Channeling The Ancestors: Vicki Meek’s Art of Resilience

Vicki Meek, a Dallas staple and icon, is celebrated for her commitment to the arts, education, art activism, and community. She has inspired many of us who are navigating how to make art while paying the bills, even when it feels impossible. In this interview, we discuss the origins of her practice, how she balanced family and career growth, her visual vocabulary, and more.

Carris Adams (CA): I was listening to your Art Dirt episode with Leslie Moody Castro, where you discussed the Urban Historical Reclamation and Recognition Project. You’ve been speaking to elders in the community, and you mentioned realizing that you, too, are an elder.

Vicki Meek (VM): I get reminded of it daily. I’ll move one way, and my body says, “Oh no, you’re an elder!”

CA: I love it. As an elder with a long career, how have you managed to maintain your practice for so long?

VM: A lot of it is just being determined that this is who I am. I’m an artist, and I have to make art. I could have chosen to be something else — an academic, an art historian — but I can’t change who I am. I wouldn’t have been in balance if I didn’t make art.

When I started teaching in the 70s, fresh out of grad school, I thought I wanted to be a professor and contribute to the next generation of Black artists. I went to teach at an HBCU, but I realized it took the same energy to make art as it did to teach. So, I left teaching and went into arts administration. That was a better fit because it didn’t drain the same creative energy. I didn’t put my art on hold, though. As a Black woman, I knew out of sight meant out of mind, so I couldn’t afford to take a hiatus. I made time for the work, though I wasn’t always as productive as I’d like because I had a day job. But I promised myself to do at least two shows a year.

No matter the circumstance, I was going to be in two shows a year. They might not have been solo shows, but I stuck to that for most of my career in arts administration. I eventually left arts administration when I started getting offers I couldn’t turn down. By sixty, you don’t know what’s coming next, and if a great opportunity comes, you take it.

CA: You kept that promise to yourself. You also had a family, children, and now grandchildren. You’ve mentioned in past interviews that teaching gave you headaches. Can you talk about that transition?

VM: My father made me promise I’d teach only at an HBCU because I didn’t want my talent to be exploited by others. I knew I wouldn’t thrive at a PWI, where I’d never get tenure. Plus, I wasn’t interested in teaching white students. I wanted to contribute to my community as a Black artist. That’s how I saw teaching — not as becoming a “great academic,” but as giving back to my community.

Before I discovered arts administration, artists became administrators within arts organizations. That’s how it was in the early 70s — there wasn’t a profession for it yet. I taught for three years, but I knew it wouldn’t work.

CA: [laughs] I understand! Were you making work focused on sociopolitical issues of the diaspora at that time?

VM: Always. My mentor was Elizabeth Catlett. When I was eight, I told my parents I wanted to be a sculptor, and they introduced me to her work. From that point on, I admired her. When I got to grad school, I met her, and we became friends. She became my mentor, and she was very clear about the role of the Black artist and the need to address issues in our community. So, I had a roadmap. My work didn’t mimic hers, but I stayed true to that notion — your work should serve your community. From day one, I was committed.

When my child was born, I started focusing on African spiritual practices. Major life events — like my child’s birth and my mother’s death that same year — deepened my spiritual approach to addressing these problems. That’s when Yoruba and Ifa practices began influencing my work.

CA: Toni Morrison once said her characters were ancestors speaking through her. Do you feel your work stems from a spiritual place, with ancestors speaking through you?

VM: Absolutely. I have to listen to my ancestors — they’re speaking to me. I need to make sure I’m not annoying them and that my work satisfies them. I’m upholding my ancestral legacy, and they’re holding me in this space to say what needs to be said.

CA: You often incorporate recurring elements like roosters, turtle shells, and flowers in your work. Can you explain why these objects are important to your practice?

VM: The white rooster symbolizes both sacrifice and the ancestors. The turtle represents continuity; it moves slowly but surely. The seashell connects me to my grandmother and the ancestors — she brought it back from Ghana in the 70s. Cowrie shells symbolize good luck and fortune. I use red and blue for protection, drawing from traditional African art. These objects have been part of my visual vocabulary for 40 years.

CA: Your work is always rooted in history, almost like its own vocabulary.

VM: Exactly. My work is research-based, exploring Blackness and universal themes that arise from it. For Stony the Road We Trod, I focused on the Black National Anthem. Many don’t know all three verses, but they chronicle the Black experience in America. I used the second verse because it speaks to our resilience. In that space, I included a soundtrack of me humming the anthem to engage all the senses. Music, dance, and visual art were never separate in African culture, and I want to honor that unity in my work.

CA: That’s why your work endures — it’s rooted in something deeper than aesthetics. It’s organized, researched, and full of meaning. I often tell students that while spontaneity and chance have a place, nothing can be arbitrary in space.

VM: Unfortunately, much of art education today encourages students to become “art stars” without substance behind the work. When students can’t explain what they’re trying to convey, I know they aren’t truly thinking about the work. It might be beautiful or well-crafted, but what’s at the heart of it? To me, it’s about communicating something personal to the public, and a lot of work today doesn’t do that.

CA: I’ve been thinking about this lately, even with friends. Do you have a piece that embodies everything about you — your work, beliefs, and self?

VM: I’ve loved all my installations, but The Crying Room: A Memorial to the Ancestors at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston is one of my most important works. It came from deep research on the Middle Passage. It was heavy, but necessary. The responses were overwhelming — people of all backgrounds were deeply moved.

The installation included a soundtrack of me reciting the Lord’s Prayer and the 23rd Psalm, overlaid with a Yoruba chant. It created a meditative atmosphere that made people reflect even more on what they were witnessing. The sardine cans referenced how we were packed into ships. All of this pointed to how far we’ve come, despite everything, because of our ancestors. I invited people to write about their own ancestors and who they felt carried them. The Crying Room sews together disparate parts, making them whole again.

CA: You worked at the South Dallas Cultural Center for many years, and I saw you as a model of having a life in the arts.

VM: I’ve always felt responsible for mentoring. I had women artists who were generous with their time, so I wanted to do the same. I spent a lot of time ensuring Black women artists were shown at the South Dallas Cultural Center. Someone once claimed I only showed women, though I split shows evenly between men and women.

CA: That comment reveals how they approached the work.

VM: Exactly. Seeing more than two women artists felt like too many for them.

CA: What are you reading these days?

VM: On Juneteenth by Annette Gordon-Reed. I’m always interested in Black perspectives on growing up in Texas. I recently got Angela Davis: An Autobiography, and I’m rereading The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. I’ve been thinking a lot about beauty standards and how they affect Black women. When it comes to certain conversations about Black women, you just have to reread Toni Morrison periodically.

CA: As we said earlier, we are resilient, but societal problems don’t just go away — they evolve.

VM: Absolutely. Regardless, I love Black people more than anything else. It’s a deep, abiding love — a love supreme.