Interview with an Armchair Activist

2017. A merciful rain is falling this winter morning in Northern California. It’s as if, during overnight negotiations, the sky conceded just enough water to appease Oakland’s drought-sick flora and fauna.

Neither of us is a morning person, but for some reason Properganda and I agreed to meet at 9:00 a.m. I’m at his house, a humble mid-century ranch swollen with light, reclaimed furniture, and an unreasonable number of succulents. He enters the living room wearing black pajama pants and a black hoodie. More salt than pepper stains his five-o’clock shadow.

​He flops onto the couch and props both feet on the coffee table. The distinctive Public Enemy logo is stitched into the soles of his socks. The symbolism isn’t lost on me. It’s a statement about his beliefs, and about the era that shaped him, a cacophonic time when the music, the message, and the movement all collided.

​He looks fatigued, either from the night before or from fifteen years in Silicon Valley. I can’t tell which. “Okay,” he says, “Let’s do it.”​

​~~~

Let’s start with the obvious question, the one you probably get all the time. What does ‘Properganda’ mean?​

Well, back in the early ’90s, as an undergrad, I learned about the history of propaganda and its chief architect, Edward Bernays. I was equally disgusted and awed. The guy was an evil genius. After crafting propaganda for the U.S. government, he basically built an entire industry around shaping public opinion. He fused psychology and media in service of politicians, corporations, and elites, systematically engineering the values, decisions, and behaviors of the masses. His ideas make up the DNA of modern advertising, which has since mutated into social media.

​As I started forming my own worldview, I wanted to reverse that misuse of media, to create the right kind of propaganda. Properganda. Yeah, it’s a crude play on words, but as a name it’s direct, memorable, and consumable. It was the first word that came to mind, and somehow it captured my intent perfectly. It stuck.

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What started you on this path? When did you actually discover Propergand?

​As a kid, I drew constantly, cartoons, comics, whatever. Hours at a time. I filled sketchbooks like it was my job. Teachers and friends told me I was gifted, so I identified as a fine artist early on.

But worrying about being a “starving artist”, I applied to graphic design programs for college. By 1993, I was a sophomore at the University of Cincinnati School of Design, Architecture, Art, and Planning, and I was struggling. Hard. The concepts were way over my head. What the fuck did perceptual theory, semiotics, and Gestalt psychology have to do with me, an artsy kid from Cleveland?

Things came to a head during a one-on-one critique. My professor, also the department head, told me flat-out that I didn’t have what it took to succeed in the program. Emotionally, it got to me. For months, I questioned my purpose.

Then I had a breakthrough, in typography class, of all places. We were asked to change the meaning of a word using only typography. It was the holiday season, and I kept circling the word Thanksgiving. I started pulling it apart, thanks, giving. Then I noticed the words Take and Give. I played with color and repetition, scratching at an itch in the back of my mind. Then the idea just surfaced- White letters appearing, then red letters disappearing, leaving behind Take / Give. With two colors and 8 subtle changes, I turned an American holiday into a statement about the scourge of European colonialism on indigenous people. Immediately, I recognized the power in my hands. The power to co-opt traditional media and use it to disrupt traditional thinking. The power to say “f***k you” to my professor. A door in my mind had been opened and Properganda was born.

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Tell me about your process. How do you come up with your ideas, and how do you develop them?

I notice things. On any given day there's a headline– some institutionalized injustice, some hypocrisy, some normalized cruelty. I ask myself whether it’s worth making a provocation, something that exposes or completely shatters the prevailing narrative.

​I think in pictures. I’m drawn to tension and contradiction. Ideas can come while I’m driving, lying in bed, doing the dishes. I put everything in my Moleskine. Sometimes ideas fall into place quickly. A lot of the time they fight back. I work the same idea from multiple angles, stacking metaphors, symbols, and analogies until something clicks. The outcome is almost always a visual pun, a contemplative graphic that hits you in the gut after it sneaks past your defenses. 

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You describe Properganda as “graphic art that quietly disrupts conventional thinking patterns.” What do you mean?

Years ago, I was given a copy of Visual Puns in Design, by Eli Kince. It’s a catalog of brilliance. Mr. Kince gave a name to the kind of work I do and love. He helped me understand technique.

Visual pun became my super power. I learned they work on a time delay. They start in familiar territory, then quietly betray you. That moment of discord, when what you expect breaks, is when reflection begins. 

Everything I make is meant to slow people down, get them to re-examine their assumptions, biases, and compulsions. My best pieces reward the viewer for being thoughtful, for taking the time to unpuzzle. Their reward is a new way of seeing the world. 

Say more about their reward. When someone encounters your art, what do you want them to come away with?

Ideally, when my art hits, you’re confronted, or amused, or both. I want it to activate parts of your brain that don’t usually get much exercise. That’s why visual puns are such a satisfying tool for me. They demand more from the viewer. They require wit, attention, and a willingness to engage.

As an artist, to pull one off, you need an understanding of language, psychology, humor, culture, and behavior. Then you have to compress all of that into something simple enough to read at a glance. That requires reduction, painstaking minimalism. To me, that’s visual poetry. It’s persuasion without shouting.

What I really want is for people to walk away thinking differently, even just slightly. And for that feeling to stick. The more we’re exposed to ideas that challenge us, that diverge from the familiar, the more open and capable we become. They broaden us. They sharpen us.

That’s the goal. I want the work to leave people a little more awake than they were before. Moving the work off the wall and into the physical world helps with that. When something is worn, shared, or lived with, it travels. It reaches people who might never seek out art intentionally. That gives me access, not in a manipulative way, but in a human one. The work meets people where they already are. If it stays with them, even briefly, then it’s done its job.

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Who is your art for? Do you have a target audience?

My art isn’t for everyone. It’s made for natural-born skeptics like Neo in the Matrix, or John in They Live. My audience is people who know something’s off but can’t quite pinpoint or name it. People who understand that power structures thrive on complacency, apathy, and distraction. My audience is open to being challenged, and wants to challenge others. If you’re uncomfortable and curious, you’re probably my people. I offer fellowship to the disagreeable. I offer the antidote to obedience.

Your work is conceptual, but it’s also very accessible. Is it pop art?

Yeah, that’s intentional. My work masquerades as pop. Visually, it’s designed to fit comfortably inside mass media– flat colors, iconic forms, familiar tropes and language. I want it to slide into feeds unnoticed, inconspicuous among all the other visual candy. Then, bam, a quick headbutt of critical thought. Not enough to overwhelm, just enough to trigger a second thought. 

At the same time, it’s hard work to avoid being too cerebral. Every visual puzzle needs to be solvable. Most pieces can be consumed in minutes, while others take longer to digest. Like conceptual snacks– some snacks are harder to swallow, but they’re more filling!

Why call yourself an Armchair Activist?

During my college years in the 1990’s, rebellion felt so arousing and right. My creative ideas had no limits, no thirst for practical application or financial return. I was drawn to revolutionary artists like Rupert Garcia, Emory Douglas, and AfriCOBRA. I was driven by conscious musicians like Burning Spear, Bad Brains, and KRS-One.

The uncomfortable truth is that life happened. I entered Corporate America. Became a designer. Then a web designer. Then a UX designer. Then a manager. Somewhere along the way, I became less me, and more you. I stopped making art for myself. I solved business problems instead of asking dangerous questions. My creativity starved. My edge dulled.

It was in 2015, over twenty years later, that my spirit revived. But by then I was compromised. Golden handcuffs. Gilded cages. Creature comforts.

I’m still angry. Still conscious. Still aware of the lies undergirding society. But now I shout from a comfortable chair. That’s the irony– I want my peers to squirm in their comfort. I want them to question their complacency. I want to spark action, however small. I still want to change the world, but perhaps without fully standing up.

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Now your work shows up on objects– T-shirts, clocks, things people wear and live with. How does translating your ideas into products change your approach?

It definitely changes how I create, and that really excites me.

A piece of art, whether it lives on a wall or a screen, is one kind of conversation. An object is a different one entirely. Objects have use, habits, expectations built into them. When I started thinking about things like clocks or garments, it opened up new conceptual territory for me.

Clocks are a good example. Designing clock faces pushed me to think about time itself, not just as an abstract idea, but as something that literally governs our lives. The circular form, the left-to-right movement, the constant forward motion, all of that becomes a canvas. I’ve really enjoyed questioning our relationships with time through simple manipulations of color, typography, and form.

Garments work in a similar way. First I think about an object’s original intention. A T-shirt, traditionally, makes an outward statement. It’s a way of signaling something to other people. With my Reflections line, I wanted to flip that assumption. All of the text is reversed, and meant to be read in a mirror. The message isn’t for everyone else, it’s for you. It turns the shirt into something reflective instead of performative. You’re not broadcasting an idea, you’re sitting with it. You’re having a private conversation with yourself.

That shift, from image to object, allows me to play with expectation, context, and behavior. I love subverting what we believe an object is supposed to do.

Before we wrap, I have to ask. After everything you’ve said, do you ever wish you’d chosen differently?

Pausing longer than he has all morning–

I don’t think it’s that simple. I don’t regret the path, but I do regret the distance. The years I allowed practicality to overshadow creativity. The years I told myself I’d get back to this later.

Then again, I wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you. Every hero needs an alter ego. They remind us of the absence left when we don’t use our powers to the fullest. When we forget our courage. Every hero has a redemption story, your journey is mine. 

Through you, I’ve learned that I don’t need to burn everything down. I just need to keep showing up. Making things that I love. Saying the things that need to be said, if even from my armchair.

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~~~

The rain has dissipated. Light pushes through the windows bathing the stardust throughout the room. Properganda pulls his feet off the table and stands, suddenly looking more awake than when we started.

As I pack up to head back out into my day, I realize something galvanizing– Properganda isn’t the artist I could have been, he’s the artist I still am and always will be.