Mike Nicholls: The work you’ve done has definitely inspired me—it really resonates. Personally I’ve always felt this pull toward that ‘60s and ’70s era of design. And then when I see your work, it’s like this perfect merging of everything I love: print design, and most importantly, being Black—our Blackness and identity. Growing up in Charlotte, North Carolina, with my mom, who’s from Summerton, South Carolina—she’s around your age, born in ‘49—your work takes me back. It reminds me of my grandma’s house in Summerton. It’s that connection to home, to history, to legacy. That’s what I see and feel when I look at your work."

After reading your new book, Citizen Printer, I’m really looking forward to this conversation about your process—especially diving into what didn’t make it into the book, you know?

First question, there is a beautiful photo in your book with your two sons. I’m also a father so that picture spoke to me. What has been your process or your journey as a letterpress printer when it comes to your family and kids? Has that influenced your work in any way? 

Amos Kennedy Jr.: A little bit, but not much. Neither of my sons were really interested in what I was doing—they’re from another generation. For me, it was more about giving them exposure to something that was fading away. I think one of the responsibilities we have as a civilization is to give our youth as many varied experiences as possible, so they can make informed decisions about what they want to pursue. The thing about print is that it’s everywhere in our world, but very few people have actually seen the process behind it. Very few have been in a print shop or seen a newspaper, book, or stationery being made. It’s this strange paradox—it’s everywhere but also nowhere at the same time.

And I think one of the things that came out of it is that my sons were able to say, this is how it’s done. They knew the process because they’d go down into the basement and see me working down there.

MN: Do you hope to reach a particular group of people with your artwork?

AKJ: No. Most of the work I put out is for the general public. I’m not really putting out messages targeting any specific group. Though, if I’m doing a poster for a harvest party in my neighborhood, yes, that’s aimed at a particular audience. But generally, my work is just out there for anyone to consume or engage with. When I put it out in public like that, I’m kind of violating people’s visual space.

And that creates a whole different kind of opportunity. In that respect, I want to violate as much visual space as possible, have that interaction with as many people as I can.

MN: I love it. That reminds me of graffiti, because graffiti is the same thing. It’s about taking up space, using your voice, your art, your palette, and color to say something. And I feel like your work definitely has that graffiti-like protest element to it. You know what I mean?

AKJ: Right. Yes.

MN: Yeah, it’s interesting how you talk about “violating these spaces.” For me, there’s always this push and pull between making something truly impactful and still just being an artist, you know what I mean? After George Floyd, I kept seeing Black Lives Matter signs in windows and wondering, “What’s that really saying?” Maybe because I’m Black, but just putting up a sign doesn’t fully communicate the message. So do you ever feel like, when people see your work, they might miss that you’re trying to agitate? 

AKJ: I don’t think so, because most of my work is text-based, and people can read into it. They might not read into it the way I intended, but they still interpret something from it. I’m not one of those people who... when you mentioned the message getting lost, that’s the last thing I want. The message is there, and then it’s up to the viewer to interpret it. If it’s difficult for someone to read and interpret, then it’s not fulfilling the purpose for me.

MN: Yeah, that’s real.

AKJ: Because the point of print is to communicate, to disseminate information. Getting cute with it, like the designs you saw in the late ‘90s or early 2000s, is like designing for graphic designers instead of just putting something out there. I remember once, I think in 1997, an organization put out an ad for a public art grant application. I looked at it and thought, nobody can read this. As an academic exercise, damn you hit all over the ballpark! But, for someone just trying to fill out the form, it’s too aggravating.

MN: Man, listen! I love that because with your work, you can’t avoid it. You can’t avoid what you’re reading. And so I’m always curious—when people see your work, particularly those who aren’t Black, do they get uncomfortable or feel some kind of guilt?

AKJ: I don’t think that happens with most of my work. Most of it is, in some respect, universal. Initially, my purpose was to put the Black voice in places where print was collected, in spaces where it wasn’t being represented. But as I got older, I realized that in this civilization, we substitute race for class. If you ask 90% of Americans to describe a poor family, they’ll say a Black, female-headed household.

Despite the fact that there are more white people at or below the poverty line than there are Black people. And that’s something we’ve done. I realized I needed to speak not just for Black people, but for those voices that are not usually heard—the masses. The people who have things to say and wisdom to offer the world. So that’s been a big shift. And if people have issues with my work, it’s more about class than race.