Rachel Schwartzmann: Welcome to Slow Stories. I’m Rachel Schwartzmann, the founder of CONNECT(ED)ITORIAL and the host and creator of this podcast. For those of you just joining in, Slow Stories is a series that deep dives into the rising slow content movement. In each of these episodes, I interview brand builders, entrepreneurs, and creative professionals who share what slow content means in the context of what they’re building—and why slowing down and creating thoughtful stories is more important than ever.

This episode begins with a little note from yours truly. Usually, this section is reserved for opening guests who share a story that made them slow down. But today, I wanted to revisit a portion of my conversation with writer Suleika Jaouad. She's the author of Between Two Kingdoms—a memoir—and the creator of The Isolation Journals.

When I spoke with Suleika in the summer of 2020, her memoir had not been published yet. But we still talked about a lot of themes that run throughout her incredible story of overcoming leukemia and harnessing the power of creativity as a means of connection and strength.

Currently, Suleika is battling the return of her cancer and has valiantly kicked off a new 100-day creativity project to see her through this time. And though we've not met in person, Suleika's singular vision and courage are things I admire more than words can express. So, to honor her work, I wanted to reshare a snippet from our conversation that captures her spirit. So here's more from Suleika.

Suleika Jaouad: We live in this age where for most people, when they wake up, they roll over, pick up their phone, and their brain is instantly flooded with content, with stories, whether it's the news or it's Instagram or it's your email or texts from your mother-in-law or whatever it may be. And I think we live in an age of overwhelm. Overwhelm is a word that I see maybe more than any other in the journal entries that people share.

And so, I think that the antidote to overwhelm is deliberate slowness. And that starts with the way that you treat yourself. It starts with the way that you approach your work, in the way you make your breakfast, and you can't separate one from the other. So they're all interconnected. But I think the biggest thing for me is removing any illusions of urgency. For whatever reason, I'll sometimes find myself racing to do something—whether it's racing to hit send on an email or racing through the grocery store—and [I'm] not sure where that sense of urgency comes from, but I know that it's connected to the pace of the world and to the pace of our news cycle. And so clocking that impulse of urgency and taking a second to kind of still myself has been the most important thing—especially now.

Rachel Schwartzmann: You can listen to my full conversation with Suleika Jaouad wherever you get your podcasts. You can also order her memoir—which was just released in paperback—wherever books are sold and learn more about her work at theisolationjournals.com. Suleika, if you're listening, you're in our thoughts. Thank you for all that you do.

Now, here's my conversation with Hannah Traore.

Hannah Traore: I, first and foremost, am a lover of; I would say four main things: One is my family and friends. My family means absolutely everything to me. I have a huge family, mostly in Toronto, but I also have family in Mali and Paris. And I'm happiest when I'm with my family—specifically, actually my parents and my three siblings. That's really when I'm happiest; my siblings always call me Barney because I'm always so happy and joyous around them. So that's one. Two is food, and I think that actually stems back to family because when I was little, we would have dinner together every single night unless one of us was off at baseball, or in my case, dance, or whatever it was. My parents are amazing cooks. We always went to amazing restaurants, whether it was a hole-in-the-wall or a Michelin-star restaurant; we just really got an education in food and taste.

So food is incredibly important to me. Art is the other one, obviously. Even outside of my profession, I love to create for myself. I don't really show anyone. [Laughs] It really calms me and kind of brings me back to myself. I also love going to see art, reading about art, and [listening to] podcasts about art history ... But art is and will always be a really important part of my life.

And [number] four is children. It sounds so weird, but I am obsessed with children. I have a lot of little cousins because of my huge family. My grandmother has around 36 grandkids and then another, maybe five or six, great-grandkids. Some of them are in Mali, but a lot of them are in Toronto, where I grew up, and so it was always a new baby. There is always a new baby. I actually have a new baby cousin that was born in January that I haven't met yet. When I was home if I was in a bad mood, I would go to my cousin's house, and I would hold a baby with a baby. It just brings me back.

Rachel Schwartzmann: Oh, I love that. I definitely wasn't expecting that. [Laughs]

Hannah Traore: I feel like I answered that question in kind of a strange way. But if I had to talk about my four main loves, it would be people—and that being my family and friends—food, art, and kids.

Rachel Schwartzmann: What have kids taught you about art?

Hannah Traore: That's a great question. The first thing that I think of when you ask that question is about my little 14-year-old cousin. My two oldest cousins in Toronto, 18 and 14, came to visit me recently. And it was just the best trip ever. It was the second time they had come, but the first time, they came without their parents and other younger siblings. So they stayed with me, and we had the best time. But I took them to the MoMA because I used to work there. The last time they had been there, they loved it. We were standing in front of a Yves Klein, one of the blue paintings. My 14-year-old cousin stood there for a moment, and he looked at me and said, "Okay, now this makes me angry." I tried to explain to him, you know, the significance of the blue and how even though art might not seem like it's difficult to make, that doesn't mean that it's not interesting or powerful. And he just was like, "It still makes me angry."

I thought that that was so genuine and real. And it just reminded me of how I used to be because before I studied art history, I also stood in front of a Rauschenberg White Painting, being like, "What is this?" you know? And it reminded me not to judge that reaction because sometimes, you know, when someone doesn't understand a conceptual piece or even the concept of conceptual art, I roll my eyes a little bit, and it reminded me that that's not fair. Something I don't like about the art world is the elitism and kind of that rolling of the eyes because it's a totally different language that has to be learned, right? I think that moment really reminded me of that because it was someone I really love and respect. It just reminded me of even my own elitism that I have to unlearn.

Rachel Schwartzmann: Yeah. It's really interesting. And I think just given the fact that your cousin has grown up also in this very digitally-forward age, in a lot of ways, I think kids today have such a sense of self in terms of being able to be their own curators; if that makes sense? So they know what they like, they know what they don't like, just because everything is accessible. And I'm curious: In what ways do you think that curation today can be considered an artistic practice, both online and offline?

Hannah Traore: Yeah. I think that the term curation has been used a lot more recently. People say, "I'm curating my wardrobe," or "I'm curating my movie list even, you know, much more than I feel like I heard before. I'm not quite sure why, but I think it's great. People always ask me like, "what is a curator?" and it's so hard to answer because such a broad question. And it can be anything from choosing what work goes in your apartment to putting together a MoMA show that takes four years with an intense amount of research and studio visits, and whatever else. So, I think both online and offline can be almost anything.

There are some things that bother me about that as well. Just because someone like my mentor, Isolde Brielmaier, has gotten her Ph.D. and you know, she worked at the Guggenheim, and she's really kind of done her due diligence and paid her dues, and she's considered a curator, so it does feel a little weird to consider her a curator and then consider, let's say my little cousin putting work on his walls as a curator. But I think that's fine as well. You know, it's a broad term. It does frustrate me a little bit because it's such a broad term. When I say, "I'm a curator," people assume that I do very little, actually. And I always feel like I have to explain myself and prove myself. But I think that's also a little bit about working in the arts in general. I always have felt like I've had to prove myself—thankfully, not to my family. So I'm really lucky that way.

But I have felt like people around me have felt like being in the arts is lesser than or frivolous. And I think because of the internet, and because of Instagram, and because of this, like broader use of the term "curator," that plays into that a little bit, which is unfortunate. But you know, there's always gonna be pros and cons of everything. And I think accessibility is super important. And with the internet, things like being a curator or sharing your art or whatever are so much more accessible and possible, which I think is only a good thing.

Rachel Schwartzmann: [It's] definitely a nuanced conversation and something that's really interesting to me with Slow Stories—and kind of backtracking a little bit when you were talking about reading and writing about art, and just kind of the narrative element of the art world, I'm curious if you've come across a story recently—whether it's been an article, a poem, book, song—that's made you slow down or redefined your relationship with art in an unexpected way?

Hannah Traore: That's a really good question. So I've been rereading a book that I read in college called Way of Seeing. It's a very typical art history book. But when I was in college, I read it kind of like an introduction to art history. It was the first art history book I read outside of class, just because I felt like it was a little bit of an additive to the 101 Ways of Seeing class that I was taking. It was absolutely wonderful, and it's still wonderful, but it's interesting reading it again after everything that I've learned since then. I do see things a little bit differently. And I'm trying to think of a good example of that, but my understanding has obviously broadened a great deal, and my understanding of, you know, "Western art history" and its importance and how problematic our focus on it is all of these things really play in obviously to someone's response to a book like that.

And so in rereading, it reminds me of, you know, rewatching "Sex and the City." I absolutely adored it—and I still absolutely adore it—but watching it again, I'm a little bit like, phew, you know? That's kind of how I feel about this book as well—not to say that I don't absolutely adore it. And it's not necessarily even the writer or what he's saying; it's more I feel differently about the artists he writes about. An example of this—I don't even know; I haven't gotten to this part, and so I forget if Degas is included—but when I was little, Degas was my absolute favorite artist. I was a dancer, and he obviously had a huge focus on dancers. And so I had a Degas umbrella. I had books called Degas and the Little Dancer. Whenever we went to Paris, we would run to the sculpture of his little dancers and his paintings.

And it's so interesting because now I just have absolutely no interest in him—conceptually and aesthetically, the work just gives me nothing. I don't feel anything. I have no interest in the work. I also can't relate to the work anymore. I mean, I'm not a dancer anymore, but you know, all these—as my mom calls them—pink ladies, and my mom is a pink lady, but she's also like, "I can't relate to this," but yeah, I don't see myself in the work at all. But also, as I grew older and studied art history, I was just one, interested in his relationship with these little girls and how creepy it was, which you never talk about when you're little and you're reading a book about it. But also why, you know, someone like him is so idealized, you know? That's something that I really think about quite a bit: which artists are idealized and why?

And of course, the canon is—we could talk about the canon for years—but someone like Degas, I think, is a really good example of what I'm talking about, just because my opinion of him and his position in art history in the canon has changed so dramatically since I was little, but also just since I studied art history since I have gotten so involved with contemporary art—and specifically art by people of color and things like that. I don't wanna put it on John Berger because it isn't necessarily his writing. It's really just the content I feel differently about. But I'm thoroughly enjoying reading it again.

Rachel Schwartzmann: Did you go through any period of grieving what you thought some of these artists represented, or was it just more of an acceptance?

Hannah Traore: That's such a beautiful question. Absolutely no grieving. I think I became radicalized very quickly, not just in terms of art history but also in every way, when I went to Skidmore, and I think it's always been in me. I always tell this story because I think it's so funny and such a foreshadowing. But in grade four or maybe grade five, we had to write a speech, and it could be about absolutely anything we wanted it to be about. And if you won, you got to do it in front of the whole school—and I chose Gay Rights completely on my own. [Laughs] I remember the other person who won that year. I actually ended up winning, but another child, sorry who won, did hers about frogs—but no, Hannah T. did it about Gay Rights. Literally in grade five, which is so funny because then, in high school, I went through this stage of kind of trying to fit in a little bit. And I was a token Black girl in a very white school who allowed people to say the N-word and did really problematic stuff.

Then, I think college brought me back to my core of that little grade-five girl doing a speech about gay rights. So anyway, I became very radicalized very quickly, and there was no mourning in that process at all. It was very much like, "I'm over this. Why are we only learning about Western art history? Why do I have to teach myself about contemporary Black and African art?" And I will say, though, Skidmore did a really good job. I took some amazing classes about race and contemporary art, but I think art history in general in America is very geared toward Western art history and the very kind of stringent canon that goes along with that. So, I did have a lot of heated discussions with my grandmother about this, though. First of all, she is in love with Velázquez, who is a beautiful painter, but she was so horrified that I wasn't obsessed with him.

And we would get into arguments about that—she actually got more arguments with my sister about that particular one—but I would always argue with her about Gogan. That was really a point of contention because Gogan is one of her favorite artists. And I agree that his work is beautiful, and you know, he's an amazing colorist. There's no denying that, but there's also no denying that he was a predator and married extremely underage women and gave them syphilis and some of them died. And her argument was always, You know, you have to separate the artist from the work." And I vehemently disagree with that. I don't think that means we should never learn about Picasso again because of his history towards women. But I do think that it's important to talk about it. I think the context is always important because the person informs the work, and we cannot separate the two. So, I wouldn't say that I had a mourning period, but I definitely felt like I had to defend my new feelings about art and the art world. But I think that's a good thing because then I'm more versed in why I feel the way that I do because of those conversations.

Rachel Schwartzmann: I think we need to backtrack, too. I want to hear more about your parents and your grandmother and their relationship with art. Obviously, it was very formative, and I want to make sure we provide that context for your story.

Hannah Traore: Yeah, definitely. So, my mother grew up going to an art camp called Interlochen in Michigan. She went to camp there and then ended up going to high school there actually because it's also a boarding school. And, of course, then, years later, she sent her four kids, and we all went to camp. I went there for seven years and then actually taught there for two years. And it's one of the most magical places in the entire world. I have like four places that are my favorite places on earth, and Interlochen is one of them. So she was a fiber artist and a really talented one at that. And when she graduated from college—she decided she also studied art history actually—she decided to travel Japan and West Africa and fell in love with both. And when I look at her now, obviously, she married a West African man, but her style is very Japanese.

The designers that she likes... Issey Miyake is one of her favorite designers. So I think both of those experiences really shaped who she is now, and because of that, shaped my siblings and me. Japan is one of our favorite places. But she, I think, felt very at home with the West African people. And so she continued to go back, started to collect art from those countries, and she would bring them back and sell them in Toronto. Because of that, she ended up kind of being in the West African community in Toronto. And that's how she met my father. So that is kind of my father's only relationship to art—what we force upon him. However, I will say growing up in a tiny village in Mali, the fabrics that the women and the men wear are art in themselves. They're absolutely gorgeous.

I would walk by my grandmother cooking, and she'd be in this gorgeous pattern, always matching the top, the bottom, the head wrap. I mean, it's just gorgeous. So I think that he was around that, so it wasn't the craziest transition for him to be going to all these museums now that we force him to go to. I think he does appreciate it now, especially when he goes to museums that show African art. Those are my parents.

My grandmother was a painter. She passed this summer, and she started painting at 60. So, it was very much something that she did later in life. But my whole life, she was a painter. She went through different series, and her paintings filled our cottage, our condo in Miami, and her apartment. And now, I hope to fill my houses and apartments with her work. But I would also—especially later in life when I would go visit her—always go up and see her new paintings.

I'd give her advice on the painting she was working on, and so that was also really a part of my life. Apart from the actual physical making and selling of art, we also just went to museums everywhere we went. And you know, going back to the food thing, when we go on vacation, the things that really kind of shape our trip are the restaurants and the museums. So my mom makes reservations truly three months in advance. I'm not exaggerating. Like she will wake up in the middle of the night to make a reservation, to make sure that we got the reservation! And then the next step is fitting in the museums, and then after that, we figure everything else out. So museums have also just always been a huge part of my life.

And as I said, my mom really pushed us toward the arts. We always took art classes. I was doing darkroom photography, grade five, you know, I was throwing ceramics on a wheel—I will say, I said grade five that time, but I actually was in grade three that I started going to that art class, so even before that. It was [taught by] this amazing man named Marty; I don't even remember his last name, to be honest, but he had this gigantic room, and there were ceramics. You could make stop-motion animation. You could go into the darkroom. You could paint, you could draw. And basically, it was him and his assistant, and you would just go wherever you wanted to go, and they would help you with whatever you wanted to do. It was incredible.

So not only has my mom kind of forced art on us, but she's also forcing art on our cousins—forcing is kind of a negative term, but we're all so grateful and so thankful. Out of my four siblings, three of us are in the arts. My little brother wants to be a fashion designer. My sister is an actress, and my oldest sister is a peer support health worker, but she's a painter on the side. We're all very, very thankful to my mom for that.

Rachel Schwartzmann: I mean, I love hearing the stories of creative lineage. My parents were aspiring actors—it didn't necessarily pan out—but my grandmother is a lifelong artist, and she's actually found viable financial success in the last few years.

Hannah Traore: Oh, that's incredible. Congratulations to her!

Rachel Schwartzmann: Yeah. She's an artist's artist to the core. It's just so special to be able to share that point of connection and also to have that mutual opportunity to encourage that growth and artistic agency, especially now.

Hannah Traore: Definitely. I definitely feel so thankful to have a family that supports me in my art, understands what goes into it, and respects it as a career because I know so many artists have absolutely no support from their families. And even like I said, growing up, I always felt like people, specifically, you know, friends and parents of friends, didn't respect that I was in the arts. There's always kind of [this idea], you know if you're not a law or a doctor or something in business, then it's not to be respected. And so, having that support from my family is everything.

Rachel Schwartzmann: Do you consider yourself in business now?

Hannah Traore: I definitely do. But when I said business before, I meant more finance—like making money. [Laughs] But I think that I am definitely in business, but the focus of the business is still the arts. And so, you know, two summers ago, after I had decided to open the gallery, I ran into someone, a parent of a friend from elementary school. And when I told her that I was opening a gallery, I just saw in her face—and she even, I don't remember the comment she made, but it was negative, and it was to my mom, actually—it was something along the lines of, "oh, all your kids are in the arts" in a really negative way. And so even though it is a business and, you know, now I can consider myself an entrepreneur and a businesswoman, I think the people that I'm talking about still see it as an art gallery. So it's still something that's not to be respected.

It's less in New York, and really, that's one of the reasons I love being here because when I tell people, even if they're not in the arts, that I opened an art gallery, there's a level of understanding that doesn't exist in Toronto, unfortunately. I don't mean to put down Toronto at all. Toronto made me, and it's one of my favorite cities in the world. I was saying Interlochen is one of my four favorite places—my home in Toronto, which I grew up in, is also one of the four. Toronto's such a great city. There are incredible artists and musicians, but there isn't necessarily the support from the community, the government, and whoever to nurture that community.

I'm not sure if you saw my opening night in New York; it was absolutely wild. And I don't think there are enough people who care in Toronto to have had the same community. And again, I don't mean to talk down to Toronto. It's truly an incredible place with incredible people—and it's not like the American government does much for the arts here either—but it's just different. It's different.

Rachel Schwartzmann: You've worked at some pretty renowned galleries and institutions. And as you were kind of conceiving the idea for this space, what were some ideas that you had to leave behind to really cultivate a more forward-thinking, inclusive environment?

Hannah Traore: That's a really good question. What were some things I had to leave behind? You know, I don't necessarily think that I had to leave anything behind because the things that I was pushing up against, I was pushing up against because I was tired of them. So it wasn't this kind of battle between creating the vision that I wanted to and leaving behind past... how do I say this? For example, working at MoMA was an incredible experience, but as I was working there, I was kind of taking notes in my head of the things that I liked and the things that I didn't like. And all those things that I liked have played a huge part in my vision, similar to Fotografiska. And so, I don't think that there were necessarily things that I had to leave behind that I was hanging onto because the entire reason I wanted to open this space was because of those reasons, the things that I wanted to leave behind. Yeah, I'm not quite sure that I would say that there was anything I felt like I had to unlearn in that sense. There's always unlearning to be done, always for the rest of your life, but in that particular way, I'm not sure that there really was.

Rachel Schwartzmann: Yeah. I can understand that. And then, in terms of unlearning or maybe changing your relationship with this, I'm really interested in the connection between pace and creativity—and when you slow down versus when you have to kind of go with the faster pace of the world. Let's start with a more general overview. How would you describe your relationship with pace today?

Hannah Traore: I think my relationship with pace has been consistent since I was two years old, which is interesting. I have always been the type of person who likes to be incredibly busy. As I said, I was a dancer. So, I took tons of dance classes. I was doing art classes. I was playing violin for a little bit. If I wasn't doing that, I was with my friends or doing crafts. I've always been like that. Then, in college, I was part of a whole bunch of different clubs. I was always taking the most credits that I could. I've just always been like this. And the only time in my life that I really slowed down was during the pandemic. And I actually really enjoyed it. Again, it was the first time in my life that not only was I able to slow down, but I didn't have FOMO.

I struggle with FOMO. And it's not that I'm sitting on my couch thinking, "I don't wanna go to this place, but FOMO is forcing me to," it's really like, "I want to go to this place, and I'll have FOMO if I don't go!" [Laughs], so it's a double whammy. So, it was the first time that I was able to chill and slow down. And I thought that I would incorporate that into my life post-COVID—and not saying that we're post-COVID, we're not post-COVID at all—but post-lockdown. I absolutely did not.

My pace right now, first of all, the New York pace is very me—things every single night. The one thing I have done is force myself to keep Mondays as my "me" day. I work from home on Mondays because the gallery is closed, and I get a massage at night because I have chronic pain, so I actually need it. I get my massage. I come home, and I relax. I don't go to dinner. I say no to plans. So that's really my me time because almost every other week, I have something every single night—either an art opening, or a dinner, or a meeting, whatever it is. Which, by the way, I absolutely adore in love, but I did feel like I needed Monday nights. And to go back to creativity, I actually feel like my creativity is smarter and more interesting when I'm forced to conceive things in a short amount of time. I've always really done well under pressure—writing papers and coming up with creative ideas. For some reason, the fast pace really makes my mind expand.

Rachel Schwartzmann: But I'm curious, too. In terms of the mechanics of being in a gallery, I would imagine you'd want people to slow down and take their time to really engage.

Hannah Traore: Absolutely. And actually, there are real concrete ways that I've tried to make that happen. So, in my gallery room—I didn't really explain this, but I have a gallery room and an installation room. My gallery room is the more traditional gallery where I'll have shows every five to six weeks, mostly solo shows as well, [and] some group shows. But I actually put benches in there, and part of the reason is that I want people to sit. I want people to exist in the space and be able to really take in the work and relax. That was really important to me.

Then, in the installation room—these installations last three months, actually, and they're a lot more immersive. And so, in those situations, I've actually asked each artist doing an installation to design their own furniture for people to sit on because for that room, even more so, I want people to sit and meditate and really be in the space. I describe the installation room as kind of walking into the artist's mind. You can't walk into someone's mind, walk around for two seconds and leave, right? So I thought that that was really important.

In this particular show that I have right now, Hassan Hajjaj makes seats out of crates and tables out of recycled metals—metal signs specifically. And so I eat lunch in there sometimes. I encourage people to sit and enjoy the installation. For my next installation, the artist is creating a more meditative installation with a sound installation and very calming work. And so, actually, his seating is going to be marble. We went to the Stone Foundry and picked this beautiful slab, and we're making little cubed seats out of those. In that installation specifically, meditation is really a part of the experience.

And so, I have absolutely thought about how to encourage people to slow down in the space because I think when you're looking at art, it takes so much to really take it in. It's like the question of, how do you really take in beauty? If you're in the most beautiful field in the world, how do you really take that in? How do you really experience it? Sometimes, it's so inspiring that you don't really know what to do. And I think art can be that way as well. And so the only way that I've come up with is just to really exist in it and slow down and breathe with it.

Rachel Schwartzmann: In a recent interview for Artsy, you mentioned that "It's one thing to work on a show and a space for months, but it's a very different thing to see others interacting with it and having conversations about it. Art is meant to be seen." We've touched on this a little bit already, but obviously, the intersection of art and technology is rapidly changing how we see everything. So, how do you reconcile the viewing experience in an age where so much art is being created and consumed online because you have an online presence for the gallery? What are your thoughts there?

Hannah Traore: I think both will always be super, super important for different reasons. So online, I think, is incredibly important when we talk about inclusivity and access. You know, galleries are free, which is incredible, but not everyone feels comfortable in a gallery. And I personally work really, really hard with my branding, with the architecture of the space, with the press to make sure that everyone does feel safe in the gallery setting. But not everyone can even access it. If I have someone who's interested in a show that lives in London, they're not necessarily going to be able to fly to New York City and come to the Lower East Side. So, I think it's important to have an online presence and to really use the tools that an online presence gives us. Especially for museums, that's even more important because a $25 fee might not seem like a lot to some people, but that's a lot of money for a lot of people. That's two meals for a lot of people. Not everyone can afford to slap that down on the table, enjoy [it] for two hours, and then leave. And so, I think having an online presence is really important for those reasons.

At the same time, online will never, ever, ever replace the experience of seeing art in person. And during the pandemic, I think a lot of people were putting up really interesting versions of online shows—more technologically savvy, the viewing rooms, where you can really walk around inside the gallery and see the work from different angles. But still, it's not the same as seeing a work in person. And I'm reminded of that every single time I see something online and then see it in person. The textures, even the smells, when you get really close to a painting or, a pastel piece, or certain sculptures, you can really smell the piece. Even just the presence. The piece in the show by Adébayo Bolaji, I saw images of the piece before it arrived from London, and then seeing it in person—I mean, the layers, the texture, the presence of the piece, the size, the smell, like I said, the sheen. All of these things you can't experience online or in a picture. It's a totally different experience when you see it in person. So, I don't think that one is going to cancel out the other or one is going to make the other obsolete. I think they're both extremely important. And I think they'll both always be extremely important.

Rachel Schwartzmann: It's interesting. I think when I go into a gallery, the size of the piece is always the thing that jolts my attention the most.

Hannah Traore: And either way, too, right? Because size is really important, not necessarily just huge pieces, but also really small pieces because it completely changes how you interact with the work. If it's a really large piece, oftentimes, you step back from the piece; you want to see it as a whole, and then you might come up close to see details. But with a small piece, right away, it draws you in because you have to get really close to see the details. You have to get really intimate with the piece right away. And so, size is super important and a really interesting tool that artists use. And again, it's not something that you can really understand on the internet.

Rachel Schwartzmann: Especially given the fact that when you are viewing something on the internet, you're limited by a platform's size dimensions, and [it] just really kind of takes you away from the origin of the piece.

Hannah Traore: Definitely. And even if you see a piece in a space that has extremely high ceilings and it's allowed to breathe on kind of an empty white wall versus in someone's apartment where the ceilings might be lower and whatever it is, even those two experiences of seeing a piece in person are gonna be extremely different. So, the context is really everything.

Rachel Schwartzmann: So then, with that said, I mean, you've talked about how you're creating this space that allows for all of these things to happen for viewers, but in your opinion, what is the responsibility that viewers have when they enter this space?

Hannah Traore: Hmm. I've never thought about the responsibility of the viewer. That's really interesting. I think about viewership a lot and about who's seeing the work, what that means, and what context that kind of brings to the conversation. But I've never thought about the responsibility of the viewer—what a great question. I think the only responsibility that I could really think of for the viewer is to give the work a chance. I think back to my little cousin; he just was not giving the work a chance at all, which is fair. But I would hope that when people come into my gallery, they might not like every piece, and actually, a question that I ask every single person is what's your favorite, and what's your least favorite piece in the show? Because everybody's answer is so different, and I love hearing why. But you know, a piece that they might not relate to as well, I would hope that they still would give the work a chance and maybe ask questions. Why is it made like this? Why are the materials like this? But also ask themselves questions: Why don't I like it? Not just, Ohh, I think it's ugly," or "I don't get it," or whatever it is. Why don't you like it?

So I would say maybe the responsibility of the viewer is really to ask themselves questions about their reactions to pieces. Why do I like this piece? Not just that, it's beautiful. Not just that it looks technically interesting, but why? Really why? Why am I having this visceral response to this piece and vice versa? Why do I not like this piece? Why am I turned off by this piece? Why do I look at this piece for ten minutes and this piece for two minutes? Viewership is very interesting. I think as curators and artists, we think about viewership a lot, but we don't necessarily think about the responsibility of the viewer.

Rachel Schwartzmann: On the subject of questions, what's a question that you hope people will start asking you more often?

Hannah Traore: These are good questions. What's a question that I hope people ask me? I think the question that I would love for people to ask me more is just about my inspirations or the other people that I really look up to. Because I feel like I'm so honored to be stepping into this conversation with these incredible [people]—specifically incredible Black women—who I really studied quite a bit to get to where I am now. And I want to kind of shout their names from the rooftops. I truly mention their names in every single interview I do. And I think only one article actually mentioned them—and left out one person, which I think is strange.

One is, of course, Linda Goode Bryant. She started JAM Gallery when she was younger than I am, and her program was just iconic. Linda Goode Bryant is still actually a practicing artist. The last time I saw her work in person was at Gagosian. Antwaun Sargent curated a show called "Social Works," and she had an incredible piece in that show. She's someone who I really look up to.

Someone like Nicola Vassell, who opened her namesake gallery quite recently but has been working and doing incredible things for years and years. Isolde Brielmaier, my mentor. Not only do I look up to her, but we've had a more intimate relationship, so she's had a heavier hand in the building of my gallery. Ebony Haynes of 52 Walker [is] incredible. She's also been doing incredible work for years. Ashley James—I just look up to her so so much. There are different kinds of curators; Ashley James is an academic curator in an incredible way. She did the Brooklyn Museum show "Soul of a Nation," and she's at the Guggenheim now. But she has this light in her, and her work is always just so beautifully done, and hearing her speak about her work is really what just floors me. She is so eloquent. She's so smart. So that's someone I really look up to.

Obviously, there's Thelma Golden and Deborah Willis, all these incredible women who I feel have created the path for me to jump into. I'm just forever thankful for them, and some of them don't even know who I am, by the way. Linda Goode Bryant has no idea who I am. Ebony Haynes, I doubt she knows who I am. I don't think Nicola realizes how much I look up to her or Ashley, to be honest. Isolde knows. I tell her all the time! Deb, I think, probably knows, but I want to make sure people know that I don't think that I just kind of [am saying]... "I'm the first Black woman," like absolutely not. I owe so much to these women.

Rachel Schwartzmann: I mean, I think what spoke to me about your work is how community-driven it is and not in the sense of it just being another buzzword.

Hannah Traore: Thank you for saying that. That is exactly true. When we talk about historically underrepresented groups, it is such a buzzphrase, and it's frustrating because it's like, "No, this is just my life." I'm a historically underrepresented group for so many reasons. I'm Black. I'm a woman. I'm Jewish. I'm Muslim. It's like, "Hello, I'm not doing this for clout. This is me. This is what I care about."

I quickly realized there was another point that I wanted to discuss about pace. Though I am kind of this crazy busy person who loves that, I also do take the time to slow down, and one of the ways that I do that is I actually write myself a letter once a year on my birthday to open the next year on my birthday. It's been so enriching because you forget what a year is, how much changes in a year, and how much even just your thoughts change in a year. So I write everything down from questions I have about, you know... the last one—my birthday was in January—I opened, it said, "Are your hair growth pills working?" Things as frivolous as that to really deep issues: Is my grandmother still in pain? I hope she's not. And you know, unfortunately, she passed away this summer, but it was so interesting to read that. Then I ask questions about my family members: Is my sister still with her boyfriend? Is this happening? Is that happening? I write down what I want to manifest. It's so interesting to look back at the year I've had and be able to answer the questions that I was wondering about a year ago. And then I write another one for the next year, and it really does slow you down and make you—or kind of force you to—reckon with the fact that a year is a really long time or a really short amount of time in whatever way you think about it.

Rachel Schwartzmann: And that some of those questions might take longer to answer, if at all.

Hannah Traore: Absolutely. It's so interesting to think about [it]. You know, when I thought back a year ago, I think I was pretty much the same person. I've learned a ton. Obviously, I opened a gallery, but I was pretty much the same person. But then to read these letters and realize I was actually thinking in very different ways or in some ways thinking in very similar ways. It's just a very interesting practice. And to be honest, I got it from my little cousin—actually in grade five, speaking of grade five!—her class did it, and I thought, "Wow, what a cool idea." And so now I do it.

Rachel Schwartzmann: I think it's such a humbling exercise, too. I feel like there's so much more we could speak about. We've talked about slowing down, speeding up, paying attention. And on the note of attention, I'd love to have you share what you want to pay more attention to in the coming months.

Hannah Traore: Oh, that's beautiful. I think I would like to pay more attention to my relationships. Since opening the gallery, my relationships have kind of taken a side role, which is really sad because, as I said at the beginning, one of the most important things to me in my life is my relationships with my family and my friends. But, you know, before the gallery opened, even though I was so busy, I was FaceTiming my parents almost every single day and FaceTiming my three siblings extremely often. And I think since the opening, I've had a hard time balancing how crazy my life has gotten. I thought that it would slow down after the opening, which is hilarious and ridiculous of me, but it's completely the opposite. It's gotten exponentially more wild, which I didn't think was possible. So I would like to pay more to my family and friends—and just not only check in on them more but really see them, FaceTime them, have dinner with them. That's really important to me.

Rachel Schwartzmann: That was Hannah Traore, founder of Hannah Traore Gallery. You can learn more about the gallery at http://hannahtraoregallery.com/ and follow them on social @hannahtraoregallery. You can also follow Hannah @hannahtraore. Stay tuned as we'll be sharing highlights from this episode on our own channels @slowstoriesofficial on Instagram and @slowstoriespod on Twitter. I'm Rachel Schwartzmann, and you've been listening to Slow Stories. Thanks so much for tuning in.