New Brooklyn Festival Highlights Creole Artists

“What’s beautiful about discovering Creole culture is that you have to embrace multiplicity,” says Kréol Fest organizer Natie.

The idea for Kréol Fest, an upcoming arts bash at Cafe Erzulie in Bushwick on November 3 that aims to celebrate the intersections of Creole cultures through music, dance, visual arts, fashion, and food, came to its organizer, who goes by the mononym Natie, in stages.

The first was in 2020, during the Black Lives Matter protests in Brooklyn. “I felt really lost,” Natie, a classically trained violinist who toured with Beyoncé before launching her solo career in 2018, remembered. “I wasn’t marching, I wasn’t posting about it on social media, and I thought, is this me not being a part of the fight?” But an art curator whom she was friends with told her that while it was important to be fighting injustice, there was also a role for those who could “build something to come back to.” Expanding from that kernel, Natie decided to create a weekly jam session called Sunday Art Hang, based out of the Clinton Hill bar Izzy Rose. 

“It was right after the lockdown,” she said, “and it was about creating a community so that artists wouldn’t go crazy in their heads by themselves. They would have an afternoon to share what they were doing, where they were at, what they were struggling with. It was for us to hear each other and support each other.” Sunday Art Hang is now in its third year, and recently expanded to a new space at another Brooklyn bar, Umbra. 

Yet back during the pandemic, Natie, who is from Réunion, a French department off the coast of Madagascar, found herself for the first time in a bubble with only American friends. “It was a super fun group,” she said. “But when it came to conversations about race, it was really tense.”

“I felt misunderstood, but I realized I also had a lot to learn and understand about the dynamics here: what does ‘Black’ mean, what does ‘white’ mean in this context? That was the awakening of my sense that there is so much to talk about — and without sounding like I’m preaching, I think there’s something to be shared from where I come from, another way to look at how we live together.”

Then, in 2023, Natie connected with a percussion group from Réunion called Rouler Killer that was visiting New York, and convinced them to come to Sunday Art Hang for a night of improvised music. “It was so special,” she said. “That was a preview of what Kréol Fest could be like — that moment really fueled me.”

The third and final component settled into place when Natie’s partner relayed a conversation he’d had with a Haitian artist, whom he was telling about her Creole roots. To the artist, the fact that she came from Réunion seemed disqualifying. “But,” the artist said, “they’re not Creole!”

A recent jazz night at Cafe Erzulie, which will be the venue for Kréol Fest.

It’s in this crucible of questions — about race and belonging, the far-reaching resonances of the term ‘Creole,’ and the role that art has to play — that the festival has taken shape. Running from 6 p.m. until midnight, it will assemble ten artists (including saxophonist Kafele Bandele, visual artist Watson Mere, and fashion curator SA-RA) from a wide range of disciplines, representing five different countries: New Orleans, Réunion, Guyana, Trinidad, and Haiti. The event will kick off with a panel discussion, followed by live performances and an array of vendors. 

“What’s beautiful about discovering Creole culture is that you have to embrace multiplicity,” Natie stressed. “Because by nature it is a blend. It’s even more important now, in such a divided climate. Everything is polarizing, a binary choice, and when you engage with Creole culture you have to expand that vision and embrace the fact that it’s this and this and this, and it coexists.”

Ideally, Natie hopes the event will extend beyond this initial installment to become something more. “I want Kréol Fest to exist in ten years,” she said. “I want it to travel. The idea is to uplift each other, and through this shared history see where we can grow stronger as a community.”

Bagpipes, Neo-Trad, and Everything in Between

By Jack Delaney

A visitor to the New York Tattoo Convention last Friday might have been caught off guard by the sudden blare of bagpipes, erupting from three kilted men as they strode down the aisles of artists’ stalls. But to Donal Cranny, one of the event’s three organizers, they were no sideshow. Instead, the marching musicians were emblematic of a broader approach: “We wanted a very global experience,” Cranny said. 

To that end, the show assembled 340 artists from across North and South America, Europe, Asia, and Australia who converged on Duggal Greenhouse in the Brooklyn Navy Yard over the weekend, from October 18 to 20, for the annual convention’s third edition. Their art drew over 4,500 attendees, who clustered around food trucks, danced to live acts like the hard rock outfit Rebel Angels, and lay patiently on tables as steady hands added fresh designs to their collections.

Tattooing has a long and checkered history in New York City. In 1870, Martin Hildebrandt founded one of the first tattoo parlors on Oak Street in Manhattan, catering to soldiers and sailors for whom a tattoo was partly style, and partly a means for their body to be identified if they were killed in battle. The city banned tattooing altogether in 1961, catalyzing a Prohibition-like underground scene and persisting for thirty six years, until 1997. Today, events like the New York Tattoo Convention are evidence that the practice’s old connotations may be slowly shifting.

Michaelle Fiore, who opened a studio in Gowanus this summer and had attended the previous year’s convention at South Street Seaport, said that the pandemic had changed the scene significantly. “A lot of people are either opening private studios,” she said, “or going in the direction of co-ops where multiple artists are pitching in for a space and then splitting rent down the middle, rather than working for a shop owner.” In her view, customers were gravitating more and more towards these new models — studios based out of artist’s homes, for example — and modern styles, too, such as neo-traditional, a digitally-inflected take on classic motifs. Her own preferences are surrealism, anime, and fine line work.

Fiore also noted that she was already seeing a post-pandemic bump in demand for cover-ups and laser removal, as the pent-up demand for tattoos gave way to second thoughts. Fiore’s mother, a painter herself, sat beside her on a swivel chair and chimed in with the refrain of parents everywhere: “Think about what you’re going to get first!”

Nearby, as “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads played on the loudspeakers, and a shirtless man showed off two hyper-realistic babies’ faces, one on each of his pecs — plus a third on his shoulder blade, which he displayed with a smile to an admiring passerby — Coy Barrientos waited sagely in his sunny stall for customers. This was his first year participating, and he had only recently moved to Grand Junction, CO, from his home in Costa Rica, for a residency at Elysium Studios. 

“I’m definitely surprised that I’m even able to make a living out of art,” he said, beaming. He had worked his way up from tattooing friends in his bedroom, to a three-month apprenticeship, before landing this position in the U.S. Like Fiore, he was influenced by Japanese iconography, and agreed that the industry seemed to be changing. One factor, with which artists will increasingly need to reckon, is artificial intelligence.

     

“You kind of notice the before and after of someone’s Instagram page,” Barrientos said, “when they start to use AI.” For some artists, he saw a marked improvement in their work, so he hesitated to condemn it wholesale. “I don’t really think it’s bad, but it’s a contradiction. If you’re making art, you’re supposed to be making it yourself — otherwise, you’re not really the artist. At the end of the day, AI art is not yours.”

Chumreon Sutcharitakul, owner of the Tattoo Stock shop in Astoria, said that he occasionally used AI-created designs for reference, but doubted that the artist’s role would ever be fully eclipsed. His own start had been decidedly low-tech: with “nothing much” on Youtube in the early aughts, he had resorted to buying instructional DVDs made by tattooer Jeff Gogue on Google. Then, in 2009, he found a spot at a studio on West 4th Street with a clientele of mostly tourists. 

“I didn’t have the chance to pick something I wanted to do. It was good for me, and it’s good for beginners because they have to practice many styles,” said Sutcharitakul, who transitioned to his own studio in 2016 and moonlights as an amateur billiards player. “Me, I call my style money-listic. You pay me, I do whatever.”

Though not every vendor was so explicitly mercantile, few contested that tattooing was just as much a matter of savvy business sense as it was artistic skill. “Nowadays, social media is big,” Sutcharitakul explained. “If you don’t learn that too, you’re dead.” Upstairs, as the sun began its descent over the East River, fellow industry veteran Ross Given seconded that sentiment. While he called himself a “dinosaur” when it came to social media, he had a secret weapon: his two kids, whom he relies upon when he needs to shoot a video for Instagram Reels or TikTok.

Given, owner of the Anubis Tattoo Studio in Greenock, Scotland, has been tattooing for 17 years, but he stumbled into it initially. “This wasn’t a career plan,” he said, “or a conscious decision.” After leaving the Royal Air Force, where he had served for 12 years, he had been gearing up to start a new job in private security. By that point, he had been tattooing part-time for two years, inspired by an artist in Norfolk, England, who had given him tattoos of his own while he was stationed there. While back home briefly after military service, he ultimately decided to take the plunge and stay to open his own shop.

“I was kind of lucky, I had some money put aside,” Given said. “And I just thought, ‘I’m going to give it a go.’ In my hometown, there were only two other artists. They were older guys, they weren’t very good.” He flashed a grin. “So I thought, I can’t be any worse.”

At the convention, Given’s winding path seemed the rule rather than the exception. Another artist, Alan Gray, had started tattooing at age 14 while part of a gang in Mexico City, and had dreamed of attending a prestigious program at the National Autonomous University of Mexico for plastic arts. At 20, he moved to New York and has been tattooing professionally ever since. “You’ve got to love this,” he said, “and you’ve got to keep working every day.”

Emanuele Baracchi, cleaning his equipment, explained that he hailed from a small town outside Bergamo, Italy. “[Before tattooing,] I was doing a bunch of jobs. My father had a big pub back in Italy, so I was taking care of the pub as a manager. I worked as a gardener, and as a croupier.” His last job was in a factory that made metal connectors for trains, before he promised himself he would follow his passion for tattoo collecting and become an artist himself.

No matter their background — a past life in the Air Force, a gang, or the foothills of the Alps — that devotion to their work, and desire to keep making, were common denominators. Now at The Grand Reaper, a shop in San Diego, Baracchi summed up the profession’s goals thus: “You try to make a living, but by expressing art through people. And you try to make people confident in their lives. It’s like armor. Every tattoo should have a meaning, a reason.”

The convention concluded with a ceremony for the Best of Show, which went to Hugo Feist and Anton Mariushev for a collaborative piece. 

Cranny and business partner Roy Keane conceived of the concept in 2020, as the pandemic was raging. It took two years to actualize that vision, but they are now planning a fourth installment, set to be in Brooklyn again, and this summer they launched a sister convention back in Belfast, Ireland. 

“We’re three years in — it’s become like riding a bike,” Cranny joked. “And I like to think that we’re creating a community for people who want to come back.” 

Until then, the artists will be scattered across the globe, honing their crafts for next year.

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