Traveling the Road to Freedom: A Conversation with
Dominique Moody
By George Howell
Originally published in Sculpture, July/August 2017
Last summer, assemblage artist Dominique Moody brought
NOMAD, a “tiny house” on wheels that serves as her living and creative space,
to Harrison House Music, Arts & Ecology, located in Joshua Tree,
California. The 140-square-foot mobile shotgun house, whose title stands for
“Narrative, Odyssey, Manifesting, Artistic, Dreams,” is a gem of a compact,
self-sufficient dwelling that highlights Moody’s deft joining of aesthetics and
practicality. More than this, though, NOMAD is a work of social sculpture; Moody
often uses the porch as a platform for spinning personal narratives around
issues of affordable housing, race relations, and art as a tool for healing.
The daughter of a U.S. Army officer, Moody, who was born
in Germany, knows about the nomadic life firsthand. After her large family
returned to the United States, they moved frequently. They landed in
Philadelphia, where they restored abandoned houses with the promise of
ownership through “sweat equity,” only to have the homes repeatedly snatched
away by the banks just before completion. The skills and resilience that Moody
developed from this experience came in handy when she was forced to abandon her
work as an illustrator, due to macular degeneration, and began creating
sculptures.
Her three-month residency at the Harrison House’s Art
& Ecology space focused on the principles of permaculture. Founder/director
Eva Soltes says, “What Dominique Moody has created in NOMAD is so integrated in
terms of art and ecology, this was a perfect match for both of us. For 30
years, she’s been evolving a system of aesthetically practicing form and
function in her daily life. She brought her extraordinary ability to this site
and helped us realize it.”
George Howell:
One of your assemblages, which is made out of layered cardboard with a peaked
roof and wrapped in twine, looks like a miniature version of NOMAD. Was this
the earliest seed?
Dominique Moody:
Not quite, but it was certainly part of that process. The Santa Monica Museum
of Art had invited me to do a piece for its Incognito fundraiser, and I needed
to replace a small house, which sold within days of being made. I found an old
roller-skate at a sidewalk sale, put a shoebox on top of the skate, and
immediately it was NOMAD. It’s called My Road to Freedom, and it took on a
different dimension for me in its simplicity and “pared-down-ness,”
as well as in its title—what being nomadic would mean for me.
GH: Did the idea
of making a social space, a space that you not only lived in, but that also
functioned as a platform for storytelling and community exchange, evolve out of
making smaller pieces like this, or did you have the concept in mind to begin
with?
DM: It may
have been a combination of both. Initially this was to resolve a critical
question for me as an artist, which was whether my work could support me and
all my life needs. I needed to find a way to re-shift how my resources were
being used: Could I continue to maintain a studio? One of the very first pieces
was called House Dreams of an Urban Nomad, a stack of boxes on wheels that
rotated around. It was part of a dream series that I did for the Watts Towers
Art Center, my first solo exhibition, which brought me to Los Angeles for the
first time. It was an amalgamation of all the places where I had lived, and it
talked about the sense of being often displaced. In other places where I’ve
shown, people were intrigued by the collage and assemblage, but
they didn’t seem to quite grasp the kind of narrative I was telling. But in
Watts, it was different, because people were immediately engaged with the
stories, which connected to their everyday lives. And that’s when I started to
realize the impact of my work as a social medium.
GH: When your
family returned from Germany, did you feel like an immigrant?
DM: Exactly.
Even at the age of four, I was acculturated elsewhere, and so I had to learn
the culture firsthand, and I wasn’t comfortable with the language. I realized that,
even as a child, my artwork was a bridge for the language gap, because when
people saw the work, they would talk to me differently.
GH: Was that
the beginning of your awareness of narrative?
DM:
Absolutely. I loved illustrated books, because I could know the entire story by
reading the imagery. I knew from really early on that I wanted to tell stories.
GH: You were
an illustrator in the beginning of your career?
DM: Exactly,
because I felt that it would be the best fit; it was the tool to tell stories
with. The next big leap happened in my late 20s, when my eyesight started to
fail, and I realized that I needed a whole different way to communicate. I
hadn’t lost any vision; I lost some sight.
GH: One
standout piece is of a guitar player, built into a guitar case. Your early assemblage
work was not just narrative, it was also figurative.
DM: That was
part of a series of silhouettes, which I started in the late ’80s, right after
my diagnosis. I would make cutouts, life-size or larger. I have always loved drawing
the details of the figure—hands, the face—but I could no longer see the
details, and so the figures became more generalized in shape. Then I would cut
the shapes out of wood and piece them together, and all of a sudden there were
two-dimensional pieces in a three-dimensional space, and I realized I could embellish
them with found objects and materials.
GH: These
works seem really poetic, lyrical, and animated. Was “The Family Treasures
Found” (2001 –02) the culmination of that approach?
DM: It was
made with one of my first major grants, from the California Community Foundation,
in conjunction with “Finding Family Stories,” and it is now part of the
California African American Museum’s permanent collection. I had wanted to do
it for a long time, because my immediate family is so spread out around the
country, and we don’t possess a family portrait. After my grandmother died, I went through the family treasure, which was a box of
old black and white and sepia-toned photos. On certain occasions, she would
bring this box out, telling the story of the photos, and we were rapt with attention, because she was animated, and she would
describe who these people were, their background stories.
GH: Can you
describe one of the portraits?
DM: Mother Home
is a portrait of my mom. Her body is made out of a tabletop, which is collaged like
a kind of mapped tablecloth, and table legs; underneath there’s an object she
treasured—an elephant with a fishbowl on top, and in the fishbowl was her
second husband. Her arms are outstretched and she’s holding her silhouette. We
grew up in a very eclectic house. The dishes were often different, but we
appreciated the uniqueness of found objects and treasured them as our own. So,
she helped me to select the teacups on the table, each teacup representing how
she saw one of her children, and then they were placed on the maps where her
children were located.
GH: This makes
me think about Pop art assemblage and Edward Kienholz, Noah Purifoy, and John
Outterbridge. How did they influence your work?
DM: They were
often left out of traditional arts education. I came across them in unusual
ways, and they captured my attention. The way that they incorporated objects
together fascinated me and made me look at my dream life and the imagery that I
transformed into my collages. When you cut out one image and put it on top of
another, it becomes something else, but to do that in a three-dimensional way,
to me, was magic. I shied away from it, though, until my eyesight changed, and
I was almost forced to go into a more three-dimensional mode. Even though most
of them were steeped in assemblage, or in collage, like Romare Bearden, each of these artists
brought something really rich to my understanding of how to bring all of those elements
together. I was surprised to realize that California had a unique form of assemblage.
Watts Towers, for me, was an epiphany. Simon Rodia, who did not see himself as
a traditional artist, built this thing over the course of 30-some years. All of
the materials were found elements, and he constructed something at an architectural
scale. I had always loved architecture, having to work on houses and do
house-related jobs on the side, and here was someone who brought all of that
together to embellish his house. I felt so attuned to that idea. I knew that if
I had space and place, that was the kind of art I would do—not inside the
studio, the art is the studio.
GH: When you
talked about the sepia-toned photographs, I thought about the segregated world
of your mother and grandmother. Purifoy and Outterbridge respond to being
African American in a majority white culture with a kind of satirical
finger-pointing. Why does your work, which focuses on bonding and family life, take
a gentler approach?
DM: They had a
responsibility to be a communal voice in a way that was absolutely demanding
and revolutionary at the time. That paved the way for me, as part of a younger
generation, to carve out a space where I could speak personally. While I was building
that first solo body of work, my friends asked me if I would have an audience
to go with me to that personal place. I wasn’t sure until I got to Watts, where
people told me that their personal stories mirrored mine. All of a sudden, I
really understood the saying, “The personal is public, and the personal is political.”
GH: When you
use NOMAD as a platform, you don’t often talk about the formal issues of
sculpture. Inevitably you’re speaking about the African American experience,
sometimes to a white audience.
DM: I think
speaking to an audience that mirrors and reflects you validates their feelings,
while speaking to people who are not mirroring you allows them to have their
own awakening, their own realization, and to speak through the piece again, to
share their story. That, to me, is a really interesting engagement. I don’t necessarily
talk in formal terms because the work is only complete when it elicits a
response. What we were seeking was not the shell of a house, it was engagement
with the community, and we never got that, so it was a Band-Aid on a wound that
really is deep. To go back to the deepest part of that wound is something that
America hasn’t done yet. I am able to sit on that porch and share those stories
and have people understand that there is a thread, that I’m connected to you, that
my pain is your pain, that your pain is my pain, and until we get to that place
where we understand that and have empathy, that wound is still going to fester.
To me, art can be healing, because it allows that space to happen.
GH: What did
you do for the Harrison House’s Art & Ecology program?
DM: When Eva
Soltes saw NOMAD, she was struck by how beautifully it fit her vision for the new
Arts & Ecology site. She was excited that I could manifest those ideas in
something three-dimensional and during the heat of the summer. site is a couple of acres, and its groundwork was already
started before I got there. The compost toilet was in place, some
trees had been planted, she had shaded a group of amazing vintage trailers and
had started the framework of a solar shower.
George Howell is a
writer in California.
GH: At first,
I thought that you had done some really nice decorative work around the site.
But weren’t you more like the ecological architect?
DM: In response
to Eva’s vision of the site supporting work crews and a community program, I brought
the knowledge and experience of how I had shaped NOMAD to be an “art dwelling”
and to meet my personal needs. Infrastructure was needed on the site: How does
the facility support the work that’s ultimately going to happen there? Shaping
that use of space with a tighter organization of resources was something very
much in keeping with my work. We developed rest areas, shade, and night lighting
while bringing an aesthetic approach that tied the entire environment together,
making it a place where people would want to work and gather. We had a major
collaboration around Eva’s idea of making a sunken garden within the old wooden
horse corral. In concert with the building of the garden, I transformed the
surround into an assemblage fence called “Three Sistahs Dreamin’ of Earthworms Dancin’.” It combines reclaimed wooden forms from the
Harrison House straw bale vault with an embellishment of colorful glass
bottles, creating a space that is much deeper than just decoration. I’ve always hoped that NOMAD would facilitate my being in
a place that ordinarily couldn’t cater to an artist because it didn’t have the
infrastructure. With NOMAD, I could be within a community and help manifest
their ideas and dreams. One of the principles of permaculture is “care for the
earth, and care for the people.” It’s just as important to grow the community
as it is to grow the food. What does it take for someone to put a seed in the
ground and nurture the plant, and what is the support system for that person to
do the work? Here, I’ve set an aesthetic seed and a functional seed.