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Known for her artistic use of visuals across documentary, short films, feature films, installations, and beyond, filmmaker and director Garret Bradley uses her work to ask questions about everyday life, often revealing intimate answers in doing so. Sociopolitical in nature, Bradley’s oeuvre spans early works like America and her Oscar-nominated feature Time, and is often intrinsically tied to the Black experience, exploring and elevating those narratives into rich and multifaceted stories. Below, Bradley, who had a major exhibition at the Eye Filmmuseum in Amsterdam last summer called Revolutions, reflects on transparency, the weight of her visuals, and the responsibility of bringing Black life to the screen.In Time, and throughout your broader body of work, you render the political through intimacy, the social through the personal. How do you think about the ethical dimensions of that gesture?Whether it’s in resistance to, or in harmony with, even the most intimate choices we make are connected to the bigger picture. And anything that's made: a book, a movie, a choice, operates the same way. Transparency is an anchor point of anything ethical. Being transparent about what I know, and what I don't know…what my intentions are, my opinions even….Being clear includes people within a line of logic that isn't a secret, that can be agreed or disagreed with from an informed, even autonomous place, and I think that’s an integral part of making films about people and with people…And sometimes you know, when you’re working in a quieter space, that doesn't require anyone else, there is still an important dialogue happening. It’s like a mantra at this point that images are belief systems and that responsibility is one that has to be taken seriously. I’m not saying that anyone has to have clarity of what they're making. Or even a sense of purpose. You don't have to have a message or even be interested in one. Creating in an unknown space and moving through doubt are part of what makes making things so magical and deeply human. I think what I’m saying is that the purpose of anything you make and its meaning will be made for you eventually by anyone who encounters it. And anything that reaches the world, or even just as its maker, even if no one sees it, creates a ripple effect and influence that ranges in subtlety. I think about that a lot. It might even be the place that I’m always starting from, the ethical dimension. In a moment when images of suffering are so easily consumed, what does it mean to make work that insists on care, duration, and presence?I don't know if I believe that any images of suffering are easily consumed. It might appear that way, but our subconscious informs the way we feel and act and see the world much more than we think.On one hand, the conscious act of taking my time is out of my control. It’s just the way it is, what the work and the process demands. And there’s so much being made on a regular basis, the world doesn't need me or any of us to output at the same rate.  I like thinking about each of those words, though, and figuring out what each of them really means. To care, to have presence, to be in conscious communion with time. It describes filmmaking perfectly. Why press record if you don't care? Presence is evoked by that very act, and so is time. Your films, from America to Time, blur the distinctions between the factual and the lyrical, between record and reverie. What does this merging offer you as a means of articulating Black life and temporality, and how does it complicate dominant cinematic languages of truth and representation?The factual and the lyrical are often the same. The beauty of that is in part what motivates and informs my work. I love your link between record and reverie.Propaganda refuses a multi-dimensional perspective and so to record with reverie requires a certain kind of caution. I'd like to think that anything I make about another person ends up being something they are happy with, of course, but also, and maybe more importantly, not something they could argue with. Meaning it’s true, and it’s real, and it’s human and therefore universal. And my reverie of them is integral to its making, but not to the extent that they have lost all dimension. That they are perfect. Every film requires its own ecosystem, but there is the consistent puzzle of how to shape a linear medium in such a way that we see, and know, and believe multiple sides of a single situation…or person…or idea…a question.And yes, that dimensionality has historically been withheld from anyone outside a heteronormative white male space. to the extent that even the smallest effort to illustrate multiplicity is, as you said, a complication of the dominant cinematic language of truth and representation. Mainstream filmmaking has historically flattened our experiences on the screen into a single plane of existence that’s either all work or all play.A body of work made over a lifetime is ideally liberated, meaning it’s sometimes impractical and exists as something that can be talked about and understood as more than a counter, or foil to something else….that’s another kind of flattening….A recentering of how we define dominant is also at play, and maybe what I’m most interested in. Introducing spaces, faces, and situations that are unfamiliar to one another. Like introducing giants to a nursery teacher.

Photography by Gabe Searles and Max Hummels“I'm using this residency to kind of reset a little bit mentally. This year was pretty busy for me,” says Raheem Esteban over FaceTime from Chatham in upstate New York.Esteban Raheem Abdul Raheem Samayoa has just wrapped up his first solo institutional exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art San José, titled Blood Be Water. Capping off a formative year that is not quite over yet, the moment even came with a profile in The New York Times. Born in Sacramento and now living in Oakland, the Mexican-Guatemalan artist took the opportunity to incorporate new mediums like pastels and ceramics rather than the airbrush and charcoal drawings that he has previously been known for.It is immediately evident that Samayoa’s art is a personal reflection of his life, experiences, and perspective. Based around themes of community and identity, “what I want people to grasp from the work is a feeling of being comfortable, a feeling of being seen and heard,” he explains.Below, Samayoa speaks to Patta Magazine about the themes that define his work, his love of dogs, and what’s next.Tell me about what you’re doing in New York and the residency. What do you have planned?I’m upstate in Chatham for the Macedonia Institute Residency with another artist, Leonard Macintosh. We’re here for a month. For me, it’s a reset. This year was busy, two solo shows, group shows, another residency in August, so being out in nature lets me get away from the noise and reflect on what’s next when I get back to Oakland. This is my last engagement of the year. Next year I’ll have a group show at Jonathan Carver Moore Gallery in San Francisco and a solo show with my friend Callie Jones at COL Gallery, a small space in Ghirardelli Square. It’ll be an intimate show, which I’m excited about.Tell me about your early exposure to art. When did you realize you wanted to be an artist?I’ve been drawing since I was a kid, maybe three years old. My mother said I was always sketching cars and people. But growing up, I didn’t see art as a possible career. I was focused on working and surviving, figuring things out on my own. Art was always a calling though. During the pandemic in 2020, I finally had the time and resources to create a body of work. I’d moved to Oakland in 2017, and by 2020, galleries started noticing my work for the first time.You often mention community. What does home mean to you, and how does it appear in your work?What I want people to grasp from the work is a feeling of being comfortable, a feeling of being seen and heard. I’ve faced a lot of hardships, and while my story isn’t unique, people in my community often feel isolated in their struggles. My work aims to show that we’re not alone. I try to be vulnerable with the viewer, to build connection and empathy. Many of my paintings reflect not just my life but stories from friends and people in my community. That’s why the work feels relatable, it’s all drawn from shared experiences.And the dogs that appear throughout your work. What do they represent?Dogs are a recurring motif. I grew up with Dobermans and Rottweilers, breeds people often see as dangerous because of how they look. But the ones I had were rescues, they just needed love and care. That mirrors how people see communities like mine. They might look at me, with tattoos or whatever, and assume something that isn’t true. The dogs represent misunderstanding, but also loyalty and family. In hip-hop, “my dog” is about brotherhood and trust. I also grew up on old cartoons - Looney Tunes, Tex Avery - those characters stuck with me. And funnily enough, I’m born in the Year of the Dog, so it all connects.Why do you gravitate toward charcoal?I love its softness, similar to airbrush, which gives my work a nostalgic, dreamlike quality. Charcoal feels physical, I’m blending it into the fibers of the paper, really working with it. Early on, I painted with acrylics and oils, but charcoal was the first medium that completely drew me in. It let me express myself the way I needed to.How do you think art can create real impact or change in the world?Artists are essential to keeping hope alive. If you have nothing else, you have art and water. Artists express what’s happening in their communities, and that sparks a connection. When I see great art, I leave inspired and eager to create. That ripple effect builds energy across people. The message varies for everyone, but art keeps the human spirit hopeful, especially in difficult times. It reminds us that change and connection are still possible.Given everything happening in the US right now, has it changed or influenced your work?Definitely. As I’ve grown older, I’ve tried to lead by example and take on more of a leadership role. I’m aware that what I create can have an impact, even for people I don’t know. These times push me to be intentional and use a louder voice in my work, to reach further and express freely.Looking ahead, what are your short- and long-term goals?I’m focused on getting my art in museums and institutions and creating more opportunities to speak at colleges and universities. I want to share my story with younger generations and make art more accessible. I didn’t grow up going to museums, my first time was in college, so I want to bring that experience to others. I’ve really been pursuing this career seriously for about five years, and I’m learning to be patient, but I know it’ll happen.Is there a moment or accomplishment you’re most proud of so far?This year, for sure. It was packed, but a blessing. I took every opportunity, even when I wasn’t sure how it would work out. I had my first institutional show at the ICA San Jose, got a New York Times write-up, then had my first LA solo show, plus two residencies. Making all of that happen through art alone, that’s a huge accomplishment for me. Get Familiar with Raheem Esteban's Artist Residency in the Patta Magazine Volume 6. Patta Magazine Volume 6 is available now at Patta chapter stores in Amsterdam, London, Milan and Lagos.