Author: rEN

In “Letters to Deja,” Ren Dillard creates a body of work that transcends mere artistic expression, becoming a vessel for personal reconciliation. The exhibition’s title is more than metaphorical; these are visual letters, fragments of a correspondence never sent but always felt. The works vibrate with the emotional resonance of unspoken words, longing, and the ache of estrangement. Dillard channels the intimacy of this father-daughter relationship into a formal language of gilding, oil, and collage, materials that evoke both permanence and fragility, just as relationships do. 

Here, art becomes a meditation on distance, not only physical but metaphysical. Dillard’s landscapes, at first glance serene, teem with philosophical undercurrents, as if nature itself holds the key to unlocking deeper truths. His invocation of black girlhood—its strength, its inherent beauty, its resilience—emerges not as a didactic message but as a celebration, honoring his daughter Deja and, by extension, the spirit of black women navigating the world with grace and courage. 

What is most striking is the delicate balancing act Dillard achieves between the personal and the universal. While these pieces are a testament to his own story, they also resonate with a broader cultural narrative. His exploration of empowerment, spirituality, and bravery speaks not only to his daughter but to a collective consciousness, particularly within the black community. The metaphysical and the spiritual are not merely subjects of his art; they are the threads binding father to daughter, artist to audience. 

“Letters to Deja” is, at its core, an act of bravery in itself—an offering of love, layered and rich with meaning. It suggests that even in silence, even across emotional divides, connection is possible through the alchemy of art. And in that alchemy, Dillard offers us a glimpse not only of his soul but also of the universal longing for understanding and reconciliation. It is this deeply human impulse, rendered with sensitivity and grace, that leaves the most lasting impression. 

Recently, a group of 35 boys from the private school Berean Christian Junior Academy in Atlanta had an enriching experience visiting the “Hold the Line” exhibition at the ArtsXchange. Their art teacher, Courtney Brooks, believed it was essential for them to explore the themes of black masculinity presented in the exhibition.

The exhibition, which delves into the complexities and nuances of black masculinity, provided a powerful and thought-provoking experience for the students. The boys were engaged and inspired by the diverse artworks, which ranged from striking paintings,  intricate collage, and exquisite sculpture, all created by talented black male artists from Atlanta.

Courtney Brooks emphasized the importance of understanding and appreciating the themes of resilience, identity, and strength depicted in the artworks. She hoped that this exposure would encourage her students to reflect on their own identities and the broader societal narratives surrounding black masculinity.

The visit was not only educational but also incredibly enjoyable. The boys interacted with the exhibits, participated in discussions with co-curator rEN Dillard, and even had the chance to meet some of the artists. Their excitement and curiosity were evident as they explored the gallery, making the most of this unique learning opportunity.

Overall, the trip to the “Hold the Line” exhibition was a resounding success. It left a lasting impression on the students, reinforcing the value of art in understanding and expressing complex social themes. The boys left the ArtsXchange with a deeper appreciation for the power of art to convey important messages and a renewed sense of inspiration.

“Before I Let Go” – A Cosmic Groove on the Mothership

In the heart of the Mothership, stardust mingled with rhythm in a grand ballroom bathed in celestial gold. A select group of chosen ones, their melanin kissed by cosmic winds, stepped onto a luminescent dance floor.

Their attire—ivory silks, shimmering like comet trails—hinted at their purpose. They were more than dancers; they were conduits of ancestral memory, guardians of joy, and emissaries of funk. The Mothership hummed in anticipation, its golden hull resonating with their collective energy.

As the opening chords of “Before I Let Go” reverberated, the crowd hushed. The song, a timeless groove by Frankie Beverly, bridged generations. It was the anthem of Black joy, woven into DNA, heard at summer barbecues, family reunions, and Saturday mornings.

The ballroom pulsed. The chosen ones steeped in rhythm, stepped and swirled. The Mothership’s gravity yielded to their brilliance. The ivory-clad dancers merged—past and future, earthly and cosmic. They danced for ancestors who whispered encouragement across time.

And so they spun, leaving stardust footprints. The ballroom blurred—a kaleidoscope of unity. The Mothership rejoiced, its cosmic heart beating in sync with theirs. As the song reached its crescendo, they defied gravity, surrendering to the groove until dawn broke the spell.

And so it was—a celestial communion, a funk-fueled ode to resilience. The chosen ones, their souls alight, danced brilliantly on the Mothership, their bodies pulsing with the rhythm of the cosmos.

In the heart of Atlanta, where the city’s pulse thrummed through the streets, Kiano was born. His arrival was marked by both joy and sorrow—the indigo child, a beacon of hope, emerged into a world tinged with loss.

His mother, a woman of quiet strength, had always sensed something extraordinary about her unborn child. She spoke of dreams where ethereal beings whispered secrets to her, guiding her through the veil that separated realms. As labor pains wracked her body, she clung to those visions, seeking solace in their otherworldly presence.

But fate is a fickle weaver, and as Kiano took his first breath, his mother surrendered hers. The room filled with both the cries of a newborn and the hushed whispers of unseen guardians. They cradled her departing soul, promising to watch over her child.

Kiano’s forehead bore an indigo light—a luminous mark where his third eye should have opened. It pulsed with ancient energy, connecting him to realms beyond mortal comprehension. The midwife gasped, recognizing the significance. “He carries the light,” she murmured, wiping tears from her eyes.

In the days that followed, Kiano grew under the watchful eyes of the sacred feminine. They visited him in dreams, their forms shifting between mist and substance. They whispered forgotten truths, filling his mind with cosmic knowledge. He learned of forgotten civilizations, star maps etched in constellations, and the delicate balance between light and shadow.

As Kiano matured, so did his abilities. He could heal with a touch, mending broken bones and wounded hearts. His laughter brought forth flowers, and his tears cleansed polluted waters. The indigo light intensified, casting a halo around him—a beacon for those attuned to its frequency.

Word spread of the boy with the radiant forehead. Seekers arrived from distant lands, drawn by prophecies etched in ancient texts. They bowed before Kiano, their eyes wide with reverence. “You are the harbinger,” they whispered. “The first of a new era.”

Kiano listened, absorbing their hopes and fears. He understood his purpose—to bridge worlds, to awaken dormant gifts in others. The wave of indigo children followed—a generation born with starlight in their veins. They possessed empathy beyond measure, intuition that pierced illusions, and a collective mission: to heal a fractured Earth.

Together, they planted gardens in barren deserts, sang forgotten songs to soothe troubled minds, and danced beneath moonlit skies, weaving threads of unity. The indigo light pulsed within each child, a symphony of colors harmonizing with Earth’s heartbeat.

And so, Kiano led them—a luminary among luminaries. His mother’s spirit whispered through the winds, guiding him toward forgotten ley lines and hidden portals. The sacred feminine remained by his side, veiled yet ever-present.

As the world shifted, old structures crumbled. Fear and division battled against love and awakening. But Kiano stood firm, his indigo light blazing. He taught that power need not be wielded, but shared; that wisdom flowed from unity, not dominance.

And so, the indigo children—Kiano’s kin—wove a new tapestry. They healed wounds, mended hearts, and whispered forgotten truths. The world watched, awestruck, as their light spread, illuminating the path toward a better tomorrow.

In the heart of Atlanta, where the city’s pulse thrummed through the streets, Kiano stood—a bridge between realms, a living testament to the sacred feminine’s promise. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting indigo hues across the sky, he knew that their journey had just begun. 

Indigo Children reference video below:

In the bustling streets of Dakar, Senegal, where the scent of spices mingled with the ocean breeze, lived a young student named Akasha. Her skin bore the sun’s kiss, and her eyes held the promise of hidden realms. Akasha had moved to Athens as a child, but her heart remained tethered to the magic of her homeland.

Her modest apartment, adorned with woven tapestries and flickering candles, housed her collection of beautiful crystals. Each crystal hummed with energy—a silent symphony of possibility. Akasha studied their hues—the azure of the sky just before dawn, the amber of sun-kissed sand, and the iridescence of moonlight on water. She yearned to unlock their mysteries, to dance with them in the spaces between worlds.

But Akasha’s path was veiled in uncertainty. The elders whispered warnings—the magic she sought was forbidden, dangerous. “Stick to getting your education,” they cautioned. “Tend to your studies, your job, and forget these fanciful notions.”

Yet Akasha persisted. She meditated by the gnarled oak tree in a neighborhood park, her palms pressed against its ancient bark. She whispered incantations to the wind, hoping it would carry her desires to the spirits. And one moonless night, as the city lights painted constellations across the sky, a figure appeared—a woman.

“Amara,” Akasha breathed, recognizing her from the village tales. Amara was a sorceress—a keeper of ancient knowledge, a bridge between realms. Her presence crackled with energy, like lightning before a storm.

“You seek magic,” Amara said, her voice a melody of forgotten tongues. “But magic seeks the worthy. Are you ready, child?”

Akasha hesitated, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird. “I am,” she whispered. “Teach me.”

And so, their lessons began. Amara taught her to listen—to the rustle of leaves, the heartbeat of stones, and the pulse of the earth. She revealed the language of crystals—their vibrations, their memories etched in time. Akasha learned to levitate crystals, to summon raindrops, and to heal wounds with whispered spells.

But Amara was more than a teacher; she was a mirror reflecting Akasha’s doubts. “Magic,” she said, “is not about control. It’s about surrender—to the flow of life, to the unseen currents. You are a vessel, not a master.”

As seasons wove their tapestry, Akasha blossomed. She danced with fireflies in Piedmont Park, painted her dreams on canvas, and wove spells into her braids. The city watched in awe as she mended broken hearts and whispered courage to the fearful.

Yet Amara remained elusive, appearing when the moon hid its face. “Trust the timing,” she murmured. “The student shapes the teacher as much as the other way around.”

One day, Amara vanished. Her robes lay by the gnarled oak, dew-kissed and abandoned. Akasha wept, her tears mingling with the earth. But in her grief, she heard Amara’s voice—a whisper carried by the wind.

“Remember,” Amara said. “The teacher fades, but the student becomes the teacher. Seek the next seeker, and pass the torch.”

And so, Akasha wandered the streets, sharing her knowledge with those who hungered for magic. She became a beacon—a guide for lost souls, a weaver of dreams. Her name echoed through time, whispered by fireflies and etched into crystal caves.

For when the student is ready, the teacher will appear—a truth woven into the fabric of existence, binding hearts across realms and lifetimes. 

“When The Student Is Ready

”12×24

Mixed Media Collage with Variegated Silver Leaf, and Dutch Gold Leaf on Panel

rEN Dillard

The Savannah night was thick with mystery, the Spanish moss hanging low like veils between worlds. Clinton D. Powell, poet and seeker, stood at the threshold of the Duat—the ancient Egyptian underworld. Anubis, jackal-headed and solemn, guided him through the shimmering veil.

The air smelled of papyrus and sand, and the walls bore inscriptions—hieroglyphs etched by forgotten scribes. The path ahead was both familiar and otherworldly, like the verses Clinton had penned under moonlight.

Anubis led him to the Scales of Ma’at—a delicate balance that held the fate of souls. On one side rested a feather, ethereal and weightless. On the other, an empty vessel awaited Clinton’s heart. His ink-stained fingers trembled as he placed it there.

“Let your heart be weighed against truth,” Anubis intoned, his voice echoing through the cavernous hall. The feather quivered, and the cosmic winds held their breath. Clinton’s heart—the repository of love, pain, and wonder—was light, its beats in harmony with the celestial rhythm.

“Speak,” Anubis commanded. “Tell your story.”

And so, Clinton recited his poems—the ones written in dimly lit cafes, the ones whispered to the moon, the ones etched into the bark of ancient trees. 

Anubis nodded. “Your heart is light, and your words resonate across dimensions. You may ascend.”

Clinton stepped into the cosmic light, leaving behind the scales and the mirror. His mortal form dissolved, and he became stardust, woven into the fabric of existence.

Somewhere in the cosmic expanse, Anubis listened—the jackal-headed guardian attuned to the rhythm of Clinton’s immortal verses. And as the Savannah River whispered secrets, the poet’s legacy echoed through eternity.

“AnubisTaking ClintonTo TheScales”
30x40in
Mixed Media Collage with 23k Gold
by: rEN Dillard

Reference video link American Gods – “Mrs Fadil and Anubis”:

Shango: The Energetic Orisha of Fire and Lightning

In the mystical realm of the Yoruba pantheon, Shango, the powerful Orisha of thunder, fire, and lightning, roamed the celestial skies. His presence was marked by the rumbling of clouds, the crackling of lightning, and the earth-shaking thunder. But Shango was not content with merely reigning over the heavens; he yearned to express himself in the physical world.

One day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Shango descended from the celestial plane. His fiery essence condensed into a human form, and he stepped onto the earthly soil. His eyes glowed like embers, and his skin radiated warmth. Shango’s purpose was clear: to infuse the mortal realm with his divine energy.

He wandered through dense forests, across rolling hills, and along the banks of rivers. Everywhere he went, life stirred. Trees stretched their branches toward him, leaves shimmering with newfound vitality. Animals danced in joy, their movements synchronized to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Even the rocks absorbed his essence, humming with an otherworldly resonance.

But Shango sought a vessel—a conduit through which he could channel his power directly into the physical world. He found it in a humble protein molecule, tucked away within the cells of a young acolyte named Ade. Ade was a devoted follower of the Orishas, and his heart resonated with Shango’s fiery spirit.

One moonlit night, Shango visited Ade in a dream. His form flickered between celestial and earthly, and his voice echoed like distant thunder.

“Listen, Ade,” Shango said. “You are chosen. I shall grant you a gift—the essence of fire and lightning. With it, you shall transform the mundane into the extraordinary.”

Ade awoke with a start, his body tingling. He felt a surge of energy, as if the very atoms within him danced. Shango’s essence had merged with his own, and Ade became a vessel—an embodiment of divine fire.

From that day forward, Ade’s life changed. His muscles rippled with newfound strength, and his eyes sparkled with inner fire. He could heal wounds with a touch, ignite flames with a thought, and summon lightning to cleanse the land. People marveled at his abilities, believing him to be a sorcerer or a demigod.

But Ade remained humble. He knew that Shango flowed through him, animating his every cell. The protein within him acted as a bridge, allowing the Orisha’s energy to manifest in the physical world. Ade became a healer, tending to the sick and wounded. His touch brought warmth, and his gaze dispelled darkness.

Word of Ade’s miraculous abilities reached the Yoruba elders. They recognized the signs—the double-headed axe, the lightning-shaped scars on his arms—and proclaimed him a priest of Shango. Ade built a shrine atop a hill, where he communed with the Orisha. There, he danced, drummed, and channeled Shango’s energy into rituals that revitalized the land.

And so, Shango expressed himself through Ade—the fiery protein coursing through his veins. Together, they brought balance to the world, ensuring that fire’s destructive force also nurtured growth. Ade’s very existence became a testament to the interconnectedness of the divine and the material.

To this day, when thunder rumbles and lightning streaks across the sky, the Yoruba people know that Shango walks among them. His energy pulses through the proteins of those who honor him, reminding them that they, too, can be vessels of transformation.

And so, the legend of Shango lives on—a tale of fire, protein, and the eternal dance between heaven and earth.

“Neo Shango”
30x40in
Mixed Media Collage with Silver and Copper
rEN Dillard

Reference video “SHANGO Lord of the Gods in Yoruba Mythology”

Part I: Awakening in the heart of the inner city, where concrete towers reached for the sky like ancient monoliths, lived Zara, a fifteen-year-old Black girl with eyes that held galaxies. She moved through her days like a shadow—unseen by most, but keenly aware of the world around her.Zara’s life was a tapestry woven from struggle and resilience. Her mother worked double shifts at the hospital, her father absent since she was a baby. Yet Zara found solace in books—their pages whispered secrets of distant stars and hidden realms.One night, as she lay on her rooftop gazing at constellations obscured by city lights, something shifted within her. A cosmic energy pulsed through her veins, awakening dormant strands of DNA. She felt connected to something ancient—a lineage beyond time.Part II: The TransformationThe next morning, Zara noticed a change. Her hair—once tightly coiled—now shimmered with iridescent hues. Feathers sprouted from her scalp like delicate obsidian wings. They were black as midnight but glinted with stardust.At school, whispers followed her down hallways. “Zara’s got feathers,” they said. Some mocked; others marveled. But Zara remained unfazed. She knew she was becoming more than flesh and bone.Part III: FlightAs weeks passed, Zara’s consciousness expanded. She could hear the city’s heartbeat—the rhythm of lives intersecting in chaos and beauty. The feathers granted her visions: glimpses of alternate realities where justice reigned and love transcended boundaries.One moonless night, Zara climbed to the rooftop once more. The wind whispered secrets as she spread her wings wide. With each beat, she soared above skyscrapers—past smog-choked clouds—until she touched the edge of space itself.From there, she beheld Earth—a fragile jewel suspended in cosmic vastness. Tears blurred her vision as she vowed to protect it—to be a beacon of hope for those forgotten by society.Part IV: AscensionWord spread about the girl with feathers—the urban legend who defied gravity. Some called her an angel; others feared her power. But Zara cared little for labels.One day, atop an abandoned water tower, she met an old man named Elijah—a sage who sensed her purpose. “Child,” he said, “you’re not bound by this world’s limitations.”Elijah taught Zara ancient chants—the language of forgotten gods—and guided her toward higher states of consciousness. Together, they meditated beneath star-strewn skies until Zara glimpsed eternity.Part V: LegacyWhen Elijah passed away, Zara wept for him—but his essence lingered within her feathers. She became a bridge between realms—a guardian of cosmic balance.And so it was that Zara, the girl with stardust in her veins and feathers on her head, soared above city streets—her heart aflame with purpose.