In Conversation: Jodi Hays / Navin Norling

JH: Right? And then we just dove straight into the South, didn’t we? It’s like the elephant in the room we couldn’t ignore. We’re both southern-based artists, even if we’ve bounced around. When we talked a couple days back, you’d just gotten home from Alaska—wild, right?—and you mentioned growing up surfing in California. Meanwhile, I was landlocked in Arkansas. I love this exchange of stories, figuring out how land and landscape sneak into our work, like uninvited guests at a party. It occurred to me this morning how many of us have these uneasy, complex definitions of what the South is and how we relate to its material culture. The South isn’t just a place for me—it’s a material. You know how James Baldwin said home might be a condition, not a spot on the map? I think the South is like clay or paint for me, something I can mold and mess with. Does that vibe with you at all, especially with your mom’s ties to the South and how that’s tangled up in your story?

NN: Oh, for sure. It’s got this heft to it, a texture you can feel. Memory’s wrapped up in it too—it’s not just a southern quirk, it’s human. You walk through a city and spot those 1800s buildings—brick here, stone in Europe—and it’s like they’re whispering permanence. Down South, though, we cling to things a little longer, don’t we? It’s slower, like molasses dripping off a spoon. There’s this storytelling streak—city folk, country folk, all weaving tales. I mean, what even separates those labels anymore? Growing up near San Francisco, I saw the wear and tear of a fast-moving place, but the South crept in th

JH: Yeah, that’s it—materiality’s got this pull. I keep going back to what Rauschenberg said about found materials carrying emotional weight. The South does that for me, like it’s a scrapbook I didn’t mean to keep.

NN: Exactly! It’s like stumbling across an old pew or a beat-up chair in some dusty attic—who sat there, you know? There’s a romanticism to it, a rusticity. I call it collecting, but it’s more than that. You’ve got stuff piling up in your studio too, right? Pieces you’ve had forever—finished or not, they’re part of your vibe, your mojo. We pour ourselves into these things, turn them into talismans almost. I call it fetishizing, like you start to make it more—a power situation.

JH: Oh, totally. And nostalgia’s right there in the mix. I love grabbing objects that spark it—something tied to a place, a memory—and then twisting it, cutting through the very same nostalgia. Rauschenberg talked about using an object to evoke emotion, and I’m all about that, but I want to flip it too. That feels like a fun place for me to kind of say, “I get you, I feel you.” The South gets romanticized, like abstraction does, and gets boxed up all neat while I’m over here thinking it’s a blast to turn things like that—ideas about art, historical canons, definitions of southern art—upside down. It’s like filling a bucket till it spills—finding that edge where it all tips over in the work.

NN: I hear you loud and clear. I call that subversion disarming—luring folks in with that warm, fuzzy nostalgia and then steering them into a place that isn’t necessarily comfortable. That’s where the “ick” lives, you know? I’m big on blue-collar humor; that’s how I root myself in the folk idea, keeping it real and grounded. But you can’t lay it on too thick—it’ll scream at people, and they’ll tune out. With Black Americana, I’ve waded deep into that ick—racist junk, sexist baggage, all the mess I’ve had to claw out of my own head. My work’s a shield sometimes, a way to push back. I soften it with colors that soothe or memories we all latch onto—like Piggly Wiggly. It’s Southern, sure, but it’s American too. Even folks up north get that tug.

JH: Oh, Piggly Wiggly—love that. My grandfather ran a little grocery store back in my hometown, but his story’s wilder than that. He dropped out in 8th grade—got whipped by the principal one too many times, Pentecostal fire-and-brimstone roots—and instead of high school, he set out for California to pick peaches. Imagine that: a kid from the sticks chasing fruit across the country. That migration, that movement—it’s like a collage stitched together from all these frayed edges. You’re painting Piggly Wiggly signs; I’m taping grocery bags and sacks into my pieces. Same vibe, different hands.

NN: Yep, it’s a collage thing for sure. I’m brushing on painted images, you’re gluing down the real deal, but we’re both stitching stories out of scraps. It’s like we’re building quilts—patchwork that holds a history. My grandpa’s from Boley, Oklahoma, and that whole Tulsa vibe runs deep in my family. Those stories, those places—they’re woven into the work.

JH: Perfect way to put it. Speaking of your work, can we unpack that piece you sent me? The window with the Panther—or Puma, I can’t decide—and the Maxwell House Coffee Cup?

JH:It’s so layered. I noticed there’s no text in this one, which threw me—you’re usually dropping words like breadcrumbs. But that old window carries enough nostalgia on its own. At first, I read the lace as ironwork—love how it tricked my eye. It’s got this grit, like a modernist grid we’re peering through. It’s funny too, like you’re telling us to look at a painting, but we’re staring through a window.

NN: You nailed it—it’s a barrier, a fence. The baby blue smooths it out, makes it non-threatening, but that cat’s still there, staring back, almost too clear. It’s all about that tug-of-war, the contradictions. Text would’ve been overkill, like handing out the punchline before the joke lands. That window’s already a text, like you said—people see it and think about the house it came from.

JH: Yeah, the image does the talking. That tipped-over cup, the burgundy “M” from Maxwell House—it’s like a riddle the viewer’s brain solves without you spelling it out. It’s doing all the heavy lifting.

NN: Exactly. Less is more sometimes.

JH: Alright, let’s pivot to influences. You’ve mentioned Raymond Saunders; I keep circling back to Joanne Greenbaum. I stumbled into abstraction by accident—started at SVA as an illustration major, obsessed with making things look “real” crisp and tidy. Painting flipped that script—quasi-landscapes, construction sites. Greenbaum had been at it forever, scribbling with Sharpies and oil sticks—stuff the art snobs turned their noses up at. Her work’s like a roadmap, numbers popping up to make you pause, like notations to slow down and look. Your window panes pull that same trick, guiding the eye where it needs to go.

NN: Oh, I’m all about that—building the bones of a piece. The best part’s letting the material breathe, watching shapes bubble up in the paint. Back in Cyprus, I showed Donovan some early stuff—pure abstract, piling up colors, thinking about family trees and the South. At CCAC, I’d churn out paintings like a machine—two today, three tomorrow—just stacking a body of work without overanalyzing. I called it “start and finish,” banging out new pieces and wrapping up old ones in a day. They’d start like twins, but then collage and marks would yank them apart, still cousins though. Graffiti taught me that hustle—crewing up, throwing burners on walls, lines blurring between one piece and the next. We’d draw over each other, not canceling out but vibing, collaborating. Abstraction’s a dance for me, all about composition steering the ship—grid or no grid. I’m a sucker for the grid’s rules—it’s like a box I can play in or bust out of.

JH: Love that—grids are like guardrails you can swerve around. Was that where you crossed paths with Raymond Saunders—at CCAC?

NN: Yep, he was my professor. Total game-changer. I rolled in wanting to draw comics—thought that was my whole deal, like I’d be inking superheroes forever. Didn’t even know how to hold a brush right till he got ahold of me. He didn’t just hand me a brush and say, “Paint”; he showed me the way, nudged me along. One time, my work landed in the Oakland Tribune—cover of the art section, no less—and he strolls into class with the paper, clowning me in this big, warm way, like, “Who’s this hotshot?” Made me feel seen. He’d drag me to galleries, break it all down. Years later, I was deep in nonprofit community arts with folks like Juan Alicia at Urban Arts in the Bay. But I hit a point where I needed to focus on my own work. Raymond tossed out Hunter College as an idea. I applied, got in—lost my damn application at one point, but I had an extra portfolio handy. At a mixer, the dean’s laughing, saying he crashed on Raymond’s couch back at Hayward State. Felt like the universe was winking at me. Raymond had a show at Hunter right then—guided me straight there. I picked it over a free ride to Chicago Art Institute. New York was raw—Times Square studios, straight outta Taxi Driver. His swagger, his confidence—it was mentorship gold, like shadowing a master.

JH: That’s incredible, having him in your corner like that. I hear that a lot in circles with artists of color—this tight-knit mentorship baked into the bones. Me, as a female abstract southern artist, I’ve been stumbling around mentor-less, cobbling together my own guides. You got lucky with that timing.

NN: Yeah, it was pure serendipity. Even at Hunter, it felt like the stars lined up—right place, right moment. I’d never felt like someone had my back like that in a weird, cosmic way.

JH: Greenbaum was my serendipity. I caught her show at Rachel Uffner, and it cracked my world open—like finding a secret door I could slip through. She was in her 50s or 60s, making this fresh, fearless work, and I hadn’t known it existed. It was a loophole into the art world for me. She’s not the only influence—Charline von Heyl, others too—but she was my influence. We need those anchors, don’t we? Maybe that’s why I’ve steered clear of New York long-term—place ties into belief for me. If the South’s a material, this country’s a sprawling canvas, and talks like this cut across all of it. I spent my 20s in Boston for a decade, never felt rooted. Loved the city, took the Chinatown bus to New York to see work and UT classmates, but it wasn’t home. The art world’s big enough to hold these crisscrossing paths.

NN: Oh, absolutely. It’s like we’re drawing lines that overlap no matter where we’re standing. And that Chinatown bus? Man, that’s a throwback—cheap, sketchy, but it got you there.

JH: Ha, right? Pure grit. So, tell me about these gumball machines you’re working on—what’s the story there?

NN: Oh, I missed that sculpture, but I saw the paintings. Yeah, Bradford’s playing with context, same as Radcliffe Bailey, whose work hits me like altars or portals. We need that right now—space to stop, reflect, hold onto ourselves when everything’s spinning. Whether it’s escape portals or altars to the past, it’s vital.

JH: Totally. No matter where you land on sociopolitical stuff, we could all use those portals. It’s changed how I see your stuff, how I see us all tangled up in this big conversation.

NN: No kidding. Having this platform’s a gift—lets us stretch out and breathe. It’s like what happened post-COVID with Zoom and Instagram Live—suddenly, you could hop into a talk with Stanley Whitney or Marin Hassinger, no gatekeepers. I got A-listers for my classes back then ‘cause everyone was open. Brooklyn Rail’s still doing it, but that pandemic chaos cracked things open, let a little beauty shine through.

JH: Oh, man, I was virtual-schooling three kids during that mess, but I carved out time for those talks. Hearing Stanley Whitney, seeing my face on the same Zoom grid as his—it felt like the world shifted. Those moments, like catching Marin Hassinger in person once, they’re magic. Opening that up doesn’t hurt anybody.

NN: Nope, it’s all upside. Made it easier to connect, share work, have these kinds of talks. Back in the day, pre-2008, it was slides—fragile, fading, a pain to store. Now we’ve got digital, but I still keep my slides for some posterity vibe, though who’s cracking those open?

JH: Ha, I got nervous the other day when someone said we should still shoot slides ‘cause they last longer. I was like, “I ditched slide film the second I could!” But yeah, digital’s frail too.

NN: I heard about this Russian interviewer’s archive—photos with every ‘80s celeb—found in a thrift store ‘cause someone donated it by mistake. Imagine that, or stumbling on a locker full of Warhols at Goodwill.

JH: I hit Goodwill last week after Johnson Lowe, always hunting.

NN: That’s the thrill—finding treasure in the bins. I’m headed to North Adams next week for a Mass MoCA residency, and I’m already scoping out vintage spots up there. Might bring one window, but I’m betting I’ll find some old frames or junk to work with. Taking the back seat out of my Jeep for extra haul space.

JH: That’s awesome! I apply for Mass MoCA when Wilco’s doing Solid Sound—my husband’s a huge fan. North Adams is prime for antiquing. I lived in Lowell, MA, back in the day—hard city, and the thrift stores were gold.

NN: Exactly, that’s where the resellers miss out. I’m stoked for this residency—came out of nowhere, like I almost lost the invite email in a purge. Had to double-check I didn’t hallucinate it!

JH: Ha, that’s the artist life—half chaos, half magic. Think we owe our families an apology for ditching illustration?

NN: Nah, they owe us for trying to box us in! I thought I’d be drawing comics forever, you were gunning for Hallmark cards, but we found our roads. My daughter’s about to turn 14, and I’m just letting her do her thing, giving her space to explore. Landing in the South’s been perfect timing for me—Atlanta’s got this ‘90s Oakland energy, a spot where creatives can bloom. It’s embraced me, given me a life I didn’t expect. I want to pour back into it now.

JH: Same here. My 14-year-old’s got hiz own path too. This has been so good. It’s why I love these talks—collapsing boundaries, like you said. Studio visits in person are great, but Zoom’s made it so easy to connect.

NN: Oh, for real. Hey, when I’m up north, shoot me that podcast invite—I’d jump at it. Your pod sounds dope, all about “Have you ever thought of quitting?” I’m in. Let’s keep this rolling!

JH: You got it. I’m calling you next week! Talk soon!

NN: Catch you later!