On a Monday afternoon, it’s difficult to find Donald Owens. With a yellow highlighter and black pen tucked into his shirt pocket, he’s rarely in his office, instead shuffling throughout the Arena Players building, meeting with members of his cast and crew or planning out the theater’s upcoming season schedule. It’s not uncommon for the artistic director to work until close to midnight.

It’s been more than 50 years for Owens, pictured above, but he still remembers the day he first learned about this theater, now located on McCulloh Street in West Baltimore. He was a student at Coppin State College when a professor named Samuel Wilson Jr. took him under his wing. Wilson had heard that the young man was an aspiring thespian and he thought he might like to join his community theater troupe.

“At first, I acted, and then I would direct,” says Owens, looking back over the decades, “and then I would teach.”

It was the 1970s, and after a nomadic first decade, the Arena Players had finally found a permanent home. During this time, the cast and crew grew rapidly, and before long, word of mouth had spread through the city and neighboring counties, with Black spectators flocking to the box office. It was normal to sell out their 300 tickets on any given night.

“The audience was huge then,” says Owens. “They had no place else to go.”

Arena Players will begin its 70th season this September, cementing its status as the nation’s oldest continuously operating Black theater company. But when it debuted in Baltimore in 1953, it was uncertain if it would survive a single season.

Even with free admission, the first few shows were more cast members than ticket-holders. Back then, an ensemble of seven to 12 actors, from local college students to community residents, would be lucky to perform for an audience of four. At the time, this small group of Black actors couldn’t watch—let alone participate in—performances at big-name theater houses, be it on Broadway or in Baltimore.

“Unless you were playing a maid or a butler, there was no need for you in white theaters,” says Owens, referring to the Jim Crow prejudices that kept cultural institutions racially segregated well into the 20th century.

But this was also an era of civil rights resistance. From fine art to photography, the Black community was leading a wave of artistic movements across the country, fighting back by creating their own representation, with community theaters emerging as creative refuges in cities like New York, Chicago, and Washington, D.C.

“Theater has always been a political movement,” says Owens, noting that some of the earliest plays, from Greek tragedies to Shakespeare, dealt with some form of protest.

In Harlem, the pioneering American Negro Theatre opened in 1940, followed by the Black Arts Repertory Theatre and School in 1965 and the New Federal Theatre in 1970. Black community theaters were places where Black thespians could write, perform, and direct works by Black artists, including luminaries like Lorraine Hansberry, Ossie Davis, and James Baldwin.

“Everybody just assumed there were no Black playwrights,” says Owens. “Black playwrights did not begin with August Wilson [in the 1980s]. Black playwrights have been around for centuries.”

Meanwhile, historically Black colleges became another respite for Black theater. In Baltimore, Arena Players got its start on campus at what is now Coppin State University in 1953. Its theater-in-the-round playhouse soon became a hub where aspiring actors and other community members—from lawyers, doctors, and teachers to housewives and retirees—could regularly partake in the theatrical world.

At this time in Baltimore, venues for the Black arts scene were few and far between, despite a large Black population. Pennsylvania Avenue was one of the few hubs, with the Royal Theatre being a premiere venue for iconic musicians like Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Further along the avenue, other spots like the Sphinx Club, Club Casino, and Club Tijuana hosted the likes of Billie Holiday and Miles Davis.

And though it took a while to find an audience, the word eventually got out about Arena Players, with coverage of its early seasons appearing increasingly in The Sun. The company’s first production was the one-act Hello Out There! by Armenian-American playwright William Saroyan, and within a few years, their performance of the musical Simply Heavenly brought its author, Langston Hughes, to the front row.

Their repertoire ranged from one-act plays to full-scale productions across a variety of genres, such as comedy, drama, and mystery, which also included famous works by white playwrights, such as Alfred Hitchcock, Arthur Miller, Edna St. Vincent Millay, and Tennessee Williams. Similarly, audiences were predominantly Black, but there were white attendees, too, and groups like sororities, fraternities, church congregations, and other social clubs regularly sponsored private viewings. Tickets hovered around $1, and at times they sold out.

Still, the Black theater company was a small operation. Troupe members had to bring in furniture from their own homes to use as props, and while Coppin was their launchpad, throughout that first decade, Arena Players moved between multiple venues. They put on shows at the Great Hall Theater of St. Mary’s Church in Walbrook, at Morgan State University’s Carl J. Murphy Auditorium, and at the YMCA in Madison Park, where crew members would build intricate sets on Friday, just to tear the whole thing down by Sunday night.

“Though the beginning was not easy, the sense of commitment was great, and individuals gave liberally of their time and resources to bring their dreams to reality,” wrote then-artistic director Ed Terry in a 50th anniversary booklet in 2003. “Through the first decade, the names of the Players were well known, and the actors constituted a kind of resident company as they wandered from one venue to another in search of a permanent home.”

They finally moved to their McCulloh Street home in 1969—a curved brick building in the Seton Hill neighborhood between Mt. Vernon and West Baltimore. And what was once a coffin warehouse for a local mortuary became the permanent home of a historic Black theater.

Two silver plaques greet you when you step through the front door of Arena Players. One is dedicated to Irvin Turner, who founded Arena’s “Youtheatre” program in 1974. The other is for Sam Wilson, Owens’ former mentor, who died in 1996. On his, there’s a quote: “I do not believe anyone is supposed to leave this earth having held on to his or her talent. You’ve got to share it. You’ve got to hand it to somebody else.”

Today, Arena Players has 45 cast and crew, with performers ranging in age from toddlers to octogenarians. For about 10 years in the 1980s, ticket sales and grants for the youth theater were what kept Arena Players open and operating—and some of those performers are still with the troupe today.

In her own way, Catherine Orange is an Arena Players lifer. The youth program director was also encouraged by Wilson to join the troupe while a Coppin State student in 1972, but by that time, she already knew the theater well, having visited since childhood with her grandmother. Over the years, she’s had her hand in everything from hair-and-makeup to stage managing, and eventually she got her own children and then grandchildren involved. Her son, Rodney, was the theater’s managing director until his death in 2019. Her grandson, Dana, now a professional performer, got his start at Arena Players when he was just four years old.

“For kids who want to grow and to develop their creativity, this is a great place to start,” says Orange, noting that some young troupe members continued their interest at the Baltimore School for the Arts and Peabody Institute.

In fact, Arena Players has many notable alumni, including those who have worked on Broadway or in the film industry. Actress Tracie Thoms, who starred in Rent and The Devil Wears Prada, got her start on the Arena Players stage. And Tony Award-winning actor, singer, dancer, and director André De Shields has often praised Arena Players for being one of the few places where he could explore the arts as a young boy growing up in Baltimore.

Owens is a D.C. native but started acting at age six. Now at 76, he’s the glue that holds the theater together, responsible for handling everything from the building’s maintenance to the season’s lineup. This past November, three of the four walls in his office were covered in dry-erase calendars marked with the troupe’s performance dates through 2023.

When selecting which plays to perform, Owens tries to prioritize what he calls “entertainment teaching,” rooted in a founding philosophy of bringing underrepresented works with historical significance to the forefront. To that end, the players recently mounted a production of The Face of Emmett Till, the true story chronicling of the life, death, and aftermath of a 14-year-old Black boy who was murdered by two white men for allegedly whistling at a white woman in 1955 Mississippi. In many ways, says Owens, this follows the great tradition of Black performing arts venues.

“Black theaters allowed Black people to perform, they allowed them to write and direct, and they allowed their work to be seen,” he says, with other now-classic Black works such as The Wiz fantasy musical and the tragic for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf having premiered here over the years. “That was really important.”

It meant their stories would be told.

For Arena Players, it’s a legacy that’s made an impact. Alongside actor portraits and framed newspaper clippings, the theater’s walls are decorated with official recognition. In 2018, a signed letter from late Congressman Elijah E. Cummings called the theater a “lasting cultural icon.” In more recent years, they’ve also caught the attention of historians, with Morgan State University currently working with the theater’s archives in hopes of creating a future digital exhibition.

“The Arena Players’ archives demonstrate African-American agency [in] Baltimore during the early civil rights era,” says Morgan State archivist Ida E. Jones. “This community space provided room to nurture positive Black images, cultivate innate talent, and expose Black Baltimore to the mechanics of theater work.”

That sort of preservation project is vital for a nonprofit theater with limited staff and resources. Over the years, they have experienced their fair share of financial ups and downs, and today, they primarily rely on grants and community donations to stay afloat.

“We’re beginning to see some daylight,” says board chair Larry Cook, a West Baltimore native and former state senator who has been involved with the theater for over two decades, with much of his efforts focused on lobbying support from city and state government. “It’s been a task, but we’ve stayed persistent.”

Cook points to the forthcoming renovations to the building, which hasn’t had any major upgrades since the ’70s, with the third floor, currently used as a rehearsal space, being transformed into a black-box theater, in order to have multiple shows taking place at once. Other plans include modernizing the light fixtures and seating to improve the audience’s experience and accessibility.

The Arena Players audience looks different now than when it first started. While still majority Black, the crowd is often representative of a variety of races, reflective of the Baltimore theater scene’s diversification, as mainstream venues like Center Stage and Everyman Theatre cultivate more inclusive casts and repertoires.

This could explain why they’re not seeing nearly as many full houses these days, but the theater continues to put on up to seven shows per season. This year’s first performance will not premiere until September, but right before Christmas, they were gearing up for a performance of Langston Hughes’ Black Nativity.

For Owens, though, even in changing times, the Arena Players mission is just as important as it ever was—some 70 years and counting—and will continue to be in the future.

“The energy here is powerful, even to this day,” he says. “It has such a history, and it has such a dedicated set of people, and that keeps the fire burning.”

Meleny Thomas has always found herself in mentoring and leadership roles. Maybe it has something to do with growing up in the church, where she often taught Sunday school. In 2011, she was working with an after-school program at a local high school when the students learned an incinerator might be coming to the community. She helped them research the detrimental environmental effects it would have on the Curtis Bay neighborhood and, through their hard work, they were able to beat the proposed incinerator. Inspired, Thomas decided to create the South Baltimore Community Land Trust, a nonprofit organization dedicated to environmental justice, permanently affordable housing development, and zero waste.

What is the South Baltimore Community Land Trust (SBCLT)?
Through the outreach we did to defeat the proposed incinerator we learned of other communities that were displaced in the South Baltimore area because of industry. We learned that it’s not an accident and it isn’t something that happened overnight. This is something that has historically evolved in this community. We thought of the land trust model as a tool to be able to get ownership of land to help prevent further displacement of residents who want to stay in the community, and also a way to look at how we address environmental injustice and racism and the role that it plays in communities.

What is environmental racism and how does it play out in Baltimore neighborhoods?
When you think about the placement of environmental hazards—chemical companies, landfills, and companies that emit toxins into the air that harm human health—it’s historically neighborhoods like the 21225 ZIP Code in South Baltimore that have borne the burden of the polluting industry.

If you look at a map, there’s a concentration of chemical companies in this neighborhood versus affluent neighborhoods. What we’re hoping through the land trust model and being one of five community land trusts in Baltimore is to reclaim our community and also bring light to the environmental injustice and oppression that a lot of communities, especially communities of color, have endured.

When we’re talking about the environment, what are some of the biggest issues impacting minority communities in Baltimore today?
In Curtis Bay, there’s an open-air coal pile that’s right across from a recreational center. There are just different things that would not be allowed in an affluent community like Roland Park or the Inner Harbor. And when you compare communities, our ZIP Code should not determine or lessen our life expectancy. And unfortunately, with the overconcentration of chemicals, statistics and data say that the life span is shortened when you live in this community versus living in one like Roland Park, by 15 years. That is directly attributed to being in close proximity to pollutants.

The Chesapeake Bay Foundation published a study in 2017 where they investigated pollutants from the Wheelabrator incinerator that’s in Westport in South Baltimore and they said that pollution alone contributes to $55 million a year in health costs for people who have respiratory illness and need asthma treatment. That’s the first time that we’ve been able to put a number to it.

One of the big things that the SBCLT advocates for is affordable housing around Baltimore. What is the issue around affordable housing and how is SBCLT addressing it?
A lot of times what happens is developers come in or these investors come in and buy homes and then turn around and rent them at the max capacity to where it’s unaffordable. Through the land trust model, we are acquiring vacant homes and land in the community and redeveloping them using subsidized public grant dollars to build and reconstruct these homes and then sell them to income-qualified persons, persons who are earning 50 percent of the area median income and below.

It’s important to have mixed income communities because you have some people that are higher than 50 percent. But it’s also important to give people an opportunity to be able to own and own with dignity. Right now, we are developing 10 homes in the Curtis Bay neighborhood. We are also partnering with the Cherry Hill Development Corporation, and they are developing five homes in Cherry Hill, and we also have another additional five homes that we’ll be adding to the pipeline.

What does “development without displacement” mean?
Development without displacement really means that we want good development in our community. We want the people who have had to endure all the hardships, the blight, and injustices to be able to embrace and experience that. So people who have lived in the community who may have been renting for 10, 15 years and never thought they would get an opportunity for homeownership. If they’re ready, we want to make sure that those lifetime residents are able to experience and enjoy the beauty of the development that is taking place

In the spring of 2019, Nia June found herself in the living room of a home in Windsor Mill. She described it as “old-school.” There were many pictures on the walls and others lined the tables. There was plastic covering on the matching vintage couches. The Baltimore poet was there for work, though it didn’t feel like it.

“It felt like home,” says June, pictured second from left, who spent the day listening to stories from the three generations of Black women who resided there: Najah Johnson; her daughter, Indigo; and her grandmother, Ethel Zimmerman. “Seeing the way her grandchild and great-grandchild just folded to her—they sat at her feet, they loved her so much, and just took care of her. It was beautiful.”

Zimmerman died last January, at 86 years old, but she will now live on in the permanent collection of The Baltimore Museum of Art. June’s debut film, A Black Girl’s Country, inspired by her poem of the same name, was recently acquired by the BMA as part of its new initiative to obtain more works by artists of color and those with ties to Baltimore.

It all started with a poem that June wrote as a student at Towson University in 2018. As the only Black woman in her poetry class, she felt frustrated and out of place, with her work constantly misunderstood by her classmates, many of whom were white men. She wrote her feelings into a poem that she now describes as a “home for Black women.”

The short film based on that poem, written and directed with local cinematographer Kirby Griffin, right, and musician APoetNamedNate, left, features more than 50 Black women and men set to the backdrop of Charm City, with June’s words echoing in the background.

“In person, Nia is this very delicate, soft-spoken woman, and then you see her onstage and it’s just like pure fire,” says Griffin, who filmed all the video footage, while APoetNamedNate created the music to accompany June’s poem. Together, their goal was to celebrate Baltimore’s Black community.

“Representation was really important to us,” says June, who is now an arts educator herself. “I’ve had a lot of students who are young Black girls tell me that they watch the film every morning to start their day and make them feel good. A lot of Black women have told me they cried, or dads have said they show it to their daughters.”

The BMA first interacted with the film during the COVID-19 pandemic, when it was showcased in the “Screening Room,” a virtual space where visitors could quench their thirst for local artwork while the museum’s doors remained closed, quickly becoming a fan favorite.

“This is probably one of the best things that happened to us last year,” says chief curator Asma Naeem. “This work is a portrait of so many incredibly moving and powerful and inspiring people.”

That includes Sharayna Ashanti Christmas (second from right) the founder of Necessary Tomorrows, whose creative consulting branch helped the BMA acquire the film.

“Black artists need to know that they have someone that can advocate on their behalf,” says Christmas, whose radical multimedia platform works to promote art by creatives of color, helping to raise more than $5,000 in emergency relief funding for Black artists in 2020. “They also need to learn how to advocate for themselves.”

Per June’s wishes, the film is still available for free on YouTube, where it has amassed more than 8,000 views. But as it’s one of the first films by a local Black artist to join the BMA’s collection, Christmas see it as a landmark.

“It’s being acquired in the permanent collection of a prestigious museum located in Baltimore and the work is by three artists that are from Baltimore and it’s about Black women,” she says. “I don’t think it gets any more historic than that.”

On one of the first warm days of the year, Bri’Anna Horne, 26, and a few friends decided to drive up to an outdoor rock climbing center in Pennsylvania.

One hand after another, she reached for the perfect pieces of rock in the boulder that would hoist her further up the wall. Suddenly, she was met with a particularly difficult route. She had tried it a few times, but couldn’t quite figure out the best direction to go in. 

Whatever feelings of doubt Horne had were quelled by the messages of encouragement coming from the people beside and below her, urging her to trust herself and promising to catch her if she fell.

“Everyone was just like, ‘You got it, don’t worry about it, don’t stress about it,’” Horne says. “It’s pretty common for me to have that feeling, at least when I’m in a climbing space.”

That sense of support was what inspired the Pigtown resident to launch Pigtown Climbs, an organization that uses climbing to promote health, racial justice, and environmental initiatives within Southwest Baltimore. 

Horne launched the group in August 2020, following the demonstrations that broke out across the country in the wake of George Floyd’s death and a series of other police brutality incidents. Pigtown is over 54 percent Black, with more than 33 percent of its residents living in poverty with limited access to green space—according to a 2017 report from the Baltimore City Health Department. 

As part of her new initiative, Horne wants to transform a 4,400 square-foot former parking lot on Pigtown’s Main Street into an outdoor recreational center where residents can reclaim the natural environment in their community.  

“Because we’re creating this entire space, we can tailor it to the needs of the community,” she says. “There’s a reconnection that needs to happen in order for people to feel comfortable in the outdoors, because it’s been so removed from the neighborhood.”

The plan is for the center to feature an outdoor rock climbing wall, as well as space to host neighborhood gatherings like yoga classes or mental health awareness forums. The team plans to break ground this summer and complete the project by the summer of 2022, but that timeline depends on funding.  

To that end, Horne is working with local partners—including preservation nonprofit Mid Atlantic Climbers and Pigtown neighbor Charm City Books—to facilitate virtual fundraisers like “Climby Desk,” a play on NPR’s famous “Tiny Desk” concerts. Taking place this Friday, April 9, the event will feature performances by area artists (look out for Ari and the Buffalo Kings and dancer Aliyah Caldwell), updates on the project, and a raffle of donated items from local makers. Mid Atlantic Climbers has already pledged to match up to $2,500 of the evening’s donations, which will fund landscaping and structural design for the outdoor space.

These programs are made possible by the organization’s more than 200 volunteers—the majority of whom are women of color, according to Horne. When school teacher Jelytza Padro, 29, moved to Baltimore City, she was shocked by the lack of accessibility to outdoor green spaces. 

 “The outdoors was kind of like my backyard,” says Padro, a North Carolina native who handles marketing for Pigtown Climbs. “When I moved up here, I realized that access was taken away. And then I also realized, as a school teacher, my students had never experienced these spaces. [It was easy to] merge that alignment to what Pigtown Climbs wanted to do.”

Along with improving community access to outdoor environments, one of the group’s big-picture goals is to dismantle stereotypes regarding what a climber looks like. That’s part of the reason why it was imperative to Horne that the organization be made up of majority Black women.

 “Normally when you see climbers you always see the typical cis white male,” says Brittany Leavitt, a 32-year-old climber who works with organizations like Pigtown Climbs and Brown Girls Climb. Leavitt, who has scaled Mount Kilimanjaro, explains that, although Black people have always been a part of the climbing community, their stories have not often been told. 

Moving forward, Leavitt believes that there has to be increased representation in order for more Black people to embrace the outdoors. She hopes that, locally, Pigtown Climbs can be at the forefront of that change. 

“We were never given that exposure or understanding that we have a space here,” Leavitt says. “Climbers come in all different shapes and sizes. It’s important to me to be able to bring climbing to the community, versus having to take the community out of their space and showcase that ‘this is something that you can be a part of.’”

As a kid, West Baltimore native Nia June, 25, had her sights set on becoming a professional dancer. But she remembers countless attempts from her father, writer Argin Henry, to get her interested in writing and reading his work. 

When Henry passed away from a heroin overdose in 2017 at the age of 47, June found a new love for spoken word poetry. She saw it as a way to express herself, while also honoring her father’s passion. 

“It was a language that I was kind of fluent in my whole life,” she says, “but I didn’t know that I could use it to express myself and also get involved in activism.”  

Her roughly three-minute poems are filled with high imagery, rhythm and rhyme, and heavy hip-hop influences inspired by the music she grew up listening to. She draws inspiration from Black female creatives who have gained recognition in the industry against all odds—including singer-songwriters Lauryn Hill and Jill Scott, as well as playwright Ntozake Shange, who wrote the award-winning musical adaptation For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf. 

At the virtual Women Artists’ Showcase presented by the Love Groove Music Festival on March 5, June will perform some of her powerful work alongside several other Baltimore-based female artists, including host and creator Amber Campbell-Wheeler (who performs under the name Amber August), rapper Jacey-Symone, pop artist Peach Face, Neo Soul group Black Assets, and an all-female house band. Proceeds from the event will benefit the Johns Hopkins Breast Center and all of the performing artists. 

The showcase was founded by 21-year-old musician John Tyler in 2017, when he was a high school junior at the Baltimore Design School. Tyler was struck when he learned the difficulties that his female artist friends faced while trying to break into the local creative industry. He intentionally set the date for the event in March to honor Women’s History Month.

“I knew how hard it was to be an artist,” Tyler says. “I didn’t know that women went through losing opportunities because a man in power might say, ‘I want you to do this or you’re not going to get this opportunity.’”

A multi-instrumentalist who plays guitar, piano, and saxophone, Tyler has always seen music as a way to bring different groups of people together—which is, in large part, why he started the music festival in the first place. The West Baltimore native says his teachers encouraged him to throw student concerts after school and make music with his friends.

“They allowed me to really express myself,” he says. Back then, he brought his guitar with him to most places—even his part-time job at the Port Discovery Children’s Museum in the Inner Harbor, where he met both June and Campbell-Wheeler.

Two years ago, Campbell-Wheeler, 25, overheard Tyler playing his guitar at work while a parent of one of the visiting children sang along. Impressed by his talent, she remembers asking them, “Can I jam with y’all?” They broke into a freestyle session right in the middle of the museum. “We’ve been friends and musical collaborators ever since,” she explains.

So, when Tyler mentioned his idea for an all-female showcase, Campbell-Wheeler was intrigued: “I thought it was beautiful to highlight women artists in Baltimore,” she says. “There are a lot of showcases that mainly center around men and their respective talents, but I hadn’t seen anything specifically dedicated to giving space to women.” 

The lack of opportunity was echoed by the other artists performing in the showcase.

June, who studied writing at Towson University, says she felt she constantly had to explain cultural references in her work during class presentations at the predominantly white institution. Sometimes, she says, she would receive inadequate critiques from classmates who refused to do prior research before reviewing her poems. “It just seemed like my work was too much of something unfamiliar to them for it to be accepted,” she says. “What I experienced in a college classroom is a reflection of the industry.”

June, who also creates short films, has aspirations to be an independent artist in the coming years. For his part, Tyler hopes that the showcase will allow all of the performers to advance one step closer to their dreams. So far, almost 200 people have registered to attend the event. 

In the future, Tyler plans to expand Love Groove into a full-blown Baltimore City music festival.  

“I hope to have a safe space for women of all genres of music to be free and express themselves,” he says. “This is a movement to me.”

Baltimore native Olakekan Kamau-Nataki has spent her whole life surrounded by books. 

Every summer, she and her brother would work part-time at their parents’ bookstore, Everyone’s Place African Culture Center, on North Avenue. Kamau-Nataki, 30, says loyal customers even remember her running around the shop as a toddler.

“I probably knew the store before I knew myself,” she says.  

Not only has Everyone’s Place shaped a large part of Kamau-Nataki’s identity, it’s also played a role in shaping the communities that surround it. In the mid-’80s, Kamau-Nataki’s parents, owners Tabia and Nati, were offered the store—which originally sat a few blocks away from its current location in Druid Heights—by its previous owner. From their very first day in business, the University of Maryland, Baltimore County graduates knew they wanted Everyone’s Place to be heavily involved in the neighborhood it inhabited.

Throughout the years, it’s become a beloved browsing spot, a venue for events, and a place for local artists to share their merchandise. The African Culture Center side of the business sells skincare products, clothing, incense, and oils. Before the pandemic, the shop would also host frequent guest lecturers and performers.  

“I remember when I was younger there were authors that would come,” Kamau-Nataki says, “and my mom used to do headwrap classes.”

That same fortified community relationship is what is ultimately getting the bookstore through one of the most difficult eras small businesses have faced in decades. 

The store’s mission—to provide customers with a window into a culture through the African diaspora—resonated with the community even more when Black Lives Matter protests swept the country last summer. Kamau-Nataki says the bookstore went from the slow, leisurely days of lockdown to a frenzied hustle as customers sought books on anti-racism and expressed a heightened interest in supporting Black-owned businesses.  

“People were calling for books that probably years before we would maybe sell four copies of,” Kamau-Nataki says.      

We caught up with Kamau-Nataki to learn more about how the community has kept the Black-owned culture center afloat:

Tell us a bit about your parents. What inspired them to open the store?
My mother has always been a business owner. When she went to university, she carried that with her. She would have a table at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County (UMBC) and sell incense and small things. My father also went to UMBC, that’s how they met. So when they finished school, they carried that on. They were a big part of the African Studies department there. They started out with a table at festivals just selling all kinds of things. They would be at reggae concerts selling mandalas, shirts, sunglasses, even sweet potatoes.

Everyone’s Place has been around for more than three decades. What do you think has contributed to its longevity?
It would have to be the support of the community first and foremost. People have seen the effort that my parents have put in and the way that they have continued to support the community. In turn, the community continues to support them. My parents have maintained what their goal was from the start. Everything is cyclical. I remember the intensity of people coming in here when I was younger, and as the community waned a little bit, you still had people coming—you still had the support. Now we’re back at that kind of cycle again where people are very heavy into learning about who they are, learning about their ancestors, and looking for their own growth. From the beginning, people have always been here to support.   

The shop is not only a bookstore, it’s also an African Culture Center. What other cultural items does the store showcase?
We have clothing, fabric, statues, skin products, oils, and a wide array of things from within the African diaspora. I think for my parents, and for myself and my brother, Africa is more than just a continent because our people have been spread everywhere. Wherever we are we’ve had to maintain what we have of our culture, but also create our own culture. It’s part of reflecting and acknowledging the culture that we may not 100 percent know, but also acknowledging the culture that we had to create.

There are only a number of Black-owned bookstores across the country. Why do you think there are so few?
One easy answer, which covers a lot of small stores in general is, you know, Amazon. They’re getting books that a lot of other people can’t get, so it’s making it harder for people to sell things in their community. Despite that, people still come here and buy regardless. But I think we’re in a moment now where the number of Black bookstores is actually increasing. There are many that have closed but, even in this past year, there are several that have opened.

Last summer, we saw hundreds of thousands of people protesting for Black lives and against police brutality. Due to this, there was a national uptick in the sale of books about race and by Black authors. Did you see the effects of that at Everyone’s Place?
It was just an overnight shift. No one was prepared for that. It was a little bit of a shock. It was good to see the book lists that people were putting out with a lot of authors who were doing the work before, and for them to get that recognition. It was also good for people to actually be reading these books and to actually acknowledge things that Black people already know innately, for people to be able to read it where someone has put their feelings into words, put their experience into words, and to express what it is that they’re experiencing.  

Why is it so important to see Black-owned bookstores like Everyone’s Place thrive in Baltimore?
Bookstores in general, but specifically Black-owned bookstores, have historically been a place where people have shared their ideas, shared their beliefs, and organized. It’s been the foundation for a lot of our community. The other day I was putting away a book that talked about literary societies and their importance in Black communities and the roles that they played. You get your information from books, but sharing those ideas with other people and the development and growth that it allows within our community is the importance of Black bookstores. We’re able to get books that are directed to us, which we might not be able to find most other places. It gives us an ability to see ourselves in a way that we wouldn’t.

There’s a train track that runs through Asbury Park, New Jersey and splits what Baltimore resident Ajamu White calls “two worlds.” White, 47, grew up on the side of the tracks that he says never fully recovered from the race riots of the ’60s. But on the other side, tourists flocked to beaches and restaurants as vacation destinations. 

For White, life on the other side of the tracks seemed like a drastically different world. That was his earliest experience witnessing the realities of racial disparities  and their systemic roots in America.

“My family is from there and has been there for years, so I saw poverty and drugs and what that was doing to communities first-hand,” White says. “I don’t forget that, I guess—where I’m from.”

White’s childhood experiences continue to influence the work of the self-proclaimed cultural curator. Drawn toward “the community vibe and energy of the city,” he moved to Baltimore in 2017 and soon after founded The Medicine Show—a storytelling project in which comedians, poets, musicians, and other artists (think local greats including Joy Postell, Amy Reid, and David Fakunle) amplify the missions of social change organizations using their different mediums.  

“Its seeds kind of started theater-based,” White says. He’s organized numerous live shows highlighting music, performance art, and spoken word throughout the years (locals might remember showcases that were part of the Red Bull Amaphiko festivals), but he says COVID-19 has provided the opportunity to work with filmmakers and visual artists to explore digital storytelling in a new streaming series, “Medicine Show Presents: Our Voice.”

The Medicine Show recently kicked off the new series with a visual collaboration in which local poet and spoken word artist Kondwani Fidel, trumpeter Brandon Woody, and dancer Asya Melan Shaw perform a lyrical love letter to the city titled, “Paint it Black, Baltimore.”

Directed, edited, and filmed by local cinematographer and street photographer Kirby Griffin, the collaboration was inspired by the work of community groups B-360, an organization that utilizes dirt bike culture to teach young people of color about STEM, and Baltimore Ceasefire, a movement that calls for the elimination of gun violence.

Fidel’s soulful words, paired with Woody’s moving score, touch on prevalent social issues in Baltimore City, including racial injustice, gun violence, and the criminalization of dirt bike riding. White hopes that people who see the video, particularly artists and other creatives, will be moved to support the two causes.

“When I say ‘Take action,’ it doesn’t always mean donate and give money,” he says. “It’s also about really lending your skill-set, and that can be in many different ways. Everyone can lend a voice in this fight for social justice and social change. No one needs to sit on the sideline.”

We caught up with White to discuss the transition from live theater to digital, solution-based community work, and the relationship between art and activism.

What inspired The Medicine Show?
I would say that culture is my starting point in music, film, and art. I was all about producing experiences, bringing people together, and community building. That has led me to this intersection of culture, storytelling, and social impact work. 

How did “Paint it Black, Baltimore” come together?
At the time, I was doing some work with this program called the Red Bull Arts Book Share. You basically donate money to an organization, which was actually B-360 and Baltimore Ceasefire, and then you were able to get a book from a local Black author—which in this case, included Nia June, Kondwani Fidel, and D. Watkins—and that book was actually purchased from a Black-owned bookstore, Everyone’s Place African Culture Center, in West Baltimore.

So I was helping manage that program and [I thought,] ‘Oh, all these people are tied together, let’s add another layer to that and really put together this film to speak about it.’ That’s when I reached out to Kondwani, who said he’d really wanted to work with some of these other artists like Brandon Woody and Kirby Griffin. 

What was the timeline from coming up with the idea to eventually premiering the video?
Over the last month I’d say. It came together really quickly. It’s just been a strange, weird year. I came to a point where I was just like, “Let’s do something.” 

“Paint it Black Baltimore” conveys a really powerful message. Would you say The Medicine Show has always been a place to showcase that kind of work, or is this a recent shift?
It has always been about telling stories of people doing the work and finding solutions to the issues. And a lot of those issues are facing marginalized communities, which tend to be Black and Brown people. So you have the energy, culture, and creativity of Baltimore and then you have the other side—the grassroots organizations and changemakers on the ground putting out solutions to problems. Those are the people we really want to put together.

One of the things that I noticed when I came to Baltimore was that there was an opportunity to foster a working relationship between those two groups, and that’s what we want to continue doing. How do we make it so that if you’re an artist growing up, it almost becomes second nature to try to find people to lend your skills and your voice to if there’s something you’re passionate about?

What do you think the relationship is between artists and activism?
There’s an old saying that artists are always the speakers of truth. Activism to me is basically telling people that there is a problem. I think some of these social impact organizations like B-360 or Baltimore Ceasefire, they’re activists, but they’re also bringing a solution to the problem. They’re not only trying to tell you that there’s a problem, they’re also saying “Hey, this is a problem, but I actually have an innovative solution to hopefully combat the problem and fix it.” Those are the kind of ideas that we want to get behind. 

To me, artists are kind of the gatekeepers to that—getting people emotionally connected to those solutions. They’re the ones who can really resonate your interest in music, poetry, and film. If you can hear that message in those forms, it can resonate with you more and hopefully then you start to understand more about that organization or what that solution is. Maybe you start to volunteer for that group or donate money to that group or lend whatever you can to their mission. I think creativity and art really can be the first touchpoint with someone to get them to see the organizations in human ways and see the solutions as something that everyone can get behind. It’s not “those peoples’ problem” or “that community’s problem,” it’s really a human problem. 

What do you hope viewers get out of the video and the new series?
Really, I want people to understand how incredible B-360 and Baltimore Ceasefire are. Someone described it to me as a love letter to the social impact organizations that are doing the work. It was really uplifting that these two organizations are both led by strong Black women in Baltimore that are not always put on a pedestal and not always talked about. They need support. The more people that we can get to support them, whether it’s through donations, volunteering, or just awareness, I think that is one thing. 

The second thing is just, the talent that’s in the city of Baltimore, we want to put on display for a broader audience. But also, hopefully share with emerging artists, future artists, and younger artists that you can be an artist and your work and messaging through your art can help uplift people. I think that’s one of the things that Kondwani really did well in his words is not just talk about issues, but also the solutions that B-360 and Baltimore Ceasefire are bringing to the table.

Ultimately, the long-term goal of The Medicine Show is that everyday people feel that they can lend their skills and talents to uplifting the work that’s happening on the ground in communities throughout the country. There are so many grassroots organizations that have great ideas to solve  a lot of the bigger problems that are facing the Black community, but they’re lacking in resources. The more that we can really build movements around them, I think is better for everyone.

Baltimore natives Chabria Hill and Jasmine Allen met in college. They developed a close friendship while dancing in the Delaware State University marching band and learned they had a lot in common—despite the fact that Hill was a year younger than Allen. 

“Usually on the dance team you march in two lines,” explains Allen, 29. “So, Chabria’s freshman year and my sophomore year, we marched on the same line together.”

After they graduated, a popular dance TV show called Bring It inspired the two to form their own dance crew. What initially started as an idea for an all-girls dance group grew into a full-blown mentorship program for young Black girls to express themselves through dance. Now, the Charm School Project for Girls—which is based in Parkville—has garnered hundreds of members from all over the DMV.  

“There aren’t many places, groups, or organizations as a whole that provide girls a safe haven to do something that they love as a hobby,” Allen says,  “but also teach them things that can help them prepare for their future.”

Having both attended majority white schools in Baltimore County, the founders shared the experience of feeling like outsiders growing up. They knew that many young Black girls in Baltimore would face some of those same challenges, possibly on a larger scale with the growing popularity of social media.

“Girls everywhere deserve to be able to look up to someone who looks like them,” says Hill, 27.

The Charm School Project for Girls offers a variety of dance programs for all ages—from toddlers to teenagers—that weave in lessons of sisterhood, leadership, and life skills. (Registration for the eight-week fall session is currently open through October 17.)

This year, Hill and Allen were looking forward to their annual dance showcase inside the theater of Carver Center for Arts and Technology in Towson, but it was canceled due to COVID-19. Hill, however, still wanted the girls to have an opportunity to perform for an audience, so they created “A Dance Rally For Brown Girls.” The video, which currently has more than 4,000 views on YouTube, showcases a variety of participants of all ages singing, dancing, and reading poetry in traditional African clothing.

“We just wanted to represent our power, our history, our culture,” Hill says.

We spoke with the pair about the inspiration behind their iconic video, their unique organization, and what young Black girls are facing today.

What inspired you two to start the Charm School Project for Girls?
JA: In 2015, there weren’t a lot of dance competitions in the area. We pitched the idea to a person who worked in the Mayor’s office at the time and he actually returned our idea back to us and made us think a little harder about how we could better serve our community. He asked us, “What makes you guys different from anything else around?” So, we went back to the drawing board and started thinking about the stuff that we didn’t have when we were younger. We compiled all of that and said, “You know what? Instead of just having a dance group, let’s do a mentorship organization, as well. Let’s give these girls a little bit more than what they should be getting out of dance.”

Why call it a “Charm School?”
JA: We knew we wanted to really focus on sisterhood and dance. From there, we branched out to so many other things. We teach our girls life skills, social skills, self-image, and self-confidence.  

You’ve emphasized that the Charm School Project is specifically for girls. Why is it important for you to make that distinction?
JA: We’re both girls. We’re both Black girls. And there’s no secret that growing up in the dance world is challenging. But not only that, let’s take dance out of it completely. Growing up in America, growing up in this world as a Black girl, is challenging. We’re seeing that today. So, distinctly calling out our girls is important because, at the end of the day, in order to protect our Black women, we got to start with our girls first.

Our organization wasn’t thought of overnight. We spoke to numerous people at the time. When we were trying to become a nonprofit, we had a lot of people challenge us. But I can’t say we’re not thankful for those challenges. They made us who we are today. Every time someone questioned our mission or our trajectory for this organization, we always went back to the drawing board to reassess. But from day one, Chabria and I always knew that this was going to be for girls.

What are some of the struggles that your young Black girls are facing today?
JA: Bullying is probably one of the top ones. They’re feeling a little uncomfortable in their skin because the media right now is highlighting how our society at the moment is treating our Brown girls, and it’s looking as if we’re worthless. Especially right now they are questioning their image and how they look among others. I feel like social media is forcing our younger generation to grow and mature quickly. When Chabria and myself were growing up, we didn’t really have social media to expose us to all of these new things. So, one of the things that these girls are facing is a lot of insecurity due to social media.

How do you feel the recent Kentucky grand jury decision not to charge any police officers for Breonna Taylor’s murder affects young Black girls?
JA: I really feel as though it does take a toll on them, because at the end of the day, when we saw the outcome of her case, I’m pretty sure every Black woman in America had some type of doubt about their worth in this country. We have sit-downs with our girls all the time and talk about real things going on in the world. You’d actually be shocked by how much information they know. You have to remember they’re growing; their brains and their minds right now are taking in a lot. They may not digest it fully, but they know it’s happening.

 How did your video, “A Dance Rally for Brown Girls” come about?
CH: We usually have a dance showcase at Carver where 200 family members and friends come and watch our girls perform and showcase what they’ve been able to learn over the past weeks. We wanted to find a way to still be able to showcase our girls [during COVID-19] and also have a message behind it because of everything that’s going on.

I wanted it to be some kind of message that our girls could take in, and so could the world. All of the songs and poems were hand-picked strategically. The song at the beginning was sung by one of our students. Everything from beginning to end has meaning behind it.   

What are your goals for the future of the Charm School Project?
JA: Ultimately, we want to do a girl’s hub, which would be something like a recreational center. It would be a place where girls can come in to get tools, mentorship, and anything that they need that is vital to their day-to-day.

Evan Weinstein spent at least six weeks in early spring playing “Call of Duty” with other members of the entertainment industry.

The cancellation of concerts and large-scale gatherings due to COVID-19 left event promoters like Weinstein, who organizes Baltimore’s annual Moonrise Festival, contemplating what’s next.

“I have a business that I’ve had for fifteen years,” he says. “It’s shut down. I just had a baby, I had no plan.” 

Stuck in quarantine and in search of something to do, the self-proclaimed pizza fanatic began creating his own Detroit-style pizzas right out of his kitchen at home. Known for their square shape, thick, crunchy crust, and cheesy layers, Detroit-style pies are among Weinstein’s favorites. He was inspired by the Detroit Style Pizza Company, which vends at some of his festivals. 

“I have a passion for food,” he says. “I spend most of my free time looking for food.”

First, he was just selling to friends. But he soon realized he had stumbled onto a new business venture when strangers, who had heard about his pizzas through social media and word-of-mouth, were placing dozens of orders. “All of a sudden, I’m selling out of dough from my house,” he recalls.

That’s when Weinstein reached out to local chef Patrick Morrow. The pair knew each other having worked together on event catering in the past, and when Weinstein mentioned his recent interest in making pizzas, Morrow added that he was actually hoping to get into that market himself.

With Morrow’s connections at restaurants such as The Abbey Burger Bistro in Mt. Washington and The Pig and Rooster Smokehouse in Canton, Weinstein was able to move the business out of his home and take full advantage of the ghost kitchen trend by using the facilities in these spaces to prep his pizzas. The duo is now making around 200 square pies per week, and expecting that number to grow.

The concept of a ghost kitchen—in which chefs and vendors utilize another restaurant’s space to make and sell food—is not new. But it has grown in popularity during the pandemic as many diners continue to gravitate toward pick-up and delivery options.

Morrow, who has helped open a handful of restaurants, isn’t surprised by this.

“It makes sense now more than ever before,” he says. “You don’t need a physical storefront; you don’t need a traditional sign on the door. There are other ways to order now.”

Morrow says that, in his experience as a chef for more than 20 years, the reason that most restaurants fail often has to do with owners not being able to afford rent. Ghost kitchens allow aspiring chefs to focus less on keeping the lights on, and more on purchasing quality ingredients. That’s one of the things that Morrow says sets Underground Pizza Company apart, and keeps him optimistic for the brand’s future.  

“I think it has legs,” he says. “The quality of products stands for itself.”

Another thing that sets the company apart is its delivery range. Weinstein has organized pop-ups as far as Philadelphia and makes frequent drops to Montgomery County and Washington, D.C., in addition to the Baltimore area.

Available in half or full sizes, the pizzas range in varieties from a classic red sauce with pepperoni to “The Funfetti” (spicy sausage, peppers, and onions), “The Flag” (a stripe of red sauce and a stripe of pesto), and “The Woodlands” topped with mushrooms, gruyere, and thyme. While some brands using the ghost kitchen model rely solely on third-party ordering apps like Uber Eats and Grubhub, Underground Pizza Company encourages their customers to send a direct message to the company’s social media account if they’re interested in picking up a pie. 

That’s how Federal Hill resident Sheryl Segal placed her order. The Baltimore baker, who knew Morrow well from years of working in the city’s food industry, noticed his latest venture on Instagram and wanted to show her support. “They just have a really cool thing going on,” she says. “It felt underground—playfully so.”

Weinstein says that underground vibe is very much intentional, and it relates to festival-planning in some ways. By not following the traditional pizza business model, he’s freed himself creatively.

“I don’t care what anybody else is doing,” he says, “As soon as you do that, you start putting yourself in a box.” 

Because Weinstein isn’t sure that the entertainment industry will return to what it was pre-COVID, he’s betting on this new model. “We don’t know what’s going to happen, so I was fortunate enough to find pizza,” he says. “If you have a passion, this is the perfect opportunity.”   

In the midst of such a tragic year, Baltimore-based entrepreneur Kalilah Wright was hit with personally devastating news earlier this month. Her mentor and friend, Cici Gunn, a fellow business woman and financial advisor known as “The Six Figure Chick,” passed away on August 14.

The news hit Wright especially hard. Gunn had been her source of inspiration, and she was always there for Wright to turn to in times of need. (In a memorial post to Instagram, Wright recalls a time when Gunn gave her money to buy a new laptop after being robbed. “Your kindness and generosity never cease to amaze me,” Wright said.)  

In addition to her friendship, Gunn’s valuable lessons on social media management helped Wright grow her own apparel company, Mess In A Bottle. 

“She taught me how to teach others,” says Wright, who uses some of Gunn’s practices in what she calls “The Tee Class”, a now-virtual learning platform where she teaches others how to launch their own T-shirt businesses. 

Now, she’s channeling all of the inspiration from Gunn into continuing the growth of her company, which has come a long way since its inception in 2015.

Throughout the past five years, Mess in a Bottle has struck a chord on social media, amassing more than 140,000 Instagram followers. It’s been featured on “Shark Tank” and celebrities like Serena Willams and Insecure’s Yvonne Orji have donned the Baltimore brand that showcases empowering phrases such as “A Black woman created this” and “As strong as the woman next to me.”

Suffice it to say, Wright is not afraid to speak her mind—or wear it, for that matter. It’s something that she considers a form of activism.

The native of Jamaica moved to Baltimore from Brooklyn, New York to attend grad school at Morgan State University. Following graduation she worked for Under Armour, but after the Baltimore Uprising in the wake of the death of Freddie Gray, she felt a call to empower others through clothes. 

“I started Mess In A Bottle as a form of communication and as a conversation starter,” says the 36-year-old business woman. And she’s had no shortage of inspiration to spark some of those important conversations this year.  

Even in the midst of the coronavirus, the self-proclaimed fearless Black woman isn’t slowing down. In August, Wright opened her first brick-and-mortar store on Howard Street boasting the brand’s signature black-and-white aesthetic. Although she’s currently only offering curbside pickup, Wright plans on an official grand opening in 2021.

As a woman who started the business on her own, she says that it’s been “very rewarding to see this grow from a one-person company to now having employees and management.” 

We talked with her about being a Black female business owner, keeping momentum in the middle of a pandemic, and how clothing can be used as a form of activism.  

You talk about how you were inspired to start your company after the Baltimore Uprising in 2015. What was going through your mind when you launched Mess in a Bottle?
I was an architect working for Under Armour, and I felt like the people needed a way to have a voice throughout the riots. So, I wanted to give a voice to the voiceless. People felt unheard and unseen. That was one of the reasons for the riots. I wasn’t nervous about jumping into entrepreneurship because I had been dabbling in it. I was just ready. It felt like the right time for me to really explore my creativity.

What are some of the milestones you’ve reached since then?
We will be in a [yet to be revealed] mass retailer in 2021. We have hit more than a million dollars in sales. We’ve been on television with Mark Cuban. I’ve had celebrities wear my garments. We’ve also gained a very high traction within our community where we have almost 150,000 followers on social media.

How has COVID-19 impacted your businesses?
It didn’t negatively impact the business per se. It really forced us to strengthen our foundation, as well as our processes. But we’ve done really well, and we’ve opened a storefront during the pandemic. We have managed to hire 16 Black women on our team and ninety percent of our production happens in our Baltimore facility. 

I recently read that you’ve been marching and peacefully protesting in support of Black Lives Matter, but some may call apparel a form of protest, too. What does activism look like for you?
I don’t think there’s one way to protest. There’s a lot of silent protestors, people who may not want to be vocal, but they want to get their message into the world. Wearing your message is definitely a form of activism.

Tell me about one of your favorite pieces on sale right now? How did that go from being an idea to an actual product that people can buy?
Right now, we are putting up a shirt that says, “She Black,” in support of Kamala Harris, who was recently selected as Joe Biden’s running mate. The premise behind it is that we have a lot of people who are now questioning who she is and whether she is of African descent, and I’m like, “She Black, period.” Sometimes I just go off of how I feel. It’s mainly the words that I say that end up becoming a message. 

Describe your personal style.
I am a fan of a rip in a jean. I love a nice beautiful head wrap or scarf. I’m always with my round-frame glasses. I’m a good mix of classic with a little bit of art and punk rock. It’s just my way of being very clean and chic.

Who are some people that you look up to?
I love Black culture. I’m a huge fan of Black creatives such as Lena Waithe, Yvonne Orji, and Bozoma Saint John. Those are all Black women who are pioneers in their industry who inspire me.

What are some challenges you’ve faced?
It’s always difficult having a company and transitioning through inventory and figuring out startup capital. As a minority-owned and woman-owned business, we might not have as much access to capital. Those are things that get really difficult, but we have been able to strategically grow the business and the brand. 

Where do you see Mess in a Bottle—and yourself, for that matter—in the next five years?
I see myself and Mess in a Bottle being on the shelf of a mass retail company and continuing to expand and grow into a lifestyle brand.

Sometimes with increased popularity, you have to deal with the possibility of criticism. Have you had to deal with any major backlash?
You know, not really. People are very supportive of us being a Black-owned, woman-owned, immigrant-owned company. They support us having a voice and being able to lend our voice in whatever capacity.

When Ekiben co-owner Steve Chu got a call from a friend asking to donate a few of his signature steamed buns to local hospital workers in the wake of the coronavirus outbreak, he was more than happy to help. 

“We can’t do anything to help them except try to keep their spirits up,” Chu says. 

At the time, hospitals were overflowing with patients and the shutdown had hit local businesses especially hard. In fact, Chu says at one point, Ekiben almost went out of business.

Then, an opportunity presented itself inspired by his friend’s request: “We wanted to do something to help us to help them,” Chu says. 

This was the inspiration behind Ekiben’s “Buy a Hero a Bun” program, in which customers can spend anywhere from $10-100 to send sandwiches to feed healthcare workers at 17 hospitals across the city.

Ekiben continued to donate sandwiches as the weeks went on, but the team wanted to do more. With assistance from The Power of 10 Initiative, a nonprofit that supports neighborhood restaurants, as well as Baltimore City Councilman Zeke Cohen, they set up shop in community centers all over the city, distributing around 2,000 steamed buns per session.

“It was great to have the means to just go outside and work again,” says Chu, whose team often worked farmers markets and community festivals pre-COVID. “Everyone really missed it.”  

When natural disasters strike, communities often turn to restaurants and local businesses for help. A pandemic, says Cohen, is no different.

“They understand their role as business owners, but also as community members,” says Cohen, who represents Baltimore City’s first district that includes Ekiben’s flagship store on Eastern Avenue in Fells Point, “and that if people are suffering, they have an obligation.” 

In March, as local restaurants were forced to grapple with the immense challenges of shuttering their dining rooms, laying off staff, and pivoting to carryout and delivery service, many managed to still find ways to give back to those in need.

Days after stay-home orders came down, dedicated workers from Mera Kitchen Collective, Alma Cocina Latina, Wilde Thyme Baltimore, True Chesapeake Oyster Co., and many others got to work preparing meals for local donation drives.

“We knew that, because of the inequities in the city, there were going to be massive gaps,” Mera Kitchen Collective co-founder Emily Lerman told us in June about her team’s ongoing efforts to distribute meals to underserved communities. “We thought, ‘If we can do this, it’s a win on every level.’”

Others, like Ekiben, Cocina Luchadoras, and Motzi Bread, implemented pay-it-forward models that allow customers to add extra items to their orders to be donated later.

Sotto Sopra, an Italian fixture in Mt. Vernon, recently introduced its own buy-one, give-one special running through the month of August. Customers can purchase a meal (everything from fettuccine bolognese to pork ossobuco) and have the same dish delivered to a friend, neighbor, frontline worker, or someone experiencing homelessness free of charge.

“I thought it was a great way to put a positive spin on this pandemic,” says owner Riccardo Bosio.  

So far, the restaurant has delivered 30 free meals as a part of the special. Bosio even recalls one woman who called from New York to purchase two meals, one of which was for her daughter.   

Many bars and restaurants have also donated food, latex gloves, and masks to hospitals, according to Darin Mislan, owner of The Admiral’s Cup Restaurant & Bar in Fells Point.

“Our industry responds well to these types of crises,” says Mislan, who is also president of Fell’s Point Main Street. “We’re always the go-to when there’s a hurricane or something. So the first week we were closed we were like ‘Okay anything that is perishable we’re going to try to donate.’”

Cohen points out that Admiral’s Cup has demonstrated leadership throughout the pandemic, often rallying for safer practices in all local restaurants. On August 7, Mayor C. Bernard “Jack” Young announced that restaurants could reopen at 25 percent capacity. But Mislan and his staff felt uneasy about operating inside with coronavirus cases still on the rise. So, he opted to continue outside-dining only until further notice and 40 other establishments in the area followed suit. Mislan says it was important to him that the decision was unanimous.  

“When I weigh those things, I don’t think the risk is worth it for any reward at this point,” he says.

As Cohen sums up, the restaurant industry continues to set an example of unity and hospitality even under the most challenging circumstances. 

“For me, the pandemic has heightened the profound disparities within our city and our community,” he says, “but it has also demonstrated a level of leadership and compassion among our small businesses and community restaurants.” 

When Baltimore artist LaToya M. Hobbs was a little girl, her grandmother Johnetta would wake her and her cousins early in the morning to recite a prayer in the living room. It was something she dreaded as a child, but now inspires a piece in her latest exhibition titled, “How Johnetta Taught Us to Pray.”

The piece is a part of Hobbs’ Salt of the Earth series inspired by biblical scripture Mathew 5:13, in which she personifies Black women as preservers of their families, cultures, and communities. It consists of two portraits of Hobbs and her mother in a position of prayer.

“For me it pays homage to the women in my family,” Hobbs says. “I’ve been really thinking about the legacies that have been passed down from generation to generation. I feel like prayer is one of those things.”

This exhibition helped win Hobbs the 2020 Janet & Walter Sondheim Artscape Prize, a $25,000 fellowship that the yearly festival—which took place online due to COVID-19—presents to a Baltimore artist to support their work.

At first glance of one of her pieces, it might seem that she’s been painting all her life, but the Little Rock, Arkansas native actually spent her early college years studying biology.

While Hobbs was always involved in the arts—whether it was dancing in junior high or singing in the school choir—growing up, she didn’t see much representation of people of color with successful careers in fine arts.

“Even though I loved art and I did it all the time, when it was time for me to go to college I was like ‘Okay, well I got to get a real job,’” Hobbs says.

However, halfway through undergrad at the University of Arkansas, she realized that she was unhappy. She found her true passion in creating art and, much to her parents’ dismay, decided to transfer to UA Little Rock to pursue it.

“I told my mom that I wanted to change [schools] and of course she said, ‘You’re just not trying hard enough, you’re giving up too easy,’” Hobbs recalls. “But I think you really have to be honest and know yourself.”

Now, as a teacher at the Maryland Institute College of Art, she encourages her students to pursue careers in whatever form of art they’re interested in.

We spoke with Hobbs about her craft, working and teaching in the age of COVID-19, and her plans for the $25,000 prize.

What inspired you to become an artist?
I think art has just always been something that I’ve been interested in since I was a child. I’ve always enjoyed, not always visual art, but bands and music so those things have always been a part of my life. But it wasn’t until 2007 that I really decided I wanted to be an artist, like to pursue it in my career. I had done dance and choir and art classes all throughout high school and I danced and sang through college, as well, but I think a lot of times with visual art, I know in the [Black community] in particular and in my family, there aren’t a lot of examples of people who have a career as an artist.

When people aren’t familiar with something, there tends to not be a lot of encouragement in that area. If I can walk up to an average person they can name five singers, they can name five actors, they can name five dancers, but most of the time you can’t really get people to name five visual artists unless you’re in a situation where people are avidly studying artists or something like that.

How did your family take you changing your focus from biology to art?
I just had to be honest with myself and say, “This is my life. You guys don’t have to go to these classes every week, you guys don’t have to work in this field. This is something that I’m going to have to do every day and I want to be happy with what I want to do.” So that’s advice that I always give students, particularly art students who want to paint or sculpt or draw but end up doing graphic design because their parents are like, “Okay, we’ll let you be an artist, but you need to do something that’s going to make money.”

I think we are starting to see more and more examples of different ways that people can sustain themselves as an artist. It’s not always limited to the route of being signed by major galleries now.

All of your portraits have a similar look. What techniques do you use in your work?
Earlier in my undergraduate studies, I was focusing primarily on painting as my major. But in my undergrad program at the [University of Arkansas, Little Rock] we had to take a class in every discipline. So, regardless of what your major was as a fine arts person you had to take sculpture, photography, printmaking, you had to take a survey of everything. When I got to printmaking, I really didn’t see the value in it at first, I had no intention of being a printmaker [laughs]. But after I started to learn more about the process and learned more about artists like Elizabeth Catlett, who was a really big influence on my work, I saw the possibilities that were available with that medium.

Your art features Black people and Black women especially. How has the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement, especially its focus on the inequality of the Black female experience, affected you and your art?
If anything, it’s made people more passionate about what they do. I wouldn’t say it’s changed my work because I’ve always created images to reflect my community and how I feel about us, the beauty and the power that we possess, and just giving a more balanced perception and interpretation of who we are. I think I’ve always done that and artists in our community have always done that. Now there’s just more of a spotlight on us.

What are some of the challenges and some of the rewards that you didn’t anticipate about teaching?
For me teaching is a part of who I am. As I look back in every type of situation, I’ve been in, whether it was a job or on my drill team in high school, I always functioned in some kind of teaching or leadership position. In high school, I usually was the one who would teach the routines to everybody. In choir sometimes I was the section leader who would make sure everybody knew their part.

In terms of being an art educator, I find it to be a really rewarding and privileged position to hold, particularly being at an institution like MICA, because there are so many wonderfully creative students from all over the world. I learn from them just as much as they learn from me. It does have its challenges…but I think the things that I enjoy kind of overshadow the things that I don’t necessarily enjoy.

How have you shifted your approach to teaching since COVID-19?
A lot of that interaction and community with students is not going to be there. So, we’re trying to figure out a way to keep it there as best as possible. We had the first taste of that after spring break. At that point I had already had well over a half a semester with my students, so it wasn’t as much of a challenge because I had already built the relationships. But in the fall, it’s a whole new group and I am electing to do my classes online this semester just because I think that’s the best thing for my family. All across the country professors are having to think about creative ways to keep things afloat and keep that sense of engagement. It’s going to be challenging, but I think it’s definitely doable.

What are some of your plans for the Artscape Prize money?
We have a family goal to be debt free in the next five-to-six years. We’ve been really thinking about statistics of Black wealth in America and closing the wealth gap. So part of our financial plan is to focus a lot on debt elimination. But aside from that, some of the funds are going to be used to restock materials. I always say you have to invest in yourself to give back in your own practice.

We all know Baltimore Restaurant Week as a summer treat for industry professionals and residents alike. But this year, with the coronavirus causing temporary shutdowns of all non-essential businesses in the spring, most of the city’s restaurants are in a precarious position. While trying to adjust to new business models, they are also working to keep their employees and customers safe and, ultimately, keep their doors open.

“When the shutdown hit in March, we had a lot of questions about whether we could move forward with the promotion,” says Michael Evitts, Senior Vice President of Communications & Brand Strategy at Downtown Partnership, which co-organizes the event with Visit Baltimore.

Yet another curveball came this week when Mayor Bernard C. “Jack” Young made the decision to close all restaurants for indoor dining for two weeks effective Friday, July 24—the day that Restaurant Week was slated to begin—due to a spike in COVID-19 cases in the city.

Although the 10-day promotion, running through August 2, will undoubtedly look a bit different this year, more than 60 spots are on board to offer dining discounts for carryout, delivery, and outdoor service.

Keeping the event going meant long conversations with chefs and restaurant owners about what Restaurant Week would look like. Every spot faces their own set of unique challenges, ranging from low staff to limited sidewalk space for outside dining. (Luckily, the implementation of parklets—converted parking spaces-turned-al fresco dining areas—have helped to facilitate outside seating for many restaurants that may not have originally had the space.)

Taking feedback from these conversations, organizers decided that this year, restaurants can create their own specials as opposed to requiring the typical $35 three-course meal. By loosening the guidelines for participating spots—and reducing registration costs from $175 to $25—this summer’s event will include many eateries that don’t typically partake, embrace participation from coffee shops and fast-casual eateries, and place an emphasis on supporting Black-owned businesses.

“People are understanding now that when you support Black entrepreneurship, you’re helping to keep Black workers employed,” says Keyia Yalcin, owner of Fishnet inside Mount Vernon Marketplace. “So it’s really part of feeding an ecosystem and being thoughtful and intentional with your dollar.”

With so much to offer, it may be hard to choose. So, here’s a taste of some local favorites, Black-owned restaurants, internationally inspired cuisine, and coffee shops included in this year’s Restaurant Week lineup.

Charleston
For fine dining, guests can visit Charleston in Harbor East, where award-winning chef Cindy Wolf works her magic on cuisine inspired by a blend of regional and international techniques. For its very special Restaurant Week debut, Charleston will offer guests a five-course dinner served with crab soup, local heirloom tomato salad, pan-roasted sea scallops, grilled wild rockfish, and raspberry choux au craquelin for dessert. $75

Southeastern Roastery Coffee Lab
Those in the mood for a pick-me-up can find daily deals at Southeastern Roastery on Fort Avenue. The four-year-old spot with roots in Virginia and Washington, D.C. is a café dedicated to mindfulness and community outreach. Customers can enjoy curbside pickup and carryout options from a calendar of unique specials every day of the week, including the debut of new coffee and tea spritzers, bagel options, and recipe demos on Instagram live.

Orto
This Italian spot in Station North has some stellar carryout offerings. During Restaurant Week, the team is throwing in a free bottle of wine with purchases of $70 or more. Enjoy a special three-course prix-fixe menu that features options such as chilled corn soup, chicken leg confit with lemon herb couscous, and a brioche doughnut filled with passionfruit curd.

Miss Carter’s Kitchen
Known for its delicious soul food and fresh seafood, Miss Carter’s Kitchen is offering a range of meal options including homemade alfredo, crab cakes, and baked mac and cheese. With locations on both Liberty Street and Edmondson Avenue, there’s more than one place for customers to indulge with carryout or by requesting a delivery.

Wight Tea Company
Whether you’re looking to start your day with a warm cup of tea or seeking some light refreshments later in the afternoon, this favorite inside Hampden’s new Whitehall Market has many options for tea-enthusiasts. The sibling-run shop sells handcrafted blends in flavors such as Sage Rose White Tea, Blueberry Basil Rooibos, and Fireside Fig. (Another can’t-miss is the color-changing Butterfly Glitter Lemonade.) Walk in or call ahead to inquire about Restaurant Week deals.

Fishnet
While its Mt. Vernon location has only been around for a year, this seafood spot has been running locations in Maryland for nearly nine years. Since the pandemic, Fishnet has had to shift to delivery and carryout only, but owner Keyia Yalcin says she is finally getting the hang of it. This week’s promotions will be offered on their website. Guests who spend $15 or more can apply the promo code #fishnet to their order for $5 off. $15+

La Calle Restaurant
Craving Mexican-inspired cuisine? This downtown destination fuses Mexican traditions with modern flavors. Guests may choose to reserve an outdoor table or carry out to enjoy a customizable three-course lunch that features dishes like pozole de pollo, empanadas de hongos, carne asada, and dessert. The promotion also includes a three-course dinner option that comes with a complementary margarita. $20-$35

Jazz+Soju
For dishes such as Korean fried chicken and bulgogi, look no further than this restaurant in Locust Point. Specials include a two-course lunch that allows customers to pair appetizers like sake butter shrooms or Brussels sprouts with yuzu meatballs, wings and fries, or fire beef. For those seeking dinner options, Jazz + Soju will offer a combination of an appetizer, two courses, and dessert. $15-$35

Rusty Scupper
This Inner Harbor classic offers meals from brunch to dinner. Guests can enjoy the waterfront views with weekday deals like the three-course supper, which comes with a choice of a salad or crab soup appetizer, an entrée, and dessert. $35

West Baltimore native Tariq Touré grew up in awe of the businesses in his community—from streetwear designers to eateries like Shareef’s Grill, a takeout restaurant that serves Halal meats and now has multiple locations in Baltimore. “We would come out from Juma [Friday prayer] and everybody would buy his wraps religiously,” recalls Touré, a Muslim husband, father, and award-winning writer.

So when he wrote a poem nearly four years ago describing the story of how the dollar flows through a community, he was drawing from a personal desire to explain that process. Years later, he realized the poem was something he wished he’d had growing up, so he turned it into a children’s book.

David’s Dollar follows the story of David Kareem, a Muslim kid who expresses curiosity about what happens to a dollar after it’s spent. “He’s happy to have his candy, but he’s sad to see his dollar be spent,” says Touré, who has three children himself. “So his father says, ‘Well, let me show you,’ and then takes him around the neighborhood and shows him all the different businesses, and the dollar happens to keep popping up.”

Slated for a September release (pre-orders are currently sold out), David’s Dollar follows Touré’s two other self-published poetry books. After struggles with publishers who wanted to make fundamental changes, Touré took matters into his own hands. In May, he launched a fundraiser for the illustration costs, which far surpassed its $7,000 goal. The crowdfunding campaign followed his philosophy of “do it for self,” a concept he learned more about through his community, which also happens to be a recurring message in the book.

Despite all of the research, Touré doesn’t plan to sit his kids down and talk about the meaning of the dollar until the book is out. He wants to let them read it and have their curiosity guide a discussion.

“Right now, they know nothing about it,” he says. “I just want them to walk into a room full of books and be like, ‘What’s this?’”

Here’s what the author had to say about his upcoming book, the value of the Black dollar, and Baltimore’s tight-knit Muslim community:

What was your inspiration for David’s Dollar?
Maybe three or four years ago, I wrote a poem that described how a young boy would ask his father how money passes through a community in the realm of [I guess you would say] futurism, because it doesn’t really happen like that right now. [Laughs] Basically, if this was a community where people spent money with each other, how would a young child be able to see that?

So, what prompted you to turn it into a book?
When I was done with it, I thought it’d be something cool to share with my kids at some point in time when they were ready to digest that information. Then I realized, well, I already wrote two poetry books, what would it look like if I were to write a children’s poetry book that tells a really dynamic story that I think people would rally behind?

On the cover, you have David and his father dressed in Muslim garb. Is it important for you that you remain as authentic as possible in your writing?
Building it out autobiographically, it’s important for me to make the way it feels and looks there authentic. [For] Black Muslims, a lot of us dress this way on the regular. A lot of our parents make sure we shop Black on the regular anyway. We get so caught up into representation that we forget we have a dope story that carries with it anyway.

Growing up, were you aware of the disparities in the Black community in Baltimore?

I grew up around a lot of hustlers, some entrepreneurs, but very little actual business owners. Sometimes as writers we write for wishful thinking, and it’s like, this is what could possibly be if we spend more money with each other.

When you were younger, do you remember having an understanding of financial literacy?
Not really. The one thing that I feel like was preached in my community was, you know, different income and stuff like that. But as far as walking somebody through it? No, that wasn’t a thing. So it will be good to have literal depictions of how these things work.

What do you think are some of the reasons behind the failure to keep the Black dollar in some communities?
Well, number one, we lack patience sometimes. Papa John’s pizza probably wasn’t fire when he first made it. [Laughs]. We have to believe in the seed that people are planting and understand that it goes through stages, and that people don’t reach perfection off the jump. For whatever reason, we’ve been indoctrinated to believe that, if there are two lemonade stands and one is a white-owned lemonade stand, business there is going to be at a heightened level and [they] therefore deserve that money

What do you think about the timing of the release of this children’s book aligning with everything that’s going on in the world with the youth-led Black Lives Matter movement?
Well, since it’s something that I wrote three or four years ago, it was going to get written regardless—there was a need regardless. It isn’t a “strike while the iron’s hot” decision or something like that. If anybody knows me, they know that I write religiously, so I don’t need a specific moment to spur me to write what I feel is necessary. David’s Dollar was going to be David’s Dollar with or without any sort of a climax of injustice because I believe this is something that is going to need to be revisited constantly by the community. And if it adds to what people are trying to fight for, then, you know, that’s a blessing, too. But I don’t want to get pigeonholed into a “Hey, I’m writing this for this exact thing.” I wrote David’s Dollar because I felt like this story would be useful in the hands of kids like myself who needed it spelled out for them in interesting ways.

What do you hope that people take away from this book?
My goal is for Black children to walk into a store with their parents, see them spend their money, and maybe they don’t even ask the question. In the back of their head, they just say to themselves, “Where did my dollar go? Where did mommy’s dollar go? Where did daddy’s dollar go?”

Recognized by most African Americans as Freedom Day, Juneteenth honors the date that more than 200,000 Black men, women, and children were freed in Texas 155 years ago. Throughout the decades, the holiday has become understood as a day of liberation and celebration for all African Americans, commemorated with a feast of red foods and drinks symbolizing perseverance in bondage.

This year, as the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement spreads across the nation, and protestors continue to demonstrate locally in Baltimore, the day seems to hold a stronger significance.

A petition is currently underway to declare Juneteenth a national holiday. Its roots date back to 1865—roughly five months after the 13th Amendment abolished the institution of slavery. Though Abraham Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation was finalized two years prior, it wasn’t acknowledged in Texas until June 19, 1865.

Experts say that, originally, there were a number of elaborate Emancipation Day celebrations held all over the country, but during the radical reconstruction era of the late 1860s, laws were put into place that made these celebrations illegal.

“They really snuffed out those celebrations that were equivalent to what we would call Memorial Day or like a Fourth of July,” says Morgan State University archivist Dr. Ida Jones. She believes that, because Juneteenth doesn’t receive the same widespread awareness as other American holidays, it is of the utmost importance to recognize it today. “Everything that we’re doing now is facilitated by that which happened before.”

Some experts say that Black Lives Matter, a movement in response to police brutality and systemic racism, is a direct result of the country’s attempt to bury its past.

“The idea of Juneteenth permeates Black America as this Black holiday that survived that experience,” Jones says, “and commemorates itself outside of the federal and state government.”

While James Calvin, interim director of the Center for Africana Studies at Johns Hopkins University, agrees with Jones, he also believes that, in order for the movement to progress, non-Black Americans and predominantly white institutions must acknowledge the country’s past in relation to its present.

“Those issues of freedom are still with us on a number of levels,” Calvin says. “If we think of the movement as it continues forward, one of the things that is important is how whiteness intersects with what it means to be Black in America.”

Vedet Coleman-Robinson, executive director of the Association of African American Museums (AAAM) , says that part of the reason why Juneteenth isn’t as mainstream as other national holidays is because of lack of exposure. She learned about the holiday in middle school and later in college, but often had to seek out Juneteenth celebrations on her own.

“Like much of our history, Juneteenth was not mainstream or pushed in mainstream media,” she says. “If you aren’t exposed to at least a piece of the celebration, it’s history or origin, then you are left to only know about the Fourth of July celebration.”

AAAM is based in Washington, D.C., but works with and advocates for African and African American- focused museums such as the Reginald F. Lewis Museum, The Peale Center for Baltimore History and Architecture, and local universities. Currently, they are assisting with promoting virtual events for Juneteenth due to coronavirus concerns.

So, for African Americans and allies alike looking for ways to celebrate in Baltimore, we’ve rounded up some of the many Juneteenth events that are social-distance approved:

6/18: Virtual Storytime: Freedom Bird
The Reginald F. Lewis Museum is kicking off its Juneteenth celebration with a reading of Freedom Bird: A Tale of Hope and Courage with author Jerdine Nolen. The folktale centers around an enslaved brother and sister who, guided by a mysterious bird, escape to freedom. Because the museum is currently closed to the public, the reading will take place online. The uplifting picture book is appropriate for all ages. 1:00 p.m.-2 p.m.

6/19: Juneteenth Baltimore Freedom Fest
Secure your a mask and join this youth-led march from Penn North to Druid Hill Park to honor the contributions and significance of the city’s Black history. The event will conclude with a celebration at Druid Hill Park featuring Black-owned food trucks, youth poets, musicians, and speakers.

6/19: The Juneteenth Jubilee
The Boonie Breakdown and The Sneaker Exhibit are encouraging Baltimore residents to celebrate the holiday by supporting Black-owned businesses and eateries in several locations around the city. Due to COVID-19 restrictions, the organization isn’t able to do a traditional crawl, but participants are encouraged to visit each business while adhering to social distancing guidelines and wearing a mask. For those who prefer not to leave their homes, the organizations have compiled a list of Black-owned online businesses and service providers. 12 p.m.-4 p.m.

6/19: BMoreFree Juneteenth Cookout
In true Juneteenth fashion, the annual BMoreFree Juneteenth Cookout will celebrate Black culture in the city with food, music, giveaways, and more. Participants are encouraged to bring lawn chairs, blankets, and positive energy to the family-friendly event. Towanda Park, 4100 Towanda Ave., 4 p.m., Free

6/19: Inspire Juneteenth Celebration
Join community leaders Andrea Jones, Sara Wolfe, and Antoynica Ryan for a Juneteenth cookout. Volunteers and donations of any kind are encouraged, and face masks are a must. To adhere to social distancing and state guidelines, the cookout will be hosted outside of the old Dr. Lillie M. Jackson Building with free food and fun. 1511 Ashburtin St., 4 p.m.-7 p.m., Free

6/19: Arena Players’ Juneteenth Virtual Celebration & Discussion

Baltimore’s oldest African American community theater is hosting a Zoom discussion to encourage solution-oriented dialogue about activism in the Black community. Arena Players actors, directors, playwrights, and supporters are encouraged to attend the event and participate in the discussion. A Facebook Live event will follow with a Juneteenth presentation featuring musical performances, drumming, and monologues. 3 p.m.-9 p.m., Free

6/19: Juneteenth Double Feature
For those interested in a Juneteenth-inspired movie night, the Charm City Classics Company is hosting a virtual double feature of films Rodney King and 13th as part of their #QuarantineandChill Film Festival. All you need to do is log into Netflix Party—a quarantine favorite—and tune in starting at 8 p.m. The organizers encourage participants to only use the chat to share resources and instead, focus all energy on the films being shown. 8 p.m.-11:00 p.m.

6/20: Juneteenth Art Bazaar
Dovecote Cafe’s annual Juneteenth Art Bazaar will return this year with a virtual twist to encourage social distancing. The online event will showcase art, a freedom playlist, cookout recipes, and more.

For even more celebrations, check out the post below:

From the beaches of Charleston, South Carolina to a balmy sidewalk in front of an old Baltimore brewery in the 105-degree summer heat, Baltimore artist Crystal Moll has traveled far and wide for her work creating plein air paintings.

But on this Wednesday night, Moll is mingling with local artists, friends, and family at Sobo Cafe just around the corner from her gallery in Federal Hill. She’s not just there for dinner, though. Every two months, Moll rotates her work displayed throughout the space.

“We kind of packed the house, had some hors d’oeuvres, had some wine, and stayed for dinner,” Moll recalls later, mentioning some spectators who came from as far as Annapolis. “Since I wasn’t hosting it, I was able to just talk to people and enjoy the event.”

If you were to have told the 58-year-old artist in high school that she’d be a gallery owner and a painter full-time, she probably wouldn’t believe you. In fact, the Virginia Beach native barely touched a paint brush before college, with the exception of her father’s Saturday-morning painting sessions.

“I actually come from an artistic family,” Moll says. “When we were kids, my father would have art class on Saturday mornings. So that was the beginning.”

Moll stumbled upon the gallery business, and the neighborhood, accidentally. When a French-inspired cafe on South Charles Street closed 10 years ago, the landlord asked Moll to hang her paintings in the front window. She was inspired, so she told herself that she’d hang a few and give it until the end of the month.

This year, the gallery celebrates its 10th anniversary, but like any successful business, longevity doesn’t come without sacrifice. For Moll, her greatest challenge is finding time to do what she loves: paint.

Today, the mother of two cats doesn’t regret quitting the advertising business to paint full-time, but she does acknowledge that there are daily obstacles she has to overcome. We sat down with the artist to talk about her trajectory, the challenges of owning a gallery, and finding beauty on Baltimore’s streets:

What makes a good landscape painting? What do you look for when you’re scouting one?

I typically paint what I call “urban landscapes,” because I’m usually in the city. What strikes me usually has to do with a lot of light and color. It’s usually the effect of light on the surface that makes it a warm color, and then shadows become purpley colors. So, it doesn’t really matter what I paint, but that’s actually what makes me excited about the things that I choose to paint. I used to paint a lot of still life and interior work and then I started dragging all of my equipment out onto the streets because I had moved to Baltimore and people painted their houses great colors. I was like, “Instead of spending all this time setting up a still life, I could just find it.”

So, what exactly is plein air painting?
Plein air is actually just painting on location. It’s a French term that means “out in the open,” and hundreds of years ago, artists adopted it as their term. So, even though in general it could be doing almost anything outdoors, really plein air painting means you’re painting and being influenced by what it is that you are perceiving. Across the country, there are plein air events all over the place. One of the biggest is in Easton, Maryland, and they pull artists from all over the world to participate. We do a plein air show here at the gallery every summer. So that’s usually about 30 different artists, who all paint on location.

You once described yourself as more of a slow plein air painter. How long does it take you to finish a piece?
I am very slow. In fact, that’s why I don’t do a lot of plein air events because a lot of artists will do a painting in a couple of hours and they’ll knock your socks off. When I first started painting on location, I told myself, instead of sitting in a studio and working on a painting, I’m just going to go sit outside and work. In a studio, you might go back to a painting day after day until you’ve finished. So that’s what I do. I go back day after day and I go back at the same time.

What’s the most important thing that you learned while studying at Moore College of Art in Philadelphia?

Well the biggest thing was that I learned to see color with light on it. In a very simple Painting 101 class, [one of my professors asked us] to paint eggs using just black, white, and yellow ochre. But I kept thinking, “what was the yellow ochre for?”

Then, there was a girl in the class who brought in her pieces and the yellow was where the light was hitting it—I saw the warmth of that. After that class, I walked around for probably three days with everything in front of me changing color. Literally, as if I had taken a drug. People’s faces were yellow where the light was, and greens and purples, I mean, it was wild. Then it calmed down, but that actually was a major light bulb being turned on. I probably could have left school after that class, but I stayed for the next three years.

Why did you move to Baltimore?
Because I married [my husband] Bob. He lived here, and I lived there, and he didn’t love Philadelphia like I did. The only way he could get me down here was to marry me.

What was the inspiration behind opening the gallery 10 years ago?
The gallery was sort of an accident. There was a wonderful gift store in this space called “Le Petit Cochon,” but the recession killed a lot of businesses. In December of 2009, the people who had the shop closed it. Wayne Brockie, who is my landlord here, called me up and said, “Would you put a painting in the front window? I just don’t want it empty for the holidays.”

He owns these three buildings connected. So, I met him, and I said I’ve always thought about a gallery, but how do you run it and still do your artwork? And how do you pay for it? So, I said, “Why don’t I put up a lot of art? I won’t pay you any rent. I’ll give you a percentage of sales, we’ll try this till the end of January and we’ll see where we go from there.”

How do you manage your time, then, and still make sure you’re able to paint?
It’s pretty tough. I don’t paint as much as I used to, and part of that’s okay because then when I do paint, I’m so excited about it. In the last two years we’ve been trying to change things a little bit so I can eventually get back to painting more. Part of that is actually having a few exhibitions with a lot of different artists. So, we’re doing smaller shows and letting them run a little longer. It’s a major balancing act, and now I’m personally trying to take more time off with my husband and trying to have a little bit of life outside of the gallery, too.

What would you say is the hardest thing about running a gallery?
Probably the hardest thing is just tapping into the buyers. The point of this is to sell artwork, it’s not just to show it. When I started painting full time, my husband and I made the decision, because I was running my own advertising business, that I was going to quit that, and I was going to paint. I love to paint, but also the bottom line is, it’s for a living.