Creating Dangerously: Black Art, Advocacy, and the Battle for Equity
Heather Infantry
To be a Black artist in America is to create dangerously. Not just in the radical content of our work, but also in the assertion that our stories deserve to be heard, funded, and archived as vital contributions to society. In this political climate where equity is spoken of often but rarely practiced, we find ourselves navigating a maze of performative allyship, redlined resources, and institutions eager to be seen as inclusive but unwilling to relinquish power.
In 2020, at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, the Community Foundation for Greater Atlanta issued over $500,000 in emergency relief funding to arts groups. It was heralded as a lifeline to organizations devastated by pandemic closures. Yet not a single one of our organizations received funding, despite us applying. I began asking questions, and what emerged from deeper research was not just a misstep but a 27 year history of redlining within the Foundation’s Arts Fund. More than 87 percent of its funding had historically gone to white institutions, some of which were also receiving additional support for DEI initiatives. Meanwhile, we were locked out, our mere existence somehow never qualifying as "equity work."
“This moment illustrated a disturbing paradox: even as funders responded to calls for racial justice, they continued to overlook the very organizations whose existence embodies it. We have always practiced inclusion. We are often the first to champion intersectional voices, to hold space for the marginalized within the marginalized. Yet philanthropic institutions persist in treating diversity as something to be added rather than something we inherently are.”
Black Arts Town Hall, June 2021 — Heather Infantry leads a community forum at Gallery 992 in Atlanta’s West End, calling on the Community Foundation for Greater Atlanta to address decades of exclusion in arts funding. Photo by Alex Acosta.
The insidiousness of this exclusion lies in its cyclical logic. For decades, funders denied us support based on our race, disregarding merit, impact, or community relevance. Then, when faced with the irrefutable data of their racial disparities, they turned again to our race to justify remedial action with one off DEI grants, "special Black rounds," or symbolic gestures of support. Rarely were the decisions recalibrated based on the artistic excellence, community leadership, or cultural legacy of our organizations. Race remained the qualifier, but now in reverse, used to mitigate guilt rather than rectify injustice.
What is worse is how short lived this corrective energy was. In the years since 2020, many of the commitments made by philanthropy have quietly receded. A review of recent grantees from the same foundation revealed a reversion to old habits. The window of racial awareness has closed, and the funding patterns, unsurprisingly, have snapped back into their default: white institutions receiving the bulk of support, while we are again forced to justify our legitimacy. For meaningful change to endure, philanthropy must shift from reactive giving to sustained investment that is community-informed, multi-year, and unrestricted.
So what are we to do, given these persistent constraints? Where do we turn for support without subjecting ourselves to the violence of being perpetually undervalued?
I believe the answer lies in refusal. In our resolve to not cooperate with those who do not see our value. In building systems of support that do not hinge on recognition from the same institutions that have ignored us for decades. That does not mean we stop applying for funding, but it does mean we stop contorting ourselves to fit funder narratives that dilute our power. It means more collaboration, investing in radical collectives and community centered funding models that prioritize shared values over proximity to whiteness.
There are promising examples of this. Black Art Futures Fund, for instance, centers Blackness in its mission, not as a deficit to be corrected but as an asset to be invested in. The Laundromat Project and Alternate Roots are other models that operate from a place of cultural trust, redistributing resources without requiring us to translate our worth into language palatable to white gatekeepers. These organizations embody a shift away from philanthropy as charity and toward philanthropy as solidarity.
To create dangerously as a Black artist is to know that our work is revolutionary even when it is quiet. To lead a Black organization is to operate in a world that constantly demands our excellence without ever promising to support it. And to imagine a future where our work is funded for its merit, vision, and transformative power rather than because it aligns with the latest equity trend is not a fantasy. It is a demand whose time is long overdue.
We continue to create. We continue to resist. And most importantly, we continue to insist on our worth, with or without their validation.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heather Infantry is the CEO of Giving Gap, an online directory of Black-founded nonprofits advancing racial equity in philanthropy. A self-described foot soldier for the revolution, fierce lover of the arts, and emerging 100-meter sprinter, she leads with purpose and passion. “God bless the creators,” she often says—honoring the artists who shaped her identity. For Heather, art is a lifeline, and her work centers Black voices and institutions, insisting they not only survive, but thrive.
