The Brooklyn Rail

Abstraction is the substance of the things I hope for and the evidence of things I cannot see.

—My personal Hebrews 11:1

Jack Whitten’s work gives life to stories beyond what we can physically see, feel, or understand. History, people, and sounds beyond this realm. The spiritual practice of making becomes a vessel for memory. His work exists in that same spirit—as a holder of memory, carrier of time, and coordinates of place.

Through abstraction, many artists were and still are having a conversation—giving new voice to the many ways people see, think, and feel. Abstraction becomes a place. Where rules do not apply. Where all things are possible. Where the unreal is made real. Whitten grounded his abstract work in real people, real memory, real loss. Things that are no longer physically here, but their essence remains for eternity. Memory is always around us—triggered by our senses. Whitten’s work exudes an energy. It calls something forth: A name. A rhythm. A spirit. Freedom. Improvisation. That sound that never explains itself but still moves you.

In color theory, black is an accumulation of all things. The same rings true within identity. Multiplicity is present. Consider: how many ways can you reimagine what you have and give it new life? Whitten used accessible materials and turned them into something complex and layered. Acrylic paint—a simple material—used in infinite ways. Razor blades, Afro-combs, squeegees, eggshells, nails, string—even his own tools made from everyday things. Household materials transformed into powerful instruments. Whitten shows his expertise in the many ways a single material can be explored. There is something about how he masters complex simplicity.

This approach to material echoes something deeper—how Blackness, too, holds multitudes. How something that seems singular holds so much depth. I often sit with the thought of how exhausting it is to justify one’s existence as worthy. As equal. All of this while creating joy and beauty in spite of. Then and now. A full life lived in the pause between hardship and creation. Finding a way by any means necessary.

Whitten’s work conjures what cannot be held. It intercedes on our behalf—becoming a spiritual protest. A reaching beyond the surface. He made the intangible tangible. Made emotion physical. He did not beg for respect—he created a visual language that demanded it. Whitten layered his work with hidden meaning—there is always something there if you are willing to search for it.

Through abstraction, Whitten slows us down. He forces us to look deeper. He hides things in plain sight. The work speaks softly, forcing you to hang on to its every word. Refusal of clarity, especially in the presence of abstraction, becomes a form of protest. Refusing to explain means others are called to meet you where you are—on your terms. Whitten forces you to stand face-to-face with what you really want to say. He made the materials so approachable, so non-intimidating—all that is left is you. Your mind. Your message. Your voice. It makes you ask: How can I take what is around me and give it new purpose? A new name? How can I use what everyone else has access to in a way no one else ever has? That is the challenge and the gift.

What did he open? A portal of infinity. The permission to be yourself without apology. And this—this whole reflection, me sitting here writing, is a result of that. Of him. He was ahead of his time and continues to show us that the job of the artist is to tell the truth—not just for now, but for eternity in this life and beyond. To leave behind a signal. A sound. A shimmer.

A guiding light someone might one day walk toward.