NEWARK — In early October, I sat down with artist Ron Norsworthy at Project for Empty Space, where we both have studios, to discuss our practices and explore shared themes. Our conversation touched on identity, beauty, and the complexities of navigating the art world as Black men. Norsworthy’s recent work draws from the myth of Narcissus to examine Black male beauty and queerness, on view through December 21 in his exhibition at Edwynn Houk Gallery in Manhattan. Meanwhile, my practice engages with materiality and representation, most recently through my contribution to Flight into Egypt, a group exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where my print “Ancient Still Life” (2015) examines the interplay of identity, migration, and historical narratives. Together, we reflected on how our work intersects, diverges, and responds to broader cultural conversations. This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity.
Damien Davis: I’ve always thought that when it comes to art, we have to approach things with a sense of playfulness first — especially when you’re dealing with heavy themes. For me, I need that sense of flexibility in the studio. Otherwise, I just feel trapped. Do you feel the same way when you’re starting a new project?
Ron Norsworthy: Oh, definitely. I think that playfulness allows for the right kind of exploration. It gives you room to ask questions without immediately worrying about answers. It’s like a process of discovery. With the current work I’m doing around Narcissus, it started off as a loose idea of how I could contemporize this ancient myth. I didn’t have all the answers right away — I just wanted to explore what it could mean for me, as a Black queer man, to reimagine this classical story. And perhaps a better word than “reimagine” is “situate” myself in it. I needed to see a Narcissus, someone engaged in falling in love with themselves, who looked like me. Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t find one, so I made one. And then I made another … Until there were 10!
DD: Right, because Narcissus, in the original Ancient Greek myth, is this figure of self-love, even self-obsession. It’s fascinating to bring that into the context of Black male beauty, especially in a world that hasn’t really created space for that kind of self-reflection. What drew you to Narcissus in the first place?
RN: I’ve been thinking about this idea of beauty for a long time, specifically how Black men, and especially queer Black men, have been left out of the conversation around beauty. Narcissus represents this classical ideal of beauty in Western mythology — White, male, unattainable. But there’s power in that beauty. I started to wonder: What if I could reclaim that for Black queer men? How do we take back that narrative of self-love? Narcissus stares at his reflection and is transfixed by it, and that’s something we’re often discouraged from doing — loving ourselves unapologetically.
DD: It’s such a powerful shift, right? Because, like you said, Black men haven’t been given the space to be seen as beautiful. If anything, we’ve been hyper-commodified, either as athletes, entertainers, or strong, stoic figures — but not often celebrated for our beauty. And queer Black men have been even further pushed to the margins in those conversations. How does the myth of Narcissus allow you to interrogate that erasure?
RN: Narcissus didn’t need anyone to validate his beauty — he saw it for himself. And while the myth presents that as a kind of downfall, I’m interested in flipping that narrative. What happens when we embrace that self-love? What if loving ourselves becomes a revolutionary act, especially as queer Black men?
DD: It’s interesting because the myth is often framed in a negative light — self-obsession leading to downfall. But you’re using it to talk about self-worth, which feels so necessary in today’s context. I can see how your work challenges the way we’ve been conditioned to see beauty — particularly when it comes to queerness and Blackness.
RN: Yes, exactly. Narcissus gives me a framework to explore beauty, but it’s also a way to ask broader questions about visibility. Who gets to be seen as beautiful? And more importantly, who gets to define beauty? Because my work is constructed of plywood layers, on some level it can be seen as an analog to social constructions such as beauty, gender, race, and class. We use these to shape our identities. The work is literally announcing itself as a construction and prompting the viewer to ask what else might be.
DD: It’s really about taking back that agency, right? In my work, I’m always thinking about the way Black bodies are represented in traditional spaces and how I can challenge that, especially in terms of the materials I use. You’re working with these classical ideas, but reinterpreting them through a very contemporary lens. And I think that’s where our practices overlap in interesting ways. You’re questioning the same hierarchies, but through the mythological lens, while I’m doing it through materials and abstract forms.
RN: Yeah, there’s definitely a convergence in how we approach the concept of visibility. I’m also thinking, in this body of work, about how beauty has historically been wielded as a form of power, especially for queer Black men. When you’re outside of the dominant idea of what’s considered beautiful, there’s this constant need to redefine it for yourself. That’s why I’m drawn to this idea of Narcissus. He becomes a way to interrogate beauty’s power — both in terms of how it’s perceived and how it can be reclaimed.
DD: And that’s something I’m constantly grappling with too — the idea of reclaiming narratives. For you, Narcissus is a metaphor for Black queer beauty and self-worth. I’m working in a more abstract space, but the goal is similar. I want my work to be a place where Black people, especially those who don’t feel seen in traditional gallery spaces, can see themselves reflected. There’s a tension there between visibility and invisibility.
RN: Absolutely. And I think there’s something interesting about how both of us are using our work to challenge those spaces. Narcissus is trapped by his own reflection, but that’s where I see an opportunity for liberation. What if we could love ourselves in the way that he does, but without the tragedy? What if queer Black men could see themselves as beautiful and worthy of admiration, without needing external validation? If this new body of work had a heart, a center, that would be it!
DD: It’s so necessary to have that conversation about who gets to define beauty. When I look at this series, I see that investigation playing out in real-time. You’re complicating the idea that beauty is something fixed or predetermined. Instead, you’re offering up a narrative where beauty is expansive, where it belongs to everyone — particularly those who’ve historically been left out.
RN: That’s exactly it. And that’s why I have depicted Narcissus as 10 different individuals in these works. So, for me, it’s about expanding the conversation, not just for queer Black men, but for everyone. I want people to question why certain bodies are seen as beautiful and others aren’t. And by using Narcissus as the starting point, I’m asking viewers to reconsider what beauty means, especially when it comes to race and queerness.
DD: There’s a tension between the idea of beauty as power and beauty as a commodity. We know that the art world is built around commodification, especially when it comes to galleries and collectors. How do you navigate that tension in your work?
RN: That’s a good question. I’m fully aware that the work I’m making now, particularly around Narcissus, operates within a certain kind of market. The people who are going to buy my work are the ones who can afford it, and that’s a reality I don’t shy away from. But at the same time, the work functions as more than just a commodity — it’s a cultural artifact. It’s going to live beyond me, whether in a museum, a private collection, or somewhere else. It’s about understanding the systems we operate within, but also pushing against those boundaries where we can.
DD: I think that’s what’s fascinating about your approach. You’re acknowledging the commodification of art, but you’re also challenging it by creating work that speaks to much broader cultural and social issues. It’s not just about selling a piece — it’s about what the piece represents and how it can engage with these larger conversations around identity, beauty, and power.
RN: That’s when the concept of access becomes so important. My work is encoded with signifiers legible across diverse communities. I also want the work to be accessible in the sense that it challenges perceptions of people in certain privileged spaces. Which people and which demographics are key here? Whether it’s hanging in a gallery, being discussed in a classroom, or being seen in a social media feed, the goal is to spark conversations.
DD: It’s about creating space for those conversations to happen, whether they’re taking place in traditional art spaces or beyond. And I think both of our practices are about finding ways to break down those barriers — whether through the materials we use, the themes we explore, or the people we hope to reach.
RN: Right, and it’s that disruption that I’m always looking for in my work. Narcissus becomes a way to explore those themes in a very direct way, but it’s also about opening up space for others to see themselves reflected in the work.
DD: It’s so important, especially when we’re thinking about how Black queer men have been marginalized in conversations around beauty.
RN: I think there’s something about the Narcissus myth that feels really relevant right now, especially when you consider how Black queer men are navigating their representations in culture. The character of Narcissus, in his own way, represents this impossible standard of idealized male beauty and the weaponization of self-love and of being so impossibly beautiful that you fall in love with your reflection and starve to death. But what happens when the inverse happens? When that reflection is one that society has historically refused to validate or see as beautiful? When you are virtually rendered unseen? You don’t have to be Black and queer to get the painful memo.
DD: Right, especially when the beauty standards we’re handed down are not made for us. I think that’s part of why this conversation is so important. When you talk about power and beauty, it’s not just about self-love in a superficial way. It’s about the power structures that undergird who gets to be seen as beautiful and who doesn’t.
RN: In a way, Narcissus becomes a metaphor for queer Black men because it’s not about rejection or defiance — it’s more about simply not being seen or recognized in those traditional structures. It’s not a rejection of the heteronormative world — it’s more, like, I just don’t see myself in that framework. It’s almost like an inversion: The rest of the world is unfamiliar to me, not the other way around.
DD: I love how that plays into queerness, too, because queerness at its core is about least refusing to conform to those norms. And it’s interesting, too, how these myths are centered around beauty — especially male beauty — and how that gets even more complex when you’re Black and queer. Society isn’t used to viewing Black men, especially queer Black men, through that lens of beauty.
RN: And that’s where the power of it comes in. Beauty is power, and that’s true in so many ways. When queer Black men assert their beauty, they’re asserting their power, too, but it’s complicated because there’s such a narrow standard that’s historically been accepted. The Narcissus myth, for me, becomes a tool to explore that — to question why certain bodies, certain faces, and certain skin tones, have been excluded from that narrative of beauty. It gives me an entrypoint into a much broader conversation about who gets to occupy that space of desirability and how we, as Black queer men, navigate it.
DD: And I think that’s where queerness and gender nonconformity tie in. In some ways, we’re not just challenging the existing beauty standards — we’re redefining them. It’s not about fitting into that mold or even rejecting it, like you said. It’s about creating a whole new space where we set the terms for what beauty and power look like. The fact that we’re able to have this conversation through art is powerful in itself because art gives us the tools to challenge those norms in ways that go beyond words.
RN: Definitely. It’s ultimately about creating our own reflections. If society isn’t going to give us a reflection that we can see ourselves in, then we create it ourselves. The idea of self-love and reflection is so much more layered when you’re a Black queer man. And this work I’m doing around Narcissus allows me to get into that. It’s not about a simple narrative of vanity. It’s more about what happens when you finally see yourself; when you stop waiting for someone else to hand you a mirror that shows you what you want to see.
DD: I think we’re both using our work to carve out those spaces for ourselves and for people like us. It’s a way of saying, “We are here.” But we’re not just here in the way people expect us to be — we’re bringing our definitions of beauty and power into the conversation. And in that sense, we’re doing more than just rejecting or resisting — we’re rewriting the whole thing. And speaking of that, with The Met’s upcoming Superfine: Tailoring Black Style exhibition, it seems like they’re trying to tap into that conversation around beauty and Black men, particularly through fashion. How do you feel about that?
RN: You know, I’m intrigued. I see great potential, but I also have my reservations. The Met is a culturally huge institution with a very complicated history of appropriation and theft. While I honestly think they’re trying to engage with these important themes, I’m not entirely sure they’ll be able to fully capture the nuances of Black male beauty through the lens of fashion — and especially emphasize its fundamental intersection with Black queerness, which is something altogether different from White gayness. Who’s there to guide the conversation? Who’s invested in controlling the narrative? Will they dig into the complexities and dynamics of the power of identity expression? The intersectionalities of those expressions? Or the nuanced language of the signifiers?
DD: It’s tricky because, on the one hand, it’s great that these institutions are acknowledging the conversation, but on the other hand, it feels like they’re often just scratching the surface.
RN: And not understanding or valuing what they’re scratching at! It can all be a bit performative and patronizing.
DD: I see what you’re saying. It’s the same tension that comes up in the art world in general — this idea of commodification versus cultural critique. I think what you’re doing with Narcissus gets at the heart of that tension. It’s not just about putting queer Black men in the frame of beauty, but also about questioning who gets to decide what beauty looks like.
RN: Yes, and that’s why I reserve the right to be critical of a PWI (predominantly White institution) doing this show. There is, of course, the opportunity to platform a community, but there are the opposing and likely opportunities, if history is prologue, to commodify, objectify, exploit, and flatten. I’m thinking of how Madonna’s “Vogue” shined a light while also exploiting the ballroom community. So the question is this: Is that community better or worse? Colonizers colonize. So what role does agency play? I’d argue agency is the key to there being a different and better outcome from next year’s Met Gala theme. If Black dandies, of which I’m one, can shape and contextualize the narrative, I have hope.
DD: That’s such a necessary point. And it ties back to your work with Narcissus — because you’re not just talking about beauty, you’re talking about power: who gets to hold it, who is excluded from it, and how beauty operates as both a currency and a weapon within that dynamic.
RN: This work becomes a way for me to explore those ideas in a really direct way. It’s not just about how we define beauty — it’s about reclaiming our agency to love ourselves free of gendered standards of beauty, or heterosexual norms of operating. So that’s what I hope my work brings to the conversation, especially as we see more institutions like The Met striving to be more inclusive. The question will always be, how do we center ourselves in our own narratives? It’s impossible without knowing and loving ourselves completely and unapologetically.
