Creative Generation In: Baltimore, DC, the Queer Community, & Artistic Practice

BY BRIDGET WOODBURY

The Collective that makes up Creative Generation consists of artists, educators, makers, and thinkers from around the world. In this series, we’ve decided to highlight inspiring work that’s happening in the cities in which our collective members live. In this blog, Director of Engagement Bridget Woodbury connects Baltimore and DC to the Queer and Artistic Communities in which she belongs.

I wrote a blog post before this one that I could not bring myself to send for editing. It felt so inauthentic and I am in a season of my life where I can’t bear to be inauthentic. I opened a new blank google doc and — not a word of this is a lie — thought to myself, what would Camea do right now?”

Camea is our Director of Research. She and I met in person at our project managers retreat in January and we just often find ourselves on the same wavelength.

Anyway, Camea would write a poem.

I am a visual artist and I thought to myself about what each of my colleagues would say if I art-journaled my blog post about the intersection of arts + social justice + community-building in my hometown. Literally, I thought my way through each of my colleagues: our Managing Director, Jeff, would definitely read it; as would our Director of Communications, Katie. I think Ali would and André would. Maybe our Summer Residents. And I think all of those people would be happy to see the sacred institution of the blog post disrupted slightly.

So my prompt: create a piece about arts + social justice + community-building in my hometown. 

Step 1: What’s my hometown? I don’t know, but: I do know June just ended and someone said the word community, so I want to write about Pride. But which one? I have lived my entire life in a 18.25 mile radius between Washington, DC and Baltimore, MD. so I sort of consider the whole thing my hometown and, thus, I sort of feel like I have three hometown Prides: DC; Baltimore; and Annapolis, MD. Selling my art at and for these three events is easily my favorite part of my job. I make art that reflects on mental health, queerness, and trying to be a good person in a flawed society. Pride is the nexus of those things, so I am with people that get me. 

We laugh, we cry, we see:

  • affirming parents buying stickers that say “don’t fuck with my queer kid” to put on their work laptops,

  • social workers and child therapists that buy 8’x8’ prints for their offices that say “it is safe for you to be yourself here” over a tasteful floral background that just so happens to bear the color of the trans flag,

  • another enby delighted to learn that mushrooms are biologically nonbinary — a fact that certainly contributed to my nonbinary spouse’s desire to marry me,

  • trans retirees that finally have time off to get gender affirming surgery and recover,

  • doctors that specialize in age appropriate interventions for kids experiencing gender dysphoria and suicidality,

  • 20-years-olds at their first Prides and the 23-year-olds making sure they stay hydrated,

  • 29-year-old women that have just figured out they were bisexual and are at their very first pride taking their very first step toward being out,

  • queer artists that we cross paths with on the cryptid and oddities circuits (gay people love outsider themes? Who knew!)

But to really do any of these stories justice would take dozens of interviews.

How do I describe the experience of the first time someone referred to me as a Queer Elder? Euphoric? I have never felt cooler. Joy because I can share my experience coming out and being out.  There is so much power and the tiniest tinge of sadness in receiving that designation because there is a whole generation of queer elders missing from the community. And we had those conversations, too!

The ability that my honest creative expression has to create community is honestly shocking. We have had hundreds (and hundreds!) of customers that felt connected enough to my feelings and values that they purchased the words and the colors and the shapes to carry with them. They even agree with our collective belief that art work is work — and should be valued, monetarily, as such if we’re gonna insist on doing late stage capitalism. 

I started drawing a water pattern because I have been feeling anxious at work lately and I find that soothing.

Luckily I collaborate with teammates to whom I can say things like “I did not consider the change in my FTE when I enthusiastically agreed to do this work and I’m having a hard time managing my whole portfolio” and “I remember you saying you had extra capacity right now — is this the kind of thing you could support me on?” and “I just read an article about how heat causes an increase in cortisol, so global warming is literally making us more anxious every summer. This is explaining some things for me.”

This afternoon, Jeff named a pattern in my mental health — a couple of slow weeks followed by a sudden flurry of deadlines always gives me a touch of anxiety and I need a week or so to re-regulate — and it wasn’t in an accusatory way. It was in a ‘don’t worry about this week; you’ll get caught up’ pep talk.

So that’s some context. 

Like I was saying, I drew the water pattern to center myself. I have an anxiety disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder — and a thriving community that does, too. Those diagnoses make traditional meditation a literal hell for me. It leaves me alone battling my most intrusive thoughts and trying to replace them with…nothing? Absurd. 

So I use a technique called active mindfulness, where I think only about what I’m drawing or painting.

I drew a rainbow river over a black and white water pattern. When the rainbow is there, the black and white illustration can be a background. That lets me relax my standards for those illustrations. I drew patterns representative of something I'd been thinking about for a month. Which was: “nature has a lot of repeating patterns”. Nothing revolutionary: the indentations in morels next to the pattern of foam in still ocean water. Matching structures in a fungus, a coral, a cactus, and a succulent. Vines that curl in the same pattern as a tentacle. 

As I drew, I focused only on the similarities. If I needed my mind to wander, it went to the incredible community we have at Pride. Fellow queer creatives that focus on oddities, cryptids, and other outsider imagery. Teens that buy stickers with rainbows and flags that will signal to their peers, but not out them to their parents. People that come back and tell us they have our postcard on their mirror from pride 2022: Pride Was a Riot.

I wanted to write a sweeping piece. To interview a ton of artists and art fans and queer folks about what creativity and queerness mean to them. Failing that, I tried to write a piece outlining stories about queer people connecting to our art. But, absolutely hating that, I turned to the most honest, embarrassing version of myself: the artist. 

The goal of this series was to let you all get to know us, the people you’re emailing with every day, as people and as artists. To see our values in practice.

In choosing to reflect via illustration and prose, I’m turning to our values, like: centering creativity & curiosity, operating transparently, valuing process over product, inspiring joy. I think my colleagues will get it. 

For a video of my art journaling process, you can check out the Galaxy Brain Design instagram  — content may not be appropriate for all audiences. Check out Bridget’s art at GalaxyBrainDesign.com.