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The Grimshaw-Gudewicz Art Gallery at Bristol Community College is a formidable exhibition space. With a 25’ x 75’ footprint and a high ceiling, it is remarkable that only seven not-particularly large paintings seem to fill the entire space, insisting on being seen.
Gallery Director Kathleen Hancock noted that “we sometimes talk about art as a space to witness — a place where we gather not only to observe, but to recognize, to reckon, and sometimes, to repair.”
“I See Myself in You” features the work of William Collin and it features stark portraits of Black boys and young men. None have even the inkling of a smile and that is intentional. It suggests a certain kind of resignation born by shared experience, expectation and emotion.
I met Collin by happenstance three years ago when he was bringing a number of paintings to the Co-Creative Center in downtown New Bedford, hoping to be given the chance to display his work there. For Dena Haden, the director of Co-Creative Center, it was a no-brainer.
There was an erotically charged painting titled “Comfort Zone” in which a man and a woman lie on a couch, their heads absent from the picture plane. The strategic placement of the man’s foot is the source of the charge. I have not seen a woman in any of Collin’s paintings since then, and she was anonymous by design.
He had a small series of paintings called “The Box They Tried to Put Me In,” which featured portraits of young Black boys with corrugated cardboard boxes placed over their heads. Collin was already establishing the thematic foundation of his work.
Among the paintings he brought that day was “The Death of Adonis, Reinterpreted,” his reimagining of the 1614 masterpiece by Peter Paul Rubens. The god Adonis was killed by a wild boar sent by the jealous and vengeful goddess Artemis. He is on the ground, mourned by four mythical women: Venus, the goddess of love, and the Three Graces, Euphrosyne, Aglaia and Thalia. Nearby are a weeping Cupid and two indifferent hounds.
In Collin’s version, Cupid, the dogs and the background are edited out. And far more significantly, Adonis and all the women have been painted as Black. His version is moving and a true homage to the original. However, I questioned (perhaps foolishly) why he arbitrarily changed the skin color if the goal was to simply copy Rubens, as many aspiring young artists do.
He set me straight. While he took inspiration from Rubens, he was not doing a Black version of Adonis, Venus and the Graces. No, the mourners are the mother and aunts of a dead young man, killed in a seemingly random drive-by shooting in Washington, D.C. That man was Collin’s younger cousin, Corey. The murder and the anger and grief that followed became a formative and defining moment in Collin’s life.
Collin is a self-taught artist who gained proficiency without formal training. At a young age, he was doing illustrations, logos, layouts and commissioned portraits. He collaborated with creators in the music and fashion worlds. But after Corey’s death, he needed to go deeper.
Painting — like poetry, meditation or screaming into the void — can provide a form of deep catharsis.
He was — and still is — thinking about the often unspoken pain and hurt that is still part of being a young Black man in America: the need to put one’s hands on the dashboard for a routine traffic stop, the knowledge that someone is paying a little too much attention when walking through a department store, and having to endure the occasional ugly racist slur.
Beyond that first exhibition at the Co-Creative Center, Collin has exhibited in both solo and group shows regionally (Narrows Center for the Arts, the New Bedford Art Museum, and on Martha’s Vineyard) and well beyond (Virginia, London and Detroit.)
The septet of anonymous young men and boys, none of them wearing the mask of a smile, infuses a solemnity and world-weariness upon the collective of work.
With an American flag bandana wrapped around his forehead, the older adolescent in “Reclamation / By-Product” appears to be simultaneously defiant and acceptant. According to Collin, the painting is not about patriotism but rather about the pressure for fidelity to a place, family, or way of being “even when it doesn’t always see or serve us.” But you better toe the line. At this moment in our collective history, that thought seems eerily apt.
A floral wallpaper is the backdrop for the teen in “Reclamation / By-Product.” Similar patterns occur in other paintings. In an untitled painting, a shirtless young man wearing a pink durag stares straight back at the viewer as if seeking acknowledgement or commonality. The pattern of pink petals and green leaves and the questioning eyes of the subject suggest an unanticipated sense of vulnerability.
In another untitled work, a man in a white tank top and a pair of jeans sits on a curb, his arms crossed and resting on his knee. A single red rose sprouts from the sidewalk. Rather than suggesting softness, the flower speaks to strength, love and beating the odds. From the soil of the past, beauty appears in the present.
“Soapbox,” with a man standing on a literal soapbox and wearing a T-shirt with the word HOMAGE emblazoned on it is perhaps a bit didactic. But there’s nothing wrong with a teaching moment. It speaks to activism, using one’s voice and respecting the past.
There is a painting of a young boy, maybe 10, sitting in a floral-patterned chair. With his chin on his hand, he appears to have a look of disappointment or boredom. The painting is “Don’t Sell Grandma’s House.” But the house was sold.
Collin salvaged the chair. It’s now in his painting studio. And he reclaimed himself and honored his cousin, by acknowledging the kid that he’d set aside.
And then there is “I Put My Hand on My Heart.” A beautifully rendered portrait of a teen in a hoodie and a “Magic” basketball logo jacket, it was inspired by a Jay-Z line: “I put my hand on my heart / that means I feel ya’ / real recognize real and you looking familiar.”
Collin said it’s more than street wisdom and continued: “It’s about recognition, connection, and an unspoken trust. When I paint, I’m not just chasing a likeness, I’m honoring the spirit beneath the surface. This piece is about those rare moments when you see someone’s truth and they see yours. No explanations. No performance. Just raw humanity standing in the open.
“The figure’s hand rests on his chest, not as a pledge but as a quiet way of saying ‘I see you. I feel you. I know what you carry.’”
Collin’s art and story is seen through the unique filter of Black experience. But for those with their eyes, minds and heart wide open enough, the emotions are universal.
“I See Myself in You / Paintings by William Collin” is on display at the Grimshaw-Gudewicz Art Gallery, The Dunn Exhibit Hall, Bristol Community College, 777 Elsbree St., Fall River, through Oct. 16
Don Wilkinson has been writing art reviews, artist profiles and cultural commentary on the South Coast for over a decade. He has been published in local newspapers and regional art magazines. He is a graduate of the Swain School of Design and the CVPA at UMass Dartmouth. Email him at dwilkinson@newbedfordlight.org.
What fantastic art!
Tremendous Art work.
Beautiful work!!!
What a breathe of fresh air. Absolutely wonderful!
The artwork speaks!