On a fluid approach to creative work

So, full disclosure, you and I know each other because we both work at T Brand at the New York Times, where you serve as one of our creative directors. Can you tell me a little about your journey before arriving here?

A lot of people don’t know I was a rapper first—I mean, I’m still technically a rapper—but I grew up emceeing. It started probably around the age of six or seven. There used to be this show, which is still on, called Video Music Box. It was hosted by Ralph McDaniels. We were the last folks on the block to get cable, and that was when I was in fourth grade. At that time, I was either hearing hip hop through my brother, Dwayne, who was playing music in the crib or from watching Video Music Box, because that was the first real actual hip hop show I ever saw. It was on Channel 21 and it would come on every Saturday at 12:00 and then it would come on weekdays at 4:00. That was my real introduction to hip hop. Dwayne would have me videotape episodes of Video Music Box for him when he went to work, just to make sure he didn’t miss any of the videos. I loved the videos and the music, but I could never remember the words, so I’d start freestyling the words and making them up on my own. That was how I learned how to rap, and it was just a thing that I was doing, mostly because it was safe. There was a lot of unsafe shit happening in my neighborhood and in the household.

Where was that?

In the Bronx. Creston Avenue. When I tell people who are from the Bronx that I grew up on Creston, the response is I’m like, “Shit, you grew up on Creston?” Creston is notorious, but that’s where and why I learned how to rap. That was my first form of poetry — before Whitman or Yeats it was Nas, it was Jay-Z, it was Biggie, it was Rakim. Those were my first poets, and that eventually led me to theater and poetry and spoken word art, but the journey all started with hip hop.

Did you go to school to study performance or writing?

I eventually went to LaGuardia High School, which is the performing arts high school, and I was always the kid that was in plays. I remember when I was younger having a teacher, Ms. Petrowski, taking a liking to me and encouraging me. She would say, “Oh, my God, you can memorize things so fast,” which I could. I think a lot of that came from rap. There was another kid at my school, Damien, who wound up going to LaGuardia. I remember seeing Damien in a play when I was a kid and he was a few years older than me. They did The Wiz and everyone was going crazy over him. Granted, he was playing Toto the dog, but he stole the show, and I remember watching him and also watching how people were gravitating toward him. I was like, “And he’s going to LaGuardia,” so my Capricorn energy is like, “I have to be better than him. I must also go to LaGuardia.” I was very competitive very early on. I made it a point to make sure that I got into LaGuardia and I also made it a point to be the star of every show from there henceforth, and that’s what happened. It was like a mini conservatory in that it was the first time that I felt grounded in an art practice. I’d been pursuing art, but not in a way that was structured. The theater also gave me a bit more of the practice and the skill set for using my voice, which then lends itself to a lot of the spoken word stuff I started doing after high school and my brief period in college as well.

So how did that lead you to working for creative agencies and stuff related to advertising?

Well, that’s the weird part. Not weird, but I started working in the nonprofit sector first, which plays a really big role, I think, in how I show up here at T Brand specifically. First, I was a HIV/AIDS case manager for about two years. This is my early twenties. I had some odd jobs, moved around a bit, and for seven years I was a discharge planner. I was going to Rikers Island once or twice a month and my office was based in the Bronx. Anybody who was getting released from Rikers Island, who suffered from mental health disorders specifically, it was my job to place them in programs.

That really gave me a strong connection to the community and to understanding what the community needs, because I was conducting home visits. Reassessments, assessments, I was following their progress, and those people were also coming to my office. I was learning so much about them. I came to learn a lot about the systems at play, especially here in New York. Also about the way the systems limit how people move forward in life. That job also paid shit. I found out I was having a child around year six of the job and I was like, “I need to make money.”

All I have is my high school diploma. I had some college but no degree, and there’s no real growth in the social work sector, specifically social services, without some level of higher education. Around that time, I was growing my social media platform and I was writing. I started writing essays right around that time. The Ferguson uprisings had just happened in 2014, and I was trying to figure out a way to communicate all the things that I was feeling and seeing in the world, especially being a Black man in America. Rap didn’t really feel like it was doing it for me, specifically hip hop, because you write 16 bars, you write an eight bar hook. That didn’t leave a lot of room for me to really talk through what I was feeling, what I was processing, but writing essays did.

I had built my audience on my own at that point, mostly on social media platforms. I was trying to figure out, “Okay, what’s a job that connects social media and writing?” I didn’t know what any of it was, but I was looking for job titles and roles, and I landed on being a social media manager. I was like, “I guess I could do that.” I started applying for social media manager jobs, and that got me into advertising and marketing. There was an agency, Deep Focus, that took a liking to me and also took a chance on me, because there was no real experience on my resume. Still, they could look at my online profile and say, “Okay, well, he understands social media, he knows how to write.”

At Deep Focus they had what’s called stretch roles, and that allowed me to “stretch” into the creative department, because I was working in strategy as a social media manager. Because of the creative department, I was able to start getting some junior copywriting work, which allowed me to build up my portfolio, so when I eventually got laid off, I could start applying for copywriter roles. I worked at an agency for about three years and I went from copywriter to senior copywriter to associate creative director. Then I made my way into T Brand as a creative director about three years ago.

For a lot of creative people, myself included, part of your strategy for living is figuring out a thing that allows you to make money that speaks to your skill set in some way, but also allows you to do this other creative thing. Obviously, there are many different kinds of creative people and creators, but I was always one of those people who, by necessity, always felt like “I can’t just be an artist. It’s not feasible, it’s not realistic for me.” Also, my psyche doesn’t lend itself well to that. I need some stability and structure. I want to like what I do for a living, but I also don’t need it to fulfill me creatively. I can do that for myself. Doing a job that asks you to be creative, but isn’t necessarily inherently about creative practice, feels good to me. Do you feel like your work life and your personal work inform each other?

I think that they absolutely do. Also, it’s good to have perspective. When I was talking about how the nonprofit background allows me to show up in this space, it’s like…not to discount the importance of this work, but working with people who are coming home and going to a homeless shelter and need housing because their Medicaid is not working and they need their psychotropic medications now*, *or working with people who are going into an unsafe situation, people who can’t go back home to the projects now because they have a felony charge… Working in that world for so long makes working in this world feel very different. It keeps you grounded and grateful and helps you keep things in the right perspective.

When you come from where I come from then you just feel fortunate and grateful to be here, to have had the opportunities that have led you to this place. A lot of folks who I grew up with are still stuck in the Bronx or they are locked up or they just didn’t make it. It’s really about community for me. When we are brainstorming in a room, that’s probably the most fun part, because it’s also seeing how people show up to the environment and about building relationships in that way. That’s the thing I enjoy most about working in the studio. Then there is having to present work to clients, which is very much a performance. All of it is about performance, really. It’s the work, but it’s also how you sell the work and get them excited about the work, getting them comfortable with the work, and also having them buy into you as the person who’s delivering the work.

So this work in a creative studio is no different than being a part of an ensemble. I can recognize how much my work as a theater practitioner can apply here. It’s about being present and being in the moment and in front of an audience. You either make it or break it. I’m very comfortable being in front of the camera and also being in front of people and presenting work and presenting my ideas in front of people. They’re very much connected, there’s a very clear throughline for me when it comes to the performance and the creative and how it connects to the nine-to-five work and then also how that connects to the work that exists outside of it.

You published a book of essays this year and you also are very active in the poetry world. You are also very much a part of an active community of people who are doing very public-facing work and performance stuff. How have you managed to strike a balance between those things and being in an office full-time?

In 2024 I thought a lot about moving away from balance and trying to use the word “Harmony,” because that felt more appropriate. I don’t know if I’ve ever really ever had a balance of anything. Some things are going to demand 70 percent of your energy, some things are going to be 30 percent, or 20 percent depending on the season. Someone asked me, “How do you manage all this while also being a dad and maintaining these other relationships?” I’m like, “I don’t know if I do actually manage it.” I guess I do, because I get to show up and I feel good about myself and the work that I do and who I am as a human, but that means I forget people’s names sometimes or I might respond to an email three days after. I’ve missed opportunities, because I’ve just been late to a thing, because my brain is filled up with so much information, there’s so much going on. There’s that. The harmony for me, though, speaks to feeling good and feeling aligned, even if things are imbalanced on paper. That’s how I like to think about it.

Part of the way I try to lead as a creative director is to understand that there are people who are skilled craftsmen in their disciplines, and my job is to support them in that work and give them more tools. You’re not just on an island by yourself when it comes to creating anything, especially in a place like T Brand.

I feel supported. I’ve been fortunate enough to be supported by the people I work with. I also have a meditation practice. Walking meditation is very much a thing for me and I try to pour myself into that as much as possible. A lot of things just come back to community. It’s one-on-one coffee with your co-workers, it’s being curious about people and asking questions and building relationships, so that folks feel like they can lean on each other. Even in the most subtle of ways, I think that is really important and inherent to the work. It’s not perfect, by any stretch of the imagination, but I was able to write a book because I think I’ve just become really good at how to manage my time. I’ve always done creative work while also having a nine-to-five.

And what does that look like?

I get in a rhythm and I know where to find my pockets of time. Also, thankfully, I’m creatively inspired most of the time because I feel like I’m really present in the world. Especially living in New York. I’m inspired all the time. I’m inspired by you, I’m inspired by walking outside. Except here, because this is Times Square, but you know what I’m saying? I’m watching everything and I’m trying to listen and be observant. When there’s a gap in my schedule I’m going to be writing something or I’m going to be doing something that’s helping push the other stuff that’s happening outside of here.

Ostensibly, everybody is very busy, or at least feels like they are. Everyone feels like they are multi-tasked to the very edge of their capabilities, but I actually think that In general most people don’t give themselves enough credit or really understand how much they’re actually capable of if they want to be. I think we live in a culture that wants us to feel busier than maybe we actually are.

Man, that’s it. We take you for example, there’s a speediness in which you do things, but it’s also accurate and correct, because you have a practice and a way of working. I aspire to always be that way–you try and do the thing as soon as it is asked of you. Just do it, don’t belabor it. I think part of that comes from always being on deadlines, but it goes beyond that as well. There’s a way that I think I choose to live my life that is very malleable. There’s a level of fluidity and I think some of that is connected to the way I work. That level of fluidity allows me to not be attached too much, whereas I think a lot of folks, to your point, get caught up in the box of a thing. So it’s like, “It has to be done this way, and if it’s not done this way then it’s not going to work,” and that’s not really how I’ve ever lived my life. I just move. There’s a level of ease that I feel like I move through the world with so that I don’t feel restricted. I have two kids and a dog and a partner and community and work, but you can do it too, actually. I’m not any braver than you, I’m not any smarter than you, or well-read. I’m not the most organized at all, but let’s get it done. You have to do the thing.

I can relate to that. I know this isn’t always true, but generally I feel like if you care enough about something, you’ll find a way to do it.

Creativity is desperation for me, to be honest. I have to create in some way, shape, or form as much as I can.

I hate to admit this, but I feel like I’m actually more productive when I’m busier. A lot of people have this fantasy idea of unlimited free time. And of course, there is something really decadent and incredible about, say, getting an artist fellowship where you can go somewhere and just do nothing but create and think about creating. I don’t actually find that kind of situation to be very productive. I actually create more stuff when I’m under duress, and the work I produce actually feels more vital and necessary. This idea that, “Well, if I just had more time, I could devote all my energy to this and I’d finally do it.” You’re never going to have that time. It doesn’t exist.

No, you have to carve it out. I sometimes tell my mentees, “If you’re struggling to do a thing, put it on your calendar,” and that sounds wild to some people, but if you need rest, put “Rest” literally on your calendar. Even if you don’t do it, visually seeing it on your calendar might help to induce something in you, but you have to carve out the time. Even if you don’t do anything in that time period, just the practice and the habit of the thing might allow you to do that. I’ve never been a writer that’s like, “I’m going to sit down and write for 20 minutes or 30 minutes at this same time every day.” That’s just not been me, it’s very much when inspiration strikes, which can be any time. Again, everyone is different, but I think the reason why this works for me is because I’m in the world and I’m present and I’m connected to real people and real things, the inspiration is always there. Even if I don’t like what I’m writing, I’m going to write if I know I need to.

That’s valuable. Even if it’s bad, you gotta cycle through it in order to get to the good stuff.

It might not be good the first time around, but that’s fine. I don’t have to be the person that’s editing the thing right now. I can do that later, and that’s a skill that I had to learn that took me years to get. I think rap allowed me to do that too, because you write a verse and you practice it, and it’s like, “This is just not landing,” and you go back in. That’s something that as writers, we are generally not skilled at at first, because we want that first draft to be perfect. The first draft is never perfect.

This is another thing that I think is a tricky thing to grapple with, especially if you’re balancing a lot of different kinds of work. Being creative for the sake of being creative, enjoying the practice for the sake of the practice, and not because you are trying to sell it or share it or show it. This is a hard one, especially because we work within a culture that measures success in such a very straightforward and obvious way. It’s important to remember that there is value and pleasure in doing something creative just for the doing of it.

Oh, absolutely. Even if you aren’t particularly good at it. Just do it.

In your opinion, what makes something creatively successful?

This is such a good question, man. I’ll use my recent book as an example. I got an email about the book from my editor who said, “We’re not putting out paperbacks for this book.” For folks who don’t understand that, that means the book did not sell well enough for them to issue paperbacks. The bookstores are looking at pre-sales, deciding whether or not this makes sense, and it just didn’t make sense. Now, if I was measuring my success based on book sales, then I would’ve been incredibly disappointed. I’m aware and astute enough to know that this is not on the New York Times Best Seller list. It was highly-regarded in certain circles and among people whose opinion I value, but I am basing my “success” on the Black folks who were coming to talk to me about it at readings, as well as the all the other folks who read it and wanted to talk about it.

What was that like?

You know, I would have white men or white women saying, “I know this book wasn’t for me”—which I have to correct folks sometimes when they say that. Just because a Black man wrote it and it’s a Black man’s “reimagined soundtrack for the future” does not mean it’s not for you. They would say, “I really got something from it,”which is great because the book is so much more than just an essay collection, it’s an archive. I grew up in a certain period in New York and a lot of those things that I grew up around don’t exist anymore, and the people don’t exist anymore physically either, so the book was also an opportunity for me to pay tribute. It was an homage to those things, those people, that time and place. The essay collection itself is very much inspired by hip hop and hip hop culture in the Bronx and in New York. That is all to say that success for me is me seeing and hearing from people who are affected and impacted by the book.

So, what is creative success? For me, that is it. It’s about how people are responding to the art once they have engaged with it. That is the indicator. I’ve done my job. Also, have I made my brother proud? And how proud am I of myself for having done it? Because I did it—I wrote a book. That was the thing. I wanted to see my book on bookshelves, so the first day, when the book was released, I walked into McNally Jackson and I saw my book on the table for New and Noteworthy Non-Fiction, and I was like, “Okay, that’s it.” I could have ended it there and been happy. Because, for me, that was the thing. I wanted to see my book there and I did that, so it’s like, “I’m good.”

Just to follow up on something you just said—it’s weird when there’s this idea that you are speaking to and for only a specific audience and that’s it.

Yeah. I think we forget how multifaceted our experience is as humans. While we can’t necessarily conflate one person’s experience for another, and they’re not interchangeable, hopefully there is some shared level of understanding. I think about cultural language a lot. What are the intersections of language that connect us to each other? There’s a language of New York and certain places here that, if you grew up there, there’s a very specific way that you understand it. There’s a richness to growing up specifically in the timeframe that I grew up in with hip hop. I can talk about certain rap groups, and if you grew up past that time, you might have heard the groups, you might have listened to the music, but it’s very different, being in that moment when that music was new and was happening around you. Same way if you were old enough to experience your first house party with actual house music. That language is so important, but it speaks to the different intersections and layers of how we communicate with each other and how we see the world. Still, there are larger ideas and themes in this book that lots of people can relate to—what it means to leave a place behind in order to become what you want to be, what it means to leave people behind. So you want it to have some element of universal appeal, but also I’m really writing for the 40-something-year-old kid who grew up in the Bronx and having them feel seen. It is perhaps a very small population of people, but I was fine with that.

This reminds me of why I often struggled so much with writing music criticism. There are a lot of things in the world that I would encounter and feel like, “This is not for me.” It doesn’t mean it’s bad, it doesn’t mean it’s not successful at what it is trying to be, but it’s literally not for me. Like, maybe this is for a tween girl or maybe this is for my boomer grandparents, but it’s not for me. It doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy those things, but it also doesn’t mean that they’re bad just because I don’t connect with them. It’s all so subjective.

It requires a little bit of relinquishing of the ego. There is an essay in my book where I talk about good Black art versus bad Black art. It was really me asking, “My mom loves Tyler Perry, what does that mean?” I’ve been very dismissive of his work, but then what am I saying about my mom and my brother who look forward to watching a Tyler Perry movie or a TV show? How much of this is just me needing to stop being a dick about art? I mean, I still kind of am, but it’s also recognizing that it’s just not for me, and that’s okay.

Oh, you are speaking my language. I grew up at a time when there was so little mainstream gay art or gay movies. And even though a lot of them were truly bad, it always felt like, as a gay person, you weren’t allowed to criticize them and you should just be grateful that any of it was allowed to exist. Also, I am old.

Well, I think we’re allowed to criticize things and it’s not the end of the world for art. I think what tends to happen to us, as marginalized people, is that we feel like this work needs to be the end-all, be-all about our shared experience, and it never is. It’s okay. What I was reckoning with in the essay is that we need more bad Black art and we need to be able to critique it in a way that will allow us to develop our own language around criticism within Black culture. It feels like that is really lacking in this moment and we need more voices who can put a lens to art and critique it in a way that makes sense within our culture. Now everyone thinks that they’re a critic, but no one has critical language or understands how to actually critique a thing without just saying it’s good or bad. In order to do that, people need to be talking more about art, and even if it’s not good, we actually need to be able to say that out loud.

Yes. I also am willing to admit that I like a lot of bad things.

There’s a lot of bad shit. I can look at New Jack City—an important movie, a movie I loved—and there’s a line at the end of New Jack City where Ice-T is like, “I’m going to shoot you so bad, my dick is hard.” He made that line up on the spot. The movie’s not great at all, but it’s nostalgic for me. I go back to it because it makes me think of a time frame that I love. There’s this movie, Jason’s Lyric, with Allen Payne. Not great, but I still cry when I see it because there’s a sentiment to it that gets to me. I could critique it all I want, but it’s also like, “I just want to watch this and also enjoy it.” That’s fine.

Coming off the experience of publishing your book, are you having a kind of postpartum feeling? I think it’s easy to get lost in that sometimes, or to rush into a new project. For you, is it the thing where you just have to wait for something new to coalesce and it will happen when it happens?

It’s the latter. I’m not much of a futurist in that way. I remember when people used to ask me things like, “What’s your goal? What do the next five years look like? What’s your five-year business plan?” I’m like, “I don’t have one and I’d rather not.” There’s a level of preparedness I have, I think. I know what I want to do in the larger sense—I want to make art that pushes the needle. I want to keep writing poems, I hope to maybe record another album. I have a lot of things I hope for, but I don’t know who I’m going to meet before then and I don’t know what I’m going to see that’s going to change how I show up for the creative practice. I like that level of availability, I like being open to things, as opposed to having hard-set rules of what I imagine to happen.

I just want to make our art, man, that challenges us. To your point, there’s a couple of books in the works, there’s a fiction novel that I’m just rough outlining right now, and that feels exciting. Sometimes I’ll just walk around the apartment and I’m freestyling, and I’m like, “This feels like maybe… Do I want to write music? I don’t know, do I want to record? I don’t know.” I just am waiting, because I’ll know it when I feel it.