Visible, Radical, Revolutionary: How Multimedia Artist Tara Fay Coleman Navigates Museum And Gallery Spaces

Tara Fay Coleman is a largely self-taught artist who grew up on the East Side of Buffalo, New York, and moved to Millvale, Pennsylvania, with her family when she was in high school. She studied fashion and retail management at the Art Institute of Pittsburgh.

The mother, writer and curator is a multidisciplinary artist who concentrates on a public-facing practice with audiences and communities who are rarely the subjects of museum and gallery spaces. Her work is intentionally absent of high academic and art speech.

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She explores themes of identity, motherhood, Black womanhood and taking up space. Her practice mines her own lived experiences for subject matter, with a goal to intertwine her life with her work.

You started on your art journey as a curator. What was your mission?

My mission is always to tell compelling stories, uplift diverse voices, celebrate Black creativity, and foster inclusive spaces that challenge traditional narratives in the art world. I strive to highlight underrepresented artists, cultivate meaningful dialogues, and create exhibitions that resonate with people that look like me. I’m proud of the fact that I can create opportunities for so many artists and collaborate with some incredible people.

What is your research process when it comes to your own art?

So much of my work is tied to identity and lived experience, so it becomes a lot of detailed notes, personal archiving, and documentation, but also contextual research. Very few ideas are original, so historical, cultural, and most recently, academic references are important to draw from. I’m also a voracious reader, so that ties into the work at times. Knowing and understanding the cultural landscape is imperative, so engaging with Black literature, music, film, and even social media are things I would consider research as well. Sometimes references may not work for a particular idea I’m thinking through, but then I go back later, and things have aligned in a way to where those threads are able to be connected, so I archive absolutely anything that sticks out to me in any way.

Your video piece “The Promised Land Will Be Green” exhibited in 2020. What was your inspiration for that?

That work was created for an exhibition [“Counterpressures”] at the Carnegie Museum of Art that addresses the urgency of global warming. The show’s specific focus was on human impact and environmental response. When I was invited to exhibit, I had already done a lot of research around the impacts of the climate crisis on Black communities because it disproportionately affects us—especially in a city like Pittsburgh. We are not so far removed from the legacy of air pollution here, and it’s still prevalent in a lot of areas where vulnerable populations reside.

My focus for this work was sustainability in the Black community, and how this practice was often driven by limited resources, systemic inequities, and a deep connection to the environment. It was rooted in survival and resilience long before sustainability was even a buzzword. I felt a deep sense of responsibility to have the community be a part of this work, and I commissioned award-winning director Chris Ivey to create a video that focused on local artists who utilize a number of sustainable measures within their individual practices, including community gardening, repurposing materials, conservation, and cultural practices rooted in indigenous knowledge. It became a meaningful portrait of family and resilience and how Black people have always been at the forefront of environmental justice and stewardship.

That sense of Black cultural distinctiveness brings to mind your piece “Checklist for a Black Artist,” which appeared at Here Gallery in Pittsburgh in 2022, about the parameters that exist for Black artists’ access to opportunities. You’ve said that it began as a checklist in your iPhone notes. Tell us more.

I am very against the idea of artspeak [industry insider jargon] for a number of reasons. It creates significant issues with accessibility, it’s very abstract, especially if you are not familiar with art theory, and it’s a form of gatekeeping because it creates clear barriers for engagement. It’s rooted in elitism and academia, and while I think it serves a purpose, it’s exclusionary. However, when applying for grants and residencies and artist opportunities, there is an expectation that this language should be used. I found myself having to appeal to what panelists and organizations are looking for to fit in with this idea of how a Black artist should present, and I resented that. I kept a running list of the words I found myself using most frequently, and it later became a body of work because I felt like it was a meaningful survey of what Black artists must do to qualify for opportunities to be seen as equal to our white counterparts.

You curated the first solo exhibition by Emmanuel Massillon, which is titled “As Clear As Mud” at Swivel Gallery in Brooklyn, New York. What drew you to work with him?

Emmanuel is a very young and very brilliant conceptual artist whose work is heavily influenced by his lived experience, which parallels my approach to my own practice. We are similar, even though he grew up in D.C., and he uses a lot of African and Caribbean influence to create work around hip-hop, drug addiction, gun violence and incarceration. He really brings awareness to the devastating impacts these continued epidemics of violence and addiction create in our communities. His upbringing has shaped his entire worldview, and the show was very narrative driven. He is incredibly rebellious, and despite how widely recognized he’s become, there is a community component in that this work exists for us to see ourselves in—our stories and our legacies and a record of not only all that we have survived but of all that exists to try and destroy us. It’s necessary work.

There’s a richness to “We Out Here,” a group exhibition at Denison Art Space in Newark, Ohio, that celebrates Black culture, which you co-curated with the artist and Denison University art professor “jstn clmn” in 2020. It was the last show at Denison before things went remote due to COVID-19. Tell us more about “We Out Here?”

“We Out Here” was born out of a concept that jstn approached me with that was really rooted in Black identity and taking up space within a predominantly white institution. I loved the title that he came up with because it functioned as an affirmation of presence in this context, but also solidarity, community, and cultural pride. The focus for me with this exhibition was highlighting artists working in conceptual practices, and I wanted it to include a performance component as well. It was important for me that the show maintained that assertion of Black presence, and included works that were not only conceptually challenging, but visually compelling. We chose a broad range of artists—some emerging, some mid-career, with Sharon Norwood and Alisha Wormsley both being a more established presence—which is important in the context of group shows because it really helps give emerging artists a bit of a lift to be able to exhibit with more well-known artists. My goal is always to help artists leverage bigger and better opportunities.

You are currently in a self-directed residency through the Advancing Black Arts in Pittsburgh Initiative. What is it about and how will that impact your future work?

The self-curated residency was really an opportunity to further build and develop skills specific to print-making. I wanted to create a new body of work and become self-sufficient in the way of my artistic output. However, I’ve experienced many staggering life changes, and my priority now is rest, research and intention. I am letting ideas manifest organically, and I will not put pressure on myself just to be able to say I’m making work.

What does “being seen” mean to you?

Being seen validates our identity and experiences. It’s empowering, it grants us agency, and in some spaces, influence. To not be seen reads as the opposite to me – exclusion and erasure, a loss of identity.

Isn’t there also a power that can come from being invisible?

I think that being invisible can provide certain protective advantages, but they are outweighed by the broader negative impacts. Invisibility means disempowerment. The struggle for visibility, representation and recognition is crucial for addressing systemic inequities and affirming dignity. To be invisible is to shrink oneself—I don’t want that for myself or others. To be visible is radical, it’s revolutionary.

Stacey A. Robinson is a graphic novelist, exhibitor, curator, DJ, and an Associate Professor of Graphic Design, and Studio at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His work appears in Lee and Low Books, Abrams Books, Rosarium Publishing, and Carnegie Hall.

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