Article under construction

Not only making the unseen seen …

During an interview about the Indigo Arts Alliance that he co-founded with Marcia Minter on the August 12, 2025 edition of the PBS News Hour, Daniel Minter pointed out that it’s “the responsibility of an artist to make the unseen seen” and the making should be done with community.

These generative (inward visionary) and outward (community activist) processes also involve transhuman beings. During an interview with Minter three weeks earlier at the Maine Coastal Botanical Garden, the moderator, Samaa Abdurraquib, PhD, began by offering thanks for “all of the beings seen and unseen who made it possible for us to gather in this way today.”

At this moment, some of the transhuman beings are both unseen (their spirits) and seen, and prominently include trees. Minter told me that “trees move” and he wasn’t just referring to branches swaying in the wind. We were discussing his 2023 Healing Language of Trees installation at Milwaukee’s Lynden Sculpture Garden, a month before his In the Voice of Trees installation opened at the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden on July 27, 2025.

“Trees can make a lateral movement if there's an area that is closer to the water and they need to get there,” Minter explains. “They will send roots towards the water, and those roots will pull them slowly towards that area.”

This explanation echoes a phenomenon scientists have observed: tree lines, particularly spruce and fir tree forests, "march" northward as global temperatures rise.This is an ecological process where trees gradually colonize previously colder, treeless regions. 

This ability of trees to adapt and shift mirrors Minter’s own journey, from his grounding in the deep southern earth to his ‘march’ across a broad terrain from Ellaville, Georgia, to Atlanta, Seattle, and New York City before settling in Portland, Maine.

During his first visit to the Lynden Sculpture Garden, Minter came upon a dead ash tree devastated by insects. Rather than create a new sculpture, he says that, in a decision rooted in his southern rural background, he would give the dead tree symbolic new life.

 “I was reminded of the people I knew at home carving wood canes and that kind of thing.” The communal carving memory was his impetus for carving large beads from the limbs of the dead tree to “adorn it with the beads that come out of itself.”   

He describes this process as “something before becoming something else again,” adding that a “tree is also a powerful symbol just on its own.”

I moan about southern black people losing the wood carving tradition. “We don't have the time,” he replies, “and the joy. We’re disconnecting ourselves from our understanding of the physical world by turning to the digital world. That's a form of control, when we’re not responding to our own natural surroundings but when we’re controlled by the media, and the media is controlled by corporations. They want our energy and our labor to run their machines.”

Minter reached out to the local Milwaukee community to help carve the beads from chunks of the dead tree. He was capable of carving them all himself and would have finished sooner If he hadn’t put tremendous time and effort into organizing and conducting the carving workshops.

He has a quiet, reflective, expansive personality that extends from solitary maker absorbed for hours in his large warehouse studio and contemplative loner drawn to forest trails to outgoing organizer who generously uses his energy and other resources to help other artists and communities at large through the influential Indigo Arts Alliance.

Daniel Minter's second tree project, In the Voice of Trees, at the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden, consists of seven cedar trunks stripped of their branches and bound together as a single entity. The trunks symbolize “Sticks in a bundle are unbreakable,” a West African proverb that speaks to the strength of social cohesion and cooperation in community life.

Both the Milwaukee and Maine public art projects engaged the community in the creation of beads; however, in Maine, the beads were molded from clay, another earth element, rather than carved from the wood of dead trees.

Lynden installation

In reflecting on the community bead-making workshops and his southern rural childhood, Minter said: “There were lots of people just sitting around for a few minutes. You take out your pocket knife and you carve. I knew one particular man who was a carpenter who would carve more intricate works, but there was also a lot of relief carving. I feel like it originated with the Africans who came over and it's a southern black tradition—just carving on flat pieces of wood, whether that be decorating it or carving narrative imagery into it.”

Minter says that his main focus is not the finished carving or installation itself, but rather the process and practice of creating it and connecting with people along the way. “That tree is a manifestation and representation of the effort and ideas that went into its creation. Without understanding the journey, it's just a tree.”

Born in 1961 into a rural, segregated farming community in south Georgia, Daniel Minter’s early life was shaped by a challenging Jim Crow environment and spiritualized by the collective wisdom of his elders. His initial works, depictions of southern black farmers, were a direct reflection of his intent to project the people and environmental orientation of his past into the future.

Minter believes that his remote upbringing was a blessing, though he didn’t see it that way at the time. “I thought it set me back in a way, tying me to past generations and did not necessarily have anything to offer the future. Yet I was irrevocably connected to it.”

He explains that even after moving to cities, he couldn't get away from that understanding of the world. “I was not willing to alter myself to something that was not of myself. I know that the work I do benefits me practically and I know that the people where I'm from can read it and understand it and it does something for them as well.”

Despite the pervasive racism of the Jim Crow South, Minter acknowledges the resilience within his community. “That system we were forced to live under strengthened us in a lot of ways,” he reflects. “It gave us an appreciation for education because the education was coming from people you knew, people you trusted. It truly gave you the sense of who you could rely on.”

He describes a childhood where the entire sustenance of the community came directly from the earth. “You grew a lot of your own food. My father had fields that were in different places and I worked on those. I also worked in the fields of other black farmers to help get their crops in. Picked peas, hoed leaves out of cotton and corn fields. And most of the weeding was done by hand.” 

Weeding by hand! This intimate connection with the land also shaped Minter’s understanding of the economy of resourcefulness. “There wouldn't be any surplus because if somebody had a bunch of corn, come harvest time, more than they needed, they would give a bushel of it to neighbors.” Their diet, consisting largely of fresh, seasonal produce, was exceptionally healthy compared to the typical store-bought fare of those times.

“We always had a big food garden. Almost everybody in the town had a plot in their yard where they grew lots of cucumbers or watermelons. And other people might grow lots of eggplants and tomatoes. The foods of the summer were different from the foods of the winter. In the summer, we had fresh cobblers, black-eyed peas, and butter beans—everything was fresh. And in the winter you'd have dried peas, and if you made a cobbler, it was gonna be from canned peaches. And folks had a yard hog that was slaughtered in the wintertime.”

“What about a cauldron?” I asked, imagining the big pots used to boil pigs to remove the hairs. Minter was remembering another use of the big black kettle in the yard: “That's what my momma washed clothes in.”  His mother had 12 children.

As late as the 1960s, black rural women were still using this incredibly strenuous way to wash clothes, a detail that brings to mind John Biggers’s reverence for these women, as depicted with washboard, kettle, and wringing cloth iconography in this lithograph and similar symbols in his other depictions of southern black women.  

(caption) Daniel Minter and an archival photo of southern black men working in the field. Minter is seldom without his iconic hat, as were they.  The hat was a shield from the blazing sun in unshaded fields, winter chill, the convention to closely crop hair, and being easily identified by white men.  

Daniel Minter is the last generation to come out of the full black southern folkbase. When he was growing up in the 1960s, it was more like the 1940s or ‘30s, he says.

“Even simple actions, like sweeping our front yards with a brush broom – something I thought was just a common chore growing up – are very connected to the (African) continent. My mother's passion for Guinea fowl, too.  I've grown to see the connections there. My mother preferred Guinea fowl over chickens because of their habits, their appearance, and the sounds they made. I later learned that the Guinea fowl was also the food for Yemoja. I strongly relate those ideas of mothering, which I feel my mother exemplified, to the Orisha Yemoja.” 

Because of the spirituality and the close knit community of Minter’s youth and despite the hardship, the remoteness of Ellaville was a blessing. 

Citing a painting from his black farmer series, Minter says, “That one is about the harvest of all that our ancestors have put into this land.”

Minter’s style of painting evolved to incorporate a gossamer element: white outlines of botanical, aquatic, and animal motifs—for example, lacy filigree leaves, vines, and frogs. “I don't really have a name for it—sometimes I'll call it a veil,” says Minter. “I started doing that out of two reasons: conversations with John Biggers and also spending time in Salvador, Bahia.”

He adds: “John Biggers was probably the most affirming thing in my artwork and in my life as an artist. I saw what he was doing—thinking about, talking about and creating in his work. He was communicating with the same basic community that I was trying to communicate with.” Minter adds that Biggers showed him that “it's possible to communicate with a small community in South Georgia and at the same time communicate with one that's in Ghana or Harlem.”

The gossamer veil is a layer that indicates “the presence, or the embodiment of spirit, and the ability to exist in that realm and this one at the same time,” Minter explains and credits his conversations with both John Biggers and Leo Tanguma, a Mexican American muralist, with helping him understand this concept. “The three of us were trying to incorporate the spiritual realm but using figures that were the kind of people we all three grew up with—rural people who were connected to the land but in a way that, even if they were in servitude, they would find a way for the land to serve them as well.”

Being attuned to nature in a very deep way

The veiling⇆revealing technique also relates to his use of the color black. “One of the primary reasons is the determination to be present as myself,” Minter says. He works with the “full spectrum of that blackness—from the deepest blacks of deep space to the deepest blues of the bottom of the ocean.” By doing so, he encourages viewers to look beyond the surface and interpret the other things within the work. “The voice speaking it is a black voice,” he says, “and it's one that resonates with the universe.”

While Daniel Minter finds personal and universal resonance in the "full spectrum of blackness," his connection to these concepts was formalized during his time in Bahia, Brazil, where he was introduced to the Yoruba-based spiritual system of the orishas.

“It's about working out understanding based on numbers and patterns,” he says. “It helps me to recognize the unseen influences on what's in front of me—whether those influences are beside it, below it, or above it. The more of these connections you see, the clearer your understanding becomes. These relations aren't always visible, but we constantly encounter unseen influences. For example, the traffic you don't see influences your progress when driving to work. These invisible influences are powerful ways of helping us understand the whole paradigm.”

Minter was influenced by such spirits growing up in Georgia:

 “But I did not have a name for them. I felt connected to the spirits and the force of the field but I did not have a name for them until I got to Salvador (in Bahia, Brazil).” He learned about them first through conversations with artists who would give him a name for the spirit connected to a piece of art. “That’s where I became familiar with Candomblé and the amount of organization of those ideas around the spirit that exists within the living world.”

“How did you sense those spirits when you were in Georgia?” 

“By the way I was drawn to, and am still drawn to, any grouping of trees or forest,” Minter replies. “I want to go there and I always feel a sense of presence. It’s a place where it's easy for me to connect to being a part of existence and not a part of someone else's 'mechanism'.”

When Europeans discovered that enslaved Africans believed in orishas, they “thought that that was a part of being the devil,” Minter explains. “But actually it's a way of being attuned to nature in a very deep way. And needing a way to express it in a metaphorical way that’s also very real in terms of what it represents.”

Another major environmental element in Minter's life and work is the indigo plant. His journey with indigo began long before he consciously embraced it, steeped in the very soil of his regional, South Carolina-Georgia homeland where indigo was cultivated before the advent of commercial dyes. Many enslaved Africans brought with them extensive knowledge and expertise in indigo cultivation and processing from their homelands. Some were so valued for their skills that they were called "indigo slaves."

When Minter and his partner Marcia co-founded and named the Indigo Arts Alliance (IAA), they chose a botanical name not just for its beauty but for its historical meaning and its ability to represent a shared heritage.

And the indigo plant is also represented by Minter’s illustrations for Blue: A History of the Color as Deep as the Sea and as Wide as the Sky,  a young readers’ book by Nana Ekua Brew-Hammond.

Reflecting on motivation to found IAA, Minter says “I realized that the work artists do requires other artists — those with similar sensibilities, aesthetics, or a similar care for their community — to serve it in some way and having a place to create and talk about the work.”

If (the earth) does not have everything that you need, it will reclaim you and recycle you.

After Minter left Georgia, he lived and worked in Seattle where he met graphic designer Marcia ________ (maiden name), and the couple moved to New York City. Then, finally they settled in New England by the water –  the archipelago of Portland that has lots of inlets. 

I wondered whether after moving to Portland, the water themes became more prominent and the environmental themes expanded in Minter’s multi-media works.

“I think that they are probably more prominent for two reasons,” Minter says. “I'm really interested in connecting the real life I have to the rural life that I had in Georgia. In both, I nourish myself from the earth. The communities are vastly different, but the earth is the same. Wherever you go, the earth has everything you need. If it does not have everything that you need, it will reclaim you and recycle you.”

The move to Portland and his deeper understanding of the Orisha Yemọja, the mother of the water and ocean, have also influenced his work. “It also helped me understand something about myself: I am not comfortable in water. I don't swim, and I've never liked swimming,” he says, true to his upbringing in a rural, low per capita income, landlocked area.

He then recounts a dream in which he and Marcia, whose orisha is Yemọja, helped him fly over water. “I feel like it just gave me an understanding that I needed Yemọja's permission before crossing the ocean.”

Minter also notes that his orisha is Ogun and later returns to the topic: Ogun. “He is one of the spirits of the forest, specifically the spirit of opening paths through the forest, creating new routes, and of farming fields. He's also associated with tools, particularly metal tools like wood-cutting tools, and the general development of material, primarily iron. These energies were incorporated into the energies of the Orisha Ogun for the benefit of civilization, for us as people.

Knowing this gives clarity to many of the reasons behind the ways that I think—the way that I do. Not that it gives them justification, but it does provide a little clarity. It's knowing that there is a system of thinking that's thousands of years old, which has been contemplating how we live in the world and how our different personalities and energies can be used to make a whole community in this world.”

Marine scenes and aquatic motifs—the symbolic boat imagery, Malaga Island figures evoking Yoruban figures who govern waters, and cowries and other shells—constitute an African-influenced, marine sensibility in his work. Maine’s Malaga Island was once home to a mixed-race community, including many African Americans, from the mid-1800s until they were forcibly removed in 1912.

Minter is currently working on a book that features his work in dialogue with the work of historian/anthropologist Rachel Elizabeth Harding. “This book will encompass all the themes we've highlighted in our collaborative journey over the years. It involves discussing the work, her writings, and pairing pieces together to create a walk-through of our collaboration.”

Another project involves using his artwork to illustrate themes they have discussed. “I've realized that within my work, there are consistent elements: the human body or figure, which I often use as a metaphor; the representation of spirit through color and line; and the use of metaphor,” says Minter.

When I pointed out the repetition of the word “metaphor,” Minter clarified: “I think of the ways in which we expand on the metaphor outside of the piece of work that generates it. How one metaphor can lead to another. Similar to the way the removal of the black and mixed-race families on Malaga Island here is a macrocosm of the removal and destruction of black communities all over the South during that same period. The metaphor can expand to talk about what was going on in the whole country at that time.”

Minter’s work is a unified expression of his core background and beliefs. This is a “universe of freedom-making” that, as Minter says, “lives within us, within our DNA. Even in challenging situations, we can still cultivate our freedom. Even if our bodies are chained, we have the capacity to cultivate freedom within ourselves, and we seize an opportunity to do that every time we're able to connect with our source material, which is the earth.”  

The “universe of freedom-making” specifically refers to the title of Minter’s current exhibition. Presented by the National Museum of African American History & Culture in DC, a Universe of Freedom Making is one part of the two-part international exhibition In Slavery’s Wake: Making Black Freedom in the World which opened at NAAAHC in December 2024 and travels to the Museu Histórico Nacional, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil for exhibition between November 2025 and March 2026.

“... gathering momentum in the same direction of freedom”

This spiritual wellspring is an indigenous way of comprehending the world that, as Minter says, “is also about a black and indigenous attitude of generosity and welcome.” 

The traditions—West African, Bahian, indigenous North American—are distinctive but also very complementary. Both can happen at the same time: difference and union.  On the black and brown tip, Minter begins by recalling his childhood.

When I grew up, we did not have strong connections to the indigenous community, though one of my aunts was indigenous. My uncle had married a woman from, I think, North Carolina. She was indigenous, and we used to love talking to her because her name was so long. We tried to remember her whole name but we just called her Aunt Ken. 

I say that to say there has always been an underlying relationship but it's been difficult because we were striving for assimilation and they were also striving for assimilation. We were resisting slavery and subjugation and they were resisting colonization. Those forces were acting on our relationships with each other, so it's been fraught. However, when those external forces were put aside, there was generally a connection.

I didn't truly experience this until the welcome table event in Denver with Rachel Harding and the Veterans of Hope. They held a community symposium and a gathering of black and indigenous communities, which was a wonderful event where black, indigenous, Latino, and white communities talked and gathered momentum in the same direction of freedom.

When I moved to Maine, I learned that there's a large Indigenous community here, but there was very little visibility of them, much less than out West. I felt they were a strong community and wanted to do more with them. So, I've really wanted to include black and indigenous ideas and aesthetics within Indigo's mission and ideology. We host indigenous artists from this area.

Until being here, during a welcoming ceremony performed by an indigenous artist, I had never truly felt welcomed to walk on this land. They have a welcoming song they sing; they call themselves the People of the Dawn—the people who the light hits first when it comes over the water. This is beautiful because the land here jets out into the ocean and gets daylight first. And when people come down the river or on the ocean, they welcome them with that song. We've had that song sung for us a few times, and I must say, it was the first time I felt welcome.” 

Going against what inherently wants to be

Towards the end of a wide-ranging exchange about cultural and environmental ecologies, we agree that it's MAGA’s loss not to understand that unity-in-diversity and inclusivity are humanity’s wealth, the real wealth.

Minter says that the people at the top are acting in such an authoritarian way because they do not understand this concept of wealth:  “This is all about control and they will continue to lose control because they're going against what inherently wants to be.”

Getting into the time space of trees

Minter’s beliefs and experiences are reflected in the collaboration between Indigo Arts Alliance based in Portland and the Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens in Boothbay, Maine.  

The two organizations developed a three-year partnership to convene the Deconstructing the Boundaries symposia to bring together “community members of all backgrounds to ground ourselves in difficult conversations, creative expression and the power of being together.”  

Indigo Arts Alliance founders Marcia Minter and Daniel Minter in indigo print garments (center) with Jordia Benjamin, executive director (seated left) and other IAA 

staff.

Gretchen Ostherr, CEO, Coastal Maine Botanical Garden. Ostherr and Marcia Minter became well acquainted in community outreach efforts of their respective organizations and decided to co-sponser the Deconstructing the Boundaries symposia. 

Minter’s “In the Voice of Trees” installation was an integral part of the third year Deconstructing the Boundaries symposium held on July 27, 2025. During an interview at the symposium, Daniel Minter continued to preach the gospel of trees.

After noting that trees stand erect like people but have far longer lives, grow more slowly than we grow and have “seen” more than us and so have “a different relation to time than we do,” Minter said that he would like “for us to be able to see that and find a way to get into that time space.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The full interview with Daniel Minter and Arisa White, who also created an installation for the Coastal Maine Botanical Garden, can be viewed here.

Indigo Arts Alliance (IAA), founded by Daniel and Marcia Minter in Portland, Maine, is a dynamic and vital non-profit organization dedicated to fostering the artistic development of Black and Brown artists. Established in 2018 and launched in 2019, IAA embodies a Black-led, multiracial approach to creativity, community-building, and social justice through the arts.