Interview: Nick Drain

By Lia J. Latty

Published November 12th, 2021

Did you always know you wanted to be a creative and a photographer?

NICK: I’ve always been involved with creative expression in different ways, but I didn’t pick up a camera until I was maybe 17. I used to draw constantly as a young kid, and I was a poet before I was anything else seriously. I’ve always had a desire to express myself creatively and I was recognized for my ability from an early age, which probably helped it stick. It wasn’t until the height of tumblr, when I could see so many images constantly and be introduced to so many of the photographers that were my first inspirations, that I realized how much I loved photographs. I wanted to be able to be in dialogue with the things that I was seeing, and that meant speaking the same language.

What inspirations influence your work?

NICK: Deanna Lawson’s work is a constant source of excitement and calibration, and I spend a lot of time looking at fashion images — but the majority of my inspirations don’t come from within the world of photography. Beyond strict photography, Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man is a foundational text for my arrival at the work that I’m making now; I’m trying to learn more from minimalist sculpture; and I pull a lot of inspiration from music for how to consider a body or presentation of work as a whole, and how to approach communication. The image I think I’m most commonly recognized for is named after a Solange lyric.

How do you navigate the world of contemporary photography?

NICK: For the most part, I try to see myself as being outside of it, or on the fringe looking inward. In the past two years, my interests and my practice have become far more focused on recognizing and interrogating the ways that the image object has been used, and continues to be used, to harm Black people. I’ve spent a lot of my time as a photographer trying to use the camera to understand and navigate my identity as Black man, but now I’m far more interested in looking at the systems that determine the conditions of that identity, and then how the technology of photography has been complicit in that. My practice is necessarily critical, so I try my best to not ever allow myself to fall into any position where I feel a need to compromise that — which requires a bit of separation, at least mentally.

Flash Blindness

2020.

How do you define your relationship with photography?

NICK: In a word, it’s complicated. Where I’ve positioned my practice means that I spend a lot of time looking at ways the photographic medium has been used to harm Black people, and that can easily become incredibly exhausting. It’s almost constant frustration and at so many points it would seem easier to step away from it, but I think it’s important work — and I truly love images. I love images, so I have to critique the medium — because I want to be able to love it wholeheartedly.

What made you decide to focus on themes of Blackness, representation, and visibility within your work?

NICK: Truthfully, I’m not sure what else I would make work about. That’s by no means to say that anything else a Black photographer chooses to focus on is not a worthwhile pursuit, but with my relationship to artmaking, those are the things that drive my curiosity. I’m Black — I have been racialized, and the key signifier of that identity is visible on my skin so I have no choice but to contend with it in every interaction. Beyond that, the camera has largely been positioned as a tool for Black people to control our own representation. I’m trying to navigate that relationship between the two — Blackness and the camera — and I still have a ton of unanswered questions.

35% (A Lesson in Spectral Opacity Learned from my Neighbors)

2020.

“It takes trust to be photographed, so I feel responsible to be sure that I am honoring that trust from my position behind the camera.”

What is your process like when you’re working with the people you photograph?

NICK: Considering where my practice began, it isn’t often that I’m photographing other people. In the cases where I do, it’s slow and somewhat collaborative, because the introduction of a camera creates a significant power dynamic. It takes trust to be photographed, so I feel responsible to be sure that I am honoring that trust from my position behind the camera. I made a portrait of three of my family members once, Untitled (Uncle T and his two sons, G & J), and though I came in knowing what I wanted, I sat with them beforehand for over an hour asking them questions about their relationship. It was important to me that the representation of them that I made was true to them.

As a Black creative, how have you navigated the photo world/industry?

NICK: Community is truly everything. I’ve lost track of the times an opportunity has come to me because someone spoke highly of my name in a space that I wasn’t in. And on the other hand, it is so important as Black artist to know that I have people I know that I can go to for support and advice. I’m lucky enough to have come in contact with wonderful people in my short career, and it’s made all the difference. I try to facilitate those connections when I can, but I’m most excited by those who are taking on efforts for organized community-building; special shoutouts to Photo Green Book.

What do you hope people take away from your imagery?

NICK: There isn’t one answer for this. I consider myself a low-output imagemaker and it’s because I try to be really precise, so I’m usually only making an image when I have something very specific to say. If the image is successful, then that means I feel it communicates what I set out to, in which case I don’t need to say it again. And if it doesn’t, then I’ll work to remake the image.

It’s always different, and in most cases I want different audiences to have different takeaways. One for Us is probably the most clear example of that in my practice. I went into that image looking to create two distinct experiences for a potential viewer, and it’s coded in that way. I wanted a Black person to be able to look into that image and feel welcomed, and if that wasn’t the case, then I wanted the viewer to be made to feel aware of the fact that they are — well, just that — a viewer.