larceny, Body Mind & Spirit and Touch of Class (with keyboardist Rosie Gaines, who later joined Prince & the New Power Generation). His travels took him across the U.S. and even to Japan, where Touch of Class lived and performed for several months. (Though his bands made demos, there are no official recordings to date.) When asked about the first time he heard rap, Khayree cites “jazzoetry” ensembles like The Last Poets, not the Sugarhill Gang. And as a youth growing up on Lofas Place in Vallejo, he spent plenty of time following Con Funk Shun, hoping to apprentice with the biggest band in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927412\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"510\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927412\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vallejo musician Khayree Shaheed, playing bass onstage in 1979. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Khayree was in his mid-20s when Rod “I.C.E.” Andrews and Dan “Luvva D” Morrison a.k.a. the Luvva Twins brought Khayree a demo they had made on a Casio keyboard, “Hubba Head.” The song title was slang for a crack addict, and the duo described the “hubba head’s” descent into addiction with charismatic punch. They arranged the music and rapped most of the lyrics, while Khayree dropped a short verse and added guitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Khayree had already spent time at Pilate’s home studio, honing his writing and production skills. (“I always enjoyed working with him,” says Pilate.) Now, he brought “Hubba Head” to Pilate, and the two prepared it for release. Setting up his own label, Big Bank Records, Khayree distributed two hundred copies of the 12” to DJs and influencers. “The record was super popular in the streets,” says Khayree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pArkWvlAebg\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After “Hubba Head,” Khayree began working with Jay King, a fellow graduate of Vallejo High School. The opportunity to write and produce New Choice’s 1987 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-VLZQ4X1yA\">Cold Stupid\u003c/a>” and most of the quintet’s 1988 debut, \u003cem>At Last\u003c/em>, gave him important experience on a major project and financial stability. By fusing bass, funky R&B and hip-hop breakbeats, New Choice reflected a parallel R&B movement that both influenced and was inspired by the hip-hop scene. Similar Bay Area acts included Oakland’s Tony! Toni! Toné!, who parlayed backing sessions for Sheila E. and Tramaine Hawkins into a major-label deal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flush from his experience with New Choice, Khayree was ready to start his own company. “I’m listening to EPMD’s \u003cem>Strictly Business\u003c/em>,” he says, inspiring the name of his second label, Strictly Business Records. He knew that Mike “The Mac” Robinson, who also grew up on Lofas Place, was a rapper. Robinson hailed from a musical family: his uncle Steve “Silver” Scales was a well-traveled Vallejo funk percussionist who played with Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, and the B-52s. (Though it would be a delicious coincidence, Scales didn’t perform on “Genius of Love.”) Khayree encouraged Robinson to take music more seriously. Meanwhile, Robinson’s mother drew the memorable Strictly Business logo: an open briefcase, ready for business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1988, Khayree released The Mac’s three-song EP, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/805531-The-Mac-Im-Ah-Big-Mac\">I’m Ah Big Mac\u003c/a>.” Heard now, what immediately stands out is the unique \u003cem>tone\u003c/em> of the bass. “We used synthesizers that had dumb-fat bass lines,” explains Khayree in reference to himself and Too Short as well as future Bay Area colleagues like Ant Banks. By comparison, he says, other regional scenes relied on a “natural” bass guitar or samples from records. “You feel it through your whole body. … You can get it with a bass guitar, depending on how you EQ the bass and what you run your guitar through. But you’re \u003cem>never\u003c/em> going to touch the subs and the depth of a Minimoog, of the Oberheim Ovx, or the Roland Juno 106.” The EP’s highlight is its B-side “The Game Is Thick,” which centers on a sample of Prince’s “D.M.S.R.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927371\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"498\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927371\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-1020x635.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick.jpg 1537w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree and The Mac (L–R), pictured on the cover of The Mac’s ‘The Game is Thick.’ \u003ccite>(Phil Bray / Strictly Business Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1989, Khayree remixed and re-released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCxGl7Ok1YI\">The Game Is Thick\u003c/a>” as a standalone 12” with a memorable cover photo: Khayree looking super-clean in a grey suit, clasping a briefcase, with The Mac in a red-and-black bomber jacket. Khayree calls the style “pimping.” “We didn’t mean pimping so much as getting prostitutes to work,” he explains. “It’s an attitude, and it’s a musical style.” The “game” is a metaphor for life in the Black community. Street slang illustrated complex situations, whether it was dealing with the repercussions of a raging crack epidemic, or simply navigating the tensions of everyday living. Meanwhile, The Mac’s “cool, silky, pimpish” flow and Khayree’s synthesized bass production proved a clear predecessor to the ’90s mob-music sound that took over Bay Area rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13924167']Upon release, “The Game Is Thick” didn’t make a major impact, and most copies went to local DJ pools. “We promoted records out of the trunk,” says Khayree. “We went from Bobby G’s Soul Disco in San Francisco to [Rico Casanova’s record pool] The Pros in Oakland.” Still, “The Game Is Thick” remix received a mention in Davey “D” Cook’s April 7, 1989 “Beats & Breaks” column for \u003cem>BAM\u003c/em> Magazine. “Let me tell you, it’s hyped to the max,” Davey D wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Khayree’s encouragement, the Mac taught himself how to produce music with synth keyboards. He also introduced Khayree to another Vallejo artist, Andre “Mac Dre” Hicks, who became Strictly Business’ second act. By the time The Mac was shot and killed on July 23, 1991 in what Khayree calls “a case of mistaken identity,” the two had recorded dozens of tracks and released a third and final 12” protesting police violence, 1990’s “Enuff of Tis Sh-t!” One of The Mac’s beats posthumously appeared on Mac Dre’s 1993 track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slA_s7tSjMU\">The M.A.C. & Mac D.R.E.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927413\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927413\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-768x502.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1536x1003.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree with Kool Moe Dee at the 1988 BRE Conference in Los Angeles. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Mike had a big, big loving heart,” remembers Khayree, sounding wistful. He emphasizes how The Mac left behind a daughter, “Mac” Reina Robinson, and a pregnant girlfriend who gave birth to his son, Mike. At one point, Khayree plays a voicemail of The Mac passionately singing a funky, swinging hook, as if to counteract the stereotype that rappers aren’t musicians. He talks about how The Mac’s way of playing simple, evocative keyboard notes for maximum effect echoes in the work of his famed protégé, Mac Dre. “I miss him,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area rap broke wide at the end of the decade, leading to a 1989 story in the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1989/09/10/arts/rap-by-the-bay-oakland-emerges-as-a-force-in-pop.html\">Rap by the Bay: Oakland Emerges as a Force in Pop\u003c/a>.” Not every local pioneer who laid the groundwork would enjoy the fruits of that success. But their stories are essential to understanding how local hip-hop came of age, and everything that came after.\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "Bay Area Hip-Hop in the 1980s: A Look Back | KQED",
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"socialTitle": "Bay Area Hip-Hop in the 1980s: A Look Back %%page%% %%sep%% KQED",
"socialDescription": "Casio keyboards, homemade tapes and the boundless creativity of Bay Area youth flourished in the 1980s hip-hop scene.",
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"headline": "How Bay Area Hip-Hop Found Its Sound in the 1980s",
"datePublished": "2023-04-05T12:27:37-07:00",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"450\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927363\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-800x450.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1020x574.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-768x432.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_-1536x864.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/that_s_my_word_____featured_image__3_.png 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">In the mid-1980s, after years of street dance, DJing and graffiti sharing equal space, rapping took center stage. The Bay Area’s bass-heavy sound would arrive at the end of the decade. (Clockwise from top left: Too Short, MC Hammer, Dominique DiPrima, Club Nouveau, and Motorcycle Mike.) \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images; Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images; SFSU Television Archives; Raymond Boyd/Getty Images; Hodisk Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003c/em>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003cem>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">I\u003c/span>t’s a wintry January evening when Bas-1 brings me to Del the Funky Homosapien’s house in the East Bay. For much of the afternoon, Bas — the \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/old-school-fool-1/\">Oakland native\u003c/a> who’s worked with Digital Underground and released \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=bas-1+full+album+mentally+astute\">his own solo records\u003c/a> — has schooled me on the origins of the Bay Area hip-hop sound.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas lists numerous rappers from the ’80s, and not just Todd “Too Short” Shaw, the East Oakland rapper who famously hustled homemade cassette tapes. I’ve never heard most of the names Bas mentions: MC Chocolate Milk, Windell Baby Doll, Davy Def, Buddy Bean, Reggie Reg Rock Ski.ter, M.C. Tracy, Rock Master Fresh, Nic Nack, Kimmie Fresh, and the Acorn Crew with Grandmaster Fresh (a rapper later known as “DJ Daryl” Anderson, famed for producing tracks like 415’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yuZ6CAwZmys\">Side Show\u003c/a>” and 2Pac’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fAJfDP3b5_U\">Keep Ya Head Up\u003c/a>”).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Many of these early Bay Area rappers never put out a commercially available record. Instead, their work is mostly confined to locally distributed cassette tapes — collectors call them “gray tapes” — that are now nearly impossible to find. They publicly broadcasted these tapes throughout neighborhoods, utilizing boomboxes and car stereos as well as stereos at house parties. “None of them sound like Too Short,” says Bas. “Some of these people didn’t put out recordings, but they were known.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout the 1980s, Bay Area hip-hop was an artistic movement struggling for a distinct identity. The first half of the decade was defined by street dance and aerosol art as much as rap and DJing. But as local youth began to absorb the sounds emanating from national hotspots like New York, they created a distinctive style all their own — one that would make a global impact in the years to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At Del’s house, Bas queues up an extraordinary live video clip of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u3eiG9BtdE\">Mac Mill, Emperor E, and DJ Anthony “K-os” Bryant\u003c/a> performing at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11690787/when-oakland-was-a-chocolate-city-a-brief-history-of-festival-at-the-lake\">Festival at the Lake\u003c/a>, a now-defunct annual event held at Lake Merritt, in 1988. (Alex “Naru” Reece, who organized the showcase where Mac Mill performed, clarified in a follow-up conversation that it didn’t happen during Festival at the Lake. He also says the showcase was filmed in 1986 for a 1988 video compilation.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mac Mill and Emperor E go back and forth, trading sound effects and dense Oakland slang as K-os cuts and scratches copies of Long Island band Original Concept’s deathless bass classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ai4VC0NUxl4\">Knowledge Me\u003c/a>.” Bas praises Mac Mill’s unusual “Arabian” style, which the latter deployed nearly a decade later with the 1995 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_f0TB3Igro\">Arabian Hump\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/5u3eiG9BtdE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/5u3eiG9BtdE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Then, Bas-1 calls Chris “CJ Flash” Jourdan, an OG who worked with Timex Social Club, the Berkeley teen band whose 1986 electro-funk classic, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVce2IeYcTg\">Rumors\u003c/a>,” represented the first national breakthrough for Bay Area hip-hop culture. As Bas broadcasts CJ Flash’s voice from his phone through Del’s stereo equipment, CJ Flash spends the next hour or so describing a fledging scene where poppers and boogaloo dancers, not rappers or DJs, were the prime attractions. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These ensembles drew from a street-dance tradition that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13891300/reclaiming-the-legacy-of-oaklands-boogaloo-dance-culture\">dates back decades\u003c/a>. Their kinetic performances ignited crowds at high schools, house parties, and public spaces like Justin Herman Plaza and Union Square in San Francisco and UC Berkeley’s Sproul Plaza. Battles even took place on the street, with crews traveling to different neighborhoods around the region to seek out rivals. “You could meet with people on their turf and get down, and hopefully not get thumped in the process,” says CJ Flash. Many Bay Area hip-hop pioneers got their start in dance crews, including Club Nouveau’s Jay King (who pop-locked with The Unknowns), DJ King Tech (who was known as Wizard, and danced with Master City Breakers), and Flash himself (who \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub1TtnI4dh8\">performed with UFO\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/ub1TtnI4dh8'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/ub1TtnI4dh8'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>By contrast, rapping was a relatively new and undeveloped skill, the lowest element on the hip-hop totem pole. “Anybody could rap. Anybody could say a bunch of basic rhyme words with no style and flavor,” says Bas, noting as an aside that “most folks couldn’t understand the lyrics anyway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How is a discussion about street dancers connected to an exploration of the Bay Area hip-hop sound? It’s important to understand the conditions under which the genre emerged locally.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Turntables, Casios and Homemade Tapes\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As KQED’s Eric Arnold explains in “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924126/the-bay-area-was-hip-hop-before-there-was-hip-hop\">The Bay Area Was Hip-Hop Before There Was Hip-Hop\u003c/a>,” foundational elements such as spoken word, funk, and rhythm & blues existed locally well before New Jersey trio Sugarhill Gang arrived with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKTUAESacQM\">Rapper’s Delight\u003c/a>” in the fall of 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>At the same time, the Bay Area was not the Bronx, where breakbeat culture catalyzed and fermented. Bronx DJs, MCs and B-boys like Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, Afrika Bambaataa, Grandmaster Caz, the Rock Steady Crew and many others gained renown among mid-’70s New York youth long before “Rapper’s Delight.” By contrast, as CJ Flash explains, it took much of the 1980s for Bay Area youth to develop the cadences and rhythms we now associate with modern rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back then, enterprising musicians couldn’t purchase studio software and distribute their own music on an internet platform like Soundcloud. Recording equipment was expensive. An unsigned artist needed the financial and business expertise to manufacture vinyl and cassettes with artwork, much less convince record stores like Leopold’s Records in Berkeley to carry them. (Recordable CD-Rs weren’t widely used until the 1990s.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This helps explain why so many rappers utilized turntables and Casio keyboards, and then recorded their songs using the microphone input on relatively cheap stereo equipment. Captured on recordable cassettes like Maxell and TDK, some of these “gray tapes” simply had stickers with handwritten titles. More often, they weren’t labeled at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927410\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927410\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.BoxofTapes.CloseUp.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A box of handmade Bay Area rap tapes, part of Naru’s home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In those days, Too Short was an outlier, a Fremont High School student who canvassed East Oakland spots like Arroyo Park, \u003ca href=\"https://medium.com/@bayareahiphoparchive/in-conversation-with-56fae687e9c\">selling copies of “Game Raps”\u003c/a> at a few dollars a pop. Since Short was originally from Los Angeles, he relied on rap partner Tony “Freddy B” Adams to show him around the Town. The duo \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">made customized tapes for local drug dealers and players\u003c/a> in the city’s nightlife — now known as “special request” tapes — shouting out the customers’ names in their raps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Short was a hustler,” says CJ Flash. “He had a style of telling stories that was so outlandish and so funny that word got around.” Short and Freddy B developed the trademark “Biiiiitch!” catchphrase, and Short has often said that he and Freddy B intended to get famous together. Unfortunately, Freddy B was in prison when Short released his landmark “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YwVJTvOO4yY\">Freaky Tales\u003c/a>” tape in 1987. (Adams is \u003ca href=\"https://www.dailyrepublic.com/all-dr-news/solano-news/local-features/from-too-hort-colleague-to-christian-missionary/\">now a minister\u003c/a> at Mount Calvary Baptist Church in Fairfield.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927341\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 676px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"676\" height=\"455\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927341\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984.jpg 676w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TooShort.SFExaminer.1984-160x108.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 676px) 100vw, 676px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short in 1984, at the age of 18. \u003ccite>(Katy Raddatz/San Francisco Examiner/Bancroft Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Others like Sir Quick Draw, Mac Mill, and Chief Naked Head (later known as Premo; he passed away in January of 2023) simply gave away their tapes or let friends copy or “dub” the originals. As Richmond rapper \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925761/magic-mike-richmond-calvin-t-rap-hip-hop\">Magic Mike explained in a recent interview with Dregs One\u003c/a>, dubs of his tracks circulated as widely as Germany. “It was more or less trying to make a name for yourself…you had to make a tape,” adds CJ Flash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Bay Area hip-hop in the ’80s was a primordial soup of youngsters figuring out what the local sound would be. The answers wouldn’t arrive until near the end of the decade. “The Bay Area was behind,” says CJ Flash, comparing it to more advanced regions like Los Angeles, South Florida, and New York. “We never thought about radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘A Pivotal Moment’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Alex “Naru Kwina” Hence remembers the first time he heard the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” as a 14-year-old preparing to attend Oakland High School. “When the song went off, everybody ran outside, like, ‘Did you hear that song?!” he laughs, calling it one of the best moments of his life. “It was a pivotal moment, bro. We literally started rapping the song and trying to remember it.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Naru called himself Sir Quick Draw, an alias inspired by Hanna-Barbera cartoon \u003cem>Quick Draw McGraw\u003c/em> as well as the fact that, as a runner, “I was hella fast.” He took inspiration from Kurtis Blow, the Harlem rapper who scored major hits like 1980’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qzl-2g5HhaI\">The Breaks\u003c/a>.” And Naru almost immediately began recording his voice on tape. His first original song was “The Caveman Rap,” which was inspired by Brooklyn rapper Jimmy Spicer’s 1980 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nkGLco0tGqc\">Adventures of Super Rhyme\u003c/a>.” Naru can still recite those verses from memory: \u003cem>Now people come and take a trip in time with me / Back to that sweet year one million B.C.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still got that old-school flavor, man,” he admits. “Hip-hop was more fun for me back then.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927368\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"840\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927368\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Naru.Boxes_.1-160x224.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Naru Kwina, who recorded under the names Sir Quick Draw and Em Cee Quick, poses with his home archives. \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But rap in the Bay Area didn’t take off right away. “Most people would rap other people’s songs. They’d just repeat what they heard on the radio,” says Naru. Aspiring MCs honed their craft by congregating at Eastmont Mall, “trying to impress the girls, and getting our names on our derby jackets.” And when Tom Tom Club’s 1981 hit “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECiMhe4E0pI\">Genius of Love\u003c/a>” dropped? “Everybody rapped over that joint, man. Too many people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s worth remembering that hip-hop was a phenomenon developed essentially by Black and Brown children. Rapping, pop-locking, spray-painting aerosol art on neighborhood walls, even DJing: These were youthful forms of play and creative expression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bas, who grew up in North Oakland, remembers \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#at-fishermans-wharf-a-street-dance-destination-emerges\">popping and “roboting” at Pier 39 on Fisherman’s Wharf\u003c/a> in the late ’70s as a child. “You have people like Ben [James] from Live Incorporated doing pantomime and roboting,” he says, noting one of the better-known dance crews. Dancers competed for attention and tips that they could spend on Snickers bars and arcade games. “Battle-wise, you had to have skill and talent to a certain caliber in order to truly be out on the Wharf or on Market [and Powell] in front of the cable cars,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927321\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927321\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791-768x525.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1298788791.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A street dance crew called The Vita Family perform at Pier 39 in 1986. \u003ccite>(Liz Hafalia/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Local newspaper stories focused on the emergence of hip-hop as a youth obsession. Enterprising teachers incorporated it into their lesson plans. On high-school campuses, fledgling DJs like Joseph Thomas “G.I. Joe” Simms Jr. at El Cerrito High School and groups like the Devastating Four proliferated. At house parties, mobile DJ crews spun the latest electro, boogie-funk, and rap hits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gatherings at schools, churches, and community centers typically reserved a few minutes for fledgling local rap and dance crews to perform. This was also the era of \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#nancy-reagan-visits-oakland-and-coins-the-phrase-just-say-no\">the Reagan Administration’s “Just Say No” campaign\u003c/a>, and kids were often asked to help spread an anti-drug message through raps. “Inspired by rapping groups such as Sugar Hill, Run DMC, Jeckyl and Hyde and Mell (sic) and the Furious Five, teen-agers create their own raps mostly for fun and to bring attention to themselves,” read a June 29, 1985, story in the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em>. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In the first half of the decade, street dance remained a focal point. \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2022/12/04/1140504217/double-dutch-fantastic-four-holiday-classic\">Double Dutch jump-rope competitions\u003c/a> sponsored by McDonald’s drew thousands to Lincoln Square Center in Oakland. The San Francisco Street Breakers held a fundraising benefit, “Super Break Sunday,” at San Francisco’s Palace of Fine Arts in 1985. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ironically, street dance “got played out” after the success of Hollywood movies like \u003cem>Beat Street\u003c/em> and \u003cem>Breakin’\u003c/em>, and rap music moved to the center of hip-hop culture. Quickening the process were concerts by Black music stars like the \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-fresh-fest-comes-to-oakland\">Fresh Festival\u003c/a>, the first national hip-hop tour, with headliners Run-DMC at the Oakland Coliseum. Local radio tentatively began to experiment with rap, notably KMEL-FM and its mix DJs such as Michael Erickson and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13828163/watch-cameron-paul-give-a-masterclass-in-early-djing\">the late Cameron Paul\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927323\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 640px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"640\" height=\"952\" class=\"size-large wp-image-13927323\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1020x1517.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-800x1190.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-160x238.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-768x1142.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_-1033x1536.jpg 1033w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/FreshFest.Flyer_.jpg 1345w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 640px) 100vw, 640px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A flyer for the Fresh Festival, which arrived in Oakland in 1984.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“By 1985, there was this incredible scene in the South Bay,” says Adisa “The Bishop” Banjoko. As a teen DJ in San Bruno “who looked like Urkel,” he remembers traveling far and wide to buy records, from Creative Music Emporium in San Francisco to T’s Wauzi in Oakland. Meanwhile, nightclubs like Mothers and Studio 47 brought a fusion of hip-hop, freestyle and techno. “San Jose had underage hip-hop teenage clubs, and no other city had those,” he says. (Banjoko later became a rapper, a journalist, and now promotes jiu-jitsu, meditation and chess with his company \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/real64blocks/?hl=en\">64 Blocks\u003c/a>.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back in Oakland, Naru continued making tapes. “I come from a musical family. My cousin’s the Maestro” — a.k.a. producer Keenan Foster, who has worked with Too Short, Dru Down, and Askari X — “and a lot of my family sings. I got a drum machine, a little Yamaha keyboard. I would play my bass lines. We had double-cassette decks.” He collaborated with Taj “Turntable T” Tilghman, “who was dope on the turntables.” Turntable T eventually bought a Roland TR-808 drum machine, the instrument du jour for def beat MCs. “When that 808 came, that was it. Everyone loved that deck. \u003cem>Boom!\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Gray tapes” that circulated weren’t the EP and album-length releases we’re familiar with today. Some tapes only had one song per side; or maybe just one song on one side, period. Artists were judged not only by their ability to rap engagingly for several minutes, but also to chop up a familiar beat like Whodini’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5r0i2ZAbCc\">Friends\u003c/a>,” transforming it into something fresh and original; or even make rudimentary 808 beats. For example, Too Short drew attention for “rapping the longest,” as Bas explains, leading to songs that lasted eight or nine minutes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927334\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"682\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927334\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-800x682.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-1020x870.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-160x136.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait-768x655.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Adisa.portrait.jpg 1200w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Adisa Banjoko in the 1980s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Adisa Banjoko)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Those tapes were everywhere. Everyone was trying to see what was possible,” says Banjoko. In 1987, he began making raps under the name MC Most Ill. His first song was “Rhyme Junkie.” “The truth was, some of it was really cool but a lot of it actually also sucked, because [the art form] was brand new. … The quality control was not there.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On August 18, 1984, the \u003cem>San Francisco Examiner\u003c/em> published an article called “Rapping with Too-Short,” the first story on the 18-year-old prodigy. Pacific News Service journalist Anthony Adams called Short’s songs “preacher-like yarns over pre-recorded music,” and noted that one of them was about automaker John DeLorean, whose conviction for cocaine trafficking made national news. Short claimed he and his partner Freddy B sold over 2,000 tapes. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003cem>Chronicle-Examiner\u003c/em> also frequently interviewed \u003ca href=\"https://www.dominiquediprima.com/\">Dominique “Lady D” DiPrima\u003c/a>, a New York transplant and San Francisco State University student who rapped, sung, and organized events. DiPrima possessed a rich family pedigree — her father was the jazz writer Amiri Baraka, her mother the beat poet Diane DiPrima. In late 1984, \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#home-turf-premieres-on-kron-tv\">KRON-TV recruited her to host \u003cem>Home Turf\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, a Saturday-afternoon program that became appointment viewing for local teens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone had a crush on Dominique,” says Naru, giggling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927320\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"541\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927320\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-800x541.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1020x690.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-160x108.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-768x520.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_-1536x1039.png 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/DominiqueDiprima.HomeTurf.SFSU_.png 1540w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dominique DiPrima, pictured here hosting a 1987 episode of ‘Home Turf’ on KRON-4. \u003ccite>(SFSU Television Archive)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The First Bay Area Rap Record Opens the Floodgates\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>One of the under-acknowledged aspects of early hip-hop is the way elder Black musicians shepherded young artists into the recording industry.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The late Sylvia Robinson, who was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2022, initially emerged in the mid-’50s as one-half of Mickey & Sylvia, who scored a national hit with “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SwMB9v1pQ4\">Love Is Strange\u003c/a>.” As a ’70s solo artist and producer, Robinson made slinky, Eartha Kitt-like erotic disco capers such as “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NA2X1040_gY\">Pillow Talk\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EPScEJ66_m4\">Sweet Stuff\u003c/a>.” After discovering hip-hop when she heard DJ Lovebug Starski at a party, Robinson formed Sugar Hill Records, and turned three rapping teens she found in New Jersey into its first act, the Sugarhill Gang.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This process of soul veterans working with young people resulted in independent 12” singles that mirrored — if not yet accurately capturing — the nascent rap sound at a time when big companies virtually ignored it. With his Mercury Records contract, Kurtis Blow was the only act with a major album deal. A handful of other pioneers like DJ Hollywood scored one-off 12” deals.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A similar process played out in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/2R_h9BCuvBE'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/2R_h9BCuvBE'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>The first Bay Area rap record is widely considered to be Phil “Motorcycle Mike” Lewis and the Rat Trap Band’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4Odk2Vu70s\">Super Rat\u003c/a>,” a 1981 boogie-funk single notoriously released by East Oakland heroin kingpin Milton “Mickey Mo” Moore’s Hodisk Records. The name “Hodisk” was a cheeky reference to his onetime side business as a pimp. (Moore has since reformed and is now a pastor in West Oakland.) In fact, Mickey Mo boasts in his 1996 autobiography \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qy6RNV6f5w\">The Man: The Life Story of a Drug Kingpin\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, “Hodisk Records became the first record company on the West Coast to release a rap record.” (The first L.A. rap record, Disco Daddy and Captain Rapp’s “The Gigolo Rapp,” was also released in 1981.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Mickey Mo has another claim to rap lore: In 1980, he \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-first-rap-performance-on-a-major-stage\">helped finance an Oakland Coliseum concert\u003c/a> headlined by L.A. funk band War, with the Sugarhill Gang as a supporting act. Journalist Lee Hildebrand’s pre-concert interview with the Gang in the \u003cem>Oakland Tribune\u003c/em> was the first mention of rap music in the local press. A second funk-rap novelty, Steve Walker’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vB9jCLUWwBY\">Tally Ho!\u003c/a>,” also appeared in 1981. In 1983, San Francisco’s Debo & Brian released the electro-funk EP \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgv_AfTbEng\">This Is It\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. The momentum had started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I had made this vow that I would never ever do anything having to do with rap,” laughs Claytoven Richardson. During his long career, the Berkeley-born, Oakland-raised Richardson worked with Aretha Franklin, Kenny G, Whitney Houston, Elton John, and Celine Dion. But in the early ’80s, he was best known as a singer, producer, and arranger with hot dancefloor jazz-funk bands like Bill Summers & Summers’ Heat. His anti-rap stance reflected the music industry at large in the 1980s. “Nobody had the foresight to see that it would morph and change and do the things that it’s done,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927369\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 625px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"625\" height=\"352\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927369\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson.jpg 625w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/ClaytovenRichardson-160x90.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 625px) 100vw, 625px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Claytoven Richardson pictured in March 2023 in Los Angeles, California. \u003ccite>(Steven Simione/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Still, Richardson couldn’t avoid the increasingly popular genre when he scored a production deal at Fantasy Records, the onetime Berkeley jazz label also known for innovative acts like Sylvester and Cybotron, as well as one-off singles generated by a “throw it against the wall and see if it sticks” philosophy. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of the records Richardson produced in that anything-goes environment was Mighty Mouth’s satirical complaint, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VU1hAFnrtU8\">I’m All Rapped Out\u003c/a>.” (He wasn’t the only one annoyed over rap; perhaps out of wishful thinking, a 1985 \u003cem>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/em> article referred to the “fast-fading hip-hop scene.”) A vocalist named Lawrence Pittman didn’t show up for the session, so Richardson performed the lyrics himself. However, Pittman showed up to rap on Mighty Mouth’s second single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IqfQcLbemE4\">The Roaches\u003c/a>,” which parodied Whodini’s electro hit, “Freaks Come Out at Night.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other scattered local raps appeared between 1985 and 1986. Former boogaloo dancer Jay King, just home from a stint in the Air Force and splitting time between Sacramento and Vallejo, formed a group called Frost and released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hObIekxeoSg\">Battle Beat\u003c/a>.” His friends Denzil Foster & Thomas McElroy produced it, as well as another electro-rap track, Sorcerey’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ap6uw-kX8o\">Woo Baby\u003c/a>.” Pittsburg rapper James “Red Beat” Briggs issued “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dUlMEZUSc\">Freak City\u003c/a>,” which was later remixed by N.W.A. co-founder Arabian Prince. And there was Rodney “Disco Alamo” Brown, from Richmond, whose 12” “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6K-pXg1DY98\">The Task Force\u003c/a>” is \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#richmonds-task-force-memorialized-on-wax\">an early example\u003c/a> of Bay Area rap chronicling street life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927313\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"484\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927313\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-800x484.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-1020x618.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-160x97.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164-768x465.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1206295164.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Too Short, pictured at his manager’s house in Oakland on September 21, 1987. \u003ccite>(Steve Ringman/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Most importantly, Too Short’s rising buzz led to a deal with deep East Oakland entrepreneur Dean Hodges’ 75 Girls label. Released in 1985, the resulting \u003cem>Don’t Stop Rappin’\u003c/em> was the first official album by a local rapper. While fans of a certain age still treasure protean electro-funk tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L2ywke376NQ\">Girl\u003c/a>” — which E-40 referenced on his 1998 hit, “Earl, That’s Yo Life” — the album couldn’t compare to his raunchy and wickedly hilarious “special request” tapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was during this period that Naru finally got his chance in the studio. Since 1984, UC Berkeley station \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#college-radio-makes-its-mark\">KALX-FM\u003c/a> served as home to “Music for the People,” a Sunday-morning community affairs and music show hosted by the late Charles “Natty Prep” Douglass, as well as DJs like Billy “Jam” Kiernan (who also broadcast on San Francisco State University station KUSF-FM), David “Davey D” Cook, and funkster Rickey “The Uhuru Maggot” Vincent. When Naru won \u003ca href=\"https://wfmu.org/playlists/shows/107287\">a 1986 rap contest hosted by Billy Jam on KALX\u003c/a>, he earned a deal with Bay Wave Records, a local imprint distributed by Hollywood-based Macola Records. Richardson was hired to produce the session.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/dLlNn1Zh1ww'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/dLlNn1Zh1ww'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>“[Quick Draw] was a great rapper. He had a lot of great lyrics and ideas,” says Richardson. On “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLlNn1Zh1ww\">Rapaholic\u003c/a>,” Richardson and session engineer Michael Denten (who later worked with Spice 1 and E-40) accompanied Quick Draw’s dexterous and energetic raps with sharp-angled percussive edits and sound effects reminiscent of The Art of Noise and Mantronix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Respect to Claytoven,” says Naru, who not only continues to make music but also owns a company, \u003ca href=\"http://hiplearning.org/\">Hip Learning\u003c/a>, that promotes childhood education with rap. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the “Rapaholic” experience: “They made the record sound hella more polished. It was [supposed to be] a little more underground than that.” However, he adds, “[Claytoven] taught us a lot in the studio about the mics they use and how to mix. It was a good experience.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927411\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"889\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927411\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/SirQuickdrawFlyer.72dpi-160x237.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A photocopied flyer advertising Sir Quick Draw’s single ‘Rapaholic.’ \u003ccite>(Mosi Reeves)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A Radio Breakthrough — And a Kid Named Hammer\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As the trajectory of Bay Area hip-hop waxed and waned, three catalyzing moments brought the scene into focus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The first was an R&B track. Timex Social Club’s “Rumors” captured the pulse of Bay Area youth culture, from Marcus Thompson and Alex Hill’s skittering electro-funk bass and drums to singer Michael Marshall’s distinctly regional accent and coy recitation of schoolyard gossip (“Did you hear the one about Michael? Some say he must be gay…”) Produced by Jay King and Denzil Foster and released on King’s Jay Records in February 1986, it mushroomed into a top ten \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> pop hit and dominated radio all year.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/jVce2IeYcTg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/jVce2IeYcTg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>But by the summer, Timex Social Club was falling apart and trading accusations with King over money and credit. The group’s only album \u003cem>Vicious Rumors\u003c/em> — by that point it was just Michael Marshall — featured drum programming from CJ Flash and a shout-out to KALX’s Natty Prep, who helped break “Rumors” on his “Music and Life” show. Marshall retreated from the spotlight before \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#i-got-5-on-it-remix-a-meeting-of-greats-recorded-in-alameda\">re-emerging as the hook man\u003c/a> on the Luniz’ 1995 smash “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ERtkpnXLrL4\">I Got 5 on It\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After breaking with Timex Social Club, King formed a group called Jet Set and signed a deal with Warner Bros. Records. The group changed their name to Club Nouveau before debuting with the single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKWhkjXV5uM\">Jealousy\u003c/a>.” A follow-up, the Bill Withers cover “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbyjaUJWWmk\">Lean on Me\u003c/a>,” went to number-one on the \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em> Hot 100, while Club Nouveau’s debut album \u003cem>Life, Love & Pain\u003c/em> went platinum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927310\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"489\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927310\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-800x489.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-1020x624.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-160x98.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851-768x470.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/GettyImages-1346275851.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Singers Samuelle Prater, Jay King and Valerie Watson of Club Nouveau performs at the U.I.C. Pavilion in Chicago, Illinois in August 1987. \u003ccite>(Raymond Boyd/Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>King’s growing stardom rippled across the Bay and reached Felton Pilate, the Vallejo keyboardist, singer, and producer best known as a driving force in Bay Area funk stars Con Funk Shun. The two had already worked together on King’s onetime rap group Frost; Pilate engineered that record. Pilate soon added one of King’s projects, Sacramento R&B/rap group New Choice, to a growing slate of projects he produced and engineered at his Felstar Studios.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Felstar Studios was the culmination of work he had begun while not touring and rehearsing with Con Funk Shun. At his home studio on Sandpiper Drive in Vallejo, Pilate helped assemble records for fledgling local artists. “I never thought of myself as just a studio,” he says, where he simply records his clients. “I have a little experience here. I’ve got several gold albums. Here, let me pass on some of this knowledge.” When asked if he considered himself a mentor, he demurs, even though that’s arguably what he was. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Pilate opened Felstar Studios on Sonoma Boulevard, his trusted associate was James Earley, a young engineer whom he credits for adding a more contemporary sensibility to the Studios’ output. Among the locals who came to them were M.V.P., a family trio consisting of Earl Stevens, Danell Stevens, and Brandt Jones. Their 1988 12”, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfLuAL6DueI\">The Kings Men\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also included Tanina Stevens and Angela Pressley, who called themselves Sugar ‘N’ Spice. The members of M.V.P. updated their stage names to E-40, D-Shot and B-Legit, added Tanina as Suga T, and \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-clicks-down-dirty-ushers-in-mobb-music-era\">evolved into The Click\u003c/a>, arguably becoming the most famous rap group to emerge from Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927370\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 700px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"700\" height=\"700\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927370\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40.jpg 700w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/MVP.e-40-160x160.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 700px) 100vw, 700px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">M.V.P., a 1988 Vallejo rap group featuring Busy D, E-40 and Legit (L–R). The three would later add E-40’s sister Suga T and become known as The Click. \u003ccite>(Gerry Ericksen / Rushforce Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1986, Pilate and Earley both had solo deals at Berkeley’s Fantasy Records. It was there that Pilate met a former Oakland A’s batboy named Stanley “Holyghost Boy” Burrell through Fantasy Records producer Fred L. Pittman. “Fred would often hire me to do keyboard arrangements for him,” says Pilate. When Pittman asked him to play keys for Holyghost Boy, Pilate responded, “Hey Fred, why don’t you let me take the reins on this?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a classically trained jazz and classical musician, Pilate didn’t think much of rap, even though Con Funk Shun not only included a rap verse on a 1982 single, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ9GHVTI-EE\">Ain’t Nobody Baby\u003c/a>”; but also made “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmmzvN7raB0\">Electric Lady\u003c/a>,” a 1985 hit produced by Larry Smith of Whodini fame that landed in the top five of \u003cem>Billboard\u003c/em>’s Black Singles chart. “Musically, I wasn’t a fan, but as a producer, I said, ‘I can do this,’” he says. “Like everyone else, Con Funk Shun wanted to be relevant, and rap was all over the radio.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks Burrell brought to Pilate consisted of him rapping over sparse Yamaha RX5 drum-machine parts. Pilate responded by going into “study mode.” He listened to the rap stuff that was getting airplay like Doug E. Fresh & the Get Fresh Crew. As a result, the skittering percussion on Burrell’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=akVWFiptGNY\">Let’s Get It Started\u003c/a>” is reminiscent of the go-go-inspired arrangements on Doug E. Fresh hits like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sGw9GSCiYU\">The Show\u003c/a>” and “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UtqnKIF7kE\">All the Way to Heaven\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"565\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927325\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-800x565.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-1020x720.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-160x113.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_-768x542.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.VIdeoShoot.NewParish.Getty_.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer films the music video for ‘Let’s Get It Started’ at Sweet Jimmie’s nightclub in downtown Oakland, March 19, 1988. \u003ccite>(Deanne Fitzmaurice/San Francisco Chronicle via Getty Images)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“My thing was to make it more music-driven than beat-driven,” says Pilate. In many cases, he simply “listened to what [Burrell] was talking about and wrote a straight R&B song underneath it.” He also gives credit to Earley, who helped refine the drum programming and brought “that younger ear” to the project. They incorporated stock horn stabs from a battery of Juno, Roland, and Yamaha drum machines. Meanwhile, Kent “The Lone Mixer” Wilson and Bryant “D.J. Redeemed” Marable added rhythmic scratches by cutting up Curtis Mayfield and Beastie Boys records.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the demos were finished, Fantasy Records dropped Pilate, Earley and Burrell from their deals. “They weren’t really sure how to market any of us,” says Pilate. Then, he chuckles, “The next time I ran into the Holyghost Boy, he had changed his name to MC Hammer.” After forming Bustin’ Records in Fremont with financial help from Oakland A’s ballplayers like Mike Davis and Dwayne Murphy, Hammer turned the Pilate demos into three 12”s — “Ring ’Em,” “The Thrill Is Gone” and “Let’s Get It Started” — and the 1987 album \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em>. “I was like, man, those were rough mixes! You were supposed to come back and let me fix that!” Pilate laughs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Everyone involved in Bay Area hip-hop has vivid memories of MC Hammer blowing up. Near-mythical stories of his local takeover abound, like attending local concerts surrounded by a massive crew; or tearing up the dance floor at The Silks, a popular nightclub in Emeryville.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927324\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"727\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927324\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-800x727.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-1020x926.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-160x145.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate-768x698.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Hammer.Pilate.jpg 1058w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">MC Hammer and Fenton Pilate in modern times. Pilate engineered and co-produced MC Hammer’s first recordings. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Felton Pilate)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Today, it’s worth revisiting \u003cem>Feel My Power\u003c/em> and 1988’s \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em>. Released after Hammer signed with Capitol Records, \u003cem>Let’s Get It Started\u003c/em> found Hammer and Pilate remixing those original demos while adding vital new tracks like “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sZVcXzSE3M\">Pump It Up\u003c/a>.” The results are bombastic and vibrant dance-floor jams as ecstatic as anything by Kid ‘n’ Play and Salt-n-Pepa. Hammer’s subsequent leap into pop superstardom with 1990’s \u003cem>Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em\u003c/em> and the ubiquity of “U Can’t Touch This” obscure just how great those early tracks are.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Eight Woofers in the Trunk\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>MC Hammer’s major-label arrival in 1988 capped a year of Bay Area hip-hop on the cusp of national exposure. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After Too Short issued \u003cem>Born to Mack\u003c/em> in the fall of 1987 on his Dangerous Music label, Jive Records picked it up. (Dangerous Music also issued \u003cem>Dangerous Crew\u003c/em>, a compilation of vital Bay Area acts like Spice-1, Rappin’ 4-Tay, and the female duo Danger Zone.) Digital Underground’s playful and psychedelic “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5zQ1frcgSbI\">Underwater Rimes\u003c/a> / \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpBNB20wVo0\">Your Life’s a Cartoon\u003c/a>” led to a deal with Tommy Boy. Local talent waited in the wings, including rapper/producer Paris (A.T.C.’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yHpiPWfOBk4\">Cisco Jam\u003c/a>”), Sway & King Tech (\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBJujmVXiwE\">Flynamic Force\u003c/a>\u003c/em> EP), Dangerous Dame (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t9Frj4j09GE\">The Power That’s Packed\u003c/a>”), and MC Twist and the Def Squad (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lZz7qhjfjw\">Just Rock\u003c/a>”). And the late Cameron Paul, known for his “Beats & Pieces” breakbeats, remixed Queens trio Salt-n-Pepa’s 1987 track “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPkdk1oMmtE\">Push It\u003c/a>” into a global phenomenon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13828164\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-800x496.jpg\" alt=\"Cameron Paul reveals his mixing secrets.\" width=\"800\" height=\"496\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13828164\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-768x476.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-240x149.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-375x233.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2018/03/CameronPaul-520x322.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Cameron Paul, who provided the spine of New Orleans bounce music with ‘Brown Beats’ and recorded a smash-hit remix of Salt ‘n’ Pepa’s ‘Push It,’ was also a prominent club and radio megamix DJ in San Francisco. \u003ccite>(YouTube)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Incidentally, the first local group to score a major label deal wasn’t Hammer, but Surf MCs, a Berkeley group that Profile Records promoted as a Beastie Boys-like rap/rock crossover. Their 1987 album \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojCAqdBA7uA\">Surf or Die\u003c/a>\u003c/em> proved a flop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Yet the third moment that catalyzed Bay Area hip-hop wasn’t a singular record like Timex Social Club’s “Rumors,” or an artist like Hammer and Short. It was the sound of walloping, all-enveloping bass.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Made for surgically enhanced car and jeep stereos, the bass colossus is as much a feature of hip-hop in the mid-’80s as the pounding Roland TR-808 machine, from Rick Rubin’s production on LL Cool J’s “Rock the Bells” and T La Rock’s “It’s Yours” to Rodney O and DJ Joe Cooley’s “Everlasting Bass” and Dr. Dre’s work on Eazy-E’s “The Boyz-N-The Hood.” It also mirrors the crack-cocaine epidemic that began to blight and distort communities across the country. As street life turned treacherous, the specter of the hustler, and whether to become one, cast a growing shadow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“Then the new style came, the bass got deeper / You gave up the mike and bought you a beeper / Do you want to rap or sell coke? / Brothers like you ain’t never broke,” Too Short memorably rapped on his 1989 hit, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvfUUOO0xoM\">Life Is…Too Short\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Banjoko recalls how the presence of gangs transformed local shows. “You would see a bunch of people dressed up together [in the same gear], and you might assume they were a rap or dance crew. They were young drug lords,” he says. “You could get trampled, beat up or robbed by any of them. I remember 69 Ville being massively deep at the Fresh Fest and the [Run-DMC] Raising Hell tour. They were terrifying, straight up. You were going to tuck your chain, you were going to take your Kangol off, or they were going to take it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"409\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13927326\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/HughEMC-160x109.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Hugh EMC, the San Francisco rapper whose 1988 single ‘It’s the Game’ unflinchingly chronicled street life. \u003ccite>(Soul Sonic Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Rap imagery became more honest and explicit. Some like Richmond rapper Magic Mike, San Francisco’s Hugh EMC (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b_p7L0eJfKI\">It’s the Game\u003c/a>”), and Oakland’s Hollywood (“\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/641778-Hollywood-Stay-Heart-And-Soul-Raps-Just-A-Battlefield\">Gangster Rap\u003c/a>”) seemed to embrace the hustler ethos, while cautiously adding verses about the consequences of that lifestyle. Then there was Oakland rapper Morocco Moe, whose “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogNoOCIVPrI\">Task\u003c/a>” criticized how law enforcement brutalized communities in the War on Drugs: “Their intentions are good/But their actions are wrong.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Every Black neighborhood was infested” with crack, says Vallejo producer Khayree Shaheed. “There was an influx of money coming into young Black men, but there was also a lot of death occurring.” The epidemic also marked his entry into the world of rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As a descendant of the Bay Area’s vaunted funk tradition, Khayree spent the ’70s and early ’80s playing bass guitar for bands like Grand Larceny, Body Mind & Spirit and Touch of Class (with keyboardist Rosie Gaines, who later joined Prince & the New Power Generation). His travels took him across the U.S. and even to Japan, where Touch of Class lived and performed for several months. (Though his bands made demos, there are no official recordings to date.) When asked about the first time he heard rap, Khayree cites “jazzoetry” ensembles like The Last Poets, not the Sugarhill Gang. And as a youth growing up on Lofas Place in Vallejo, he spent plenty of time following Con Funk Shun, hoping to apprentice with the biggest band in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927412\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"510\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927412\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-800x510.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1020x651.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-160x102.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-768x490.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi-1536x980.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.1979.DockoftheBay.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Vallejo musician Khayree Shaheed, playing bass onstage in 1979. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Khayree was in his mid-20s when Rod “I.C.E.” Andrews and Dan “Luvva D” Morrison a.k.a. the Luvva Twins brought Khayree a demo they had made on a Casio keyboard, “Hubba Head.” The song title was slang for a crack addict, and the duo described the “hubba head’s” descent into addiction with charismatic punch. They arranged the music and rapped most of the lyrics, while Khayree dropped a short verse and added guitar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Khayree had already spent time at Pilate’s home studio, honing his writing and production skills. (“I always enjoyed working with him,” says Pilate.) Now, he brought “Hubba Head” to Pilate, and the two prepared it for release. Setting up his own label, Big Bank Records, Khayree distributed two hundred copies of the 12” to DJs and influencers. “The record was super popular in the streets,” says Khayree.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/pArkWvlAebg'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/pArkWvlAebg'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>After “Hubba Head,” Khayree began working with Jay King, a fellow graduate of Vallejo High School. The opportunity to write and produce New Choice’s 1987 single “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-VLZQ4X1yA\">Cold Stupid\u003c/a>” and most of the quintet’s 1988 debut, \u003cem>At Last\u003c/em>, gave him important experience on a major project and financial stability. By fusing bass, funky R&B and hip-hop breakbeats, New Choice reflected a parallel R&B movement that both influenced and was inspired by the hip-hop scene. Similar Bay Area acts included Oakland’s Tony! Toni! Toné!, who parlayed backing sessions for Sheila E. and Tramaine Hawkins into a major-label deal.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Flush from his experience with New Choice, Khayree was ready to start his own company. “I’m listening to EPMD’s \u003cem>Strictly Business\u003c/em>,” he says, inspiring the name of his second label, Strictly Business Records. He knew that Mike “The Mac” Robinson, who also grew up on Lofas Place, was a rapper. Robinson hailed from a musical family: his uncle Steve “Silver” Scales was a well-traveled Vallejo funk percussionist who played with Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club, and the B-52s. (Though it would be a delicious coincidence, Scales didn’t perform on “Genius of Love.”) Khayree encouraged Robinson to take music more seriously. Meanwhile, Robinson’s mother drew the memorable Strictly Business logo: an open briefcase, ready for business.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1988, Khayree released The Mac’s three-song EP, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/release/805531-The-Mac-Im-Ah-Big-Mac\">I’m Ah Big Mac\u003c/a>.” Heard now, what immediately stands out is the unique \u003cem>tone\u003c/em> of the bass. “We used synthesizers that had dumb-fat bass lines,” explains Khayree in reference to himself and Too Short as well as future Bay Area colleagues like Ant Banks. By comparison, he says, other regional scenes relied on a “natural” bass guitar or samples from records. “You feel it through your whole body. … You can get it with a bass guitar, depending on how you EQ the bass and what you run your guitar through. But you’re \u003cem>never\u003c/em> going to touch the subs and the depth of a Minimoog, of the Oberheim Ovx, or the Roland Juno 106.” The EP’s highlight is its B-side “The Game Is Thick,” which centers on a sample of Prince’s “D.M.S.R.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927371\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"498\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927371\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-800x498.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-1020x635.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-160x100.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick-768x478.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/TheMac.GameisThick.jpg 1537w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree and The Mac (L–R), pictured on the cover of The Mac’s ‘The Game is Thick.’ \u003ccite>(Phil Bray / Strictly Business Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1989, Khayree remixed and re-released “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tCxGl7Ok1YI\">The Game Is Thick\u003c/a>” as a standalone 12” with a memorable cover photo: Khayree looking super-clean in a grey suit, clasping a briefcase, with The Mac in a red-and-black bomber jacket. Khayree calls the style “pimping.” “We didn’t mean pimping so much as getting prostitutes to work,” he explains. “It’s an attitude, and it’s a musical style.” The “game” is a metaphor for life in the Black community. Street slang illustrated complex situations, whether it was dealing with the repercussions of a raging crack epidemic, or simply navigating the tensions of everyday living. Meanwhile, The Mac’s “cool, silky, pimpish” flow and Khayree’s synthesized bass production proved a clear predecessor to the ’90s mob-music sound that took over Bay Area rap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Upon release, “The Game Is Thick” didn’t make a major impact, and most copies went to local DJ pools. “We promoted records out of the trunk,” says Khayree. “We went from Bobby G’s Soul Disco in San Francisco to [Rico Casanova’s record pool] The Pros in Oakland.” Still, “The Game Is Thick” remix received a mention in Davey “D” Cook’s April 7, 1989 “Beats & Breaks” column for \u003cem>BAM\u003c/em> Magazine. “Let me tell you, it’s hyped to the max,” Davey D wrote.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With Khayree’s encouragement, the Mac taught himself how to produce music with synth keyboards. He also introduced Khayree to another Vallejo artist, Andre “Mac Dre” Hicks, who became Strictly Business’ second act. By the time The Mac was shot and killed on July 23, 1991 in what Khayree calls “a case of mistaken identity,” the two had recorded dozens of tracks and released a third and final 12” protesting police violence, 1990’s “Enuff of Tis Sh-t!” One of The Mac’s beats posthumously appeared on Mac Dre’s 1993 track, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slA_s7tSjMU\">The M.A.C. & Mac D.R.E.\u003c/a>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927413\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"523\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927413\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-800x523.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-160x105.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-768x502.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi-1536x1003.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/04/Khayree.KoolMoeDee.72dpi.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Khayree with Kool Moe Dee at the 1988 BRE Conference in Los Angeles. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Khayree Shaheed)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Mike had a big, big loving heart,” remembers Khayree, sounding wistful. He emphasizes how The Mac left behind a daughter, “Mac” Reina Robinson, and a pregnant girlfriend who gave birth to his son, Mike. At one point, Khayree plays a voicemail of The Mac passionately singing a funky, swinging hook, as if to counteract the stereotype that rappers aren’t musicians. He talks about how The Mac’s way of playing simple, evocative keyboard notes for maximum effect echoes in the work of his famed protégé, Mac Dre. “I miss him,” he says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Area rap broke wide at the end of the decade, leading to a 1989 story in the \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>, “\u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1989/09/10/arts/rap-by-the-bay-oakland-emerges-as-a-force-in-pop.html\">Rap by the Bay: Oakland Emerges as a Force in Pop\u003c/a>.” Not every local pioneer who laid the groundwork would enjoy the fruits of that success. But their stories are essential to understanding how local hip-hop came of age, and everything that came after.\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>On a sunny afternoon, the Mission District’s colorful streets are even more vibrant than usual. Light reflects off of large-scale murals that bring to life the symbols and stories of the neighborhood’s history of Latinx migration and activism. But entering \u003ca href=\"https://grayarea.org/\">Gray Area\u003c/a> — a low-key and intimate art space on Mission at 23rd — can feel like wandering into a dark abyss, where the outside world has been brought to a halt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID=\"arts_13912474\"]It’s an ideal environment for Mexican Canadian artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/lozanohemmer/\">Rafael Lozano-Hemmer\u003c/a>’s exhibition \u003ca href=\"https://grayarea.org/exhibitions/techs-mechs/\">\u003cem>TECHS-MECHS\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, where visitors are invited to interact with a number of immersive electronic art pieces that ponder human connection in an increasingly divisive and surveilled world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>TECHS-MECHS\u003c/em>, on view until May 31, is the first event in Gray Area’s \u003ca href=\"https://grayarea.org/visit/events/access-2023/\">ACCESS programming\u003c/a>, a three-part series that explores how technology is impacting artists and communities from varying cultural backgrounds and identities. With an emphasis on Latinx activism and politics, Lozano-Hemmer’s exhibition digs into how technology is part of Mexican history, and how tools have been used for understanding, progress and resistance. His pieces offer descriptions in both English and Spanish, and admission is free for Mission District residents — many of whom identify as Chicano or Mexican American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927057\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927057\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"empty large brown bottles are positioned on a table in an art exhibit\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Synaptic Caguamas,’ a moving installation of a Mexican cantina bar table with 30 beer bottles that spin according to algorithms that are reset every few minutes. \u003ccite>(Kristie Song/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Powered by thermal cameras, computerized tracking systems, heart rate sensors and generative software, the exhibition reclaims technology that has been utilized to police migrants across the U.S.-Mexico border to instead create connections and raise awareness on the issue. “The idea is to use the language of technology and spectacle and scale to bring people into the area,” said Lozano-Hemmer, reflecting on his work in the 2020 documentary \u003cem>Borderlands\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each piece in \u003cem>TECHS-MECHS\u003c/em> consists of several complex mechanisms and unique algorithms where the main apparatus for activation is a participant’s touch. On its own, \u003cem>Pulse Topology\u003c/em> is a massive installation of 3,000 light bulbs that flickers and weaves its way across an otherwise vast and empty expanse. It is luminous but static until somebody reaches beneath one of its pulse sensors, holding still until the room begins to thrum with the sound of their heartbeat. For a few seconds, wrapped within this shimmering cocoon, people and time freeze as a new pulse courses through the space. Afterwards, the heartbeat is preserved into one of the bulbs, becoming a droplet in an ocean of blinking light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927055\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927055\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"a large screen shows hundreds of tiny colorful images of news reporters \" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Reporters Without Borders,’ an interactive display at ‘TECHS-MECHS.’ \u003ccite>(Kristie Song/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In adjoining rooms, other pieces sit and wait to be interacted with. \u003cem>Airborne Newscasts\u003c/em> features projections of real-time stories from Mexican newspapers like \u003cem>El Universal\u003c/em> and \u003cem>La Jornada\u003c/em> that evaporate and billow away when a visitor’s shadow comes into contact with them. As people flit across the screen, moving their arms and legs around, the once-prominent words disappear in an instance: fleeting and weightless.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The longer they spend in the show, the more the participants become aware of the effect they have on the art around them. Their presence is meaningful. By reaching out to touch a piece, they are able to alter its image permanently. From the moment they step inside and release their curiosity upon their surroundings, the small connections they make represent the myriad of ways people and space bleed into one another. “I learned that you can’t make an artwork impalpable,” said Lozano-Hemmer in \u003cem>Borderlands\u003c/em>. “To create an artwork for listening is really what the project became.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘TECHS-MECHS’ is on view at Gray Area through May 31. Admission is free for Mission District residents. \u003ca href=\"https://grayarea.org/exhibitions/techs-mechs/\">Tickets and more information here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>It’s an ideal environment for Mexican Canadian artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/lozanohemmer/\">Rafael Lozano-Hemmer\u003c/a>’s exhibition \u003ca href=\"https://grayarea.org/exhibitions/techs-mechs/\">\u003cem>TECHS-MECHS\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, where visitors are invited to interact with a number of immersive electronic art pieces that ponder human connection in an increasingly divisive and surveilled world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>TECHS-MECHS\u003c/em>, on view until May 31, is the first event in Gray Area’s \u003ca href=\"https://grayarea.org/visit/events/access-2023/\">ACCESS programming\u003c/a>, a three-part series that explores how technology is impacting artists and communities from varying cultural backgrounds and identities. With an emphasis on Latinx activism and politics, Lozano-Hemmer’s exhibition digs into how technology is part of Mexican history, and how tools have been used for understanding, progress and resistance. His pieces offer descriptions in both English and Spanish, and admission is free for Mission District residents — many of whom identify as Chicano or Mexican American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927057\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927057\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"empty large brown bottles are positioned on a table in an art exhibit\" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-4-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Synaptic Caguamas,’ a moving installation of a Mexican cantina bar table with 30 beer bottles that spin according to algorithms that are reset every few minutes. \u003ccite>(Kristie Song/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Powered by thermal cameras, computerized tracking systems, heart rate sensors and generative software, the exhibition reclaims technology that has been utilized to police migrants across the U.S.-Mexico border to instead create connections and raise awareness on the issue. “The idea is to use the language of technology and spectacle and scale to bring people into the area,” said Lozano-Hemmer, reflecting on his work in the 2020 documentary \u003cem>Borderlands\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each piece in \u003cem>TECHS-MECHS\u003c/em> consists of several complex mechanisms and unique algorithms where the main apparatus for activation is a participant’s touch. On its own, \u003cem>Pulse Topology\u003c/em> is a massive installation of 3,000 light bulbs that flickers and weaves its way across an otherwise vast and empty expanse. It is luminous but static until somebody reaches beneath one of its pulse sensors, holding still until the room begins to thrum with the sound of their heartbeat. For a few seconds, wrapped within this shimmering cocoon, people and time freeze as a new pulse courses through the space. Afterwards, the heartbeat is preserved into one of the bulbs, becoming a droplet in an ocean of blinking light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13927055\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003ca href=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-scaled.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13927055\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-800x600.jpg\" alt=\"a large screen shows hundreds of tiny colorful images of news reporters \" width=\"800\" height=\"600\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TECHS-MECHS-3-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">‘Reporters Without Borders,’ an interactive display at ‘TECHS-MECHS.’ \u003ccite>(Kristie Song/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In adjoining rooms, other pieces sit and wait to be interacted with. \u003cem>Airborne Newscasts\u003c/em> features projections of real-time stories from Mexican newspapers like \u003cem>El Universal\u003c/em> and \u003cem>La Jornada\u003c/em> that evaporate and billow away when a visitor’s shadow comes into contact with them. As people flit across the screen, moving their arms and legs around, the once-prominent words disappear in an instance: fleeting and weightless.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The longer they spend in the show, the more the participants become aware of the effect they have on the art around them. Their presence is meaningful. By reaching out to touch a piece, they are able to alter its image permanently. From the moment they step inside and release their curiosity upon their surroundings, the small connections they make represent the myriad of ways people and space bleed into one another. “I learned that you can’t make an artwork impalpable,” said Lozano-Hemmer in \u003cem>Borderlands\u003c/em>. “To create an artwork for listening is really what the project became.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘TECHS-MECHS’ is on view at Gray Area through May 31. Admission is free for Mission District residents. \u003ca href=\"https://grayarea.org/exhibitions/techs-mechs/\">Tickets and more information here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>Behind the storefront windows of the former Zanotto’s grocery store in San José sits a new gallery with an elongated, narrow design — not unlike an alley. Its name, then, is fitting: Chopsticks Alley Gallery, which showcases the work of emerging and established Southeast Asian artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside, the current solo exhibition from Santa Rosa designer \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/tuantsf/\">Tuan Tran\u003c/a> features haute couture designs that fuse Vietnamese culture and recycled materials. Sculptures made from electrical wire echo the traditional weaves of fishing nets. A luminescent dress pays homage to powerful female warriors like \u003ca href=\"https://vietnamtrips.com/the-trung-sisters-of-vietnam\">the Trung Sisters\u003c/a>, who successfully rebelled against the Chinese Han in 40 A.D.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13926203,arts_13923743' label='More from San José']In fact, each beautiful and skillfully crafted piece in \u003cem>Mẹ Earth: Past, Present, Future\u003c/em> tells a story of Vietnam’s rich heritage and the ingenuity of its people. It’s exactly the type of show that Trami Cron, the gallery’s founder and executive director, wants to see more of in San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born to artistic parents in Saigon toward the end of the Vietnam War, Cron has taken an indirect path to organizing visual art exhibitions. “My mom was always worried about the ‘starving artist’ path for me and encouraged me towards medicine or law,” she explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cron followed the corporate track for a few years, but ultimately left her job in pharmaceutical and medical device sales to pursue her own passions. She’s since become an important advocate for San José’s Southeast Asian residents, a demographic that makes up 18% of the city’s population.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chopsticks Alley began as an online foodie group, which Cron formed to share Vietnamese recipes and to promote her 2016 book, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.vietnameazy.com/\">VietnamEazy: A Novel About Mothers, Daughters and Food\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. Explaining the name, Cron notes that “alleys in Asia aren’t scary places like here. Alleys are where things happen; they are busy places where people get together over food, gamble, and do other fun stuff.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the group grew to 3,500 members, it expanded to include cook-offs, food contests to raise money for unhoused children, and a publication for young people to learn more about their Vietnamese culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926493\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Sunny view of long gallery space with four mannequins in dresses\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1896\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926493\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-800x592.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-1020x755.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-160x118.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-768x569.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-1536x1137.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-2048x1517.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-1920x1422.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Mẹ Earth: Past, Present, Future’ at Chopsticks Alley. \u003ccite>(Cherri Lakey)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Then, in 2016, Cron met with the San José Museum of Art, which had received a grant for a Vietnamese community outreach initiative. Cron quickly realized that Southeast Asian artists were underrepresented at the institution, and accepted a position as project coordinator. Since making the jump into visual arts, she has coordinated two exhibitions per year, in partnership with South Bay venues like ArtObject Gallery, Evergreen College and the Triton Museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We just traveled to places, and in many ways it worked out because we brought our work to where the people are,” Cron recalls. “And because of those pop-up exhibits, people learned about us and already knew who we were when we opened this gallery.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cron’s curatorial vision for the Chopsticks Alley Gallery is to bring emerging artists together with established elders, bridging the generational gap in the Southeast Asian community. Cron believes that elders’ work is often overlooked or thought of as a hobby, while the younger generation is pushed away from their artistic passions towards careers in engineering and other practical fields.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926942\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq.jpg\" alt=\"Mesh origami-like sculpture of a dragon on shoulder of mannequin\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926942\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sculpted dragon detail on one of Tuan Tran’s dresses at Chopsticks Alley. \u003ccite>(Cherri Lakey)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This de-emphasis on art leads to a lack of representation, Cron explains. “You get to see a lot of voices from other communities, but none from the Southeast Asian perspective — because we’re not allowed to make art,” she points out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additionally, Cron believes the generational gap in the Southeast Asian community has left its youth feeling distant from their culture and heritage. “I introduce the elders so that the young people know — ‘Look, we’ve always been here, we’ve always created art’ — and for the older folks to see how amazing the young people are,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although the focus at Chopsticks Alley is on Southeast Asian artists, the gallery’s first exhibit, which opened Dec. 2, 2022, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.chopsticksalleyart.org/xanh\">Xanh / Are you feeling blue?\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, included artists from the broader community — something Cron plans to do annually.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the gallery continues to develop its program, Cron is committed to mentoring young art administrators who can stay with the gallery in leadership roles. She hopes to create a strong foundation for Chopsticks Alley before she seeks out her next passion project: mentoring women professionals in achieving work-life balance and overall well-being.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Mẹ Earth: Past, Present, Future’ is on view through May 21, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://www.chopsticksalleyart.org/\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Behind the storefront windows of the former Zanotto’s grocery store in San José sits a new gallery with an elongated, narrow design — not unlike an alley. Its name, then, is fitting: Chopsticks Alley Gallery, which showcases the work of emerging and established Southeast Asian artists.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Inside, the current solo exhibition from Santa Rosa designer \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/tuantsf/\">Tuan Tran\u003c/a> features haute couture designs that fuse Vietnamese culture and recycled materials. Sculptures made from electrical wire echo the traditional weaves of fishing nets. A luminescent dress pays homage to powerful female warriors like \u003ca href=\"https://vietnamtrips.com/the-trung-sisters-of-vietnam\">the Trung Sisters\u003c/a>, who successfully rebelled against the Chinese Han in 40 A.D.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In fact, each beautiful and skillfully crafted piece in \u003cem>Mẹ Earth: Past, Present, Future\u003c/em> tells a story of Vietnam’s rich heritage and the ingenuity of its people. It’s exactly the type of show that Trami Cron, the gallery’s founder and executive director, wants to see more of in San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Born to artistic parents in Saigon toward the end of the Vietnam War, Cron has taken an indirect path to organizing visual art exhibitions. “My mom was always worried about the ‘starving artist’ path for me and encouraged me towards medicine or law,” she explains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cron followed the corporate track for a few years, but ultimately left her job in pharmaceutical and medical device sales to pursue her own passions. She’s since become an important advocate for San José’s Southeast Asian residents, a demographic that makes up 18% of the city’s population.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Chopsticks Alley began as an online foodie group, which Cron formed to share Vietnamese recipes and to promote her 2016 book, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.vietnameazy.com/\">VietnamEazy: A Novel About Mothers, Daughters and Food\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. Explaining the name, Cron notes that “alleys in Asia aren’t scary places like here. Alleys are where things happen; they are busy places where people get together over food, gamble, and do other fun stuff.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the group grew to 3,500 members, it expanded to include cook-offs, food contests to raise money for unhoused children, and a publication for young people to learn more about their Vietnamese culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926493\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"Sunny view of long gallery space with four mannequins in dresses\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1896\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926493\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-800x592.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-1020x755.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-160x118.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-768x569.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-1536x1137.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-2048x1517.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ChopsticksAlley_installationview_byCherriLakey-1920x1422.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Mẹ Earth: Past, Present, Future’ at Chopsticks Alley. \u003ccite>(Cherri Lakey)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Then, in 2016, Cron met with the San José Museum of Art, which had received a grant for a Vietnamese community outreach initiative. Cron quickly realized that Southeast Asian artists were underrepresented at the institution, and accepted a position as project coordinator. Since making the jump into visual arts, she has coordinated two exhibitions per year, in partnership with South Bay venues like ArtObject Gallery, Evergreen College and the Triton Museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We just traveled to places, and in many ways it worked out because we brought our work to where the people are,” Cron recalls. “And because of those pop-up exhibits, people learned about us and already knew who we were when we opened this gallery.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cron’s curatorial vision for the Chopsticks Alley Gallery is to bring emerging artists together with established elders, bridging the generational gap in the Southeast Asian community. Cron believes that elders’ work is often overlooked or thought of as a hobby, while the younger generation is pushed away from their artistic passions towards careers in engineering and other practical fields.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926942\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq.jpg\" alt=\"Mesh origami-like sculpture of a dragon on shoulder of mannequin\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926942\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dragondetail_TuanTran_web_sq-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sculpted dragon detail on one of Tuan Tran’s dresses at Chopsticks Alley. \u003ccite>(Cherri Lakey)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>This de-emphasis on art leads to a lack of representation, Cron explains. “You get to see a lot of voices from other communities, but none from the Southeast Asian perspective — because we’re not allowed to make art,” she points out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additionally, Cron believes the generational gap in the Southeast Asian community has left its youth feeling distant from their culture and heritage. “I introduce the elders so that the young people know — ‘Look, we’ve always been here, we’ve always created art’ — and for the older folks to see how amazing the young people are,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although the focus at Chopsticks Alley is on Southeast Asian artists, the gallery’s first exhibit, which opened Dec. 2, 2022, \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.chopsticksalleyart.org/xanh\">Xanh / Are you feeling blue?\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, included artists from the broader community — something Cron plans to do annually.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As the gallery continues to develop its program, Cron is committed to mentoring young art administrators who can stay with the gallery in leadership roles. She hopes to create a strong foundation for Chopsticks Alley before she seeks out her next passion project: mentoring women professionals in achieving work-life balance and overall well-being.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Mẹ Earth: Past, Present, Future’ is on view through May 21, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://www.chopsticksalleyart.org/\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "spie-one-tdk-bay-area-graffiti-history-hip-hop",
"title": "‘Tax Dollars Kill’: Spie One’s Decades of Bay Area Graffiti Activism",
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"headTitle": "‘Tax Dollars Kill’: Spie One’s Decades of Bay Area Graffiti Activism | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he name Spie One has resonated in the Bay Area for nearly 40 years. The prolific graffiti artist, muralist and artivist may be less famous than his former painting partner, the late Mike “Dream” Francisco, but Spie is no less legendary. A mainstay of the TDK Collective, Irie Posse and FC — all with gravitas and legacy in the underground art world — Spie has been both observer and participant throughout the most dynamic eras in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But who is Spie? His \u003cem>nom de guerre\u003c/em> evokes subterfuge, counter-intelligence, covertness. Indeed, maintaining anonymity was imperative at the beginning of Spie’s career, during the formative stages of Bay Area graffiti itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the years, though, Spie evolved into a well-known force bridging activism and visual art in the streets. In recent years, he’s become an accomplished muralist working in different mediums, as well as a teacher, mentor and leader by example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those who know Spie well enough to call him a friend talk a lot about his character — his ethics, his dedication to his craft and his belief in collective liberation. They also mention his idiosyncrasies — the bugged-out sketches he randomly emails folks, his insistence on using 20-year-old paint from his garage instead of modern spray cans, his continued willingness to get up on impromptu street art missions even though he’s married with children and has a day job as a high school art teacher.[aside postid='arts_13924167,arts_13925931,arts_13924109' label='More on Bay Area Hip-Hop Culture']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The words “community” and “family” invariably come up in conversations with and about Spie. While he can claim status in a field where toys are destroyed and respect is earned one piece at a time, one of his defining characteristics is humility. His ethos, he says, is a simple “each one teach one” philosophy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You got knowledge, you got to pass it on,” Spie continues. “I got something to share. That’s why I chose to take my work to the next generation, the youth, and to help cultivate their imagination, their radical thoughts… Hip-hop combined with that is what has shaped my pathway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>I, Spie\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie grew up in a multiracial household in San Francisco in the 1970s, when the city was still identified with the remnants of 1960s counterculture. His artist mother and bus driver father were both activists whose shared worldview was shaped by revolutionary ideals. While his mom encouraged his artistic sensibilities, his dad let him pal along on bus rides and introduced him to eclectic, cutting-edge music, like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PobrSpMwKk4\">The Message\u003c/a>” — with bristling, Reagan-era sociopolitical commentary that made a lasting impression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A tall, lanky youth, Spie was somewhat introverted, letting his artistic expressions manifest on notebooks and a dresser in his room. No one particular flashpoint led him to pursue graffiti. As a half-Asian kid, or \u003cem>hapa\u003c/em>, living in a diverse city, he was eager to carve out his own identity and find a community. The emergence of hip-hop and graffiti in the early ’80s gave him the sense of belonging and creative outlet he needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie’s first public attempt at a graffiti piece came in 1985, at the tennis courts of McAteer High School in San Francisco. It was a simple piece: a red and black rendering of his early moniker “Spy,” written boldly. Next to it were the words “one man bomber” — a testament to the fact that Spie painted it alone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926652\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926652\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s first piece at San Francisco’s McAteer High School, circa late 1983 or early 1984. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In a 2017 episode of Adam Fujita’s popular \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/episode-6-season-2-spie-tdk-fc-tmc-irie-possee/id1170942266?i=1000408431397\">graffiti podcast \u003cem>My Life In Letters\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, Spie explained how the piece brought him local notoriety; he soon became an active tagger on Muni buses, as well as in the Excelsior and the Mission. A Muni Fast Pass afforded him the opportunity to visit other neighborhoods and write his graffiti name across the city, and as he grew more prolific, so did his stylistic ability and reputation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Young Spie wasn’t alone in this endeavor. Alongside him in the 1980s were hundreds, maybe thousands of restless youth finding their way within graffiti. The status quo called them vandals. But graffiti was \u003cem>their\u003c/em> counterculture, and a way to find meaning and identity in a society that didn’t always see or hear them. [pullquote size='large' citation='Spie']‘I got something to share. That’s why I chose to take my work to the next generation, the youth, and to help cultivate their imagination, their radical thoughts.’[/pullquote]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1982, graffiti had become known as one of hip-hop’s four elements. But it was also a standalone culture that preceded b-boying, MCing and DJ scratching. The \u003ca href=\"http://southsideprojections.org/2018/the-mural-movement-and-the-black-arts-movement/\">community mural movement\u003c/a> dated back to 1967 Chicago and aligned with the Black Arts Movement. Murals were already part of the cultural expression of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kcet.org/arts-culture/el-movimiento\">El Movimiento\u003c/a>, a.k.a. the Chicano Movement, a push for ethnic identity and empowerment. The \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a> originated in Philadelphia in the late ’60s before spreading to New York. And gang-affiliated tags had long permeated SF’s Mission and Excelsior districts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These cultural precedents were integral to graffiti’s evolution. In the late 1970s and early ’80s, New York’s aerosol kings conquered the subways of the five boroughs. Even though the Metropolitan Transit Authority combatted their wild styles with “the buff,” word spread around the country with films like 1983’s \u003cem>Wild Style\u003c/em>, along with the documentary \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>, which aired nationally on PBS the same year. Its broadcast on KQED \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">catalyzed the Bay Area graffiti scene\u003c/a>. “There was this gravitational pull toward what was happening coming out of these films,” Spie recalls.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>One wall to rule them all\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the mid-’80s, a series of walls in an unsecured downtown parking lot near Van Ness Avenue and Market Street became an unlikely ground zero for aspiring aerosol aficionados. A wall painted by Doug “Dug-1” Cunningham in 1986 entitled “Psycho City” became so iconic, the quasi-legal graffiti spot was soon named in its honor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When Dug hit it, it was a full-on burner,” Spie recalls, referring to a particularly impressive stylistic production that metaphorically burned competition. “It was like it was framed. It was very solidly panoramic, rectangular. It had characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afterwards, “[graffiti] just started to expand to all the neighboring walls, to the point where [Psycho City] became the place to go to paint,” Spie adds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926653\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926653\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"550\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-160x110.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-768x528.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986.jpg 1011w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dug-1’s ‘Psycho City’ piece gave the legendary San Francisco graffiti spot its name in 1986. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Graffiti artists from all over the Bay Area, and even other states and countries, found their way to Psycho City. Over time, the scene became more competitive as wall space became more limited. A piece painted one night might be painted over the next. Needless to say, the competition fueled innovation, as productions became bolder, bigger and more ambitious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie recalls Psycho City remaining active up until November 1992, when a street festival featuring barbeque, DJs, and breakdancing by NYC’s Rock Steady Crew attracted police attention. In the ensuing confrontation, police vehicles were vandalized. The cops returned in greater numbers and began ticketing people. Soon after, “No Loitering” signs were put up, which allowed police to cite anyone in the area, effectively ending Psycho City’s reign. The irony, Spie says, is that instead of graffiti being contained within one centralized location, the police action “ended up pushing it to other parts of town.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13864059\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13864059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png\" alt='Mike \"Dream\" Francisco' width=\"800\" height=\"514\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-160x103.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-768x494.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1020x656.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1200x771.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1920x1234.png 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM.png 2048w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s late painting partner, Mike ‘Dream’ Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Pieces of a Dream\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By 1987, Spie had earned a reputation as an up-and-coming artist with a versatile array of lettering styles. That reputation would only grow over time — and with the help of a legendary collaborator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over in Oakland, a Filipino American artist named Mike “Dream” Francisco had established himself as the king of the 23rd Yard, a popular graffiti destination. At the time, “I didn’t know Dream, but he was my hero,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In July 1987, Dream painted a massive mural at the 23rd Yard entitled “Best of Both Worlds.” The painting — which has since become the center spread of 2011’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/the-history-of-american-graffiti-from-subway-car-to-gallery\">The History of American Graffiti\u003c/a>\u003c/em> — consisted of two elaborately detailed letterforms, one in the computer-esque “New Wave” style and the other in the abstract “Funk” style. In mastering both styles, Dream was sending a not-so-subtle message to fellow artists of unity instead of division.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie and some artist pals journeyed to Oakland to see the wall. “Everyone was talking about it,” he says. He and Dream became friends that day, although it would be another two years before they would begin collaborating in earnest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after, Phase 2’s widely respected magazine \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://rmc.library.cornell.edu/EAD/htmldocs/RMM08067.html\">International Graffiti Times\u003c/a>\u003c/em> put out a call for artist submissions. “Dream won that one and it got really popularized. And then everybody knew that the Bay Area had a scene going on… Dream put the Bay Area on the map as far as graff,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926667\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13926667 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"145\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1020x185.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-160x29.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-768x140.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1536x279.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-2048x372.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1920x349.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dream’s 1987 ‘Best of Both Worlds’ wall in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Bay Area graffiti was growing exponentially, “but it was frowned upon,” says Susan Cervantes of Mission-based arts non-profit \u003ca href=\"https://www.precitaeyes.org/\">Precita Eyes\u003c/a>. “If you had a marker you were considered a criminal. Youth were taking a lot of risk trying to do it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, the subculture continued to thrive. In August 1987, Henry Chalfant and James Prigoff’s book \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em> showcased local artists Crayone TWS, Del Phresh, Whisky and Daube alongside national and international talent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were in love with [\u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>],” Spie says. He notes Prigoff, then a local resident, would sometimes invite Bay Area artists over to his house to view photographs of graffiti from other regions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cervantes, a community muralist since the ’70s, recognized that a new artistic movement was underway. Precita Eyes hosted a book release party for \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, and Cervantes curated a graffiti art competition at Mission Cultural Center, which brought her into contact with 16-year-old Spie, who knew some of the artists in the competition. After the event, Spie stayed in touch with Cervantes and the organization as they started to integrate graffiti’s aesthetic into their youth programming. They’ve been connected ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, Spie and Dream participated in a panel during Precita Eyes’ first Urban Youth Arts Festival. “They discussed their experiences in the graffiti movement with all the young people who came to participate,” Cervantes says. “They were really good about the history of the graff movement and how important it was to show respect for each others’ work.” Their engagement with young people set a tone that Precita Eyes has followed for 27 years, with the annual festival as a linchpin of its programmatic activities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Spie] is a really special person,” Cervantes says. “I think he’s very articulate not only in his visual expression, but also in activism around the issues that are important to him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926650\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926650\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"528\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1020x673.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-768x506.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1536x1013.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mike “Dream” Francisco stands before his collaborative mural with Spie One, ‘Tax Dollars Kill,’ in 1995. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Fighting the power\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie has always viewed activism as a generational legacy. He tells a story of how, during the height of the anti-apartheid movement, Berkeley hosted a “Spirit of Soweto” street festival on Telegraph Avenue. Revolution Books provided canvases for artists to paint politically-themed works. Coincidentally, Spie and Dream both brought sketches of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luVpsM3YAgw\">Steve Biko\u003c/a>, a martyred South African activist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Clearly, the two artists were aligned in their politics and artistic sensibilities, and Spie and Dream began working together shortly after. By that point, Spie had become a master of letterforms, characters and backgrounds. In archival photographs of their many collaborations, the pair appear evenly matched; a 1992 co-production at Psycho City literally rises above lesser tags with blazingly vibrant colors and impeccable aerosol calligraphy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926654\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926654\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"517\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1020x659.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-768x496.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1536x993.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi.jpg 1685w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A collaborative piece by Spie and Dream at Psycho City in 1992. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie joined Dream’s crew TDK, influencing the collective’s aesthetic artistically and ideologically. The acronym originally stood for “Those Damn Kids,” but soon morphed into alternate meanings, among them “Teach Dem Knowledge.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Francisco “Amend” Sanchez was still in high school when he met Dream, who was working at the Built to Last tattoo parlor, where aspiring young artists would often “hover” to watch the master at work. At the time, Sanchez had a different tag, but he switched to writing Amend after Dream told him, “Your name should represent. You should have some value to who you are.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>TDK, Amend says, isn’t just about the style of graffiti. “It’s also about just the culture within, an urban community that you want to represent and speak up for.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Amend, Spie plays a unique role within the crew. “He doesn’t get enough credit on how influential he’s been in the Bay Area for multiple generations. As far as TDK goes, I think he’s the main guy who would push Mike Dream, to push the crew to go into that whole social justice point of view, speaking up for … people in the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was the ‘Fight the Power’ era,” Spie recalls — a time when hip-hop often felt like a political movement, and rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One pushed the envelope of sociopolitical commentary in pop culture. For Spie, it was a no-brainer to contribute visually, and inspire others to do the same. There were many causes to join: reproductive rights, opposing anti-immigration laws, protesting LAPD’s beating of Rodney King, pushing back against the Gulf War and resisting the 500-year anniversary of Columbus’ “discovery” of America in 1992.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a great time of awareness,” Spie says. “I was very much in a learning mode of being aware of the Native struggle and needing to [let people] know that we are occupying Native peoples’ territories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926719\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926719\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"580\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1020x740.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-768x557.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1536x1114.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy.jpg 1783w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s ‘Solidarity’ was commissioned by the Oakland Museum of California for the exhibition ‘Respect: Style and Wisdom of Hip-Hop’ in 2018. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>No justice, just us\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As political graffiti proliferated in the Bay Area, a January 1993 exhibition at Oakland’s Pro Arts gallery titled \u003cem>No Justice No Peace\u003c/em> became the first local gallery show to feature the artform. Eastside Arts Alliance co-founder Greg Morozumi organized it during the Rodney King protests, which raised profound questions about police accountability. The exhibition, Spie says, was a “proverbial middle finger” against the system.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To enter the gallery, attendees had to walk over an American flag. “That was the welcome mat,” Spie says. Inside, viewers were greeted by paintings by Spie, Dream, Krash, Dug-1 and Refa One — most of which questioned the authority of law enforcement while reinforcing community resilience. Spie and Dream’s “No Justice” paid tribute to Jesse “Plan-B” Hall, an \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/7-NYa6SDNP8\">emerging rapper who was murdered in a still-unsolved drive-by shooting\u003c/a> in Oakland’s Sobrante Park. Juxtaposed with a Krash painting of a porcine-faced police officer pointing a gun, the piece addressed the emotional toll of inner-city violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926659\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"554\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1020x706.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-160x111.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-768x532.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1536x1063.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93.jpg 1712w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A look inside the ‘No Justice, No Peace’ exhibition at ProArts in 1993. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1994, Dream and Spie painted an on-stage backdrop for KMEL’s annual Summer Jam concert. The show, headlined by Patti LaBelle, also featured locals E-40, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Tony! Toni! Toné! and A Lighter Shade of Brown, along with Public Enemy, OutKast and Queen Latifah. The backdrop proved that the duo weren’t always incendiary, with colorful letters spelling out “Respect” along with the message “peace follows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1995, Spie and Dream collaborated on one of their most unflinching murals: “Tax Dollars Kill.” The names of the artists appeared in typical graffiti wildstyle fashion; above them was a depiction of lightning striking the U.S. Capitol building. The symbolism was inescapable, especially because the mural’s title was rendered boldly above the signatures in white lettering, like a masthead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout their association, Spie and Dream would “always try to bring some kind of message … something poetic to be a part of what people were reading, as far as the painting goes. And that just kind of kept manifesting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926708\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926708\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410.jpg 1224w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A copy of a 1994 edition of the \u003ci>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/i> saved by Spie One, showing Patti Labelle performing in front of his collaborative mural with Mike “Dream” Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In addition to political influence, artist Cece Carpio, who calls Spie a mentor, maintains that he helped establish a Bay Area-identified lettering style. In the pre-internet days, she explains, graffiti was less ubiquitous and regions were often associated with specific styles. “Back then, the Bay Area letters got kind of curvy, just stylized lettering. I actually believe that’s something that the Bay Area started, and Spie was one of the pioneers who did that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A controversial mural with a message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While enrolled as an undergrad at San Francisco State University in 1996, Spie painted his first work with acrylic paint and brushes: a portrait of Malcolm X to commemorate the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#third-world-liberation-front-paves-the-way-for-black-and-brown-unity\">1968 Third World Liberation Front student strike\u003c/a>, which resulted in the creation of one of the country’s first ethnic studies departments. Working in the mode of a traditional painter caused some apprehension and soul-searching for Spie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was always just this back-and-forth around, ‘Are you staying true to this art form? Are you trying to do that other established thing that other people already consider art?’” he recalls. “That was something that I struggled with a lot of those years. But I think the Malcolm X piece really helped me to open up my own personal arts avenues much wider.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although the mural’s unveiling was a success (Spie got to meet Malcolm’s widow, Betty Shabazz, who came out for the event), the project had a long and controversial backstory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An earlier version of the mural, painted by Oakland artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851520/rightnowish-refa-one-spraypaint-in-hand-honors-west-oaklands-history\">Refa One\u003c/a>, included a border with dollar bills, a burning American flag, and a Star of David. Needless to say, this did not go over well with the university, whose spokesperson \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1994/05/27/us/san-francisco-state-destroys-malcolm-x-mural-after-furor.html\">called the piece “hateful” in \u003cem>The\u003c/em> \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. [ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The school administration ordered the mural to be covered up, but a group of students reclaimed it with a bucket of water and soap, and camped out in front of the mural to protect it from further harm. In response, the school brought in a tactical unit in riot gear, aided by the SFPD, Spie recalls. Eventually, the mural was sandblasted over. “It was like they were assassinating Malcolm twice,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years later, the university put out another call for artists, and Spie was selected. Facing pressure from student activists, the school administration asked him to work with a Black artist, Kamau Ayubbi, a friend he knew from the 23rd Yard. The completed mural, still visible today, features two portraits of Malcolm X, with the African continent surrounding the United States, painted in black, in the background. It also includes a Malcolm X quote: “Our objective is complete freedom, justice, and equality By Any Means Necessary.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926660\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926660\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"570\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1020x727.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1536x1095.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-2048x1460.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1920x1369.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Kama Ayubbo’s 1996 Malcolm X mural at San Francisco State University. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Rebel without a pause\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 2000, the unthinkable happened: Mike Dream was murdered in West Oakland. The still-unsolved killing deprived the Bay Area of its most legendary graffiti artist. “It was a devastating blow when he left this world. … So much of my own kind of self-actualization came through his guidance,” Spie \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/a-dream-continued-1/\">later told the \u003cem>East Bay Express\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. Spie and the TDK crew have kept Dream alive and in their hearts for the past 23 years, organizing a series of annual “Dream Day” events in Oakland \u003ca href=\"https://hiphopandpolitics.com/tag/mike-dream/\">beginning in 2010\u003c/a>, benefitting Dream’s son Akil.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDp38sltic8\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Rather than slow down, though, TDK remained active. Amend, Vogue and Stash all became widely known artists in their own right. Dream protege Marty Aranaydo, a.k.a. Meut TDK, a.k.a. DJ Willie Maze, furthered hip-hop activism through painting and as a member of socially conscious DJ collective Local 1200. Meanwhile, Spie soldiered on, earning a teaching credential and landing a job teaching art at a regional high school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 2000s, a new generation of artist collectives emerged, building directly on Dream and Spie’s sociopolitical blueprint and the family values of TDK. \u003ca href=\"https://www.trustyourstruggle.org/\">Trust Your Struggle\u003c/a> member Carpio says Spie has gone out of his way to push her artistic efforts to the next level. And while \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13868732/cece-carpio\">Carpio’s work stands on its own\u003c/a>, Spie’s influence reflects in themes of Indigenous advocacy, resilience and racial solidarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The two recently painted a commemorative project at UC Berkeley honoring the Third World Liberation Front. The project, which has yet to be installed, features vibrant portraits of revolutionary icons Richard Aoki, June Jordan, Lehman Brightman, Ron Takaki and LaNada War Jack. According to Carpio, “what makes [Spie’s art] different in comparison to a lot of other graffiti and street art is his accountability to the movement and his accountability to the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926661\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"816\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1020x1040.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-160x163.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-768x783.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1506x1536.jpg 1506w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1920x1958.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall.jpg 2006w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">2014’s ‘Key Tree,’ Spie’s contribution to Oakland’s Palestine Solidarity Wall, visualizes liberation of oppressed peoples. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie has painted in New York, Los Angeles, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Cuba, Costa Rica, Mexico and Portugal. Still, some of his most memorable work has been local. In 2007, he, Mike Ramos and H.O.M.E.Y. \u003ca href=\"https://digitalstories.famsf.org/teo/#teotihuacan-in-san-francisco\">painted\u003c/a> the mythical Aztec Feathered Serpent in the Mission. In 2014, he was one of 12 muralists who contributed to the “\u003ca href=\"https://artforces.org/projects/murals/usa/oakland-palestine-solidarity-mural/\">Oakland Palestine Solidarity Mural\u003c/a>” in Uptown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2018, he manifested a solidarity-themed mural as part of the Oakland Museum’s first-ever hip-hop exhibit, and a ruby-throated hummingbird for environmental justice organization PODER. During the pandemic, he and several family members volunteered to paint the exterior of the Precita Eyes building. In 2021, during the George Floyd protests, he was one of the first artists to turn downtown Oakland into an outdoor art gallery. And in 2022, he painted a work entitled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.artspanart.org/eric-norberg-eai-summer-2022\">Serve the People\u003c/a>” on the window of Casa De Apoyo, a transitional housing resource center in the Excelsior.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he’s become a more accomplished muralist, Spie has stayed true to his roots by including elements of graffiti even when working with other mediums. “I can remember that he started using acrylic paint with a brush to block in everything, and then he would do all the fine effects and details with the aerosol,” Cervantes says. “And that’s kind of what our youth arts program still does today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout his storied career, Spie says he “always chose the side of the earth, the subjected and the oppressed. And, you know, what they like to say: the voice of the voiceless.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926662\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Cece Carpio collaborated on a tribute to the Third World Liberation Front and other revolutionary activists. Their work will be installed at UC Berkeley at a later date. \u003ccite>(Cece Carpio)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>TDK: The Dream Kontinues\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie can recount descriptive accounts of protests from decades past, but when asked about future projects, he simply sends over a link to YBCA’s recent “YBCA 100” celebration, with a visual art display by TDK Collective.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the event, Spie held court on the venue’s second floor, dressed unassumingly in a Madow Futur jacket and \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/i5OX8pDTyow\">Bored Stiff\u003c/a> baseball hat. As he greeted attendees, including visual artist Agana and documentary filmmaker Eli Jacobs-Fantauzzi, a monitor played \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">Bay Area Graffiti: The Early Years\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, followed by \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Art supplies were laid out on a table, along with various hardcover books on graffiti. Adjacent walls were decorated with TDK’s historical works: several Spie-Dream collaborations, including “Tax Dollars Kill,” and a tribute to the Rodney King uprisings that depicted an overturned police car, a colorful piece by Pak (R.I.P.), a tribute to Plan-B, and a late career piece by Dream. Several of Spie’s solo works were integrated, among them two vibrant “Spie” letterforms, linked by the word “vs.” (referencing the classic \u003cem>Mad\u003c/em> magazine cartoon “Spy vs. Spy”). The artist was clearly in his element.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie pulled out a binder he’d assembled, consisting of Dream’s pieces, sketches, quotes and airbrush work. The collection held serious gravitas; all that it needed to be included in a library alongside \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Dondi White: Style Master General\u003c/em> and similar graffiti books was a hardcover binding and written essays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whatever the future holds – a comprehensive TDK retrospective, the publication of his Dream book or some other legacy project – Spie doesn’t reveal exact plans. It’s understandable, and completely in character, that after five decades as an artist, he seems to take satisfaction in maintaining his mystique, revealing only what he deems necessary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Meet graffiti artist Spie One, the Bay Area legend whose work spans nearly every era of graffiti.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cb>\u003ci>Editor’s note:\u003c/i>\u003c/b>\u003ci> This story is part of\u003c/i>\u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/bayareahiphop\"> That’s My Word\u003c/a>\u003ci>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">T\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>he name Spie One has resonated in the Bay Area for nearly 40 years. The prolific graffiti artist, muralist and artivist may be less famous than his former painting partner, the late Mike “Dream” Francisco, but Spie is no less legendary. A mainstay of the TDK Collective, Irie Posse and FC — all with gravitas and legacy in the underground art world — Spie has been both observer and participant throughout the most dynamic eras in \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop history\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But who is Spie? His \u003cem>nom de guerre\u003c/em> evokes subterfuge, counter-intelligence, covertness. Indeed, maintaining anonymity was imperative at the beginning of Spie’s career, during the formative stages of Bay Area graffiti itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the years, though, Spie evolved into a well-known force bridging activism and visual art in the streets. In recent years, he’s become an accomplished muralist working in different mediums, as well as a teacher, mentor and leader by example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those who know Spie well enough to call him a friend talk a lot about his character — his ethics, his dedication to his craft and his belief in collective liberation. They also mention his idiosyncrasies — the bugged-out sketches he randomly emails folks, his insistence on using 20-year-old paint from his garage instead of modern spray cans, his continued willingness to get up on impromptu street art missions even though he’s married with children and has a day job as a high school art teacher.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The words “community” and “family” invariably come up in conversations with and about Spie. While he can claim status in a field where toys are destroyed and respect is earned one piece at a time, one of his defining characteristics is humility. His ethos, he says, is a simple “each one teach one” philosophy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You got knowledge, you got to pass it on,” Spie continues. “I got something to share. That’s why I chose to take my work to the next generation, the youth, and to help cultivate their imagination, their radical thoughts… Hip-hop combined with that is what has shaped my pathway.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>I, Spie\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie grew up in a multiracial household in San Francisco in the 1970s, when the city was still identified with the remnants of 1960s counterculture. His artist mother and bus driver father were both activists whose shared worldview was shaped by revolutionary ideals. While his mom encouraged his artistic sensibilities, his dad let him pal along on bus rides and introduced him to eclectic, cutting-edge music, like Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s “\u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PobrSpMwKk4\">The Message\u003c/a>” — with bristling, Reagan-era sociopolitical commentary that made a lasting impression.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A tall, lanky youth, Spie was somewhat introverted, letting his artistic expressions manifest on notebooks and a dresser in his room. No one particular flashpoint led him to pursue graffiti. As a half-Asian kid, or \u003cem>hapa\u003c/em>, living in a diverse city, he was eager to carve out his own identity and find a community. The emergence of hip-hop and graffiti in the early ’80s gave him the sense of belonging and creative outlet he needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie’s first public attempt at a graffiti piece came in 1985, at the tennis courts of McAteer High School in San Francisco. It was a simple piece: a red and black rendering of his early moniker “Spy,” written boldly. Next to it were the words “one man bomber” — a testament to the fact that Spie painted it alone.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926652\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926652\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Spy-McAteer-e1679434426890.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s first piece at San Francisco’s McAteer High School, circa late 1983 or early 1984. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In a 2017 episode of Adam Fujita’s popular \u003ca href=\"https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/episode-6-season-2-spie-tdk-fc-tmc-irie-possee/id1170942266?i=1000408431397\">graffiti podcast \u003cem>My Life In Letters\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, Spie explained how the piece brought him local notoriety; he soon became an active tagger on Muni buses, as well as in the Excelsior and the Mission. A Muni Fast Pass afforded him the opportunity to visit other neighborhoods and write his graffiti name across the city, and as he grew more prolific, so did his stylistic ability and reputation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Young Spie wasn’t alone in this endeavor. Alongside him in the 1980s were hundreds, maybe thousands of restless youth finding their way within graffiti. The status quo called them vandals. But graffiti was \u003cem>their\u003c/em> counterculture, and a way to find meaning and identity in a society that didn’t always see or hear them. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By 1982, graffiti had become known as one of hip-hop’s four elements. But it was also a standalone culture that preceded b-boying, MCing and DJ scratching. The \u003ca href=\"http://southsideprojections.org/2018/the-mural-movement-and-the-black-arts-movement/\">community mural movement\u003c/a> dated back to 1967 Chicago and aligned with the Black Arts Movement. Murals were already part of the cultural expression of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kcet.org/arts-culture/el-movimiento\">El Movimiento\u003c/a>, a.k.a. the Chicano Movement, a push for ethnic identity and empowerment. The \u003ca href=\"https://blogs.cuit.columbia.edu/ijt2106/moment-of-departure/the-emergence-of-modern-graffiti/\">modern graffiti movement\u003c/a> originated in Philadelphia in the late ’60s before spreading to New York. And gang-affiliated tags had long permeated SF’s Mission and Excelsior districts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These cultural precedents were integral to graffiti’s evolution. In the late 1970s and early ’80s, New York’s aerosol kings conquered the subways of the five boroughs. Even though the Metropolitan Transit Authority combatted their wild styles with “the buff,” word spread around the country with films like 1983’s \u003cem>Wild Style\u003c/em>, along with the documentary \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>, which aired nationally on PBS the same year. Its broadcast on KQED \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">catalyzed the Bay Area graffiti scene\u003c/a>. “There was this gravitational pull toward what was happening coming out of these films,” Spie recalls.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>One wall to rule them all\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the mid-’80s, a series of walls in an unsecured downtown parking lot near Van Ness Avenue and Market Street became an unlikely ground zero for aspiring aerosol aficionados. A wall painted by Doug “Dug-1” Cunningham in 1986 entitled “Psycho City” became so iconic, the quasi-legal graffiti spot was soon named in its honor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When Dug hit it, it was a full-on burner,” Spie recalls, referring to a particularly impressive stylistic production that metaphorically burned competition. “It was like it was framed. It was very solidly panoramic, rectangular. It had characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Afterwards, “[graffiti] just started to expand to all the neighboring walls, to the point where [Psycho City] became the place to go to paint,” Spie adds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926653\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926653\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"550\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-800x550.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-160x110.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986-768x528.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Psycho-City-DUG-TMF-1986.jpg 1011w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dug-1’s ‘Psycho City’ piece gave the legendary San Francisco graffiti spot its name in 1986. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Graffiti artists from all over the Bay Area, and even other states and countries, found their way to Psycho City. Over time, the scene became more competitive as wall space became more limited. A piece painted one night might be painted over the next. Needless to say, the competition fueled innovation, as productions became bolder, bigger and more ambitious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie recalls Psycho City remaining active up until November 1992, when a street festival featuring barbeque, DJs, and breakdancing by NYC’s Rock Steady Crew attracted police attention. In the ensuing confrontation, police vehicles were vandalized. The cops returned in greater numbers and began ticketing people. Soon after, “No Loitering” signs were put up, which allowed police to cite anyone in the area, effectively ending Psycho City’s reign. The irony, Spie says, is that instead of graffiti being contained within one centralized location, the police action “ended up pushing it to other parts of town.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13864059\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13864059\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png\" alt='Mike \"Dream\" Francisco' width=\"800\" height=\"514\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-800x514.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-160x103.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-768x494.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1020x656.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1200x771.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM-1920x1234.png 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2019/08/Screen-Shot-2019-08-14-at-7.32.36-AM.png 2048w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s late painting partner, Mike ‘Dream’ Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Pieces of a Dream\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By 1987, Spie had earned a reputation as an up-and-coming artist with a versatile array of lettering styles. That reputation would only grow over time — and with the help of a legendary collaborator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over in Oakland, a Filipino American artist named Mike “Dream” Francisco had established himself as the king of the 23rd Yard, a popular graffiti destination. At the time, “I didn’t know Dream, but he was my hero,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In July 1987, Dream painted a massive mural at the 23rd Yard entitled “Best of Both Worlds.” The painting — which has since become the center spread of 2011’s \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.pbs.org/newshour/arts/the-history-of-american-graffiti-from-subway-car-to-gallery\">The History of American Graffiti\u003c/a>\u003c/em> — consisted of two elaborately detailed letterforms, one in the computer-esque “New Wave” style and the other in the abstract “Funk” style. In mastering both styles, Dream was sending a not-so-subtle message to fellow artists of unity instead of division.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie and some artist pals journeyed to Oakland to see the wall. “Everyone was talking about it,” he says. He and Dream became friends that day, although it would be another two years before they would begin collaborating in earnest.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after, Phase 2’s widely respected magazine \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://rmc.library.cornell.edu/EAD/htmldocs/RMM08067.html\">International Graffiti Times\u003c/a>\u003c/em> put out a call for artist submissions. “Dream won that one and it got really popularized. And then everybody knew that the Bay Area had a scene going on… Dream put the Bay Area on the map as far as graff,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926667\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-13926667 size-medium\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"145\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-800x145.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1020x185.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-160x29.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-768x140.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1536x279.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-2048x372.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Dream-Best-of-Both-Worlds_Spie-One-1920x349.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Dream’s 1987 ‘Best of Both Worlds’ wall in Oakland. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Bay Area graffiti was growing exponentially, “but it was frowned upon,” says Susan Cervantes of Mission-based arts non-profit \u003ca href=\"https://www.precitaeyes.org/\">Precita Eyes\u003c/a>. “If you had a marker you were considered a criminal. Youth were taking a lot of risk trying to do it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Still, the subculture continued to thrive. In August 1987, Henry Chalfant and James Prigoff’s book \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em> showcased local artists Crayone TWS, Del Phresh, Whisky and Daube alongside national and international talent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were in love with [\u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>],” Spie says. He notes Prigoff, then a local resident, would sometimes invite Bay Area artists over to his house to view photographs of graffiti from other regions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cervantes, a community muralist since the ’70s, recognized that a new artistic movement was underway. Precita Eyes hosted a book release party for \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, and Cervantes curated a graffiti art competition at Mission Cultural Center, which brought her into contact with 16-year-old Spie, who knew some of the artists in the competition. After the event, Spie stayed in touch with Cervantes and the organization as they started to integrate graffiti’s aesthetic into their youth programming. They’ve been connected ever since.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1996, Spie and Dream participated in a panel during Precita Eyes’ first Urban Youth Arts Festival. “They discussed their experiences in the graffiti movement with all the young people who came to participate,” Cervantes says. “They were really good about the history of the graff movement and how important it was to show respect for each others’ work.” Their engagement with young people set a tone that Precita Eyes has followed for 27 years, with the annual festival as a linchpin of its programmatic activities.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“[Spie] is a really special person,” Cervantes says. “I think he’s very articulate not only in his visual expression, but also in activism around the issues that are important to him.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926650\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926650\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"528\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-800x528.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1020x673.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-768x506.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878-1536x1013.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/TAXdollarsKILLportrait95-Final300dpi-e1679434266878.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mike “Dream” Francisco stands before his collaborative mural with Spie One, ‘Tax Dollars Kill,’ in 1995. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Fighting the power\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie has always viewed activism as a generational legacy. He tells a story of how, during the height of the anti-apartheid movement, Berkeley hosted a “Spirit of Soweto” street festival on Telegraph Avenue. Revolution Books provided canvases for artists to paint politically-themed works. Coincidentally, Spie and Dream both brought sketches of \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luVpsM3YAgw\">Steve Biko\u003c/a>, a martyred South African activist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Clearly, the two artists were aligned in their politics and artistic sensibilities, and Spie and Dream began working together shortly after. By that point, Spie had become a master of letterforms, characters and backgrounds. In archival photographs of their many collaborations, the pair appear evenly matched; a 1992 co-production at Psycho City literally rises above lesser tags with blazingly vibrant colors and impeccable aerosol calligraphy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926654\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926654\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"517\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-800x517.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1020x659.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-160x103.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-768x496.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi-1536x993.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spiedream@psycho11_92-300dpi.jpg 1685w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A collaborative piece by Spie and Dream at Psycho City in 1992. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie joined Dream’s crew TDK, influencing the collective’s aesthetic artistically and ideologically. The acronym originally stood for “Those Damn Kids,” but soon morphed into alternate meanings, among them “Teach Dem Knowledge.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Francisco “Amend” Sanchez was still in high school when he met Dream, who was working at the Built to Last tattoo parlor, where aspiring young artists would often “hover” to watch the master at work. At the time, Sanchez had a different tag, but he switched to writing Amend after Dream told him, “Your name should represent. You should have some value to who you are.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>TDK, Amend says, isn’t just about the style of graffiti. “It’s also about just the culture within, an urban community that you want to represent and speak up for.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>According to Amend, Spie plays a unique role within the crew. “He doesn’t get enough credit on how influential he’s been in the Bay Area for multiple generations. As far as TDK goes, I think he’s the main guy who would push Mike Dream, to push the crew to go into that whole social justice point of view, speaking up for … people in the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This was the ‘Fight the Power’ era,” Spie recalls — a time when hip-hop often felt like a political movement, and rappers like Public Enemy and KRS-One pushed the envelope of sociopolitical commentary in pop culture. For Spie, it was a no-brainer to contribute visually, and inspire others to do the same. There were many causes to join: reproductive rights, opposing anti-immigration laws, protesting LAPD’s beating of Rodney King, pushing back against the Gulf War and resisting the 500-year anniversary of Columbus’ “discovery” of America in 1992.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a great time of awareness,” Spie says. “I was very much in a learning mode of being aware of the Native struggle and needing to [let people] know that we are occupying Native peoples’ territories.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926719\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926719\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"580\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-800x580.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1020x740.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-160x116.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-768x557.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy-1536x1114.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-2018-oakland-museum-solidarity-copy.jpg 1783w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie’s ‘Solidarity’ was commissioned by the Oakland Museum of California for the exhibition ‘Respect: Style and Wisdom of Hip-Hop’ in 2018. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>No justice, just us\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>As political graffiti proliferated in the Bay Area, a January 1993 exhibition at Oakland’s Pro Arts gallery titled \u003cem>No Justice No Peace\u003c/em> became the first local gallery show to feature the artform. Eastside Arts Alliance co-founder Greg Morozumi organized it during the Rodney King protests, which raised profound questions about police accountability. The exhibition, Spie says, was a “proverbial middle finger” against the system.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To enter the gallery, attendees had to walk over an American flag. “That was the welcome mat,” Spie says. Inside, viewers were greeted by paintings by Spie, Dream, Krash, Dug-1 and Refa One — most of which questioned the authority of law enforcement while reinforcing community resilience. Spie and Dream’s “No Justice” paid tribute to Jesse “Plan-B” Hall, an \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/7-NYa6SDNP8\">emerging rapper who was murdered in a still-unsolved drive-by shooting\u003c/a> in Oakland’s Sobrante Park. Juxtaposed with a Krash painting of a porcine-faced police officer pointing a gun, the piece addressed the emotional toll of inner-city violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926659\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926659\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"554\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-800x554.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1020x706.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-160x111.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-768x532.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93-1536x1063.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/noJUSTICEcolorEnhanced93.jpg 1712w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A look inside the ‘No Justice, No Peace’ exhibition at ProArts in 1993. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In 1994, Dream and Spie painted an on-stage backdrop for KMEL’s annual Summer Jam concert. The show, headlined by Patti LaBelle, also featured locals E-40, Rappin’ 4-Tay, Tony! Toni! Toné! and A Lighter Shade of Brown, along with Public Enemy, OutKast and Queen Latifah. The backdrop proved that the duo weren’t always incendiary, with colorful letters spelling out “Respect” along with the message “peace follows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1995, Spie and Dream collaborated on one of their most unflinching murals: “Tax Dollars Kill.” The names of the artists appeared in typical graffiti wildstyle fashion; above them was a depiction of lightning striking the U.S. Capitol building. The symbolism was inescapable, especially because the mural’s title was rendered boldly above the signatures in white lettering, like a masthead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout their association, Spie and Dream would “always try to bring some kind of message … something poetic to be a part of what people were reading, as far as the painting goes. And that just kind of kept manifesting.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926708\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926708\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/IMG_6410.jpg 1224w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A copy of a 1994 edition of the \u003ci>San Francisco Chronicle\u003c/i> saved by Spie One, showing Patti Labelle performing in front of his collaborative mural with Mike “Dream” Francisco. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In addition to political influence, artist Cece Carpio, who calls Spie a mentor, maintains that he helped establish a Bay Area-identified lettering style. In the pre-internet days, she explains, graffiti was less ubiquitous and regions were often associated with specific styles. “Back then, the Bay Area letters got kind of curvy, just stylized lettering. I actually believe that’s something that the Bay Area started, and Spie was one of the pioneers who did that.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A controversial mural with a message\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While enrolled as an undergrad at San Francisco State University in 1996, Spie painted his first work with acrylic paint and brushes: a portrait of Malcolm X to commemorate the \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#third-world-liberation-front-paves-the-way-for-black-and-brown-unity\">1968 Third World Liberation Front student strike\u003c/a>, which resulted in the creation of one of the country’s first ethnic studies departments. Working in the mode of a traditional painter caused some apprehension and soul-searching for Spie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was always just this back-and-forth around, ‘Are you staying true to this art form? Are you trying to do that other established thing that other people already consider art?’” he recalls. “That was something that I struggled with a lot of those years. But I think the Malcolm X piece really helped me to open up my own personal arts avenues much wider.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Although the mural’s unveiling was a success (Spie got to meet Malcolm’s widow, Betty Shabazz, who came out for the event), the project had a long and controversial backstory.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>An earlier version of the mural, painted by Oakland artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13851520/rightnowish-refa-one-spraypaint-in-hand-honors-west-oaklands-history\">Refa One\u003c/a>, included a border with dollar bills, a burning American flag, and a Star of David. Needless to say, this did not go over well with the university, whose spokesperson \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/1994/05/27/us/san-francisco-state-destroys-malcolm-x-mural-after-furor.html\">called the piece “hateful” in \u003cem>The\u003c/em> \u003cem>New York Times\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. \u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The school administration ordered the mural to be covered up, but a group of students reclaimed it with a bucket of water and soap, and camped out in front of the mural to protect it from further harm. In response, the school brought in a tactical unit in riot gear, aided by the SFPD, Spie recalls. Eventually, the mural was sandblasted over. “It was like they were assassinating Malcolm twice,” Spie says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years later, the university put out another call for artists, and Spie was selected. Facing pressure from student activists, the school administration asked him to work with a Black artist, Kamau Ayubbi, a friend he knew from the 23rd Yard. The completed mural, still visible today, features two portraits of Malcolm X, with the African continent surrounding the United States, painted in black, in the background. It also includes a Malcolm X quote: “Our objective is complete freedom, justice, and equality By Any Means Necessary.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926660\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926660\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"570\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-800x570.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1020x727.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1536x1095.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-2048x1460.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Malcolm-X-sfsu-1996-1920x1369.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Kama Ayubbo’s 1996 Malcolm X mural at San Francisco State University. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Rebel without a pause\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 2000, the unthinkable happened: Mike Dream was murdered in West Oakland. The still-unsolved killing deprived the Bay Area of its most legendary graffiti artist. “It was a devastating blow when he left this world. … So much of my own kind of self-actualization came through his guidance,” Spie \u003ca href=\"https://eastbayexpress.com/a-dream-continued-1/\">later told the \u003cem>East Bay Express\u003c/em>\u003c/a>. Spie and the TDK crew have kept Dream alive and in their hearts for the past 23 years, organizing a series of annual “Dream Day” events in Oakland \u003ca href=\"https://hiphopandpolitics.com/tag/mike-dream/\">beginning in 2010\u003c/a>, benefitting Dream’s son Akil.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/cDp38sltic8'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/cDp38sltic8'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>Rather than slow down, though, TDK remained active. Amend, Vogue and Stash all became widely known artists in their own right. Dream protege Marty Aranaydo, a.k.a. Meut TDK, a.k.a. DJ Willie Maze, furthered hip-hop activism through painting and as a member of socially conscious DJ collective Local 1200. Meanwhile, Spie soldiered on, earning a teaching credential and landing a job teaching art at a regional high school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 2000s, a new generation of artist collectives emerged, building directly on Dream and Spie’s sociopolitical blueprint and the family values of TDK. \u003ca href=\"https://www.trustyourstruggle.org/\">Trust Your Struggle\u003c/a> member Carpio says Spie has gone out of his way to push her artistic efforts to the next level. And while \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13868732/cece-carpio\">Carpio’s work stands on its own\u003c/a>, Spie’s influence reflects in themes of Indigenous advocacy, resilience and racial solidarity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The two recently painted a commemorative project at UC Berkeley honoring the Third World Liberation Front. The project, which has yet to be installed, features vibrant portraits of revolutionary icons Richard Aoki, June Jordan, Lehman Brightman, Ron Takaki and LaNada War Jack. According to Carpio, “what makes [Spie’s art] different in comparison to a lot of other graffiti and street art is his accountability to the movement and his accountability to the community.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926661\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926661\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"816\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-800x816.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1020x1040.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-160x163.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-768x783.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1506x1536.jpg 1506w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall-1920x1958.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/spie-key-tree-palestine-liberation-wall.jpg 2006w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">2014’s ‘Key Tree,’ Spie’s contribution to Oakland’s Palestine Solidarity Wall, visualizes liberation of oppressed peoples. \u003ccite>(Spie One)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Spie has painted in New York, Los Angeles, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, Cuba, Costa Rica, Mexico and Portugal. Still, some of his most memorable work has been local. In 2007, he, Mike Ramos and H.O.M.E.Y. \u003ca href=\"https://digitalstories.famsf.org/teo/#teotihuacan-in-san-francisco\">painted\u003c/a> the mythical Aztec Feathered Serpent in the Mission. In 2014, he was one of 12 muralists who contributed to the “\u003ca href=\"https://artforces.org/projects/murals/usa/oakland-palestine-solidarity-mural/\">Oakland Palestine Solidarity Mural\u003c/a>” in Uptown.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 2018, he manifested a solidarity-themed mural as part of the Oakland Museum’s first-ever hip-hop exhibit, and a ruby-throated hummingbird for environmental justice organization PODER. During the pandemic, he and several family members volunteered to paint the exterior of the Precita Eyes building. In 2021, during the George Floyd protests, he was one of the first artists to turn downtown Oakland into an outdoor art gallery. And in 2022, he painted a work entitled “\u003ca href=\"https://www.artspanart.org/eric-norberg-eai-summer-2022\">Serve the People\u003c/a>” on the window of Casa De Apoyo, a transitional housing resource center in the Excelsior.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As he’s become a more accomplished muralist, Spie has stayed true to his roots by including elements of graffiti even when working with other mediums. “I can remember that he started using acrylic paint with a brush to block in everything, and then he would do all the fine effects and details with the aerosol,” Cervantes says. “And that’s kind of what our youth arts program still does today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Throughout his storied career, Spie says he “always chose the side of the earth, the subjected and the oppressed. And, you know, what they like to say: the voice of the voiceless.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926662\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926662\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-768x768.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726-1536x1536.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/3f.-twLF_whole_perspective-scaled-e1679437175726.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Spie and Cece Carpio collaborated on a tribute to the Third World Liberation Front and other revolutionary activists. Their work will be installed at UC Berkeley at a later date. \u003ccite>(Cece Carpio)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>TDK: The Dream Kontinues\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Spie can recount descriptive accounts of protests from decades past, but when asked about future projects, he simply sends over a link to YBCA’s recent “YBCA 100” celebration, with a visual art display by TDK Collective.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the event, Spie held court on the venue’s second floor, dressed unassumingly in a Madow Futur jacket and \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/i5OX8pDTyow\">Bored Stiff\u003c/a> baseball hat. As he greeted attendees, including visual artist Agana and documentary filmmaker Eli Jacobs-Fantauzzi, a monitor played \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/artschool/52/bay-area-graffiti-the-early-days\">Bay Area Graffiti: The Early Years\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, followed by \u003cem>Style Wars\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Art supplies were laid out on a table, along with various hardcover books on graffiti. Adjacent walls were decorated with TDK’s historical works: several Spie-Dream collaborations, including “Tax Dollars Kill,” and a tribute to the Rodney King uprisings that depicted an overturned police car, a colorful piece by Pak (R.I.P.), a tribute to Plan-B, and a late career piece by Dream. Several of Spie’s solo works were integrated, among them two vibrant “Spie” letterforms, linked by the word “vs.” (referencing the classic \u003cem>Mad\u003c/em> magazine cartoon “Spy vs. Spy”). The artist was clearly in his element.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Spie pulled out a binder he’d assembled, consisting of Dream’s pieces, sketches, quotes and airbrush work. The collection held serious gravitas; all that it needed to be included in a library alongside \u003cem>Spraycan Art\u003c/em>, \u003cem>Dondi White: Style Master General\u003c/em> and similar graffiti books was a hardcover binding and written essays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whatever the future holds – a comprehensive TDK retrospective, the publication of his Dream book or some other legacy project – Spie doesn’t reveal exact plans. It’s understandable, and completely in character, that after five decades as an artist, he seems to take satisfaction in maintaining his mystique, revealing only what he deems necessary.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "‘Sargent and Spain’ Is Full of Hits, But Still Holds Surprises",
"headTitle": "‘Sargent and Spain’ Is Full of Hits, But Still Holds Surprises | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>Look, the Legion of Honor doesn’t need any help from me to publicize \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/sargent-and-spain\">Sargent and Spain\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, its exhibition of paintings, watercolors and sketchbooks made by the American expat John Singer Sargent during and after his many visits to Spain. But there were so many surprises and discoveries within the show that I feel compelled to voice my enthusiasm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sargent, best known for his regal and luminous oil portraits of 19th- and early 20th-century high society, first journeyed to Spain as an adult in 1879 to learn from his artistic forebears, studying and copying works by El Greco, Diego Velázquez and Francisco Goya.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In total, he would make seven trips there over the course of three decades, traveling further into the Spanish countryside and coastal communities, beyond the urban centers frequented by fellow tourists. As he traveled, he took and purchased photographs, sketching architecture and gardens that would continue to influence his work long after he left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sargent’s renderings of empty courtyards and dense vegetation show the precision of someone dedicated to conveying a sense of light and space. His paintings of Mallorca, in particular, depict the blinding light of a Mediterranean island and the cool blue shadows cast by the rigging of boats. It’s clear the intricate beauty of places like the Alhambra fascinated him, but he was also acutely aware of — and interested in — daily contemporary life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926612\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1536px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926612\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6.jpg\" alt=\"Watercolor with blue and green hues of ships, sails and rigging\" width=\"1536\" height=\"1104\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-800x575.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-1020x733.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-160x115.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-768x552.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1536px) 100vw, 1536px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Singer Sargent, ‘White Ships,’ 1908; Watercolor over graphite, with gouache and wax resist, on paper, 13 7/8 × 19 3/8 in. \u003ccite>(Photo by Brooklyn Museum; Courtesy of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A perfect example of this duality comes from the enigmatic painting \u003ci>Turkey in a Courtyard\u003c/i> (c. 1879–80), in which a carved wooden balcony and an arched doorway fade into a brushily rendered turkey wedged (in a strange compositional move) into the lower right corner of the canvas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, Sargent captured more than animals, landscapes and buidings. He painted the Spanish and Roma people with a respect not often bestowed to those communities at the time. His \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/stories/sargent-flamenco-playlist\">interest in flamenco\u003c/a> — a traditional Roma dance — manifests in some of the show’s most dramatic and thrilling paintings. The exhibition’s centerpiece is \u003ci>La Carmencita\u003c/i> (1890), a 7.5-foot-tall portrait of the dancer Carmen Dauset Moreno standing proudly, arms akimbo, in an ornate yellow dress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a magnificent piece of art, as are all of Sargent’s sketches and paintings inspired by Spanish dance (including numerous sketches for \u003ci>El Jaleo\u003c/i>, not on view here). But I would like to propose an alternate, shall we say, “sleeper” hit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926614\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926614\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920.jpg\" alt=\"Painting of two white women under black netting reading books on red couch\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1522\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-800x634.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-1020x809.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-160x127.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-768x609.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-1536x1218.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Singer Sargent, ‘Mosquito Nets,’ 1908; Oil on canvas, 22 1/2 × 28 1/4 in. \u003ccite>(Image from The Detroit Institute of Arts; Courtesy of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>May I present \u003ci>Mosquito Nets\u003c/i> (1908). It’s a painting of Sargent’s sister Emily (\u003ca href=\"https://news.artnet.com/art-world/emily-sargent-2215370\">an artist in her own right\u003c/a>) and her friend Eliza Wedgwood reclining under homemade mosquito-net headdresses. They are reading contentedly. Where \u003ci>La Carmencita\u003c/i> is resolutely upright, these ladies are nearly horizontal, wrapped in black clothing and shrouded by their nets. As \u003ci>Sargent and Spain\u003c/i> proves throughout its galleries, travel can yield astonishing views, glimpses of history and appreciations of different cultures. It can also, simply, look like a delicious bit of relaxation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>‘Sargent and Spain’ is on view at San Francisco’s Legion of Honor through May 14, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/sargent-and-spain\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Look, the Legion of Honor doesn’t need any help from me to publicize \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/sargent-and-spain\">Sargent and Spain\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, its exhibition of paintings, watercolors and sketchbooks made by the American expat John Singer Sargent during and after his many visits to Spain. But there were so many surprises and discoveries within the show that I feel compelled to voice my enthusiasm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sargent, best known for his regal and luminous oil portraits of 19th- and early 20th-century high society, first journeyed to Spain as an adult in 1879 to learn from his artistic forebears, studying and copying works by El Greco, Diego Velázquez and Francisco Goya.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In total, he would make seven trips there over the course of three decades, traveling further into the Spanish countryside and coastal communities, beyond the urban centers frequented by fellow tourists. As he traveled, he took and purchased photographs, sketching architecture and gardens that would continue to influence his work long after he left.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sargent’s renderings of empty courtyards and dense vegetation show the precision of someone dedicated to conveying a sense of light and space. His paintings of Mallorca, in particular, depict the blinding light of a Mediterranean island and the cool blue shadows cast by the rigging of boats. It’s clear the intricate beauty of places like the Alhambra fascinated him, but he was also acutely aware of — and interested in — daily contemporary life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926612\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1536px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926612\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6.jpg\" alt=\"Watercolor with blue and green hues of ships, sails and rigging\" width=\"1536\" height=\"1104\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-800x575.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-1020x733.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-160x115.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/09.846_PS6-768x552.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1536px) 100vw, 1536px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Singer Sargent, ‘White Ships,’ 1908; Watercolor over graphite, with gouache and wax resist, on paper, 13 7/8 × 19 3/8 in. \u003ccite>(Photo by Brooklyn Museum; Courtesy of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A perfect example of this duality comes from the enigmatic painting \u003ci>Turkey in a Courtyard\u003c/i> (c. 1879–80), in which a carved wooden balcony and an arched doorway fade into a brushily rendered turkey wedged (in a strange compositional move) into the lower right corner of the canvas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of course, Sargent captured more than animals, landscapes and buidings. He painted the Spanish and Roma people with a respect not often bestowed to those communities at the time. His \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/stories/sargent-flamenco-playlist\">interest in flamenco\u003c/a> — a traditional Roma dance — manifests in some of the show’s most dramatic and thrilling paintings. The exhibition’s centerpiece is \u003ci>La Carmencita\u003c/i> (1890), a 7.5-foot-tall portrait of the dancer Carmen Dauset Moreno standing proudly, arms akimbo, in an ornate yellow dress.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s a magnificent piece of art, as are all of Sargent’s sketches and paintings inspired by Spanish dance (including numerous sketches for \u003ci>El Jaleo\u003c/i>, not on view here). But I would like to propose an alternate, shall we say, “sleeper” hit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926614\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926614\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920.jpg\" alt=\"Painting of two white women under black netting reading books on red couch\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1522\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-800x634.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-1020x809.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-160x127.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-768x609.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/MosquitoNets_1920-1536x1218.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">John Singer Sargent, ‘Mosquito Nets,’ 1908; Oil on canvas, 22 1/2 × 28 1/4 in. \u003ccite>(Image from The Detroit Institute of Arts; Courtesy of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>May I present \u003ci>Mosquito Nets\u003c/i> (1908). It’s a painting of Sargent’s sister Emily (\u003ca href=\"https://news.artnet.com/art-world/emily-sargent-2215370\">an artist in her own right\u003c/a>) and her friend Eliza Wedgwood reclining under homemade mosquito-net headdresses. They are reading contentedly. Where \u003ci>La Carmencita\u003c/i> is resolutely upright, these ladies are nearly horizontal, wrapped in black clothing and shrouded by their nets. As \u003ci>Sargent and Spain\u003c/i> proves throughout its galleries, travel can yield astonishing views, glimpses of history and appreciations of different cultures. It can also, simply, look like a delicious bit of relaxation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>‘Sargent and Spain’ is on view at San Francisco’s Legion of Honor through May 14, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/sargent-and-spain\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>I did not watch the video of Tyre Nichols being tortured and killed by police officers in Memphis, Tennessee on Jan. 7. For my own self care, I have not watched an eye-witness or body-cam video of a Black person being killed by police or vigilantes since Philando Castile’s girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds, filmed the aftermath of a police officer shooting and killing Castile in 2016. Still, I never avoid or ignore the reality of what happened, or the details of how Black people’s lives are regularly stolen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neither does artist \u003ca href=\"https://kehindewiley.com/\">Kehinde Wiley\u003c/a>, whose new exhibition \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/kehinde-wiley-an-archaeology-of-silence\">An Archaeology of Silence\u003c/a>\u003c/em> tells the story of the Black lives we, as a society, have lost – and continue to lose – to racist, systemic violence both nationally and globally. The 25-piece collection of oil paintings and bronze sculptures, making its U.S. debut, is on view at San Francisco’s de Young Museum through Oct. 15.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wiley employs his signature technique of \u003ca href=\"https://kehindewiley.com/works/rumors-of-war/\">placing modern, Black subjects into historical scenes\u003c/a> from Western European art iconography, but this time his subjects aren’t standing tall in triumph – rather, they are in various forms of repose, referencing works of fallen soldiers and warriors. Some of the Black men and women depicted in the works are weary, the subjects’ eyes open and staring at you. Some are wounded. Many are dead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926555\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926555\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mane%CC%81_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920.jpg\" alt=\"Dramatically lit sculpture resembling a tomb, with figure laying inside\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kehinde Wiley, ‘The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb (Babacar Mané),’ 2021. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist and Templon, Paris – Brussels – New York; Photo by Ugo Carmeni)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Followers of Wiley’s work will recognize similarities to his 2008 series \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://kehindewiley.com/works/down/\">Down\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. When he made those pieces, we, as a culture, did not yet know Oscar Grant’s name, or Trayvon Martin’s. While the works in \u003cem>An Archaeology of Silence\u003c/em> were all created and completed over the last three years, inspired by the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2020/05/29/865261916/a-decade-of-watching-black-people-die\">long list of names\u003c/a> we now know, Wiley revisited some of his old source material from \u003cem>Down\u003c/em> in preparing this exhibition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Really this body of work is a coming together of, quite possibly, my entire career,” he said at the press preview, “allowing different movements to become galvanized in one epic body of work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a technical level, the exhibition is a stunning display of size and breadth. Three of the show’s pieces, including the title work – a 17.5-foot-tall bronze statue of a slain Black man draped over the saddle of a horse – are the largest the museum has ever installed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On an emotional level, it is stirring. Feelings of grief sit alongside awe. The intricate details of each subject’s life are crafted into every piece – the sneakers and jewelry they wore, the way their hair was styled. These are “monuments” in reverence to those lost, as Claudia Schmuckli, the museum’s curator-in-charge of contemporary art, writes in her curatorial statement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926554\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926554\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Pique%CC%81e-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"889\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-800x370.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-1020x472.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-160x74.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-768x356.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-1536x711.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kehinde Wiley, ‘Femme piquée par un serpent (Mamadou Gueye),’ 2022. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist and Templon, Paris – Brussels – New York; Photo by Ugo Carmeni)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the press preview, Wiley walked and talked us through the exhibition, and at first my ears were more attuned than my eyes. But toward the end of Wiley’s tour, I peeled off from the scrum surrounding him to retrace my steps through the gallery and see each piece anew. When I reached a bronze sculpture of two slain young Black men titled \u003cem>Death of Two Soldiers\u003c/em>, I took in the two bodies lying side by side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There, the exhibition as a whole hit me. And I felt anger. I felt angry that this exhibition had cause to exist. That, in the most reductive description of the show, I was walking around and observing Black death on public display. Again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The museum’s team prepared for this kind of visceral, emotional reaction. Not only does the exhibition offer a “Respite Room” attached to the show, but the de Young will roll out a slate of public programming around grief and mourning on select \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/events/free-saturdays-de-young\">free-admission Saturdays\u003c/a>. Abram Jackson, the museum’s inaugural director of interpretation, co-led that work alongside Devin Malone, director of public programs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I heard word from folks who visited the exhibition at the Venice Biennale that they heard folks crying in the galleries because it was such an impactful exhibition,” Jackson said. “And I knew that if we were going to be the first museum to host it in the United States, that we had to situate it locally and that we had to really protect our visitors who are so closely connected to systemic violence.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Respite Room offers a place to sit and reflect, along with a small library of books to peruse with titles like \u003cem>Rest is Resistance\u003c/em> by Tricia Hersey and \u003cem>Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds\u003c/em> by adrienne maree brown, as well as poetry collections of Audre Lorde, Lucille Clifton and Gwendolyn Brooks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926558\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1508px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926558\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman leans on a white draped surface surrounded by white blossoms\" width=\"1508\" height=\"1022\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1.jpg 1508w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-800x542.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-1020x691.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-768x520.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1508px) 100vw, 1508px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Kehinde Wiley: An Archeology of Silence’, de Young Museum, San Francisco, 2023. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist and Templon, Paris – Brussels – New York; Photo by Ugo Carmeni)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I’ve really been thinking about what it means for an institution – museums, specifically – to think about spatial justice. What it means to relinquish space to the public and repurpose institutional space so that it can be used rather than simply visited,” said Malone, who designed the Respite Room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to the Respite Room, the museum worked with a group of seven “Interpretation Partners” Jackson recruited to inform the show’s presentation – including advising on the language used in the exhibition guide and art descriptions. Partners include local Black community leaders, such as the \u003ca href=\"https://www.wandajohnsonspeaks.com/about\">Rev. Wanda Johnson\u003c/a>, mother of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/oscar-grant\">Oscar Grant\u003c/a> and CEO of the Oscar Grant Foundation, and Hodari Davis, co-founder of the \u003ca href=\"https://lifeisliving.youthspeaks.org/about/\">Life is Living Festival\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jackson recalled one of the meetings with the partners where they dissected the show’s curatorial language. “A lot of the original language had ‘state-sanctioned violence’ written and that seemed to conjure for most people, police brutality,” Jackson said. “And the partners were like, ‘Well, we really need to broaden this because this is about systemic violence. This is about the school to prison pipeline. This is about environmental racism. This is about infant mortality for Black babies and how Black mothers are treated in the medical industrial complex.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lens of Black Bay Area leaders and activists, coupled with the Bay’s long history of freedom movement building, provide a fitting first U.S. home for \u003cem>An Archaeology of Silence\u003c/em>. That, and Wiley’s personal history in the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think San Francisco is the perfect place for this work to come, because it really is a homecoming for me. This is where I developed my chops as a young artist,” said Wiley, who graduated from the (\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925086/new-sfai-legacy-foundation-archive-art-school-closed\">now-closed\u003c/a>) San Francisco Art Institute in 1999. And he sees parallels between his own development as an artist and the development of the country’s social justice movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926557\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926557\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920.jpg\" alt=\"Dark gallery with brightly lit painting of prone Black woman on back wall, large brass sculpture of prone man in foreground\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1281\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-1020x681.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-1536x1025.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Kehinde Wiley: An Archeology of Silence’, de Young Museum, San Francisco, 2023. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco; Photo by Gary Sexton)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s a coming of age for me, but it’s arguable that [the Bay Area]’s a coming of age for America,” Wiley said. “This part of the world was at the core of the cultural revolution that America was so heavily marked by in the end of the ’50s and the core of the ’60s. … [The Bay Area] became the site of resistance for people of color, for the marginalized, for the queer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s this type of resistance that Wiley embeds within the exhibition, amidst all the imagery of death. In one of the mural-sized paintings, a woman lays lifeless on a grassy knoll against a backdrop of mostly brown, dead leaves – a distinct departure from the colorful foliage that typically surrounds Wiley’s subjects. Yet a smattering of vibrant, living flowers and vines grow and persist around her fallen figure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a stubborn holding on to life and celebration in the midst of all of this suffering,” Wiley said. “I wanted to be able to use one of these moments – one of these dark moments in our cultural atmosphere – to talk about something that’s sure, a little bit of a downer, but also defiantly present, defiantly alive and imbibed with a type of resilience and virtue.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>‘Kehinde Wiley: An Archaeology of Silence’ is on view at the de Young Museum in San Francisco through Oct. 15. Details on the exhibition and associated programming are \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/kehinde-wiley-an-archaeology-of-silence\">here\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>I did not watch the video of Tyre Nichols being tortured and killed by police officers in Memphis, Tennessee on Jan. 7. For my own self care, I have not watched an eye-witness or body-cam video of a Black person being killed by police or vigilantes since Philando Castile’s girlfriend, Diamond Reynolds, filmed the aftermath of a police officer shooting and killing Castile in 2016. Still, I never avoid or ignore the reality of what happened, or the details of how Black people’s lives are regularly stolen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neither does artist \u003ca href=\"https://kehindewiley.com/\">Kehinde Wiley\u003c/a>, whose new exhibition \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/kehinde-wiley-an-archaeology-of-silence\">An Archaeology of Silence\u003c/a>\u003c/em> tells the story of the Black lives we, as a society, have lost – and continue to lose – to racist, systemic violence both nationally and globally. The 25-piece collection of oil paintings and bronze sculptures, making its U.S. debut, is on view at San Francisco’s de Young Museum through Oct. 15.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Wiley employs his signature technique of \u003ca href=\"https://kehindewiley.com/works/rumors-of-war/\">placing modern, Black subjects into historical scenes\u003c/a> from Western European art iconography, but this time his subjects aren’t standing tall in triumph – rather, they are in various forms of repose, referencing works of fallen soldiers and warriors. Some of the Black men and women depicted in the works are weary, the subjects’ eyes open and staring at you. Some are wounded. Many are dead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926555\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926555\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mane%CC%81_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920.jpg\" alt=\"Dramatically lit sculpture resembling a tomb, with figure laying inside\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_The-Body-of-the-Dead-Christ-in-the-Tomb-Babacar-Mané_2022_KW-22.016_1_1920-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kehinde Wiley, ‘The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb (Babacar Mané),’ 2021. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist and Templon, Paris – Brussels – New York; Photo by Ugo Carmeni)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Followers of Wiley’s work will recognize similarities to his 2008 series \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://kehindewiley.com/works/down/\">Down\u003c/a>\u003c/em>. When he made those pieces, we, as a culture, did not yet know Oscar Grant’s name, or Trayvon Martin’s. While the works in \u003cem>An Archaeology of Silence\u003c/em> were all created and completed over the last three years, inspired by the \u003ca href=\"https://www.npr.org/2020/05/29/865261916/a-decade-of-watching-black-people-die\">long list of names\u003c/a> we now know, Wiley revisited some of his old source material from \u003cem>Down\u003c/em> in preparing this exhibition.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Really this body of work is a coming together of, quite possibly, my entire career,” he said at the press preview, “allowing different movements to become galvanized in one epic body of work.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a technical level, the exhibition is a stunning display of size and breadth. Three of the show’s pieces, including the title work – a 17.5-foot-tall bronze statue of a slain Black man draped over the saddle of a horse – are the largest the museum has ever installed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On an emotional level, it is stirring. Feelings of grief sit alongside awe. The intricate details of each subject’s life are crafted into every piece – the sneakers and jewelry they wore, the way their hair was styled. These are “monuments” in reverence to those lost, as Claudia Schmuckli, the museum’s curator-in-charge of contemporary art, writes in her curatorial statement.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926554\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926554\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Pique%CC%81e-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"889\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-800x370.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-1020x472.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-160x74.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-768x356.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Femme-Piquée-Par-Un-Serpent-Mamadou-Gueye_2022_KW-22.018_1_1920-1536x711.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Kehinde Wiley, ‘Femme piquée par un serpent (Mamadou Gueye),’ 2022. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist and Templon, Paris – Brussels – New York; Photo by Ugo Carmeni)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>At the press preview, Wiley walked and talked us through the exhibition, and at first my ears were more attuned than my eyes. But toward the end of Wiley’s tour, I peeled off from the scrum surrounding him to retrace my steps through the gallery and see each piece anew. When I reached a bronze sculpture of two slain young Black men titled \u003cem>Death of Two Soldiers\u003c/em>, I took in the two bodies lying side by side.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There, the exhibition as a whole hit me. And I felt anger. I felt angry that this exhibition had cause to exist. That, in the most reductive description of the show, I was walking around and observing Black death on public display. Again.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The museum’s team prepared for this kind of visceral, emotional reaction. Not only does the exhibition offer a “Respite Room” attached to the show, but the de Young will roll out a slate of public programming around grief and mourning on select \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/events/free-saturdays-de-young\">free-admission Saturdays\u003c/a>. Abram Jackson, the museum’s inaugural director of interpretation, co-led that work alongside Devin Malone, director of public programs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I heard word from folks who visited the exhibition at the Venice Biennale that they heard folks crying in the galleries because it was such an impactful exhibition,” Jackson said. “And I knew that if we were going to be the first museum to host it in the United States, that we had to situate it locally and that we had to really protect our visitors who are so closely connected to systemic violence.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Respite Room offers a place to sit and reflect, along with a small library of books to peruse with titles like \u003cem>Rest is Resistance\u003c/em> by Tricia Hersey and \u003cem>Emergent Strategy: Shaping Change, Changing Worlds\u003c/em> by adrienne maree brown, as well as poetry collections of Audre Lorde, Lucille Clifton and Gwendolyn Brooks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926558\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1508px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926558\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1.jpg\" alt=\"A Black woman leans on a white draped surface surrounded by white blossoms\" width=\"1508\" height=\"1022\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1.jpg 1508w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-800x542.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-1020x691.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/WILEY_Morpheus-Ndeye-Fatou-Mbaye_2022_KW-22.022_1-768x520.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1508px) 100vw, 1508px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Kehinde Wiley: An Archeology of Silence’, de Young Museum, San Francisco, 2023. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist and Templon, Paris – Brussels – New York; Photo by Ugo Carmeni)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I’ve really been thinking about what it means for an institution – museums, specifically – to think about spatial justice. What it means to relinquish space to the public and repurpose institutional space so that it can be used rather than simply visited,” said Malone, who designed the Respite Room.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In addition to the Respite Room, the museum worked with a group of seven “Interpretation Partners” Jackson recruited to inform the show’s presentation – including advising on the language used in the exhibition guide and art descriptions. Partners include local Black community leaders, such as the \u003ca href=\"https://www.wandajohnsonspeaks.com/about\">Rev. Wanda Johnson\u003c/a>, mother of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/oscar-grant\">Oscar Grant\u003c/a> and CEO of the Oscar Grant Foundation, and Hodari Davis, co-founder of the \u003ca href=\"https://lifeisliving.youthspeaks.org/about/\">Life is Living Festival\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Jackson recalled one of the meetings with the partners where they dissected the show’s curatorial language. “A lot of the original language had ‘state-sanctioned violence’ written and that seemed to conjure for most people, police brutality,” Jackson said. “And the partners were like, ‘Well, we really need to broaden this because this is about systemic violence. This is about the school to prison pipeline. This is about environmental racism. This is about infant mortality for Black babies and how Black mothers are treated in the medical industrial complex.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lens of Black Bay Area leaders and activists, coupled with the Bay’s long history of freedom movement building, provide a fitting first U.S. home for \u003cem>An Archaeology of Silence\u003c/em>. That, and Wiley’s personal history in the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I think San Francisco is the perfect place for this work to come, because it really is a homecoming for me. This is where I developed my chops as a young artist,” said Wiley, who graduated from the (\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13925086/new-sfai-legacy-foundation-archive-art-school-closed\">now-closed\u003c/a>) San Francisco Art Institute in 1999. And he sees parallels between his own development as an artist and the development of the country’s social justice movements.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926557\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926557\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920.jpg\" alt=\"Dark gallery with brightly lit painting of prone Black woman on back wall, large brass sculpture of prone man in foreground\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1281\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-800x534.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-1020x681.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/0069_deYoung_KehindeWiley_GarySexton_1920-1536x1025.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Kehinde Wiley: An Archeology of Silence’, de Young Museum, San Francisco, 2023. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco; Photo by Gary Sexton)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s a coming of age for me, but it’s arguable that [the Bay Area]’s a coming of age for America,” Wiley said. “This part of the world was at the core of the cultural revolution that America was so heavily marked by in the end of the ’50s and the core of the ’60s. … [The Bay Area] became the site of resistance for people of color, for the marginalized, for the queer.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s this type of resistance that Wiley embeds within the exhibition, amidst all the imagery of death. In one of the mural-sized paintings, a woman lays lifeless on a grassy knoll against a backdrop of mostly brown, dead leaves – a distinct departure from the colorful foliage that typically surrounds Wiley’s subjects. Yet a smattering of vibrant, living flowers and vines grow and persist around her fallen figure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a stubborn holding on to life and celebration in the midst of all of this suffering,” Wiley said. “I wanted to be able to use one of these moments – one of these dark moments in our cultural atmosphere – to talk about something that’s sure, a little bit of a downer, but also defiantly present, defiantly alive and imbibed with a type of resilience and virtue.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>‘Kehinde Wiley: An Archaeology of Silence’ is on view at the de Young Museum in San Francisco through Oct. 15. Details on the exhibition and associated programming are \u003ca href=\"https://www.famsf.org/exhibitions/kehinde-wiley-an-archaeology-of-silence\">here\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "Two SFPL Shows Look for Humanity in City Mugshots and Official IDs",
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"headTitle": "Two SFPL Shows Look for Humanity in City Mugshots and Official IDs | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>On the sixth floor of San Francisco’s main public library, there are two large antique cabinets currently serving as holding cells. Inside them are century-old mugshots from the city’s past. The cabinets are split by gender, like jails — six men in one, six women in the other. The subjects’ faces are depicted face-forward and in profile, as the cops would have directed. But these are no ordinary mugshots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their faces are alive with expression and color, painted out of their respective black-and-white corners from history and back into vibrant existence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These oil paintings are the work of \u003ca href=\"http://penelopehouston.com/\">Penelope Houston\u003c/a>, one-time vocalist for the legendary San Francisco punk band \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUmBCPbCNdg\">The Avengers\u003c/a> and current-day artist and \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oh2CRYn2qSQ\">solo singer-songwriter\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926416\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1440px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926416\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp.jpg\" alt=\"Two paintings of mugshots of The bottom row shows a Black man with chiseled features looking defiant\" width=\"1440\" height=\"700\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp.jpg 1440w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-800x389.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-1020x496.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-160x78.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-768x373.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1440px) 100vw, 1440px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Penelope Houston’s painting of William Williams, arrested in 1919. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Houston’s paintings of alleged criminals from San Francisco history bring humanity back to the individuals who were photographed in the middle of what was probably a thoroughly dehumanizing experience. Houston effectively relays their expressions, which vacillate between resigned indifference and barely contained contempt. One man arrested on charges related to homosexuality, William Williams, holds his head high and unrepentant. He was photographed in 1919.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Houston’s series, titled \u003cem>The Accused\u003c/em>, is on display as part of \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://sfpl.org/exhibits/2023/03/11/artists-archive\">Artists in the Archive\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, a two-person show with \u003ca href=\"https://www.xandraibarra.com/about/\">Xandra Ibarra\u003c/a>, whose work transforms SFPD mugshots into large-scale photo collages. Ibarra’s images, the result of a \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfartscommission.org/content/artist-residence-program\">San Francisco Arts Commission residency\u003c/a> at the SFPL, invite the viewer to focus particularly on the eyes of the accused. In one piece, \u003cem>Keeping a Disorderly House of Prostitution\u003c/em>, a plump white woman with rail-thin eyebrows wears a hardened expression — but her eyes look close to tears.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926423\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926423\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution.jpg\" alt=\"Mugshot of woman on cream paper with information on her arrest\" width=\"2000\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-800x320.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-1020x408.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-160x64.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-768x307.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-1536x614.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-1920x768.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Xandra Ibarra, ‘Keeping a Disorderly House of Prostitution.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of SFPL)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Accompanying Houston and Ibarra’s work is a video screen showing page after page of mugshots taken between December 1918 and June 1919, as well as a seven-month period of 1938. The scans are from the SFPD Records held at the San Francisco History Center, also \u003ca href=\"https://digitalsf.org/islandora/object/islandora%3A204847?solr_nav%5Bid%5D=6cdfe4bd235a376eb26e&solr_nav%5Bpage%5D=0&solr_nav%5Boffset%5D=1#page/4/mode/2up\">available online\u003c/a>. The men featured are accused of a variety of sex crimes, including pimping. The women are all accused of sex work. The faces of the more mature women speak volumes about the toughness of their alleged profession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In tandem with the \u003cem>Artists in the Archive\u003c/em> show is \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://sfpl.org/exhibits/2023/03/11/san-francisco-identities\">San Francisco IDentities\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also on display on the library’s sixth floor. This exhibit is a mishmash of identification documents from the History Center’s collections that are mostly interesting in their own right but don’t always make a lot of sense together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are joyous little nuggets from the city’s past, like ticket books for 1915’s Panama-Pacific International Exposition, complete with the photo IDs of official vendors. There are fascinating mugshot books and headshots of enlisted men serving in World War II. There is even, shamefully, the paperwork of German citizens residing in California who were forced to register as “Alien Enemies” in 1917.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926427\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316.jpg\" alt=\"Various forms of identification overlaid\" width=\"1500\" height=\"973\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-800x519.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-1020x662.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-768x498.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Materials included in the ‘San Francisco IDentities’ exhibition. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of SFPL)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There are less compelling artifacts on display too. Random drivers’ licenses, school photos, festival laminate passes that are less than 20 years old, and a head-scratching collection of passports. (Even as a fan of \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_American_Indians\">Gay American Indians\u003c/a> founder \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13889944/the-indigenous-activist-who-demanded-inclusion-for-all-lgbtq-people\">Barbara May Cameron\u003c/a>, I remain perplexed about how to receive seeing a copy of her passport.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Had \u003cem>San Francisco IDentities\u003c/em> stuck solely to issues relating to criminal justice — as \u003cem>Artists in the Archive\u003c/em> does — a more cohesive pairing would have resulted. Still, there is much to enjoy in these companion exhibits and a mountain of food for thought. In particular, years from now, how would you best like to be remembered? For anyone who has ever been accused of a crime, you might not have much say in the matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Artists in the Archive’ and ‘San Francisco IDentities’ are on display outside the San Francisco History Center, on the sixth floor of the San Francisco Public Library (100 Larkin St.), through June 8, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://sfpl.org/exhibits/2023/03/11/artists-archive\">Details here\u003c/a>. Houston and Ibarra will be discussing their work there on Saturday, March 18 at 1 p.m.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Artists’ interpretations of SFPD records outshine the companion show ‘San Francisco IDentities.’",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On the sixth floor of San Francisco’s main public library, there are two large antique cabinets currently serving as holding cells. Inside them are century-old mugshots from the city’s past. The cabinets are split by gender, like jails — six men in one, six women in the other. The subjects’ faces are depicted face-forward and in profile, as the cops would have directed. But these are no ordinary mugshots.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their faces are alive with expression and color, painted out of their respective black-and-white corners from history and back into vibrant existence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These oil paintings are the work of \u003ca href=\"http://penelopehouston.com/\">Penelope Houston\u003c/a>, one-time vocalist for the legendary San Francisco punk band \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUmBCPbCNdg\">The Avengers\u003c/a> and current-day artist and \u003ca href=\"https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oh2CRYn2qSQ\">solo singer-songwriter\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926416\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1440px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926416\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp.jpg\" alt=\"Two paintings of mugshots of The bottom row shows a Black man with chiseled features looking defiant\" width=\"1440\" height=\"700\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp.jpg 1440w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-800x389.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-1020x496.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-160x78.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/William700_comp-768x373.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1440px) 100vw, 1440px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Penelope Houston’s painting of William Williams, arrested in 1919. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of the artist)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Houston’s paintings of alleged criminals from San Francisco history bring humanity back to the individuals who were photographed in the middle of what was probably a thoroughly dehumanizing experience. Houston effectively relays their expressions, which vacillate between resigned indifference and barely contained contempt. One man arrested on charges related to homosexuality, William Williams, holds his head high and unrepentant. He was photographed in 1919.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Houston’s series, titled \u003cem>The Accused\u003c/em>, is on display as part of \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://sfpl.org/exhibits/2023/03/11/artists-archive\">Artists in the Archive\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, a two-person show with \u003ca href=\"https://www.xandraibarra.com/about/\">Xandra Ibarra\u003c/a>, whose work transforms SFPD mugshots into large-scale photo collages. Ibarra’s images, the result of a \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfartscommission.org/content/artist-residence-program\">San Francisco Arts Commission residency\u003c/a> at the SFPL, invite the viewer to focus particularly on the eyes of the accused. In one piece, \u003cem>Keeping a Disorderly House of Prostitution\u003c/em>, a plump white woman with rail-thin eyebrows wears a hardened expression — but her eyes look close to tears.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926423\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926423\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution.jpg\" alt=\"Mugshot of woman on cream paper with information on her arrest\" width=\"2000\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-800x320.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-1020x408.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-160x64.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-768x307.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-1536x614.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Xandra-Ibarra-Keeping-a-Disorderly-House-of-Prostitution-1920x768.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Xandra Ibarra, ‘Keeping a Disorderly House of Prostitution.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of SFPL)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Accompanying Houston and Ibarra’s work is a video screen showing page after page of mugshots taken between December 1918 and June 1919, as well as a seven-month period of 1938. The scans are from the SFPD Records held at the San Francisco History Center, also \u003ca href=\"https://digitalsf.org/islandora/object/islandora%3A204847?solr_nav%5Bid%5D=6cdfe4bd235a376eb26e&solr_nav%5Bpage%5D=0&solr_nav%5Boffset%5D=1#page/4/mode/2up\">available online\u003c/a>. The men featured are accused of a variety of sex crimes, including pimping. The women are all accused of sex work. The faces of the more mature women speak volumes about the toughness of their alleged profession.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In tandem with the \u003cem>Artists in the Archive\u003c/em> show is \u003cem>\u003ca href=\"https://sfpl.org/exhibits/2023/03/11/san-francisco-identities\">San Francisco IDentities\u003c/a>\u003c/em>, also on display on the library’s sixth floor. This exhibit is a mishmash of identification documents from the History Center’s collections that are mostly interesting in their own right but don’t always make a lot of sense together.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are joyous little nuggets from the city’s past, like ticket books for 1915’s Panama-Pacific International Exposition, complete with the photo IDs of official vendors. There are fascinating mugshot books and headshots of enlisted men serving in World War II. There is even, shamefully, the paperwork of German citizens residing in California who were forced to register as “Alien Enemies” in 1917.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926427\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926427\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316.jpg\" alt=\"Various forms of identification overlaid\" width=\"1500\" height=\"973\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316.jpg 1500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-800x519.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-1020x662.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/sfid-title-collage-220316-768x498.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1500px) 100vw, 1500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Materials included in the ‘San Francisco IDentities’ exhibition. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of SFPL)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There are less compelling artifacts on display too. Random drivers’ licenses, school photos, festival laminate passes that are less than 20 years old, and a head-scratching collection of passports. (Even as a fan of \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_American_Indians\">Gay American Indians\u003c/a> founder \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13889944/the-indigenous-activist-who-demanded-inclusion-for-all-lgbtq-people\">Barbara May Cameron\u003c/a>, I remain perplexed about how to receive seeing a copy of her passport.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Had \u003cem>San Francisco IDentities\u003c/em> stuck solely to issues relating to criminal justice — as \u003cem>Artists in the Archive\u003c/em> does — a more cohesive pairing would have resulted. Still, there is much to enjoy in these companion exhibits and a mountain of food for thought. In particular, years from now, how would you best like to be remembered? For anyone who has ever been accused of a crime, you might not have much say in the matter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/arts/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Artists in the Archive’ and ‘San Francisco IDentities’ are on display outside the San Francisco History Center, on the sixth floor of the San Francisco Public Library (100 Larkin St.), through June 8, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://sfpl.org/exhibits/2023/03/11/artists-archive\">Details here\u003c/a>. Houston and Ibarra will be discussing their work there on Saturday, March 18 at 1 p.m.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">O\u003c/span>n the title track of Too Short’s 1990 album \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i>, wedged between bars about globetrotting and cold mackin’, the pioneering Oakland MC says, “I used to be local ’til I signed with Jive / Too Short done went nationwide.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a decade that started with Short \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">slanging tapes out of his trunk\u003c/a> as an independent artist, this was Short breaking into the hip-hop’s golden age of the ’90s. \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i> features notable songs like “Pimpology,” one of the first of many tracks to sample lines from \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-mack-filmed-in-oakland\">the movie \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i>, filmed in Oakland\u003c/a>. “Nothing But a Word to Me,” with Ice Cube, marks an early collaboration between major artists from Northern and Southern California. And the song “Short But Funky” is both a thinly veiled diss to MC Hammer and Too Short’s mission statement as an artist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The album’s biggest single, “The Ghetto,” found Short deviating from his player persona, dropping socially conscious rhymes over a classic Donny Hathaway interpolation. The album sold over a million units and influenced generations of hip-hop heads. It’s a classic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fw0uz88E2gI\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then there’s its illustrated cover art: a group of animated human-bodied dog-faced characters cold chilling in a parking lot. Cars that look like Mercedes-Benzes, Lamborghinis and Cadillacs are parked all around, as poodle and bulldog-like characters cut eyes, point fingers and posture like folks would at any social happening. This one is clearly a sideshow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While this scene unfolds in the foreground, a larger canine figure in an Oakland jacket looms near the city’s skyline, like an overseeing oracle, here to tell the world about The Town. And at the bottom left corner of the album cover, in tiny lettering, there’s a signature from the artist: Curtis “Bozie” Wayne Riley Jr.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926255\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926255\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"539\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait.jpg 896w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At left, a sketch from Boze, typifying the sort of characters he’d often draw in high school in the Bay Area. At right, a recent portrait of Boze. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Boze Riley)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The process of me doing the album cover, it started way before I ever met Short,” says Bozie, who now goes simply by Boze, on a recent video call. “For me, it started at The Art School.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the mid-to-late ’80s, Boze was a student at \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/groups/2234613913\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Arts Magnet School\u003c/a>, a.k.a. “The Art School,” a high school on the California College of The Arts campus. Boze, a multitalented kid from Deep East Oakland, attributes his skills to the tutelage of his artistic parents, the influence of his neighborhood, the lessons from his high school and his affinity for hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At The Art School, he had an African-American instructor named Robert L. Caillier who taught college-level arts courses, didn’t take any mess and was a firm believer in students using the classroom to refine their individual voices. “We were given the green light to draw all the things that we love,” says Boze. “So we were drawing hip-hop characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From 8th grade until 12th grade, Boze constantly practiced drawing donkey ropes, Kangol hats, Gazelle glasses, and Adidas with the fat strings. After graduation, Boze used his talents to freelance, illustrating projects for MC Ant, Tomahawk Records’ Indian Tone and a logo for East Bay rapper Spice 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926016\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926016\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg\" alt=\"Spice 1\" width=\"600\" height=\"589\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443-160x157.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An early single by Spice 1, with a logo drawn by Boze. \u003ccite>(Jive Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Money was slow, though, and Boze briefly considered turning to the streets. Then he got into airbrushing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During that era, about three major hip-hop tours would come to town each year, and Boze would be ready. “I’d be in my grandmother’s garage airbrushing like 10-12 outfits, charging people $350 a piece,” says Boze, noting that white Guess or Levi’s jeans were a favorite. “My grandmother was getting mad because she’d see all these guys with 5.0’s, glasshouses, and K5s pulling up and coming to the house,” says Boze, imitating his grandmother’s concerned voice. “I’m in there airbrushing! I had an honest hustle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with visual art, Boze was a part of\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/4904066-T-CAP-Productions\"> T-CAP Productions\u003c/a>’ group \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/203244-Capital-Tax\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Capital Tax\u003c/a>. He earned a name as a dancer, designed the logo for the crew and even did some musical production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"CAPITAL TAX- 2 TIMIN\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/skuAI7yFFJ0?start=1&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As his reputation and clientele in Deep East Oakland grew, Boze eventually made artwork for someone in Too Short’s crew. Coincidentally, Short had recorded a new album for Jive, and he needed artwork too. “They came to me,” says Boze. “Short was like, ‘I want you to do a sideshow scene, but I need it with dogs.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Short also suggested to Boze a few types of cars to draw, but told him to use his imagination with the rest. Boze is quick to mention that modern sideshows are different than the one depicted on the album cover, the way they used to be. “It was more like a car show. People brought out Falcons, Novas, Cougars, Mustangs. Trues and Vogues, Zapco boards. It was a chill situation,” says Boze. In the late 1980s, he adds, only a few people did donuts, police rarely came, and afterward, folks would hit Mexicali Rose or Denny’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_13923766']With years of preparation from art school under his belt, chronicling that era of the sideshow came easy; Boze says he knocked it out in two or three days. But the image that’s widely known — that’s the second drawing. The first one was rejected by Jive; the label needed certain specs for reproduction. “Short never gave me back the original one,” says Boze. “So either Short still has it, or someone at Jive does.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The version that adorns the platinum-selling album, meanwhile, has been widely shared and impactful. Short has \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/sJXzYAeTk0U?t=118\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">gone on record\u003c/a> to mention the importance of the album cover, as have other major artists. Even Snoop Dogg seemed to have a fanboy moment when recently discussing the album art, and how it directly influenced the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doggystyle\">cartoon-dog cover art\u003c/a> for his smash-hit album \u003cem>Doggystyle\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Snoop Dogg & Too Short Talk Music (April 07, 2020)\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/qnd3wBdXXDE?start=1020&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Boze tells me he’s talked to people about the \u003ci>Short Dog’s in the House\u003c/i> art all across the country: Virginia, Tennessee, Wisconsin, and even in Alabama, where he now resides. Years removed from the experience, now working as a curator of arts education for the \u003ca href=\"https://artistcommunities.org/directory/organizations/coleman-center-arts\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Coleman Center of the Arts\u003c/a> in York, Alabama, Boze says he doesn’t often discuss the album — but when it does come up, people tell him how it made them feel. Not the music on the album, but the artwork itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A teenager at the time of the drawing, Boze says it’s wild to think the image could be likened to a hip-hop version of \u003ca href=\"https://www.mfah.org/exhibitions/sugar-shack#&gid=cc5054066ed84c259198418242e77992&pid=25074691\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Sugar Shack\u003c/a>, the dance-hall scene painted by Ernie Barnes, which was featured on the cover of Marvin Gaye’s \u003cem>I Want You\u003c/em> and shown the final credits of the show \u003cem>Good Times\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While it’s debatable if the image is on that same cultural level, the numbers don’t lie. “Over a million people have seen this work, I’ve got the plaque to prove it,” says Boze with a laugh. “I’m a platinum artist.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-11687704\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-800x60.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"60\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-400x30.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/06/Turntable.Break_-768x58.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "Boze, a \"little homie from the hood,\" drew Too Short's album art — inspiring Snoop's 'Doggystyle' and creating an icon for The Town.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003cstrong>Editor’s note\u003c/strong>: This story is part of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">That’s My Word\u003c/a>, KQED’s year-long exploration of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop\">Bay Area hip-hop\u003c/a> history, with new content dropping all throughout 2023.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"font-size: 4.6875em;float: left;line-height: 0.733em;padding: 0.05em 0.1em 0 0;font-family: times, serif, georgia\">O\u003c/span>n the title track of Too Short’s 1990 album \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i>, wedged between bars about globetrotting and cold mackin’, the pioneering Oakland MC says, “I used to be local ’til I signed with Jive / Too Short done went nationwide.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After a decade that started with Short \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#too-short-and-freddy-b-start-making-handmade-tapes\">slanging tapes out of his trunk\u003c/a> as an independent artist, this was Short breaking into the hip-hop’s golden age of the ’90s. \u003ci>Short Dog’s In the House\u003c/i> features notable songs like “Pimpology,” one of the first of many tracks to sample lines from \u003ca href=\"http://www.kqed.org/bayareahiphop/timeline#the-mack-filmed-in-oakland\">the movie \u003ci>The Mack\u003c/i>, filmed in Oakland\u003c/a>. “Nothing But a Word to Me,” with Ice Cube, marks an early collaboration between major artists from Northern and Southern California. And the song “Short But Funky” is both a thinly veiled diss to MC Hammer and Too Short’s mission statement as an artist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The album’s biggest single, “The Ghetto,” found Short deviating from his player persona, dropping socially conscious rhymes over a classic Donny Hathaway interpolation. The album sold over a million units and influenced generations of hip-hop heads. It’s a classic.\u003c/p>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutube'>\n \u003cspan class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__embedYoutubeInside'>\n \u003ciframe\n loading='lazy'\n class='utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__youtubeShortcode__youtubePlayer'\n type='text/html'\n src='//www.youtube.com/embed/fw0uz88E2gI'\n title='//www.youtube.com/embed/fw0uz88E2gI'\n allowfullscreen='true'\n style='border:0;'>\u003c/iframe>\n \u003c/span>\n \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And then there’s its illustrated cover art: a group of animated human-bodied dog-faced characters cold chilling in a parking lot. Cars that look like Mercedes-Benzes, Lamborghinis and Cadillacs are parked all around, as poodle and bulldog-like characters cut eyes, point fingers and posture like folks would at any social happening. This one is clearly a sideshow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While this scene unfolds in the foreground, a larger canine figure in an Oakland jacket looms near the city’s skyline, like an overseeing oracle, here to tell the world about The Town. And at the bottom left corner of the album cover, in tiny lettering, there’s a signature from the artist: Curtis “Bozie” Wayne Riley Jr.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926255\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13926255\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"539\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-800x539.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-160x108.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait-768x518.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Boze.illos_.portrait.jpg 896w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At left, a sketch from Boze, typifying the sort of characters he’d often draw in high school in the Bay Area. At right, a recent portrait of Boze. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Boze Riley)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The process of me doing the album cover, it started way before I ever met Short,” says Bozie, who now goes simply by Boze, on a recent video call. “For me, it started at The Art School.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the mid-to-late ’80s, Boze was a student at \u003ca href=\"https://www.facebook.com/groups/2234613913\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Arts Magnet School\u003c/a>, a.k.a. “The Art School,” a high school on the California College of The Arts campus. Boze, a multitalented kid from Deep East Oakland, attributes his skills to the tutelage of his artistic parents, the influence of his neighborhood, the lessons from his high school and his affinity for hip-hop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At The Art School, he had an African-American instructor named Robert L. Caillier who taught college-level arts courses, didn’t take any mess and was a firm believer in students using the classroom to refine their individual voices. “We were given the green light to draw all the things that we love,” says Boze. “So we were drawing hip-hop characters.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>From 8th grade until 12th grade, Boze constantly practiced drawing donkey ropes, Kangol hats, Gazelle glasses, and Adidas with the fat strings. After graduation, Boze used his talents to freelance, illustrating projects for MC Ant, Tomahawk Records’ Indian Tone and a logo for East Bay rapper Spice 1.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926016\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926016\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg\" alt=\"Spice 1\" width=\"600\" height=\"589\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443.jpg 600w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R-1268690-1219563443-160x157.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 600px) 100vw, 600px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An early single by Spice 1, with a logo drawn by Boze. \u003ccite>(Jive Records)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Money was slow, though, and Boze briefly considered turning to the streets. Then he got into airbrushing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During that era, about three major hip-hop tours would come to town each year, and Boze would be ready. “I’d be in my grandmother’s garage airbrushing like 10-12 outfits, charging people $350 a piece,” says Boze, noting that white Guess or Levi’s jeans were a favorite. “My grandmother was getting mad because she’d see all these guys with 5.0’s, glasshouses, and K5s pulling up and coming to the house,” says Boze, imitating his grandmother’s concerned voice. “I’m in there airbrushing! I had an honest hustle.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Along with visual art, Boze was a part of\u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/4904066-T-CAP-Productions\"> T-CAP Productions\u003c/a>’ group \u003ca href=\"https://www.discogs.com/artist/203244-Capital-Tax\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Capital Tax\u003c/a>. He earned a name as a dancer, designed the logo for the crew and even did some musical production.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"CAPITAL TAX- 2 TIMIN\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/skuAI7yFFJ0?start=1&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As his reputation and clientele in Deep East Oakland grew, Boze eventually made artwork for someone in Too Short’s crew. Coincidentally, Short had recorded a new album for Jive, and he needed artwork too. “They came to me,” says Boze. “Short was like, ‘I want you to do a sideshow scene, but I need it with dogs.’”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Short also suggested to Boze a few types of cars to draw, but told him to use his imagination with the rest. Boze is quick to mention that modern sideshows are different than the one depicted on the album cover, the way they used to be. “It was more like a car show. People brought out Falcons, Novas, Cougars, Mustangs. Trues and Vogues, Zapco boards. It was a chill situation,” says Boze. In the late 1980s, he adds, only a few people did donuts, police rarely came, and afterward, folks would hit Mexicali Rose or Denny’s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>With years of preparation from art school under his belt, chronicling that era of the sideshow came easy; Boze says he knocked it out in two or three days. But the image that’s widely known — that’s the second drawing. The first one was rejected by Jive; the label needed certain specs for reproduction. “Short never gave me back the original one,” says Boze. “So either Short still has it, or someone at Jive does.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The version that adorns the platinum-selling album, meanwhile, has been widely shared and impactful. Short has \u003ca href=\"https://youtu.be/sJXzYAeTk0U?t=118\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">gone on record\u003c/a> to mention the importance of the album cover, as have other major artists. Even Snoop Dogg seemed to have a fanboy moment when recently discussing the album art, and how it directly influenced the \u003ca href=\"https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doggystyle\">cartoon-dog cover art\u003c/a> for his smash-hit album \u003cem>Doggystyle\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"Snoop Dogg & Too Short Talk Music (April 07, 2020)\" width=\"640\" height=\"360\" src=\"https://www.youtube.com/embed/qnd3wBdXXDE?start=1020&feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen>\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Boze tells me he’s talked to people about the \u003ci>Short Dog’s in the House\u003c/i> art all across the country: Virginia, Tennessee, Wisconsin, and even in Alabama, where he now resides. Years removed from the experience, now working as a curator of arts education for the \u003ca href=\"https://artistcommunities.org/directory/organizations/coleman-center-arts\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Coleman Center of the Arts\u003c/a> in York, Alabama, Boze says he doesn’t often discuss the album — but when it does come up, people tell him how it made them feel. Not the music on the album, but the artwork itself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A teenager at the time of the drawing, Boze says it’s wild to think the image could be likened to a hip-hop version of \u003ca href=\"https://www.mfah.org/exhibitions/sugar-shack#&gid=cc5054066ed84c259198418242e77992&pid=25074691\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">The Sugar Shack\u003c/a>, the dance-hall scene painted by Ernie Barnes, which was featured on the cover of Marvin Gaye’s \u003cem>I Want You\u003c/em> and shown the final credits of the show \u003cem>Good Times\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While it’s debatable if the image is on that same cultural level, the numbers don’t lie. “Over a million people have seen this work, I’ve got the plaque to prove it,” says Boze with a laugh. “I’m a platinum artist.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "All Aboard ‘Muni Raised Me,’ SOMArts’ Ode to Working-Class San Francisco",
"headTitle": "All Aboard ‘Muni Raised Me,’ SOMArts’ Ode to Working-Class San Francisco | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>Almost every longtime Bay Area resident has their favorite Muni route. For me, it’s the 38, the bus that starts downtown, then cruises past the Fillmore and Japantown to the Richmond District. When I exit through the back doors and into the heart of San Francisco’s Russian-speaking immigrant neighborhood, the smells of church frankincense and fresh rye bread awaken some of my favorite childhood memories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As an immigrant kid growing up in the East Bay, my family’s frequent trips to San Francisco anchored me in my cultural identity. So I felt an instant connection to the intimate, poetic way 13 San Francisco-born-and-raised artists approach city life and public transit in the new group exhibition \u003ca href=\"https://somarts.org/event/muniraisedme/\">\u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the SOMArts show curated by Meymey Lee, \u003ca href=\"http://www.sashavu.com/\">Sasha Vu\u003c/a> and Celi Tamayo-Lee, bus lines are the arteries that connect immigrant, Black and working-class neighborhoods — the heart and soul of San Francisco culture. The multicultural crew of artists tells collective and personal histories through installations, paintings, audio and video. In the context of record-shattering rent prices and ongoing displacement, their memories feel like precious keepsakes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The centerpiece in SOMArts’ high-ceilinged, warehouse gallery is \u003ci>Altared SF\u003c/i> by Sasha Vu and Ling Ling Lee, a real-life, decommissioned Muni bus turned into a temple with an original soundtrack of beats by Vu’s brother, Ben Vu. The \u003ci>Magic School Bus\u003c/i>-esque, psychedelic ride transports viewers with its maximalist assemblages of objects, each one evoking a different San Francisco cultural touchpoint.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I took in the hippie-raver curios, Buddhist statues and rainbow decorations, I arrived at a quiet moment of contemplation. In the back, an altar honors victims of police brutality, including Mario Woods and Alex Nieto, whose deaths galvanized San Francisco’s movement for police accountability over the past decade. Like much of \u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i>, the piece feels joyful yet grounded in a sobering reality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926157\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926157\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3.jpg\" alt=\"A circular passageway decorated with plants and rainbows ending in an altar\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1269\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-800x529.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-1020x674.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-768x508.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-1536x1015.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A view inside ‘Altared SF’ by Sasha Vu and Ling Ling Lee. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The art in \u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i> mimics the texture and aliveness of the City. Music videos by local artists such as Qing Qi, La Doña, A-1 and Baghead bring a house party soundtrack. Ben Vu’s short film \u003ci>All That and Dim Sum\u003c/i> radiates warmth, reminding us that San Francisco is also a city of families who eat dumplings together on Sundays — not just individualistic strivers. Sophia Mitty’s custom embroidery on jackets tells stories through workwear-inspired fashion. And tanea lunsford lynx’s installation, a listening booth collaged with family photos, plays poems about connection, loss and longing from her point of view as a fourth-generation Black San Franciscan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i> feels intentional and full of care, which falls in line with the three curators’ mission to be of service. Outside of their art practices, Vu and Lee are both educators, and Tamayo-Lee is the co-director of \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfrising.org/\">San Francisco Rising\u003c/a>, an organization that aims to politically empower working class people of color. I spoke with them about their vision for the show, their favorite Muni routes and how they managed to fit a real bus into a gallery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13925483']\u003ci>This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Nastia Voynovskaya: I was struck by how so many of the artists involved are also organizers and educators who pour themselves into their community. What does that say to you about the art scene in San Francisco?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu\u003c/b>: That’s a fascinating question because I feel like it really speaks to specifically this art show, not so much the larger art scene in San Francisco. So many of the folks I know who stayed in the City, who have grown up here, have had to balance their identity as artists with other professions, especially if you’re a local up-and-coming artist. Then I think also looking at the world through the artistic lens, it really lends itself to seeing various cracks and injustices, which therefore puts you in a place where you’re like, “How can I have my art better serve the community? How can my being better serve the community?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> Public institutions are the things that raised us, so public transit, public schools and public parks. I think we really benefited from a really robust civil infrastructure. That really does speak to a San Francisco spirit, a very service-oriented sense of giving back to the city that raised us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Celi Tamayo-Lee:\u003c/b> [\u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i> is] a huge shoutout to the bus drivers, the teachers, the after-school caregivers, the volunteers who worked during recess or helped us cross the street. In so many ways, we spent more time with those adults than some of our own parents. And I think for me, there’s a feeling of just wanting to re-seed that in today’s youth and share that love that we’ve been given, and getting to be that cool, weird, funky adult. It’s a piece of pride for a lot of us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926158\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926158\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5.jpg\" alt=\"Handmade black and white jacket with symbols of city life embroidered\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the garments in Sophia Mitty’s installation ‘Ode to SF,’ on view in ‘Muni Raised Me’ at SOMArts. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>So many of the pieces in the show feel nostalgic and centered on childhood memories. What’s the importance of that to you as curators and artists?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu:\u003c/b> So much of this show is pulling from a deep-seated nostalgia that really comes from having roots here. It’s an accumulation of 20 to 40 years of being in the same place. Being able to pull from childhood is such a unique lens because there are so many people here who didn’t grow up here, who are transplants in various ways and will never see the city through the same lens that we see it. And this is kind of offering a peek into that world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> I felt nostalgia when I was like 17. Nostalgia is such a forced emotion when you grow up in San Francisco because the change has just been so rapid and incredible. And maybe that’s just the nature of cities. But also there was definitely a malicious edge to it, you know, watching the tech industry come in, watching so many working-class families leave — so many of our friends and family. There’s a lot of sadness. We wanted to honor the pride and the sadness and the joy we have here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Celi Tamayo-Lee:\u003c/b> And to romanticize the ’90s in San Francisco. It was coming off the coattails of the AIDS epidemic and the war on drugs. There was such a vivacious and growing queer community. I felt like my childhood was very infused with a lot of music and art and street festivals and free concerts in the park. I feel like it takes a lot more effort to find that and build that nowadays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926159\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful collage of bus tickets with text about Halloween in the Castro\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A close-up of the family photos in tanea lunsford lynx’s oral history audio installation, ‘I Used to Live Here.’ \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>It seems like collaboration played a pretty big role on the show, in some of the pieces themselves and also in your process as the three curators. Could you tell me a little bit about that and how it relates to the spirit of this exhibit?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> So much of this show has been really about looking around and realizing that I’m in community with so many amazing people, artists and educators and curators that don’t really have a place to shine. So many of the artists we’ve known since high school. I’ve known Sasha since I was five and Celi since middle school. Having these relationships that go really far back has definitely been the backbone and the saving grace. It’s been so amazing to see these wonderful people in a whole new light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postid='arts_13925416']\u003cb>Celi Tamayo-Lee:\u003c/b> I think it was also a beautiful process of learning about each other outside of just being friends. Mey was like, “You know what? Like, screw it. I’m just going to try and apply to [SOMArts’ Curatorial Residency Program]. Here is my vision.” And we were like, “OK, we will follow you.” A third of the gallery is pieces by Sasha. Sasha has just had that artistic ambition to bring a lot of her skills and vision to a single place. I was the admin dom in terms of, “Are we meeting deadlines? Are we crossing our t’s dotting our i’s?” Learning how to work together has also just been like a big part of community building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha, could you tell me about the bus?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu:\u003c/b> My initial idea was like, maybe we can laser cut a bus and paint it, like a mini bus. But Celi was able to call someone who knew somebody who was able to get us in touch with the SFMTA. And we were able to have the bus donated. That was a huge blessing, completely unexpected in so many ways. And it became the centerpiece of the show.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A lot of love and planning and time was poured into the bus. We’re showing our vision of the temple bus, the altar bus, the ultimate psychedelic bus experience. And in so many ways it’s the true bus, the bus of our deep consciousness. I did the exterior art on the bus. And Ling Ling [Lee], who is Mey’s sibling and my close friend, designed a lot of the interior. The bus is meant to be a transformative piece that really ties together all of the nostalgia of the past with the possibilities of the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926161\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1.jpg\" alt=\"Close-up view of plants and photographs in altar arrangement\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A close-up shot of the altar aboard ‘Altared SF’ by Sasha Vu and Ling Ling Lee. The photo on the left features Alex Nieto, who was killed by San Francisco police in 2014. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Before we wrap up, what are some of your favorite bus lines and destinations on them?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> I’ll talk about the 44 because that’s basically how I met my best friend. She grew up in the Bayview. The 44 goes from the Bayview to Geary and California, it traverses the city. It’s such a journey. We would see each other in the morning, we would wait for the bus together after school. These were the moments that solidified our connection. She’s been my best friend for the past 15 years, and I really have the 44 to thank for that. And some locations along the 44 — Green Apple Books. Hing Wang Bakery on 9th and Judah. Yeah. Golden Gate Park. We would all go to the arboretum after school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu:\u003c/b> For me the line I took home was the K Ingleside. It travels a very foggy, liminal route unreached by a lot of other buses. I grew up in the Mission and Ingleside, but during high school my family was in Ingleside. I would take the bus from my house to Castro and I’d get a slice of pizza at Marcello’s. And then I would walk down to Dolores Park, where all the homies were.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>‘Muni Raised Me’ is on view at SOMArts through April 9, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://somarts.org/event/muniraisedme/\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"excerpt": "The curators of SOMArts' new group show tell us how they fit a bus into a gallery and why nostalgia matters.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Almost every longtime Bay Area resident has their favorite Muni route. For me, it’s the 38, the bus that starts downtown, then cruises past the Fillmore and Japantown to the Richmond District. When I exit through the back doors and into the heart of San Francisco’s Russian-speaking immigrant neighborhood, the smells of church frankincense and fresh rye bread awaken some of my favorite childhood memories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As an immigrant kid growing up in the East Bay, my family’s frequent trips to San Francisco anchored me in my cultural identity. So I felt an instant connection to the intimate, poetic way 13 San Francisco-born-and-raised artists approach city life and public transit in the new group exhibition \u003ca href=\"https://somarts.org/event/muniraisedme/\">\u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i>\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the SOMArts show curated by Meymey Lee, \u003ca href=\"http://www.sashavu.com/\">Sasha Vu\u003c/a> and Celi Tamayo-Lee, bus lines are the arteries that connect immigrant, Black and working-class neighborhoods — the heart and soul of San Francisco culture. The multicultural crew of artists tells collective and personal histories through installations, paintings, audio and video. In the context of record-shattering rent prices and ongoing displacement, their memories feel like precious keepsakes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The centerpiece in SOMArts’ high-ceilinged, warehouse gallery is \u003ci>Altared SF\u003c/i> by Sasha Vu and Ling Ling Lee, a real-life, decommissioned Muni bus turned into a temple with an original soundtrack of beats by Vu’s brother, Ben Vu. The \u003ci>Magic School Bus\u003c/i>-esque, psychedelic ride transports viewers with its maximalist assemblages of objects, each one evoking a different San Francisco cultural touchpoint.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As I took in the hippie-raver curios, Buddhist statues and rainbow decorations, I arrived at a quiet moment of contemplation. In the back, an altar honors victims of police brutality, including Mario Woods and Alex Nieto, whose deaths galvanized San Francisco’s movement for police accountability over the past decade. Like much of \u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i>, the piece feels joyful yet grounded in a sobering reality.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926157\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926157\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3.jpg\" alt=\"A circular passageway decorated with plants and rainbows ending in an altar\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1269\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-800x529.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-1020x674.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-768x508.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-3-1536x1015.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A view inside ‘Altared SF’ by Sasha Vu and Ling Ling Lee. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The art in \u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i> mimics the texture and aliveness of the City. Music videos by local artists such as Qing Qi, La Doña, A-1 and Baghead bring a house party soundtrack. Ben Vu’s short film \u003ci>All That and Dim Sum\u003c/i> radiates warmth, reminding us that San Francisco is also a city of families who eat dumplings together on Sundays — not just individualistic strivers. Sophia Mitty’s custom embroidery on jackets tells stories through workwear-inspired fashion. And tanea lunsford lynx’s installation, a listening booth collaged with family photos, plays poems about connection, loss and longing from her point of view as a fourth-generation Black San Franciscan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i> feels intentional and full of care, which falls in line with the three curators’ mission to be of service. Outside of their art practices, Vu and Lee are both educators, and Tamayo-Lee is the co-director of \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfrising.org/\">San Francisco Rising\u003c/a>, an organization that aims to politically empower working class people of color. I spoke with them about their vision for the show, their favorite Muni routes and how they managed to fit a real bus into a gallery.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003ci>This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Nastia Voynovskaya: I was struck by how so many of the artists involved are also organizers and educators who pour themselves into their community. What does that say to you about the art scene in San Francisco?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu\u003c/b>: That’s a fascinating question because I feel like it really speaks to specifically this art show, not so much the larger art scene in San Francisco. So many of the folks I know who stayed in the City, who have grown up here, have had to balance their identity as artists with other professions, especially if you’re a local up-and-coming artist. Then I think also looking at the world through the artistic lens, it really lends itself to seeing various cracks and injustices, which therefore puts you in a place where you’re like, “How can I have my art better serve the community? How can my being better serve the community?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> Public institutions are the things that raised us, so public transit, public schools and public parks. I think we really benefited from a really robust civil infrastructure. That really does speak to a San Francisco spirit, a very service-oriented sense of giving back to the city that raised us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Celi Tamayo-Lee:\u003c/b> [\u003ci>Muni Raised Me\u003c/i> is] a huge shoutout to the bus drivers, the teachers, the after-school caregivers, the volunteers who worked during recess or helped us cross the street. In so many ways, we spent more time with those adults than some of our own parents. And I think for me, there’s a feeling of just wanting to re-seed that in today’s youth and share that love that we’ve been given, and getting to be that cool, weird, funky adult. It’s a piece of pride for a lot of us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926158\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926158\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5.jpg\" alt=\"Handmade black and white jacket with symbols of city life embroidered\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-5-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the garments in Sophia Mitty’s installation ‘Ode to SF,’ on view in ‘Muni Raised Me’ at SOMArts. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>So many of the pieces in the show feel nostalgic and centered on childhood memories. What’s the importance of that to you as curators and artists?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu:\u003c/b> So much of this show is pulling from a deep-seated nostalgia that really comes from having roots here. It’s an accumulation of 20 to 40 years of being in the same place. Being able to pull from childhood is such a unique lens because there are so many people here who didn’t grow up here, who are transplants in various ways and will never see the city through the same lens that we see it. And this is kind of offering a peek into that world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> I felt nostalgia when I was like 17. Nostalgia is such a forced emotion when you grow up in San Francisco because the change has just been so rapid and incredible. And maybe that’s just the nature of cities. But also there was definitely a malicious edge to it, you know, watching the tech industry come in, watching so many working-class families leave — so many of our friends and family. There’s a lot of sadness. We wanted to honor the pride and the sadness and the joy we have here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Celi Tamayo-Lee:\u003c/b> And to romanticize the ’90s in San Francisco. It was coming off the coattails of the AIDS epidemic and the war on drugs. There was such a vivacious and growing queer community. I felt like my childhood was very infused with a lot of music and art and street festivals and free concerts in the park. I feel like it takes a lot more effort to find that and build that nowadays.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926159\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6.jpg\" alt=\"Colorful collage of bus tickets with text about Halloween in the Castro\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-6-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A close-up of the family photos in tanea lunsford lynx’s oral history audio installation, ‘I Used to Live Here.’ \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>It seems like collaboration played a pretty big role on the show, in some of the pieces themselves and also in your process as the three curators. Could you tell me a little bit about that and how it relates to the spirit of this exhibit?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> So much of this show has been really about looking around and realizing that I’m in community with so many amazing people, artists and educators and curators that don’t really have a place to shine. So many of the artists we’ve known since high school. I’ve known Sasha since I was five and Celi since middle school. Having these relationships that go really far back has definitely been the backbone and the saving grace. It’s been so amazing to see these wonderful people in a whole new light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cb>Celi Tamayo-Lee:\u003c/b> I think it was also a beautiful process of learning about each other outside of just being friends. Mey was like, “You know what? Like, screw it. I’m just going to try and apply to [SOMArts’ Curatorial Residency Program]. Here is my vision.” And we were like, “OK, we will follow you.” A third of the gallery is pieces by Sasha. Sasha has just had that artistic ambition to bring a lot of her skills and vision to a single place. I was the admin dom in terms of, “Are we meeting deadlines? Are we crossing our t’s dotting our i’s?” Learning how to work together has also just been like a big part of community building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha, could you tell me about the bus?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu:\u003c/b> My initial idea was like, maybe we can laser cut a bus and paint it, like a mini bus. But Celi was able to call someone who knew somebody who was able to get us in touch with the SFMTA. And we were able to have the bus donated. That was a huge blessing, completely unexpected in so many ways. And it became the centerpiece of the show.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A lot of love and planning and time was poured into the bus. We’re showing our vision of the temple bus, the altar bus, the ultimate psychedelic bus experience. And in so many ways it’s the true bus, the bus of our deep consciousness. I did the exterior art on the bus. And Ling Ling [Lee], who is Mey’s sibling and my close friend, designed a lot of the interior. The bus is meant to be a transformative piece that really ties together all of the nostalgia of the past with the possibilities of the future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13926161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13926161\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1.jpg\" alt=\"Close-up view of plants and photographs in altar arrangement\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-768x512.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/muni-raised-me-1-1536x1024.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A close-up shot of the altar aboard ‘Altared SF’ by Sasha Vu and Ling Ling Lee. The photo on the left features Alex Nieto, who was killed by San Francisco police in 2014. \u003ccite>(Nastia Voynovskaya)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Before we wrap up, what are some of your favorite bus lines and destinations on them?\u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Meymey Lee:\u003c/b> I’ll talk about the 44 because that’s basically how I met my best friend. She grew up in the Bayview. The 44 goes from the Bayview to Geary and California, it traverses the city. It’s such a journey. We would see each other in the morning, we would wait for the bus together after school. These were the moments that solidified our connection. She’s been my best friend for the past 15 years, and I really have the 44 to thank for that. And some locations along the 44 — Green Apple Books. Hing Wang Bakery on 9th and Judah. Yeah. Golden Gate Park. We would all go to the arboretum after school.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Sasha Vu:\u003c/b> For me the line I took home was the K Ingleside. It travels a very foggy, liminal route unreached by a lot of other buses. I grew up in the Mission and Ingleside, but during high school my family was in Ingleside. I would take the bus from my house to Castro and I’d get a slice of pizza at Marcello’s. And then I would walk down to Dolores Park, where all the homies were.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-medium wp-image-12127869\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-800x78.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>‘Muni Raised Me’ is on view at SOMArts through April 9, 2023. \u003ca href=\"https://somarts.org/event/muniraisedme/\">Details here\u003c/a>.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"title": "A Fond Farewell to Ratio 3, Closing After 20 Years in San Francisco",
"headTitle": "A Fond Farewell to Ratio 3, Closing After 20 Years in San Francisco | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>On March 7, the Mission District gallery \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/\">Ratio 3\u003c/a> announced its permanent closure. “The time has come for us to close the gallery and explore other creative endeavors,” read the Tuesday email announcement. In an interview, gallery founder Chris Perez said future plans for the gallery’s space at 24th and Mission will be revealed in the coming months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ratio 3 represented artists such as Barry McGee, Takeshi Murata and Ryan McGinley, as well as the estate of Margaret Kilgallen. The gallery has shown over 182 artists in its 20 years of exhibitions, and has been central to various Bay Area visual art scenes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Ratio 3 opened in 2003, it was in a room in Perez’s apartment at Guerrero and 21st Street. The first show was \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/mark-shetabi-the-anxious-journey/installation\">an installation by Mark Shetabi\u003c/a>, who built a hallway and small room inside of the 11-by-13-foot room Perez, his roommate, and his boyfriend had dedicated to the gallery. Through a peephole, at the end of the hallway, you could see two oil paintings. They sold the piece to a local collector. Perez says he thought, “Huh? I guess we can keep doing this!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925947\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925947\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Wood floored gallery with large framed photographs on white walls\" width=\"1200\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An installation view of Ryan McGinley’s show ‘Life Adjustment Center’ at Ratio 3’s Stevenson Street location in 2010. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Early possibilities\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>After graduating from California College of the Arts, Perez worked as a curatorial assistant to Larry Rinder at the Whitney Museum in New York. It was there that he met Barry McGee, who traveled to install Margaret Killgallen’s work in the 2002 Whitney Biennial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perez also met Ryan McGinley during his New York years. “One day, I was walking in Chelsea and saw the old Printed Matter bookstore,” Perez remembers. “I walked in and saw this little Ryan McGinley book published by \u003ci>Index Magazine\u003c/i> and I thought, this is really interesting.” He emailed the publisher for the artist’s contact and made plans with McGinley to do a studio visit. With pen and notepad in hand, he climbed through Dan Colen’s room to sit on McGinley’s bed; the artist pulled boxes of photographs out from under Perez’s perch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, Ratio 3 has put on five solo exhibitions of McGinley’s work, each one marking a specific moment in both the artist’s career and Bay Area art history. The haunting pop band Girls, fronted by Christopher Owens, played \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/ryan-mcginley-life-adjustment-center/installation\">McGinley’s second opening\u003c/a> in a quintessential late-2000s scene. The gallery was so crowded that Perez and his team pulled the speakers out to the street for the assembled crowd. It was raining, lightly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone was so young,” Perez remembers, “the possibilities in life seemed endless.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925944\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925944\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Wood floored gallery with eclectic mix of wall work, sculpture and video\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Kiki: The Proof is in the Pudding’ at Ratio 3’s Stevenson Street location in 2008. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Carrying on vital work\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By this time, the gallery had moved from the apartment to its second home on Stevenson Street, an orphaned half-block between Valencia and a freeway off-ramp. Kiki Gallery, the ephemeral and unmatchable curatorial project of Rick Jacobsen, which closed in 1995, had been just a block away from the new spot. In 2008, Chris worked with the artist Colter Jacobsen and writer \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13859939/remembering-kevin-killian-poet-playwright-and-artist-who-gave-us-courage\">Kevin Killian\u003c/a> to curate a show honoring Kiki’s legacy and Rick Jacobsen’s work. It opened on Pride weekend.[aside postID='arts_13883032']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was one of those shows that you kind of knew was important,” Perez says, “Not just for the art, but for the people.” In the press release for \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/kiki-the-proof-is-in-the-pudding/installation\">Kiki Gallery: The Proof is in the Pudding\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, it says that Kiki, as a noncommercial space, was a key player in the “nascent Mission School movement, giving it a homocore dimension and a political edge.” Ratio 3 has, in many ways, carried on this vital work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the years Ratio 3 has opened a number of shows during Pride weekend. Last year, they stayed open late to inaugurate a retrospective of the feminist filmmaker and photographer Barbara Hammer that rivaled institutional presentations of the artist’s work. In 2015, they showed Hal Fischer’s \u003ci>Gay Semiotics\u003c/i>. It was the first time the work had been presented in San Francisco in over four decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925948\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925948\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Large gray photograph of white shapes and lines adhered directly to white gallery wall\" width=\"1200\" height=\"900\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of Miriam Böhm’s ‘Detail IV,’ 2016 in the 2016 show ‘Vanishing Point.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Attuned to space\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>If the gallery has an aesthetic, it’s one of minimalism, clean lines, and pronounced experimentation with space. “It’s evolved, but essentially I like circles and squares,” Perez admits, recalling the early influence of Ellsworth Kelly’s \u003ci>Red Blue Green\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_11430961']In the 2015 show \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11430961/minimal-lines-fill-maximum-space-in-ratio-3s-vanishing-point\">Vanishing Point\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, his curatorial proclivity reached an affecting apotheosis. It was a conceptually based group show made up of single works from Fred Sandback, Feliz Gonzalez-Torres and Sol LeWitt, and a selection of pieces from Miriam Böhm and Mitzi Pederson. The result was a meditation on space and mark-marking, both subtle and all-consuming. Looking through documentation of some of the gallery’s 122 shows, the gallery used to have a motto: “Ratio 3: Bringing vastness to the mind.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Consistently, shows at Ratio 3 are attuned to space and to the labor of creating exhibitions. Perez, gallery director Theo Elliott and other staffers transform the gallery to suit each show, taking pride in a willingness to tear down walls, design exhibitions, build screening rooms, carpet the gallery — whatever needs to happen for the work to feel right. “I’m a curator at heart,” Perez says, “I love creating installations.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925943\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925943\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Darkened gallery with musicians, projected image and person in sound booth with mic\" width=\"1200\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A performance of Amie Siegel’s ‘Winter’ in the exhibition ‘High Noon’ in 2019. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Always located in the Mission, from Guerrero, to Stevenson, to its third and final location at 24th and Mission, Ratio 3 has been a touchstone for numerous periods of artmaking, scenes, friendships and movements in the cacophonous neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the beginning of the pandemic, the gallery’s registrar and artist liaison, Haegen Crosby, curated a show of Bay Area painters, \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/bell-weather-picture-garden/works\">The Bell Weather Picture Garden\u003c/a>\u003c/i>. He worked primarily with younger, less-established artists to share a fecund, percolating creativity with the city. One got the sense of a new and emerging scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have a lot of love for San Francisco,” Perez says, resolutely, not goaded into bitterness about the myriad ways the city’s changed, “It’s been an advantage to not have the financial pressure of a bigger city, and to be able to take time. The gallery’s roster, the space it has cultivated, and the community fostered grew slowly, organically, and over the course of years.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925946\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925946\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Square abstract paitning with blocks of green and red color on light gray background\" width=\"1200\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Daisy May Sheff’s painting ‘Faint, Faint is My Track,’ 2021, included in the 2021 group show ‘Bell Weather Picture Garden.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In many ways Ratio 3 has been an access point for contemporary art in the Bay Area, consistently putting on shows with art historical significance and institutional levels of presentation. This almost reads like an obituary. Forgive that. It’s just that it is sad Ratio 3 will no longer be a space to visit in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Saturday, March 4, was Ratio 3’s last day. They held a closing event for the artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/james-sterling-pitt-ways/overview\">James Sterling Pitt’s show of ceramics\u003c/a>, a concert by musicians Danny Paul Grody and Rich Douthit, who gave the space ambient, attentive harmonies. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CpYUpThyMiy/?\">Instagram announcement for the event\u003c/a> ended coquettishly, “Thank you San Francisco!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When asked how he felt in those final hours, Perez said it was like waking from a long beautiful dream: “Art affords you that. It can go in any direction and it can go in any way. I’m lucky to have shared this dream. Now I’m rubbing my eyes, and I have to go pee.”\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>On March 7, the Mission District gallery \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/\">Ratio 3\u003c/a> announced its permanent closure. “The time has come for us to close the gallery and explore other creative endeavors,” read the Tuesday email announcement. In an interview, gallery founder Chris Perez said future plans for the gallery’s space at 24th and Mission will be revealed in the coming months.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ratio 3 represented artists such as Barry McGee, Takeshi Murata and Ryan McGinley, as well as the estate of Margaret Kilgallen. The gallery has shown over 182 artists in its 20 years of exhibitions, and has been central to various Bay Area visual art scenes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When Ratio 3 opened in 2003, it was in a room in Perez’s apartment at Guerrero and 21st Street. The first show was \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/mark-shetabi-the-anxious-journey/installation\">an installation by Mark Shetabi\u003c/a>, who built a hallway and small room inside of the 11-by-13-foot room Perez, his roommate, and his boyfriend had dedicated to the gallery. Through a peephole, at the end of the hallway, you could see two oil paintings. They sold the piece to a local collector. Perez says he thought, “Huh? I guess we can keep doing this!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925947\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925947\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Wood floored gallery with large framed photographs on white walls\" width=\"1200\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/RMcGinley-Installation-LifeAdjustmentCenter-11_1200-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An installation view of Ryan McGinley’s show ‘Life Adjustment Center’ at Ratio 3’s Stevenson Street location in 2010. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Early possibilities\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>After graduating from California College of the Arts, Perez worked as a curatorial assistant to Larry Rinder at the Whitney Museum in New York. It was there that he met Barry McGee, who traveled to install Margaret Killgallen’s work in the 2002 Whitney Biennial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Perez also met Ryan McGinley during his New York years. “One day, I was walking in Chelsea and saw the old Printed Matter bookstore,” Perez remembers. “I walked in and saw this little Ryan McGinley book published by \u003ci>Index Magazine\u003c/i> and I thought, this is really interesting.” He emailed the publisher for the artist’s contact and made plans with McGinley to do a studio visit. With pen and notepad in hand, he climbed through Dan Colen’s room to sit on McGinley’s bed; the artist pulled boxes of photographs out from under Perez’s perch.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, Ratio 3 has put on five solo exhibitions of McGinley’s work, each one marking a specific moment in both the artist’s career and Bay Area art history. The haunting pop band Girls, fronted by Christopher Owens, played \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/ryan-mcginley-life-adjustment-center/installation\">McGinley’s second opening\u003c/a> in a quintessential late-2000s scene. The gallery was so crowded that Perez and his team pulled the speakers out to the street for the assembled crowd. It was raining, lightly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everyone was so young,” Perez remembers, “the possibilities in life seemed endless.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925944\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925944\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Wood floored gallery with eclectic mix of wall work, sculpture and video\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1440\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-768x576.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/kiki01_1200-1536x1152.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of ‘Kiki: The Proof is in the Pudding’ at Ratio 3’s Stevenson Street location in 2008. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Carrying on vital work\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By this time, the gallery had moved from the apartment to its second home on Stevenson Street, an orphaned half-block between Valencia and a freeway off-ramp. Kiki Gallery, the ephemeral and unmatchable curatorial project of Rick Jacobsen, which closed in 1995, had been just a block away from the new spot. In 2008, Chris worked with the artist Colter Jacobsen and writer \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13859939/remembering-kevin-killian-poet-playwright-and-artist-who-gave-us-courage\">Kevin Killian\u003c/a> to curate a show honoring Kiki’s legacy and Rick Jacobsen’s work. It opened on Pride weekend.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was one of those shows that you kind of knew was important,” Perez says, “Not just for the art, but for the people.” In the press release for \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/kiki-the-proof-is-in-the-pudding/installation\">Kiki Gallery: The Proof is in the Pudding\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, it says that Kiki, as a noncommercial space, was a key player in the “nascent Mission School movement, giving it a homocore dimension and a political edge.” Ratio 3 has, in many ways, carried on this vital work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Over the years Ratio 3 has opened a number of shows during Pride weekend. Last year, they stayed open late to inaugurate a retrospective of the feminist filmmaker and photographer Barbara Hammer that rivaled institutional presentations of the artist’s work. In 2015, they showed Hal Fischer’s \u003ci>Gay Semiotics\u003c/i>. It was the first time the work had been presented in San Francisco in over four decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925948\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925948\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Large gray photograph of white shapes and lines adhered directly to white gallery wall\" width=\"1200\" height=\"900\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Vanishing_Point-019_1200-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Installation view of Miriam Böhm’s ‘Detail IV,’ 2016 in the 2016 show ‘Vanishing Point.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Attuned to space\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>If the gallery has an aesthetic, it’s one of minimalism, clean lines, and pronounced experimentation with space. “It’s evolved, but essentially I like circles and squares,” Perez admits, recalling the early influence of Ellsworth Kelly’s \u003ci>Red Blue Green\u003c/i>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>In the 2015 show \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11430961/minimal-lines-fill-maximum-space-in-ratio-3s-vanishing-point\">Vanishing Point\u003c/a>\u003c/i>, his curatorial proclivity reached an affecting apotheosis. It was a conceptually based group show made up of single works from Fred Sandback, Feliz Gonzalez-Torres and Sol LeWitt, and a selection of pieces from Miriam Böhm and Mitzi Pederson. The result was a meditation on space and mark-marking, both subtle and all-consuming. Looking through documentation of some of the gallery’s 122 shows, the gallery used to have a motto: “Ratio 3: Bringing vastness to the mind.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Consistently, shows at Ratio 3 are attuned to space and to the labor of creating exhibitions. Perez, gallery director Theo Elliott and other staffers transform the gallery to suit each show, taking pride in a willingness to tear down walls, design exhibitions, build screening rooms, carpet the gallery — whatever needs to happen for the work to feel right. “I’m a curator at heart,” Perez says, “I love creating installations.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925943\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925943\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Darkened gallery with musicians, projected image and person in sound booth with mic\" width=\"1200\" height=\"800\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/ASiegel-Installation-Winter-Ratio_3-020_1200-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A performance of Amie Siegel’s ‘Winter’ in the exhibition ‘High Noon’ in 2019. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Always located in the Mission, from Guerrero, to Stevenson, to its third and final location at 24th and Mission, Ratio 3 has been a touchstone for numerous periods of artmaking, scenes, friendships and movements in the cacophonous neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the beginning of the pandemic, the gallery’s registrar and artist liaison, Haegen Crosby, curated a show of Bay Area painters, \u003ci>\u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/bell-weather-picture-garden/works\">The Bell Weather Picture Garden\u003c/a>\u003c/i>. He worked primarily with younger, less-established artists to share a fecund, percolating creativity with the city. One got the sense of a new and emerging scene.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I have a lot of love for San Francisco,” Perez says, resolutely, not goaded into bitterness about the myriad ways the city’s changed, “It’s been an advantage to not have the financial pressure of a bigger city, and to be able to take time. The gallery’s roster, the space it has cultivated, and the community fostered grew slowly, organically, and over the course of years.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925946\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925946\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Square abstract paitning with blocks of green and red color on light gray background\" width=\"1200\" height=\"1200\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-800x800.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-1020x1020.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-160x160.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/R3DMS004_1200-768x768.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Daisy May Sheff’s painting ‘Faint, Faint is My Track,’ 2021, included in the 2021 group show ‘Bell Weather Picture Garden.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Ratio 3)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In many ways Ratio 3 has been an access point for contemporary art in the Bay Area, consistently putting on shows with art historical significance and institutional levels of presentation. This almost reads like an obituary. Forgive that. It’s just that it is sad Ratio 3 will no longer be a space to visit in San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Saturday, March 4, was Ratio 3’s last day. They held a closing event for the artist \u003ca href=\"https://www.ratio3.org/exhibitions/james-sterling-pitt-ways/overview\">James Sterling Pitt’s show of ceramics\u003c/a>, a concert by musicians Danny Paul Grody and Rich Douthit, who gave the space ambient, attentive harmonies. The \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/p/CpYUpThyMiy/?\">Instagram announcement for the event\u003c/a> ended coquettishly, “Thank you San Francisco!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When asked how he felt in those final hours, Perez said it was like waking from a long beautiful dream: “Art affords you that. It can go in any direction and it can go in any way. I’m lucky to have shared this dream. Now I’m rubbing my eyes, and I have to go pee.”\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"slug": "cca-pauses-curatorial-practice-program-after-21-years",
"title": "As CCA Pauses its Curatorial Practice Program, a Look Back at its Influential Scope",
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"content": "\u003cp>The news spread quickly through my former classmates. On Feb. 3, California College of the Arts sent out an email to alumni of its curatorial practice master’s program (CURP), announcing the school’s decision to “pause” new student admission starting with the fall 2023 semester. I graduated from the program in 2018; after 21 years, the class of 2024 will be the CURP program’s last for the foreseeable future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the email, CCA’s provost \u003ca href=\"https://portal.cca.edu/learning/academic-programs/curatorial-practice-ma/\">Tammy Rae Carland explained the decision\u003c/a>: “This temporary pause will allow CCA to explore new opportunities related to campus expansion and to explore deeper connections with the internationally-recognized Wattis Institute for Contemporary Arts.” CCA’s expansion is set to be completed by July 2024, and the Wattis will move back onto campus as part of the school’s new grounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Much is in flux: The Wattis will soon begin a search for its next director, following \u003ca href=\"https://www.artforum.com/news/anthony-huberman-named-executive-director-of-john-giorno-foundation-90010\">Anthony Huberman’s departure\u003c/a> earlier this year. CURP’s current chair, Glen Helfand, is the third to hold the position in the past five years. In an interview, Carland also confirmed that application rates have dipped, with seven students across both current years compared to cohorts of up to 13 in the mid-2000s. Presumeably economics are also at play in the desire to refresh and restructure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925880\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Panoramic view of SF design district with downtown in background \" width=\"1200\" height=\"676\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925880\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-800x451.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-1020x575.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-768x433.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A view of CCA’s San Francisco campus with the planned expansion, set to finish by July 2024. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Studio Gang and Kilograph)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Born during the biennial boom\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The CURP program admitted its first class of students in the fall of 2002. Kate Fowle, CURP’s first chair, and then-Wattis Director Ralph Rugoff recruited the aspiring curators and shaped the curriculum. Curatorial master’s degrees were a new concept at that time; programs at the Royal College in London and Bard College in New York were the only existing models. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As the first program on the West Coast and only the second in the country, it was important to focus out into the Pacific Rim and Latin America,” Fowle explains of CCA’s distinction, “because all the masters at the time were focused on a Western European tradition of creating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CCA’s program was further distinguished by being in an art school. “It was artist-centered, and thinking around creating was important,” Fowle says. “We looked at a lot of artist initiatives and the rise of land art and alternative practices.” Fowle consulted artists like Fred Wilson and Andrea Fraser, who were at the forefront of institutional critique, to recommend five books each for the inaugural reading list.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925881\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Exterior view of gray building with gallery name on front\" width=\"1200\" height=\"800\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925881\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">CCA’s Wattis Institute moved to its current location on Kansas Street in 2013. \u003ccite>(Courtesy CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>2002 was the height of the biennale boom, with almost every major city instituting a perennial exhibition of contemporary art, and curators were at the center of this discourse. Fowle capitalized on that excitement to fundraise. Grants from the Warhol Foundation aided with student travel and scholarships, and funding from Getty and the Wattis enabled the program to invite prominent practitioners, including Magalí Arriola, Adriano Pedrosa and Raimundas Malašauskas, to teach and curate. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After learning that curators and artists who received Asian Cultural Council grants stopped over en route to New York, Fowle began hosting them in San Francisco. All of this was to expose the students to people working on the ground in different contexts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The program created its own far-reaching network through these initiatives. Kitty Scott first met Fowle at a bus stop during \u003ca href=\"https://www.documenta.de/en/retrospective/documenta11\">\u003ci>documenta11\u003c/i>\u003c/a> in 2002. Scott was the curator of contemporary art at the National Gallery of Canada, and Fowle proposed she teach a two-week course about the process of acquisitions. “I loved teaching in San Francisco,” Scott remembers. “It enriched my life. I’d often run into a great person somewhere else in the world, and we would quickly figure out we first met in San Francisco.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925884\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200.jpeg\" alt=\"Five figures in a watery plain, sky and ground both gray blue\" width=\"1200\" height=\"900\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925884\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200.jpeg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-768x576.jpeg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">CCA curatorial practice students at Robert Smithson’s ‘Spiral Jetty’ in 2010. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of David Kasprzak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘Culture in many forms’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 2006, when Xiaoyu Weng applied to CCA, contemporary art curation was a new concept in China. “There were no programs like that in China or even Asia,” she remembers. Her university professors connected her to Fowle, who was visiting for the Shanghai Biennale. “We hit it off and she encouraged me to apply. Then she gave me a full scholarship,” Weng says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Studying in the U.S. would have been impossible without this support, she says. It was also an opportune time. “That was a moment when, politically speaking, China and the U.S. were in a much better relationship,” she explains. “Culture was playing a much bigger role in facilitating mutual understanding.”[aside postID='arts_12870329']\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Weng moved to San Francisco just as Fowle was stepping down as chair in 2007. Faculty member Leigh Markopoulos took the helm. J. Myers-Szupinska, who was teaching art history courses and advising student theses, says the program shifted at that time. With the onset of the Great Recession, funding decreased and the focus turned towards the immediate region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were trying to work with what we had and what allowed us to do compelling things, without a really strong budget for travel,” Myers-Szupinska says. “I think that Leigh was very resourceful in those years.” Subsequent thesis exhibitions did the important work of historicizing the Bay Area, with students accessing local archives, artists and estates. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside postID='arts_11427070']“We did an exhibition of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13907271/etel-adnan-remembrance-poet-painter\">Etel Adnan\u003c/a>, an exhibition of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13810347/why-you-should-join-the-martin-wong-fan-club-i-just-started\">Martin Wong\u003c/a>, an exhibition about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11427070/more-than-mosh-pits-void-california-displays-the-art-of-a-punk-scene\">the punk scene in California\u003c/a> in the 80s,” Myers-Szupinska lists off. The goal of those shows and their publications was not only to fulfill a degree requirement, but to make a contribution to the field. “We treated them as an ambitious form of exhibition making,” Myers-Szupinska adds, “a collective project that could provide something of use to the world.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As chair, Markopoulos was committed to students with interests and backgrounds beyond conventional understandings of high-art. “Leigh was aware of culture in many forms,” remembers David Kasprzak, a 2011 CURP graduate. “She encouraged me to bring my experiences — things like organizing shows in a DIY punk venue in Ohio and on freight trains — into a world where that hadn’t been accepted.” Markopoulos combined this openness with a knack for networking, matching students with people who would become longtime mentors and friends. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/12870329/remembering-leigh-markopolous-teacher-curator-writer-and-heavy-metal-vocalist\">Markopoulos died in a traffic accident\u003c/a> in February 2017. It was an unfathomable tragedy for those of us in the program (I was in my first year), but the loss of Markopoulos was also a huge loss for the broader curatorial community, including CURP alumni.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925886\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1125px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o.png\" alt=\"A speaker at a desk with a room of seated students and books on walls\" width=\"1125\" height=\"750\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925886\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o.png 1125w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-800x533.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-1020x680.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-768x512.png 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1125px) 100vw, 1125px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A curatorial practice class at YBCA, which housed the program 2018–2020. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A period of instability\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Qianjin Montoya was one year ahead of me at CCA; she came to the program specifically because of its local focus. Now a curator at San Francisco’s Contemporary Jewish Museum, she is unsurprised the CURP program is pausing. She describes the transition in leadership after Markopoulos’s death as “shaky.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There have been three chairs (James Voorhies, Christina Linden and Glen Helfand) over the last five years. “It’s about arts programs falling to the passion of one person,” Montoya says of the program’s recent instability. “That’s not fair. That’s a failure on the side of a whole system that says it supports it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These leadership shifts have led to sudden changes. Voorhies moved CURP classes away from CCA’s campus and the Wattis Institute to a bookstore he temporarily established at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. Yomna Osman, the program’s sole 2019 graduate, was organizing her thesis exhibition at the Wattis when Voorhies pursued this reinvention, and she felt it wasn’t for her. “Anything that was happening with this move seemed like it was for the next class,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With that experience in mind, Osman thinks this pause is a good thing. “I feel like this is a delayed response to a force majeure problem that happened a few years ago,” she says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925887\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1586px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413.png\" alt=\"Two students wearing masks install artwork against colorful background\" width=\"1586\" height=\"1057\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925887\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413.png 1586w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-800x533.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-1020x680.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-768x512.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-1536x1024.png 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1586px) 100vw, 1586px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">CURP students installing an exhibition in CCA’s Playspace gallery in 2022. \u003ccite>(Courtesy CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>CURP reimagined\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Carland, CCA’s provost, describes the pause as a logistical necessity, to avoid what Osman went through, and so the current and incoming classes are not running on two different curricula established by different chairs. The new vision for the program, still very much undecided, could include drastic changes. “We could have a track for architects and designers,” Carland suggests. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I asked if she had an existing educational model in mind, she didn’t have one to share, but emphasized that any change would entail a closer relationship to the Wattis. CURP students have curated their thesis exhibitions at the Wattis since 2010, but the institute’s directors, including Huberman, have not always incorporated the curatorial program to the level that CCA desires. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Huberman even argued against curatorial education, in a public debate organized by Markopoulos in 2015. “I do not see proximity to artists, nor do I hear the voices of artists, in curatorial education,” he said at that event. “That can’t happen in a classroom, just as it doesn’t happen purely by sitting down in a room with someone and talking with them about their work.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside post ID='arts_13841205']Graduates are entering a different art world. In recent months, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2022/06/10/arts/design/kate-fowle-moma-ps1-director-resigns.html\">Fowle\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.artnews.com/art-news/news/national-gallery-of-canada-fires-senior-curators-greg-hill-kitty-scott-1234647287/\">Scott\u003c/a> and Weng have all left prominent institutional positions. “There is nothing like an exhibition in which curators and artists create the conditions to bring out the best in each other,” Scott says. But in recent years, she has noticed “a diffusing of the curatorial voice,” perhaps driven by the influence of the art market and museum marketing departments. Put another way: Curatorial influence is not as welcome as it was 20 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925889\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah.jpg\" alt=\"Tan walls with video and three photographic prints, hanging textile sculpture rests on floor\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1428\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925889\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-1020x728.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-1536x1097.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-1920x1371.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An installation view of Natani Notah’s work in the 2022 CURP exhibition at the Wattis, ‘Resonance of Place.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Redesigning” and “invigorating,” words both used in Carland’s email, are promising terms. Still, it’s clear from the rapid-fire changes in chairs since 2017 that reinvention can also harm an educational project, especially if new leadership rejects the strengths of its lineage. Carland says this upcoming period of evaluation will involve speaking to alumni and previous faculty about their experiences. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The future for CURP is unclear, and I hope it only reemerges if there is intention behind its curriculum, faculty, funding and context within San Francisco (where the cost of living continues to rise). For now, seven students will complete their degrees before the program takes its hiatus. Current first-year Sam Hiura stressed her disappointment that there won’t be an incoming class in the fall. “Community-building and collaboration is a guiding value of the program for me,” she says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The CURP network has been incredibly important to my life, and Hiura is right to desire these relationships. As curatorial trajectories shift, I am evaluating, along with my peers and mentors, my role in serving artists and institutions. I hope we can be a resource for students like Hiura — those graduating into an ever-changing field.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"78\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-12127869\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-400x39.jpg 400w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2016/09/Q.Logo_.Break_-768x75.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>The news spread quickly through my former classmates. On Feb. 3, California College of the Arts sent out an email to alumni of its curatorial practice master’s program (CURP), announcing the school’s decision to “pause” new student admission starting with the fall 2023 semester. I graduated from the program in 2018; after 21 years, the class of 2024 will be the CURP program’s last for the foreseeable future.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the email, CCA’s provost \u003ca href=\"https://portal.cca.edu/learning/academic-programs/curatorial-practice-ma/\">Tammy Rae Carland explained the decision\u003c/a>: “This temporary pause will allow CCA to explore new opportunities related to campus expansion and to explore deeper connections with the internationally-recognized Wattis Institute for Contemporary Arts.” CCA’s expansion is set to be completed by July 2024, and the Wattis will move back onto campus as part of the school’s new grounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Much is in flux: The Wattis will soon begin a search for its next director, following \u003ca href=\"https://www.artforum.com/news/anthony-huberman-named-executive-director-of-john-giorno-foundation-90010\">Anthony Huberman’s departure\u003c/a> earlier this year. CURP’s current chair, Glen Helfand, is the third to hold the position in the past five years. In an interview, Carland also confirmed that application rates have dipped, with seven students across both current years compared to cohorts of up to 13 in the mid-2000s. Presumeably economics are also at play in the desire to refresh and restructure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925880\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Panoramic view of SF design district with downtown in background \" width=\"1200\" height=\"676\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925880\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-800x451.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-1020x575.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-160x90.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/CCA-Aerial_Courtesy-Studio-Gang-and-Kilograph_1200-768x433.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A view of CCA’s San Francisco campus with the planned expansion, set to finish by July 2024. \u003ccite>(Courtesy Studio Gang and Kilograph)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Born during the biennial boom\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>The CURP program admitted its first class of students in the fall of 2002. Kate Fowle, CURP’s first chair, and then-Wattis Director Ralph Rugoff recruited the aspiring curators and shaped the curriculum. Curatorial master’s degrees were a new concept at that time; programs at the Royal College in London and Bard College in New York were the only existing models. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“As the first program on the West Coast and only the second in the country, it was important to focus out into the Pacific Rim and Latin America,” Fowle explains of CCA’s distinction, “because all the masters at the time were focused on a Western European tradition of creating.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>CCA’s program was further distinguished by being in an art school. “It was artist-centered, and thinking around creating was important,” Fowle says. “We looked at a lot of artist initiatives and the rise of land art and alternative practices.” Fowle consulted artists like Fred Wilson and Andrea Fraser, who were at the forefront of institutional critique, to recommend five books each for the inaugural reading list.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925881\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200.jpg\" alt=\"Exterior view of gray building with gallery name on front\" width=\"1200\" height=\"800\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925881\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Wattis_1200-768x512.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">CCA’s Wattis Institute moved to its current location on Kansas Street in 2013. \u003ccite>(Courtesy CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>2002 was the height of the biennale boom, with almost every major city instituting a perennial exhibition of contemporary art, and curators were at the center of this discourse. Fowle capitalized on that excitement to fundraise. Grants from the Warhol Foundation aided with student travel and scholarships, and funding from Getty and the Wattis enabled the program to invite prominent practitioners, including Magalí Arriola, Adriano Pedrosa and Raimundas Malašauskas, to teach and curate. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After learning that curators and artists who received Asian Cultural Council grants stopped over en route to New York, Fowle began hosting them in San Francisco. All of this was to expose the students to people working on the ground in different contexts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The program created its own far-reaching network through these initiatives. Kitty Scott first met Fowle at a bus stop during \u003ca href=\"https://www.documenta.de/en/retrospective/documenta11\">\u003ci>documenta11\u003c/i>\u003c/a> in 2002. Scott was the curator of contemporary art at the National Gallery of Canada, and Fowle proposed she teach a two-week course about the process of acquisitions. “I loved teaching in San Francisco,” Scott remembers. “It enriched my life. I’d often run into a great person somewhere else in the world, and we would quickly figure out we first met in San Francisco.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925884\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1200px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200.jpeg\" alt=\"Five figures in a watery plain, sky and ground both gray blue\" width=\"1200\" height=\"900\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925884\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200.jpeg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Jetty1200-768x576.jpeg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1200px) 100vw, 1200px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">CCA curatorial practice students at Robert Smithson’s ‘Spiral Jetty’ in 2010. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of David Kasprzak)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>‘Culture in many forms’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In 2006, when Xiaoyu Weng applied to CCA, contemporary art curation was a new concept in China. “There were no programs like that in China or even Asia,” she remembers. Her university professors connected her to Fowle, who was visiting for the Shanghai Biennale. “We hit it off and she encouraged me to apply. Then she gave me a full scholarship,” Weng says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Studying in the U.S. would have been impossible without this support, she says. It was also an opportune time. “That was a moment when, politically speaking, China and the U.S. were in a much better relationship,” she explains. “Culture was playing a much bigger role in facilitating mutual understanding.”\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Weng moved to San Francisco just as Fowle was stepping down as chair in 2007. Faculty member Leigh Markopoulos took the helm. J. Myers-Szupinska, who was teaching art history courses and advising student theses, says the program shifted at that time. With the onset of the Great Recession, funding decreased and the focus turned towards the immediate region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We were trying to work with what we had and what allowed us to do compelling things, without a really strong budget for travel,” Myers-Szupinska says. “I think that Leigh was very resourceful in those years.” Subsequent thesis exhibitions did the important work of historicizing the Bay Area, with students accessing local archives, artists and estates. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“We did an exhibition of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13907271/etel-adnan-remembrance-poet-painter\">Etel Adnan\u003c/a>, an exhibition of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13810347/why-you-should-join-the-martin-wong-fan-club-i-just-started\">Martin Wong\u003c/a>, an exhibition about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/11427070/more-than-mosh-pits-void-california-displays-the-art-of-a-punk-scene\">the punk scene in California\u003c/a> in the 80s,” Myers-Szupinska lists off. The goal of those shows and their publications was not only to fulfill a degree requirement, but to make a contribution to the field. “We treated them as an ambitious form of exhibition making,” Myers-Szupinska adds, “a collective project that could provide something of use to the world.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As chair, Markopoulos was committed to students with interests and backgrounds beyond conventional understandings of high-art. “Leigh was aware of culture in many forms,” remembers David Kasprzak, a 2011 CURP graduate. “She encouraged me to bring my experiences — things like organizing shows in a DIY punk venue in Ohio and on freight trains — into a world where that hadn’t been accepted.” Markopoulos combined this openness with a knack for networking, matching students with people who would become longtime mentors and friends. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/12870329/remembering-leigh-markopolous-teacher-curator-writer-and-heavy-metal-vocalist\">Markopoulos died in a traffic accident\u003c/a> in February 2017. It was an unfathomable tragedy for those of us in the program (I was in my first year), but the loss of Markopoulos was also a huge loss for the broader curatorial community, including CURP alumni.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925886\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1125px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o.png\" alt=\"A speaker at a desk with a room of seated students and books on walls\" width=\"1125\" height=\"750\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925886\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o.png 1125w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-800x533.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-1020x680.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-48828987681_447abf3440_o-768x512.png 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1125px) 100vw, 1125px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A curatorial practice class at YBCA, which housed the program 2018–2020. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A period of instability\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Qianjin Montoya was one year ahead of me at CCA; she came to the program specifically because of its local focus. Now a curator at San Francisco’s Contemporary Jewish Museum, she is unsurprised the CURP program is pausing. She describes the transition in leadership after Markopoulos’s death as “shaky.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There have been three chairs (James Voorhies, Christina Linden and Glen Helfand) over the last five years. “It’s about arts programs falling to the passion of one person,” Montoya says of the program’s recent instability. “That’s not fair. That’s a failure on the side of a whole system that says it supports it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These leadership shifts have led to sudden changes. Voorhies moved CURP classes away from CCA’s campus and the Wattis Institute to a bookstore he temporarily established at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. Yomna Osman, the program’s sole 2019 graduate, was organizing her thesis exhibition at the Wattis when Voorhies pursued this reinvention, and she felt it wasn’t for her. “Anything that was happening with this move seemed like it was for the next class,” she says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With that experience in mind, Osman thinks this pause is a good thing. “I feel like this is a delayed response to a force majeure problem that happened a few years ago,” she says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925887\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1586px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413.png\" alt=\"Two students wearing masks install artwork against colorful background\" width=\"1586\" height=\"1057\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925887\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413.png 1586w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-800x533.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-1020x680.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-160x107.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-768x512.png 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/small_digital_png-CURP_Playspace-install_SP2022-0413-1536x1024.png 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1586px) 100vw, 1586px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">CURP students installing an exhibition in CCA’s Playspace gallery in 2022. \u003ccite>(Courtesy CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>CURP reimagined\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Carland, CCA’s provost, describes the pause as a logistical necessity, to avoid what Osman went through, and so the current and incoming classes are not running on two different curricula established by different chairs. The new vision for the program, still very much undecided, could include drastic changes. “We could have a track for architects and designers,” Carland suggests. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When I asked if she had an existing educational model in mind, she didn’t have one to share, but emphasized that any change would entail a closer relationship to the Wattis. CURP students have curated their thesis exhibitions at the Wattis since 2010, but the institute’s directors, including Huberman, have not always incorporated the curatorial program to the level that CCA desires. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Huberman even argued against curatorial education, in a public debate organized by Markopoulos in 2015. “I do not see proximity to artists, nor do I hear the voices of artists, in curatorial education,” he said at that event. “That can’t happen in a classroom, just as it doesn’t happen purely by sitting down in a room with someone and talking with them about their work.” \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>Graduates are entering a different art world. In recent months, \u003ca href=\"https://www.nytimes.com/2022/06/10/arts/design/kate-fowle-moma-ps1-director-resigns.html\">Fowle\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.artnews.com/art-news/news/national-gallery-of-canada-fires-senior-curators-greg-hill-kitty-scott-1234647287/\">Scott\u003c/a> and Weng have all left prominent institutional positions. “There is nothing like an exhibition in which curators and artists create the conditions to bring out the best in each other,” Scott says. But in recent years, she has noticed “a diffusing of the curatorial voice,” perhaps driven by the influence of the art market and museum marketing departments. Put another way: Curatorial influence is not as welcome as it was 20 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925889\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah.jpg\" alt=\"Tan walls with video and three photographic prints, hanging textile sculpture rests on floor\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1428\" class=\"size-full wp-image-13925889\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-800x571.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-1020x728.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-160x114.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-768x548.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-1536x1097.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/03/Natani_Notah-1920x1371.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An installation view of Natani Notah’s work in the 2022 CURP exhibition at the Wattis, ‘Resonance of Place.’ \u003ccite>(Courtesy of CCA)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Redesigning” and “invigorating,” words both used in Carland’s email, are promising terms. Still, it’s clear from the rapid-fire changes in chairs since 2017 that reinvention can also harm an educational project, especially if new leadership rejects the strengths of its lineage. Carland says this upcoming period of evaluation will involve speaking to alumni and previous faculty about their experiences. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The future for CURP is unclear, and I hope it only reemerges if there is intention behind its curriculum, faculty, funding and context within San Francisco (where the cost of living continues to rise). For now, seven students will complete their degrees before the program takes its hiatus. Current first-year Sam Hiura stressed her disappointment that there won’t be an incoming class in the fall. “Community-building and collaboration is a guiding value of the program for me,” she says. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The CURP network has been incredibly important to my life, and Hiura is right to desire these relationships. As curatorial trajectories shift, I am evaluating, along with my peers and mentors, my role in serving artists and institutions. I hope we can be a resource for students like Hiura — those graduating into an ever-changing field.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "A Celebration of Oakland's Black Cultural Figures, in Portraiture",
"headTitle": "A Celebration of Oakland’s Black Cultural Figures, in Portraiture | KQED",
"content": "\u003cp>Inside a lobby off Frank H. Ogawa Plaza in Oakland is a series of illustrations of educators and MCs, as well as photographers, poets and Black Panther Party members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The portraits — all comprised of black jigsaw-puzzle-like images on top of yellow backgrounds with a vertical red line through the face — are a part of the \u003cem>Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance\u003c/em> exhibition by \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/shomari7382/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Shomari Smith\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925728\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925728\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-800x535.jpg\" alt=\"Famed visual artist and Black Panther Party Newspaper illustrator Emory Douglas takes in Shomari Smith's Oakland's Black Modern Arts Renaissance exhibit. \" width=\"800\" height=\"535\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-800x535.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-1020x682.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-768x513.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-1536x1027.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106.jpg 1616w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Famed visual artist and Black Panther Party newspaper illustrator Emory Douglas takes in Shomari Smith’s ‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance’ exhibit. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“These are all of my people,” said Smith, a visual artist and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924170/hieroglyphics-hobo-junction-battle-documentary\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">documentary filmmaker\u003c/a>, at an opening reception with guests, portrait subjects and Oakland Mayor Sheng Thao. “These are people who taught me, people I’ve worked with, people I admire and people I’ve been inspired by.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The images include portraits of \u003ca href=\"http://www.theblackwomanisgod.com/artists/jtlewis\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Joan Tarika Lewis\u003c/a>, the first woman to join the Black Panther Party, as well as \u003ca href=\"https://sambafunk.com/about-us/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Theo Aytchan Williams\u003c/a> of SambaFunk!, OUSD educator Jasmene Miranda and jazz radio show host \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/g1rhythm/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Greg Bridges\u003c/a>, to name a few. (Full disclosure: there’s even a portrait of me.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925748\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/Screen-Shot-2023-02-28-at-2.27.48-PM-800x1006.png\" alt=\"An illustration of a man with a healthy beard and big smile, with a yellow background and a thick red line running vertically over the face\" width=\"600\" height=\"802\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925748\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A portrait of long-running jazz DJ Greg Bridges is one of many featured in ‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance,’ on view near Oakland City Hall. \u003ccite>(Shomari Smith)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As the wall text explains, the yellow backgrounds of Smith’s portraits represent creativity, while the red line represents a shared African bloodline. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Look these people up and find out more about their work,” encouraged Smith, while explaining that creating these images is his way of giving a little love back to the community — and making sure others recognize their work as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925729\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-800x535.jpg\" alt=\"Artists, educators and more gather to celebrate the opening reception of Shomari Smith's Oakland's Black Modern Arts Renaissance exhibit.\" width=\"800\" height=\"535\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925729\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-800x535.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-1020x682.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-768x513.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-1536x1027.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124.jpg 1616w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Artists, educators and more gather to celebrate the opening reception of Shomari Smith’s ‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance’ exhibit. \u003ccite>(Amir Aziz)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance’ is free and open to the public during business hours, through the month of March, at the City of Oakland building at 250 Frank Ogawa Plaza in Oakland. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/shomari7382/\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>Inside a lobby off Frank H. Ogawa Plaza in Oakland is a series of illustrations of educators and MCs, as well as photographers, poets and Black Panther Party members.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The portraits — all comprised of black jigsaw-puzzle-like images on top of yellow backgrounds with a vertical red line through the face — are a part of the \u003cem>Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance\u003c/em> exhibition by \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/shomari7382/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Shomari Smith\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925728\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925728\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-800x535.jpg\" alt=\"Famed visual artist and Black Panther Party Newspaper illustrator Emory Douglas takes in Shomari Smith's Oakland's Black Modern Arts Renaissance exhibit. \" width=\"800\" height=\"535\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-800x535.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-1020x682.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-768x513.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106-1536x1027.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05106.jpg 1616w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Famed visual artist and Black Panther Party newspaper illustrator Emory Douglas takes in Shomari Smith’s ‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance’ exhibit. \u003ccite>(Pendarvis Harshaw)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“These are all of my people,” said Smith, a visual artist and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13924170/hieroglyphics-hobo-junction-battle-documentary\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">documentary filmmaker\u003c/a>, at an opening reception with guests, portrait subjects and Oakland Mayor Sheng Thao. “These are people who taught me, people I’ve worked with, people I admire and people I’ve been inspired by.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The images include portraits of \u003ca href=\"http://www.theblackwomanisgod.com/artists/jtlewis\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Joan Tarika Lewis\u003c/a>, the first woman to join the Black Panther Party, as well as \u003ca href=\"https://sambafunk.com/about-us/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Theo Aytchan Williams\u003c/a> of SambaFunk!, OUSD educator Jasmene Miranda and jazz radio show host \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/g1rhythm/\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Greg Bridges\u003c/a>, to name a few. (Full disclosure: there’s even a portrait of me.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925748\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 600px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/Screen-Shot-2023-02-28-at-2.27.48-PM-800x1006.png\" alt=\"An illustration of a man with a healthy beard and big smile, with a yellow background and a thick red line running vertically over the face\" width=\"600\" height=\"802\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925748\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A portrait of long-running jazz DJ Greg Bridges is one of many featured in ‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance,’ on view near Oakland City Hall. \u003ccite>(Shomari Smith)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As the wall text explains, the yellow backgrounds of Smith’s portraits represent creativity, while the red line represents a shared African bloodline. \u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Look these people up and find out more about their work,” encouraged Smith, while explaining that creating these images is his way of giving a little love back to the community — and making sure others recognize their work as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_13925729\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/app/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-800x535.jpg\" alt=\"Artists, educators and more gather to celebrate the opening reception of Shomari Smith's Oakland's Black Modern Arts Renaissance exhibit.\" width=\"800\" height=\"535\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-13925729\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-800x535.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-1020x682.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-768x513.jpg 768w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124-1536x1027.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2023/02/DSC05124.jpg 1616w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Artists, educators and more gather to celebrate the opening reception of Shomari Smith’s ‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance’ exhibit. \u003ccite>(Amir Aziz)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>‘Oakland’s Black Modern Arts Renaissance’ is free and open to the public during business hours, through the month of March, at the City of Oakland building at 250 Frank Ogawa Plaza in Oakland. \u003ca href=\"https://www.instagram.com/shomari7382/\">Details here\u003c/a>. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/p>",
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"marketplace": {
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"info": "Our flagship program, helmed by Kai Ryssdal, examines what the day in money delivered, through stories, conversations, newsworthy numbers and more. Updated Monday through Friday at about 3:30 p.m. PT.",
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"possible": {
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"title": "Possible",
"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
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"radiolab": {
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"title": "Rightnowish",
"tagline": "Art is where you find it",
"info": "Rightnowish digs into life in the Bay Area right now… ish. Journalist Pendarvis Harshaw takes us to galleries painted on the sides of liquor stores in West Oakland. We'll dance in warehouses in the Bayview, make smoothies with kids in South Berkeley, and listen to classical music in a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in Richmond. Every week, Pen talks to movers and shakers about how the Bay Area shapes what they create, and how they shape the place we call home.",
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"soldout": {
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"title": "SOLD OUT: Rethinking Housing in America",
"tagline": "A new future for housing",
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"info": "",
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"tech-nation": {
"id": "tech-nation",
"title": "Tech Nation Radio Podcast",
"info": "Tech Nation is a weekly public radio program, hosted by Dr. Moira Gunn. Founded in 1993, it has grown from a simple interview show to a multi-faceted production, featuring conversations with noted technology and science leaders, and a weekly science and technology-related commentary.",
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"ted-radio-hour": {
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"title": "TED Radio Hour",
"info": "The TED Radio Hour is a journey through fascinating ideas, astonishing inventions, fresh approaches to old problems, and new ways to think and create.",
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