{ "article": { "title" : "Praise Fuller", "author" : "Praise Fuller, Gabrielle Richardson", "category" : "interviews", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/heirlooms-praise-fuller", "date" : "2025-09-08 10:08:00 -0400", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/Praise-Fuller_26A4542.jpg", "excerpt" : "", "content" : "WARD: Can you introduce yourself?PRAISE: My name is Praise Fuller. I am from Houston, Texas, and I’ve been living in New York for about three years. I’m a cyanotype artist. Anything that it’ll stick to, I’ll work with it.WARD: How did you get into cyanotypes?PRAISE: I always say that I was a broke and depressed college student. I didn’t go to art school, but I do have a degree from YouTube University. I was looking for a cheap way to put my foot in the printmaking door. The place I was living was really small, and I didn’t want to deal with the cost of materials or the mess of screen printing. I had a film camera, like everyone does, and researched enough to find out about cyanotypes. I started doing portraits of friends, then realized I could get more experimental with it. From there, I wanted to see what materials it could stick to, what different subject matter looked like. Then I moved into a bigger house with my own studio, and I just went insane with it.WARD: I love the concept of YouTube University.PRAISE: I teach cyanotypes a lot, and when I first started, people would always try to find out my credentials. People would DM me asking how I do this. Everything I know is already out there; you can either pay me to condense it all for you and hand it to you, or you can look for it yourself. Sometimes people just want to hear you say it.WARD: Because you’re also a community organizer, there’s this sense of democratizing knowledge in how you learned your craft.PRAISE: 100%. Traditionally, when we study artists, they’re often portrayed as very solitary. I make my best work when I collaborate. If I’m not printing directly, I’m working in the studio alongside a friend. Even just being around someone else helps me. My practice is not solitary. I need other people around.WARD: With these works you’re making, you’re not using a UV light, you’re only using the sun?PRAISE: Unless it’s huge, I will pretty much only use the sun. If I make a big or very experimental piece and want consistency, I’ll use a UV light because it gives me more control. That’s when I go science mode.WARD: You’ve said your process is collaborative. Much of your work revolves around identity—personal and communal. What draws you to these themes?PRAISE: When I think about my role as an artist, I think about how I grew up and the identities I hold: I’m Black, from the South, and I grew up really Christian. I’m in a time of life when I’m constantly challenging the values I was raised with and seeing how they mesh or clash with the values I’ve developed. I also think about what my work can mean for my community. Much of it centers on religion—why people turn to it, and how communities are built—drawing connections between organizing work I’ve done and religious practices. Discovering liberation theology gave me a framework for connecting my upbringing with my work about myself and my community. Studying those who came before me is essential to my practice.WARD: You grew up in a Christian household. Did you always realize you wanted to become an artist?PRAISE: Yes. My parents were always supportive of my creativity, but they saw art as secondary. My dad was a blue- collar worker but wrote poetry, my mom was a social worker but sang. They thought art was something you do to keep from going insane in your day-to-day life. Once I proved to my mom that I could make money from it, she became very invested.WARD: When did you realize you were an artist?PRAISE: I think it can be a self-proclaimed thing. You don’t need to accomplish something specific to call yourself an artist. Honestly, when I was a kid and got the 94-pack of crayons and oil pastels, I was like, “All right.”WARD: Who are some artists who inspire you?PRAISE: My main inspiration is Faith Ringgold. She merged activism and art, worked until her last breath, and experimented with many mediums. She’s your favorite artist’s favorite artist. She’s the blueprint.WARD: I also see a lot of imagery in your work surrounding Black cowboys. What drew you to this?PRAISE: In 2020, I started looking into it. I’ve always loved horses. The first book I checked out from a library was a horse encyclopedia. As with much history, Black people’s role in it had been silenced. That proved true with little digging. I got obsessed. I took riding lessons, read about Black rodeos, found photographers documenting them, and even worked with one, Ivan McClellan. I began creating work as an archive, making iconic images of Black cowboys. I also used this imagery to open up conversations about Southern history, farming, and organizing.WARD: What can you tell me about the work you’re creating for the show?PRAISE: I wanted to challenge myself technically by making a cyanotype on glass, which has always intimidated me. I decided to experiment with mirrors, thinking about what it means to place an image on one. I’ve been reading a book tracing African American history through the color blue, reflecting on that, and considering cyanotype’s original archival purpose.WARD: The show is in Nyack, which has a deep history of slavery and liberation. How do you feel about your work existing in a forest with that history?PRAISE: It makes me think about where I’m from. Houston, near Galveston, where Juneteenth originated. Placing an archival cyanotype on a mirror in that forest feels like opening or closing a portal, something spiritual or mythical. Being rooted in that place with the history I carry feels special.WARD: Because cyanotypes use the sun, your work is literally created with the elements. How do you feel about the piece being in nature and transformed by it?PRAISE: It makes the work stronger. I picture the mirror reflecting trees and light, making the forest feel more expansive, almost like using a mirror in a room to make it bigger. Light through rustling leaves is one of my favorite views, and imagining that bouncing off the mirror is part of why I wanted it to be a mirror, not just glass.WARD: Do you have any final statements about your work or process?PRAISE: I’m passionate about archiving, not just my own history, but also that of my community and those who came before me. Community is central to everything I do; I couldn’t do any of it without my friends and loved ones.WARD: Can you speak a bit more about your community work?PRAISE: I’ve worked with WAWOG [Writers Against the War on Gaza] and have done tenant organizing. I believe in contributing however I can—sometimes that’s showing up for court support, sometimes preparing meals for comrades. Community is taking care of each other and knowing our roles, stepping in when others can’t.WARD: Are there people or groups you want to acknowledge?PRAISE: Yes. My best friends, Astrid and Rosa, who are constant examples of selflessness and commitment. Rosa’s mother, Jude, has helped me heal deeply and has a long history of community organizing. She’s still active and fearless today. Cheryl from WAWOG opened Another World, a community space in Crown Heights, with incredible programming. Leah at Plaza Proletaria does amazing work, as does the Ridgewood Tenants Union. There are so many spaces where people can give their time and resources, and they make you feel part of the community while supporting your own political education." } , "relatedposts": [ { "title" : "Dignity Before Stadiums:: Morocco’s Digital Uprising", "author" : "Cheb Gado", "category" : "", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/dignity-before-stadiums", "date" : "2025-10-02 09:08:00 -0400", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Morocco_GenZ.jpg", "excerpt" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.", "content" : "No one expected a generation raised on smartphones and TikTok clips to ignite a spark of protest shaking Morocco’s streets. But Gen Z, the children of the internet and speed, have stepped forward to write a new chapter in the history of uprisings, in their own style.The wave of anger began with everyday struggles that cut deep into young people’s lives: soaring prices, lack of social justice, and the silencing of their voices in politics. They didn’t need traditional leaders or party manifestos; the movement was born out of a single hashtag that spread like wildfire, transforming individual frustration into collective momentum.One of the sharpest contradictions fueling the protests was the billions poured into World Cup-related preparations, while ordinary citizens remained marginalized when it came to healthcare and education.This awareness quickly turned into chants and slogans echoing through the streets: “Dignity begins with schools and hospitals, not with putting on a show for the world.”What set this movement apart was not only its presence on the streets, but also the way it reinvented protest itself:Live filming: Phone cameras revealed events moment by moment, exposing abuses instantly.Memes and satire: A powerful weapon to dismantle authority’s aura, turning complex political discourse into viral, shareable content.Decentralized networks: No leader, no party, just small, fast-moving groups connected online, able to appear and disappear with agility.This generation doesn’t believe in grand speeches or delayed promises. They demand change here and now. Moving seamlessly between the physical and digital realms, they turn the street into a stage of revolt, and Instagram Live into an alternative media outlet.What’s happening in Morocco strongly recalls the Arab Spring of 2011, when young people flooded the streets with the same passion and spontaneity, armed only with belief in their power to spark change. But Gen Z added their own twist, digital tools, meme culture, and the pace of a hyper-connected world.Morocco’s Gen Z uprising is not just another protest, but a living experiment in how a digital generation can redefine politics itself. The spark may fade, but the mark it leaves on young people’s collective consciousness cannot be erased.Photo credits: Mosa’ab Elshamy, Zacaria Garcia, Abdel Majid Bizouat, Marouane Beslem" } , { "title" : "A Shutdown Exposes How Fragile U.S. Governance Really Is", "author" : "EIP Editors", "category" : "", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/a-shutdown-exposes-how-fragile-us-governance-really-is", "date" : "2025-10-01 22:13:00 -0400", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_Gov_ShutDown.jpg", "excerpt" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.", "content" : "Each time the federal government shutters its doors, we hear the same reassurances: essential services will continue, Social Security checks will still arrive, planes won’t fall from the sky. This isn’t the first Governmental shutdown, they’ve happened 22 times since 1976, and their toll is real.Shutdowns don’t mean the government stops functioning. They mean millions of federal workers are asked to keep the system running without pay. Air traffic controllers, border patrol agents, food inspectors — people whose jobs underpin both public safety and economic life — are told their labor matters, but their livelihoods don’t. People have to pay the price of bad bureaucracy in the world’s most powerful country, if governance is stalled, workers must pay with their salaries and their groceries.In 1995 and 1996, clashes between President Bill Clinton and House Speaker Newt Gingrich triggered two shutdowns totaling 27 days. In 2013, a 16-day standoff over the Affordable Care Act furloughed 850,000 workers. And in 2018–2019, the longest shutdown in U.S. history stretched 35 days, as President Trump refused to reopen the government without funding for a border wall. That impasse left 800,000 federal employees without paychecks and cost the U.S. economy an estimated $11 billion — $3 billion of it permanently lost.More troubling is what happens when crises strike during shutdowns. The United States is living in an age of accelerating climate disasters: historic floods in Vermont, wildfire smoke choking New York, hurricanes pounding Florida. These emergencies do not pause while Congress fights over budgets. Yet a shutdown means furloughed NOAA meteorologists, suspended EPA enforcement, and delayed FEMA programs. In the most climate-vulnerable decade of our lifetimes, we are choosing paralysis over preparedness.This vulnerability didn’t emerge overnight. For decades, the American state has been hollowed out under the logic of austerity and privatization, while military spending has remained sacrosanct. That imbalance is why budgets collapse under the weight of endless resources for war abroad, too few for resilience at home.Shutdowns send a dangerous message. They normalize instability. They tell workers they are disposable. They make clear that in our system, climate resilience and public health aren’t pillars of our democracy but rather insignificant in the face of power and greed. And each time the government closes, it becomes easier to imagine a future where this isn’t the exception but the rule.The United States cannot afford to keep running on shutdown politics. The climate crisis, economic inequality, and the challenges of sustaining democracy itself demand continuity, not collapse. We need a politics that treats stability and resilience not as partisan victories, but as basic commitments to one another. Otherwise, the real shutdown isn’t just of the government — it’s of democracy itself." } , { "title" : "There Was, There Was Not: Cinema as Collective Memory", "author" : "Emily Mkrtichian", "category" : "", "url" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/readings/this-essay-was-written-on-the-eve-of-the-five-year-anniversary-of-the-first-day-of-the-2020-artsakh-war", "date" : "2025-10-01 16:06:00 -0400", "img" : "https://everythingispolitical.com/uploads/EIP_Cover_10_1_There_Was_Film.jpg", "excerpt" : "", "content" : "Join us for the New York Screening:7:00pm: Screening Begins8:30-9:00pm: Q&A with Celine and Emily9:15-11:30: Party at DCTV with small bites and DJEIP members 20% OFF CODE: Get your tickets hereCinema holds a singular place in our imagination, opening a shared space of possibility in both our individual and collective consciousness. At first, this might seem less true for nonfiction cinema, yet over nearly a decade of making my first feature, I’ve come to believe it has the power to cast a spell on how we experience reality and remember the past.In making There Was, There Was Not, I lived through a historical moment that became a fundamental rupture and trauma for my people - and now I can’t help but think about the archive obsessively. Its multitude of shortcomings but also its infinite potential and pivotal importance. My grandmothers and aunts were my personal archive - they taught me about the history of my family, which was also the history of our people. When your past is defined by movement and displacement, your lineage becomes a cultural encyclopedia, an embodied record of larger geopolitical events. The personal is political in every way.When I began making the film in 2016 it was originally meant to be a celebration of women like my grandmothers and aunts. These women are the stubborn, tender keepers of history and makers of a better future that I met and became close with during my time in the Republic of Artsakh - an ethnically Armenian autonomous region that fell into dispute after the fall of the Soviet Union. Artsakh was functioning as a de facto state for nearly three decades, and for Armenians, it is a symbol of self-determination, resistance, and the need to hold onto lands that have been systematically taken from us through violent means for more than a century. The formation of the republic of Artsakh was full of tales of freedom fighters, heroes and martyrs (mostly men), who gave their life so that our connection to our lands would remain unbroken. I envied this tenuous yet determined connection to place. My grandparents fled their village in Turkey during the 1915 genocide, and relocated several times before settling in Iran. So as someone who had been disconnected from land and history for two generations, I wanted to document women’s connection to it and fight for it. For all these reasons, I started filming with four women who were all fighting in their own way - fighting for Artsakh to be the place they dreamed and believed it could be.I have so many vivid memories of my time in Artsakh. It’s hard to describe the beauty of that place, but let me try. I know that remembering the joy I experienced there is some kind of conjuring.In Artsakh, it felt as if you were always surrounded by mountains. Everywhere you turned, there were thousand-year-old stone churches, ice-cold rushing rivers, lush wet forests, and sharp cliff lines threatening to drop out a thousand feet onto a green valley floor. The people were completely unhinged in their love for their homeland and their absolute existence in the present. I’ve never made so many toasts, ate so much fresh tonir bread, sat in cars with unknown destinations awaiting me, and cracked as many walnut shells in my hands as when I was in Artsakh.As I describe this ethereal, joyous existence, I can feel myself becoming wary and anxious about the next part of my story. I felt this way for years while I was making the film. One of the of women, Sose, expressed it perfectly in 2021 when I asked her, “Do you remember the first day the war started?” and she responded, “Yeah, but let me stay in this life.” She meant the life before. The life that exists in her memory and in mine. The life that overflowed with joy, abundance and freedom – however precarious.On the morning of September 27th in 2020, in the middle of COVID and 4 years into making my film, Artsakh was attacked along its borders and in its civilian cities.This is the day I became aware that my body is an archive.Over the next 45 days, I lived mostly in a bomb shelter and held desperately onto a camera like it was a lifeline that could convince the world - out there, looming, ignoring us - that this injustice must end. As it turns out, a camera is not capable of this. Or, the world is not capable of being truly moved to collective action by way of images alone. What the camera did do, though, was tether my life to the lives of the four women in wildly intimate and unexpected ways. Together, we learned the names of all major long and short-range missiles, drones, and rockets - and the specific sounds they made. We did everything in our power to help the thousands of people around us who were suffering. We fled in fear and returned in desperate need of proximity to each other and this place. We were not safe but felt that together somehow we could summon the strength to remain on that land and stay alive for as long as possible.As I watched and filmed, I felt something in my own body wake up. It guided me via intuition and care, and forms of knowledge I have never been able to put into words. It was everything my great grandmothers and grandmothers witnessed in their lifetimes, imprinted in my DNA, becoming available to me as an archive in my own body. I drew on that knowledge and strength and intuitive force constantly, and I know that it kept me alive.And I captured every moment I could, holding it in frames to keep it from disappearing, to grant it power and authority.And we watched as a place we loved deeply began to disappear in front of our eyes.In 2023, after nine months of being blockaded and deprived of food, fuel, and freedom of movement, Artsakh was ethnically cleansed of its remaining 120,000 Armenian residents, marking the end of thousands of years of our presence on that land.That is where my film ends.But for me, and for the women I filmed, and for the people of Artsakh, the story did not.Our witnessing and our memories became an archive for future resistance. As women, we pass on this knowledge in intimate ways—by creating lives imprinted with our experiences and by caring for, teaching and being in service to those around us.Ultimately, this work became a collaborative archive of relationships between women and our connection to a place that we no longer have access to. The act of watching the film together allows us to summon this land and the life lived on it through our collective imagination and psyche. In this way, cinema becomes an extension of the archive our bodies hold as witnesses—transforming into a tool to conjure Artsakh, bringing it back into existence and, as Sose said, allowing us to stay in that life and let it live into the future.There Was, There Was Not, titled after the Armenian version of “Once Upon a Time,” – the phrase that opened the stories I was raised on—is my way of honoring this evolving understanding of the archive and of cinema’s power to open new imaginative possibilities on the present, past and future. It is also a beginning, a foundation for future projects like Cartographies of Memories, a somatic, multimedia archive of Artsakh that continues this work of remembrance.Every image I captured became a finite archive, and now my work is to add to it.Cinematic work can be a subversion of erasure, transforming the archival act into something living, relational, and generative. It does not only preserve but imagines, offering a way to resist forgetting and to dream into a future where what was lost can still be carried forward.Let cinema be an act of creative resistance." } ] }