Unmasked With Antwoine Washington: A Frank Conversation With A Visionary Artist

  It’s a gray afternoon in Cleveland, BC sits down with local renaissance man and artist, Antwoine Washington, a magnetic man in the city’s creative arts scene. Upon meeting Antwoine one could easily assume that he’s an ordinary individual, that the conversation would be another talking piece about yet another creative. But not so much. This conversation, unlike much of the chatter we see and read about hit different…. This conversation was real, and frankly, unexpected.

  Washington, a former college athlete turned artist, discussed his journey from Pontiac, Michigan, to Southern University and his career in art. He emphasized the importance of representation and inclusivity for African American artists, drawing inspiration from his uncle’s artistic talent and, despite misconceptions, his spirit of community even while incarcerated. Antwoine’s work, influenced by the Harlem Renaissance and West African culture, uses vibrant colors and abstract styles to tell black stories… “human stories” as he put it. He also shared his personal struggles, including a stroke that affected his confidence, memory, dampening his manhood, and how art has been therapeutic and given him a fresh pair of eyes in which to see the world. His current work focuses on grief and community resilience, memorializing his late grandmothers.

   At his home studio, we talked openly about his journey and reflections on his winding journey from basketball courts to art galleries, and he becoming a fixture in Cleveland’s artistic resurgence, his resilience, innovation, and an unrelenting commitment to storytelling—especially when it comes to Black narratives.

   Sitting with Washington feels less like an interview and more like a deep, unscripted conversation about legacy, identity, and the power of creation. We start the conversation talking about the current creative landscape, emerging technology and tools, and with him recounting an earlier memory: his incarcerated uncle, whose stunningly intricate illustrations arrived by envelope from prison to his grandmother’s home. “Those drawings showed me that creativity can survive even in the darkest places,” he recalls.
This notion would later become a cornerstone of Washington’s work as the founder of the Museum of Creative Human Art, a project aimed at amplifying Black voices and fostering community through visual storytelling.

BC: Hi there! Thanks for sitting down with me.

Washington: No problem. I’m glad we finally got the chance to meet. I’ve been following and watching, and I like what I see and what you’re doing.

BC: Thank you—I appreciate that. Picking up from our conversation online and your interest in my perspective on the current creative landscape, I’ve been reflecting on my own relationship with creativity. As a former artist and creative, I sometimes feel as though I’ve lost my voice and perspective, as if I have nothing new to say. It seems like many creators are following a formulaic pattern, centering their work around automation and recycling the same narratives, content, and soundbites. Recently, I’ve been exploring AI-generated art, experimenting and doodling to rediscover a sense of play. I see it as a fascinating new frontier that doesn’t get discussed enough. The topic tends to provoke mixed reactions—some people are energized by the possibilities, while others feel uneasy or even threatened. Personally, I view AI not as a force competing with artists but as a collaborative tool that can amplify creative potential and spark innovation. When thinking about Cleveland’s creative scene, it strikes me as a city with a gritty charm and a uniquely diverse artistic ecosystem. However, my experience has shown that the community can be surprisingly, and at times oddly, competitive. Collaboration often feels elusive; even after forming what seems like a meaningful connection, the dynamics can shift suddenly and unexpectedly. These interpersonal complexities can make genuine, sustained collaboration a challenge. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this—how do you see the balance between competition and collaboration in your creative circles? And what are your feelings about the evolving role of AI in the arts?

Washington: [grin] It gets weird real quick, and then you turn around and act like the person that you, quote, unquote, competing with you. But it’s enough for everybody. I think the world is big enough. Everyone hates on one another and I never understood it. As for the new stuff out there, I’m just starting to explore it too.

BC: [smile] Forgive me. Let’s back up and start properly with an introduction, if that’s okay?

Washington: No problem. My name is Antoine Washington. I was born and raised in Pontiac, Michigan, a city in the metropolitan area of Detroit. I graduated from Southern University in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, after an interesting athletic and academic journey.
My path in sports and art began early. I’m six-foot-two, I played basketball as a point guard and shooting guard and my athletic career took me around to multiple states, like Iowa, where I first played college basketball. I later transferred to San Diego, where I continued playing and completed my degree in art. My basketball journey was ultimately cut short by a knee injury, but sports were always my first passion. Even with potential opportunities to continue playing, I knew I would always maintain my artistic pursuits. Art was never secondary for me—it was a parallel passion that I was committed to developing, regardless of my athletic potential. [with a sober look] My artistic inspiration comes from deeply personal experiences, particularly my connection with my uncle. Recently, after my grandmother’s passing, I was just speaking with my aunt and reflecting on his significant influence on me. What fascinated me as a child were the beautiful, intricate illustrations he would draw on envelopes sent to my great grandmother. I remember one conversation where I expressed my admiration for his artwork. So one day, I just got on the phone with him, because I was just going through the letters, and she will always have them on her bed, and I was talking to him and I said, “You know, as a kid, and I was really intrigued by your work. Hey, man, like these drawings I really love them. Like, this is great.” And then he revealed that he didn’t always create these drawings himself but sometimes commissioned other artists within the prison system to send artwork home. He always sent artwork home and I thought that was really cool. This nuanced approach to creativity left a lasting impression on me. Throughout my life, whether in athletics or art, I’ve always viewed creativity as a means of personal investment and expression. My uncle’s story taught me that artistic passion can emerge and persist even in the most challenging circumstances.

BC: Was your uncle’s story the inspiration behind your organization, The Museum of Human Art?

Washington: [he gestures] So,to tie it all in, I had all these different ideas. The big picture for me is about prevention and opportunity. I look at my uncle’s story—this incredible creativity locked inside a cage—and I think, how can we as a community intervene earlier? How do we catch these young, creative spirits before they get pushed into limited paths? Right now, we’re forcing so many of our young people into this narrow pipeline of sports and entertainment. But what if we invested in nurturing painters, curators, innovators who could create entire industries? We’re losing so much potential. I see all these brothers and sisters caught in the system, and I’m like, there’s got to be a better way from even going in that direction, if we catch these creatives early, and not just force sports and entertainment down their throats. Maybe we would have more painters, more curators, more people who have these innovative ideas to create industry, we’ll have more people in the fight, but you got a lot of those brothers and sisters that’s locked up or caught in their system. And so I just say, Hey, I want to one day create an organization, or even be what I needed when I was growing up, you know, a mentor, someone in the neighborhood, someone in the community, who could pass information down and history down. And hopefully, out of 30 kids, 50 kids, 10 kids, I can get to one or two.
So my mission is to become the mentor I needed growing up. I’m inspired by President Obama’s idea that a rising tide lifts all boats. For me, success isn’t just about my personal achievements. It’s about what I do with my power, my influence. How can I spread opportunity? How can I create pathways for others? It’s about breaking cycles, you know? Showing young creatives that there are multiple routes to success, that your creativity isn’t a limitation—it’s your greatest strength.

BC: So people like yourself are busy building communities, and now that you have built “the ship”, where are you going? It would seem many have a boat but no navigation. Do you agree?

Washington: [Leaning forward, speaking passionately] Look, for me as an artist, it’s really about continuing the storytelling of Black culture. And here’s the thing—we go into these museums, right? We’re totally captivated by European artists, those incredible Renaissance paintings, the impressionists. Everyone gets excited about those periods. But when do we ever talk about the Harlem Renaissance? When do we center the artists who look like us, who created this incredible legacy of creativity that speaks directly to our culture?
[Gesturing emphatically] So I always say, whenever I’m doing interviews or talking about art history, I’m going to lead with the Harlem Renaissance. And it’s not that I don’t appreciate those other artistic traditions or expressions—I do. But it’s wild, you know? Even among Black curators and artists, we get caught in this cycle of… [pauses] it’s just odd.
[Voice softening] You can be in these creative spaces that seem welcoming, surrounded by all these incredible perspectives and artworks, and yet—you still feel alone. It’s about representation, right? Not just seeing yourself represented, but truly being seen, truly belonging.
[Slight head shake] It’s complicated. It’s odd, like really odd that we don’t talk about us in these spaces yet desiring and aspiring to be a part of them. But that’s why I’m committed to telling these stories, to bringing our artistic heritage into the spotlight.

BC: Interesting you mention that it’s odd. I would be remiss if I didn’t share that I too often contemplate this. What’s your take on it all?

Washington: [Speaking with raw, unfiltered passion] Literally in that voice… that tone, beating that drum, you feel alone because everyone is outwardly saying for the culture, for this or for that, or I’m rooting for this, everyone that looks like me, I’m rooting for them. And then, you know, it’s… it’s empty, just rhetoric, you know what I’m saying?
Look, I’m gonna be real with you. In this creative space, we’re constantly beating these drums. Everybody’s out here saying they’re rooting for their people, but when you actually show up It’s a different story. We’re leading with this performative solidarity, but secretly we’re just craving validation from white folk. And hey, if that’s what you want, cool. But when you start deceiving and manipulating to get that validation, that’s when it becomes harmful in my opinion. We’re trying to build real community, trying to create meaningful connections towards our shared goal of freedom.
As a creative, what do we want? We want to tell our stories from our perspective. But here’s the wild part – the harshest criticism I get: It comes from my own people. I’m painting black fathers, I’m representing our stories, and my own community is attacking me. And then I realized – it’s not even about the art. It’s about opportunity. That’s what they want and are missing, and so, they think attacking me is going to be helpful. They’re not mad at the artwork. They’re mad because I have a platform they don’t. It’s transactional. Everything becomes this calculated exchange instead of genuine appreciation.

BC: [Shifts tone, becomes more analytical] Interesting. I’m a numbers guy. Math doesn’t care about our opinions or individual realities.

Washington: Yeah, yeah, that’s so true. It doesn’t care. It doesn’t lie [laugh].

BC: [laugh] And when you look at the actual data – like how Western culture represents around 8% of the global population today – these historical narratives we’ve been fed start to look suspicious to me. I was always the kid that questioned everything, especially when the math wasn’t mathing. I think about the question often: Who were these figures in the past really? Are they who history claims they are?
Another project I’m working on personally asks this very real question given the data, and how history is suddenly being rewritten almost daily as we discover the true identity of the figures in the past. I mean, check out Jesus Christ for example–he’s suddenly Black. Which we kinda already suspected, but… Anyway, this pet project of mine is essentially a letter to Black America, asking fundamental questions: Why are we here? What are we doing? What gives our existence meaning? What’s the game plan fam? Truly?

Washington: [Laugh. Leans in, intensely] Those aren’t just idle questions. They’re about understanding a deeper purpose I think, our collective journey. And that’s what art should do – not just represent, but interrogate.
But you know, you bring up some very interesting points of view. Our current narrative is so fractured, right? The educational system, media, cultural representations—they all push this constant narrative of division. Us versus them. But when you start breaking down the numbers, start looking at the actual history, things get really interesting.
[Pauses, adjusts posture] My work is about challenging those foundational narratives. Why are we here? What are we actually doing every day? What’s the real meaning behind our existence? And how can we connect in a more meaningful way? These aren’t just philosophical questions—they’re urgent, critical examinations of our collective experience I think.

BC: Those are some good observations. Your work does speak in many ways. When I look at your work, I see those same questions bubbling underneath, indeed. Your art is deeply narrative. The colors—they’re not just visual. To me, they’re like auras, like different energetic frequencies. So I’m curious: How did you develop this style? What drives your color choices? And does every piece carry a story?

Washington: [adjust clothing and perks up] Yeah, okay. So, when it comes to my art, the color palette is deeply rooted in research and cultural significance. Growing up, I was fascinated by the Harlem Renaissance artists like I said, and how they connected to West African cultures. Artists like Jacob Lawrence and Elizabeth Cavitt weren’t just creating art—they were exploring identity, pan-Africanism, and what it means to be Black.
I dive deep into tribal colors and patterns because, let’s be real, we Black folks love color, and patterns are like cultural or tribal fingerprints. But it’s not just about looking good. Each color, each pattern has meaning to me. For me, I want my art to be bold—literally. I use bright colors deliberately. I want people to ask me questions. If you are not asking questions, I’m not doing my job. And not just art experts, but everyday people who might not typically engage with art.
My recent abstract work is an evolution of my figure-based storytelling. Even without human figures, I wanted to carry forward the color palette that’s always been central to my work. It’s like my artistic signature. When people see these vibrant colors and specific patterns, I want them to immediately recognize, ‘That’s an Antoine Washington piece.’ [laughter]
But underneath all of this is always a narrative. I’m telling stories about our community—stories of struggle, resilience, joy. That’s what I think and believe. Sometimes I’m not trying to share a personal opinion, but to spark dialogue. History is complex, right? What we think we know today might change tomorrow. I’m always open to learning more about my ancestors and our experiences.
[glances over at his work with an inquisitive look] These pieces you’re seeing now? They’re deeply personal. They’re a memorial to both of my grandmothers. I recently lost my dad’s mom to stage four lung cancer. Watching her—this woman who was always a superhero to me—become vulnerable was incredibly painful. So this work is about grief, about community, about the tears and resilience of Black folks.It’s also connected to my own journey of recovery after my stroke. Suddenly, half my body was numb. My brain didn’t work the way it used to. Creating art became my rehabilitation, my way of reconstructing myself. Each piece is a testament to survival, to transformation.

BC: Tell me more about your stroke and how that impacted your life?

Washington: [the mood shifts and becomes more serious] So, yeah, like, I knew I needed some professional help. After my stroke, which drove me into a deep depression and emotionally took its toll on me. I realized I needed more than physical therapy. I needed some mental therapy, you know? But man, it took me a couple years to even admit that. In our communities, there’s this whole thing where it’s like, ‘Nah, I don’t need no therapy. I’m gonna sleep it off, or just bury whatever I’m dealing with.’ And I get it—not everybody does this, but a lot of folks I grew up around, especially the men in my family, they never talked about mental health.
We’re raised with this universal guy code, right? Don’t cry. Just grit your teeth and bear it. In the Black community, there’s this complex mix of not being educated about therapy’s benefits, not having access to mental healthcare, and just this unspoken cultural thing where talking about your mental state is basically off-limits.
[looking anxious] Before I started therapy, I was just dismissive about the whole thing. But then I hit this really dark place where I knew something was seriously wrong. I’m talking can’t leave the house dark. Family calling, friends calling, and I didn’t have the energy to even pick up the phone or handle my basic responsibilities. I was just… not myself.
Telling my family I was going to therapy? Man, that was its own battle. They’re gonna think I’m crazy, you know? But I knew I was gonna be crazy if I didn’t do something. And then it got to this point where I was so caught up in what people thought, it was driving me insane.
As an artist, you’re already in this super vulnerable space. Doing interviews, being in front of cameras, always feeling like you’re on the defensive. And it feels like everyone’s attacking you—other artists, the creative community, just different ways of coming at you. I knew it was all part of some design, like God’s testing you to build character. But when you’re in it? You’re not thinking about character building. You’re just thinking, ‘Why me? What did I do?’
[sighs] I started judging myself, comparing myself. There were plenty of days I was just like, ‘Man, I give up. Whatever’s gonna happen, gonna happen.’ I’d worked hard to get recognized, and then when you get there, it’s like, ‘This is what it’s about? Seriously?’
But here’s the thing that kept me going: I know when I come home, my kids are gonna run to the door. They’re gonna love me. No matter what happened out there, I’m gonna feel that love. And that’s everything to me.
I started realizing I gotta let some of this stuff go to move forward. But it’s hard, you know? In the Black community, we grow up with this callousness. Like, you fall off a bike, and your mom’s just like, ‘Go take a nap.’ We’re taught to minimize our pain, especially Black men. People really ain’t trying to hear what we got to say.
I got fixated on this lack of empathy. Where’s the care for human beings? Everything’s so transactional now. It’s all ‘What can you do for me?’ versus actually caring about each other. And that’s where depression started creeping in. Is this really about money? About saving lives? About getting young people off the streets? Don’t hit me with all this diversity talk if you don’t even believe it yourself.

BC: Thanks for opening up about your mental health journey. It sounds like you’ve been navigating something so many of us experience but rarely talk about—this silent battle that lives inside us. That quiet passenger no one else sees. I can definitely relate as someone who has suffered from anxiety and depression since I can remember. That was brave of you. 
So what’s happening now? What programs or services does your community organization offer? Are there any new projects we should be made aware of or look out for?

Washington: Yeah so, I started an after-school program, connecting with a friend who worked with a local development organization. What I realized was that most community programming was boxed in—educators were doing ‘Back to School’ events, but they weren’t doing it on their own terms. They felt more like employees checking a box rather than passionate creators wanting to genuinely impact youth.
I wanted to approach things differently. Ownership. Real impact. Ya know what I mean?
At the Stella Walsh Rec Center, we did something radical. We partnered with local tech providers and gave every student in our graphic design class three fully loaded computers. Seven weeks of training, and then? They kept everything. The software, the machines—all of it. Our goal wasn’t just teaching design; it was about building skills, creating pathways.
Think of it like teaching a kid plumbing—you’re not just showing them a trade, you’re opening up an entire world of possibility. Naturally, we got pushback. Local graphic designers were like, ‘What territory are you stepping into?’ But I was crystal clear: We’re teaching kids. How is that threatening?
[staring off into the distance, he recalls] The pandemic nearly killed our program, but it also gave us an unexpected opportunity. We pivoted to exhibitions, landing a residency in this wild space above a bowling alley in Lakewood. But I wasn’t about to just take whatever was offered. I told the owners, ‘If my name’s going on this, it needs to be dope.’ They upgraded the entire space—gallery lighting, the works.
While everyone else shut down during COVID, we were the ones brave enough to keep shows running. We packed the house—I’m talking 3,000 people at our first exhibition. That intimidated a lot of people. Our approach was different. We paid artists. We took zero commission. 100% went back to the creators. And suddenly, young Black artists had a space that genuinely respected their work. Of course, we still got pushback. Some artists were like, ‘If it’s coming from you, we don’t want it.’ But we kept pushing forward.

BC: Well, it’s a switch up, right? You have to change your whole strategy and approach, and some people aren’t ready for that, right? Your organization was founded to, as you say, “take all excuses off the table for artists.” What does that mean to you?

Washington: Well, let me be clear about it: I built this to dismantle every barrier, every “no” that artists—especially elders—were handed in their prime. My goal was to give them the opportunities they deserved back then, the kind that museums and institutions denied them. That’s power. But here’s the kicker, when I offered it? They didn’t want it. [Pauses, leans forward] And yeah, that hurt. It hurt a lot. Because this is what we all claim to want, right? I’ve heard these same artists beg for this shot—talk about it, dream about it. Then it’s handed to them, and… silence. So I shifted. I changed it up a bit. Screw it. I pivoted to the young ones—the nameless, the unseen. They’re hungry. They’ll take the opportunity was my thinking.

BC: You said their rejection was hurtful. Why? What hurt you exactly?

Washington: [Laughs dryly] Because this is the game, isn’t it? I mean, you know what it’s like, right? You’ve lived all over, from California and the rest of the world. We scream for seats at the table, but when someone builds you a whole damn table and suddenly their eyes are sideways. [Gestures his hand over his mouth and whispers] “Why him?”
I’m not from here—wasn’t born in Cleveland—but I’m Black. And this isn’t just a Cleveland story. I’ve seen it on the West Coast, down South, everywhere. If the system’s gonna tokenize me—make me the “good Negro” they trot out for clout—then fine with it. But I’ll use that token status to funnel resources back to my community. That’s the duty. Nonprofit, no ulterior motives. Just giving what’s deserved and being a servant.

BC: But you’ve faced backlash, even from your own community. 

Washington: Oh, it’s layered. Man! Bro! Listen… The elders? Some called me a “token.” The younger artists I championed? Accused me of stealing money. [Shakes head] You ever try to do right and get slapped for it?

BC: [Chuckles] Listen. I had to ask myself: Am I the problem? But no—it’s insecurity and some people trying to control you. When you disrupt the status quo, even in marginalized spaces, folks get nervous and start all sorts of stuff. And the white institutions? [Smirks] They’ll pat themselves on the back for [air quotes] “diversity,” but as soon as Black faces fill their galleries, it’s: “How’d they get here? Who’s really pulling strings?”

BC: So where does your organization stand now? What’s next?

Washington: We’ve pivoted again. Sharper focus. Unapologetically Black. Because here’s the truth: if my existence—a Black man elevating Black art—is seen as a threat? Let it be so. I’m good with that. The work speaks. We’ve curated shows, funded residencies, shouted names that museums ignored. But yeah, it’s lonely. You’re caught between a system that tolerates you as a PR fix and a community that sometimes distrusts your hustle. [Leans back] But I’m not here for applause. I’m here to plant trees whose shade I’ll never sit under. Or, maybe I will…. Maybe my children will one day. The elders might not get it. The system might squirm. But the kids? They’ll remember who handed them the shovel.[laughs with a kind smile]

BC: You’ve called yourself a healer. Or, at least that’s what I’m sensing from you and your story. Explain that.

Washington: [Softens] Art isn’t just pigment and canvas. It’s medicine. For us, by us. I’m stitching wounds older than me—generational gaps, institutional erasure. Yeah, I’m a healer. Because every time a young artist steps into a gallery we built, that gives them a suture. Every time an elder finally gets their flowers, even if it’s late? That’s the balm. I love it, and I’m cool with that. The work’s messy. It’s defiant. But healing ain’t pretty. More trouble. Always.

BC: So, you talk about family a lot. Tell me how does that play a role in what you do?

Washington: [adjusts posture] Yeah, so, family isn’t just a concept for me—it’s a lifeline, a blueprint for survival. I want to show younger men that family can look a thousand different ways, but its importance is non-negotiable. I grew up watching my grandparents. Fifty years together—watching how they navigated life, conflict, love. Who sided with whom during arguments, the unspoken dynamics. Those aren’t just memories; they’re generational wisdom. When my grandfather passed, an entire encyclopedia of knowledge disappeared. That’s the tragedy of our generation—we’re losing those blueprints of manhood, those intricate lessons passed down from father to son, mentor to mentee.
[spoken with a sense of hope in his voice] Look, our community is dealing with some deep wounds. Young men without guidance, without understanding how to be. And I’m talking about real guidance—the kind that used to happen on front porches, where entire neighborhoods raised children. Where accountability wasn’t a buzzword, but a lived reality. Now? Neighborhoods are war zones. Kids are raising themselves because family structures have collapsed. And when families break, communities fracture. It’s a domino effect of pain. My goal as a father, as an artist, as a human: I refuse to send a broken child into this world. I’m learning on the job—we all are—but presence matters. Showing up matters.
So here’s my message: Be yourself. Be selfish about your personal growth. Serve something bigger than yourself. Find a community, a cause that needs you. Serve with genuine heart, not for recognition. Purpose isn’t something you find. It’s something you create by showing up, by caring, by being brave enough to be authentically you. You feel me? Find something or someone to serve, find a group, find a community. Whatever. And I guarantee you you’ll get it back 100 fold. And don’t just do it because you want something in return, like, really, truly be genuine about it. You know what I’m saying? Find something, someone, or something good to serve, and you will be great.

BC: Thanks Antwoine. This has been a very real conversation. I appreciate you taking the time and sharing.

Washington: No doubt.