- Let’s start from the beginning — who is Michaela Baldwin, where do you come from, and how did you find your way to art?
Hello! I come from the small town of West Point, Mississippi, being a creative for as long as I can remember. As a child, I dreamed about becoming a fashion designer and artist, imagining scenarios where I contribute to something larger than me.
After taking a gap year from school, I reintroduced myself to art with writing and photography. Painting and design took root during my time in Japan to cope with a whirlwind of personal challenges. Those mediums were integral in my evolution as a person, helping me return towards unabashed vulnerability.
Creating gives me a voice when things feel a bit too muffled. Becoming an artist was the only thing I have been able to see myself doing: no other plan has made sense or appealed to me.
- You started as a self-taught artist in 2019, but your creative roots go back further — sewing, crochet, jewelry-making. How do those early tactile crafts show up in the way you approach making now, even when you’re working in charcoal or building an installation?
My inner child takes over more than I realize. There are moments of slipping into flow state and transitioning into formative periods––being a fairy in my great-granddad’s garden, figuring out how to sew alongside Project Runway reruns, and studying my great-grandmother’s crochet projects.
Those early introductions allowed for me to develop trust in exploration, curiosity, and repetition. It’s easy to start a slew of different projects instead of seeing something to completion. Giving myself permission to discover instead of forcing perfectionism is a challenge, yet is the sweet spot for meaning. There’s a level of whimsy that nurtures confidence in action.
- Mississippi isn’t typically treated as a center of contemporary visual art. What did it mean to develop your practice there, and what did you have to build for yourself that other artists in bigger art markets might have had handed to them?
I joke around about being from Mississippi, but having my roots here helps me to stabilize my inherent sense of self. Developing my practice here has required a different level of honesty within myself, which includes confronting dark truths in stillness.
Through my travels, I have been more aware of opportunities that are not as readily accessible to artists like me. It’s inspiring to come into contact with the growing infrastructure for younger artists, and thriving communities that encourage growth. With that, building a structure for myself without those resources forces me to navigate things my own way. I have moments being grounded in who I am while struggling with being fully present and seen within larger conversations.
- AFTERSHOCK uses charcoal and graphite to move through grief — the work is described as shedding shame and entering a new beginning. Can you talk about the decision to use drawing, specifically, for that kind of emotional reckoning? What does the mark-making process feel like when the subject matter is that personal?
Drawing was a result of not having another tangible, constructive outlet at the time. Writing wasn’t enough! I initially set a timer of 2 hours after an argument an allowed whatever I carried physically to take form. What else is a better way of channeling a crash out?
There was something about blending charcoal that became cathartic. Reacting out of character is often easier and sometimes even expected. Redirecting the energy into form and seeing the residuals via dust reminds me of a storm settling. Flowing with them instead of going against myself made more sense.
- How did the Elsewhere residency come about? Was that your first time working at that scale or in that site-specific mode, and what did you know going in versus what you had to figure out once you were there?
I was introduced to Elsewhere through a mutual friend and reached out after applications opened. The interview process was exciting! I thoroughly researched the space and previous alumni while imagining what it would be like to contribute to that specific environment. Specific artists who stood out to me included Lexy Ho-Tai, Hannah Lewis, Dorothy Melander-Dayton, Shan Wallace, and Lonnie Holley.
It was my first time working both at that scale and in site-specific mode. Going in, I had a general sense of what was intended for a residency and wanted to create something that aligned with activating the space. The philosophy of Elsewhere specifically resonated with my desire for a challenge: working with the act of not being attached to what I create.
What I was not prepared for? How challenging it was to stay focused on the day to day while maintaining the why of my time there. I found myself emotionally entangled in different situations, leading to sabotage in how I showed up as both an artist & person.
Pulling through the last stretch would have not been possible without the support of fellow resident, Cassandra Liuzzo, and the Executive Director of Elsewhere at the time, Kerri Mubaarak.
- At Elsewhere, you were working under the constraint that “nothing goes in, nothing goes out” — everything had to come from found objects already in the space. How did working within those limitations change what the piece became? Did constraint feel generative or frustrating?
The constraints were generative and forced to be more mindful of how to work with what I have. Doing that on the day to day is normal for me, but building a relationship with the space and objects played into my overthinking nature.
I can confidently say that I did not use the space to the fullest potential of my initial proposal. Looking back, struggling with emotional regulation took a larger toll than I realized. I went in with a clear vision and expectations of what I wanted to be in the space: more of an immersive experience that incorporated sound and colored lights to understand how the public would respond to the concept psychologically.
In the end, the constraints taught me how to let go. This came through having to trust the process, resources available to me, advice/direction, and myself. A level of acceptance resulted the activated space being transformed, and who I became after processing my time there.
- Proclivity includes What Happened to Greensboro?, a piece about the erasure of Black neighborhoods through zoning and urban development. You’re from Mississippi — a state with its own long history of Black displacement. How did being in Greensboro sharpen or deepen something you’d already been sitting with?
It was very eye-opening for the erasure to brought into focus directly. It came about after a conversation with Ms. Kerri, leading to us driving around the city and visually pinpointing specific areas of racial divide. Being from Mississippi, I understand the history of how and why areas are shaped, displaced, or retold over time. I tend to stay current on certain legislative measures that are being propositioned, those who want to be figureheads, and correlations between things that may not be easily caught. With that said, having a deepened context on how erasure operates (specifically through the complexities of city planning & urban development) led to me wanting to research more about players that go undetected.
- You described the Elsewhere installation as a “dilapidated jewelry box” and invited visitors to leave small objects as offerings. There’s something very Southern about that — the altar, the keepsake, the relic. Is that vocabulary of the sacred and the domestic something you consciously draw from, or does it arrive on its own?
It takes place naturally rather than consciously. It’s reflective of my childhood, and how I learned to value what came before me. Growing up, I would be given objects that were sacred and intended to be passed down. It would be emphasized to not touch or disturb the original form, so they became vessels of memories. That led to a collection of keepsakes: a water music globe, rings, a Coach book bag, crocheted items from my great-grandmother, dolls, pins, jewelry, and other heirlooms. As I have gotten older, there is a higher level of appreciation and evolution towards reverence. This honorific connection finds way through my work, often unintentionally.
- You describe your practice as celebrating “the strength and resilience of Black women” — yet you also make space for grief, rage, and softness. How do you hold those things together without the work collapsing into either uplift or lament?
The easy answer is I haven’t created as much as I wanted to in the past few years. Projects and aspirations fell to the wayside: in a way, this has been beneficial to avoid leaning far in either extreme as I tend to create from lived experience. The harder answer? Allowing myself to atrophy has made space for a hopeful resurrection. Someone years ago told me that hindsight is 20/20, and knowing this helps in process. Often times, I am seen for my resilience and questionable decisions rather than the totality of who I am as a person.
I have been in spaces where being honest about where I was creatively was a liability because it could affect a sale, opportunity, or projected expectations of me. With my work being tied to emotional landscapes, there is a notion to perform certainty when it doesn’t exist cleanly. What keeps the collapse at bay is being secure in knowing my time and my people will come. I am incredibly hard on myself, and I have had to learn through hard extremes that what is preferred outside of me is taking the easy route. I prefer being and creating genuinely instead of performing.
- Your website describes you as “weaving memory, ritual, and emotions through objects, stories, and experiences.” Ritual is a specific word — it implies repetition, intention, maybe even community. What does ritual mean to you in the context of making?
Ritual, for me, is the conscious return to myself. I have a proclivity to getting lost in trivial situations, daydreams, and dynamics that are inherently unhealthy. The act of creating becomes a grounding meditation to navigate truth. Routine isn’t fully there in terms of being strict. I would equate it to wearing noise cancelling headphones: the sound of what is being heard clearly is myself.
- You maintain a Field Notes section on your site — poems, journal entries, studio notes — alongside the formal portfolio work. Why was it important to make that part of your public-facing practice? What does that openness cost you, if anything?
Field Notes is the cultivation of a space where I could reflect, think, and express say and do whatever (within reason). I think I communicate best within tangible words. I would describe it as reflective channeling and a spiritual practice. At its fruition, it was freeing! It has been the foundation of my why, even presently.
As I got older, I became more self-conscious about whether being heard from me specifically was something that mattered. I am coming to understand that holding back creates an inevitable blockage in both creation and receiving. There have been moments where others connect with my sentiments, catching me off guard because the relatability lessened a certain loneliness I carried.
Being open costed me discomfort initially, because anything I shared could be used against me. Superseding this, my growing silence over time and reluctance to communicate has costed me tremendously more. The potential for more still haunts me because I became the roadblock, choosing to go against myself for the sake of others.
- What does it look like to build an art career from Mississippi in 2026? What infrastructure exists, what doesn’t, and how are you navigating both?
Building my career this year has been challenging. As someone who tends to be a loner, stepping outside of that gives way to imposter syndrome. I am grateful for the ability to learn from other career artists who have spent a significant amount of time navigating spaces that I seek to understand.
At the same time, I find myself wanting to contribute to the growth of artists in my generation here, women particularly. That, in turn, requires for me to initiate and contribute. I am determined to find the balance between these sentiments without counting myself out from leadership out of timidity. I hesitate on approaching others that I admire or appreciate. Sometimes I feel like I lack or am behind, sometimes I am uncertain on if true alignment exists. Building here has led me to confront these insecurities alongside the gaps I personally see.
- What are you working on or thinking about right now, and where do you want your practice to go from here?
Lately, my thoughts are centered around the relationship between my inner and outer world. I have been circumventing the death of a version of myself that can no longer stand.
With upcoming bodies of work, my aim is leaving a liminal space I found safety. Moving on and letting go is challenging, similarly to the undertaking of shadow work! Taking the time to understand my why in practice now means confronting lies I tell myself, narratives I carry, and giving myself grace. In terms of process, I am interested in moving from 2D work to 3D & motion. I have a few ideas on how I would like for this to take shape, particularly through active collaboration. I also have considered sharing my writings again, so that will likely be more visible in the coming months.
More than anything else, I want things to be fun and full of teehee again! Lamenting has only gotten me so far: my concerns involve investing in growth, accountability, and letting the light in again.
