Draw Them In Paint Them Out: Interview w/ Trenton Doyle Hancock

Trenton Doyle Hancock is both a world-builder and a visual storyteller, crafting an expansive mythology that merges personal narrative with sharp social critique. In Draw Them In, Paint Them Out at the Jewish Museum, Hancock’s work is placed in alongside that of Philip Guston, a key influence for Hancock who used cartoonish figuration to reflect on America’s racial and historical contradictions. Where Guston confronted these tensions with radical empathy, Hancock reimagines them through the lens of Black resistance, expanding his surreal Moundverse into a site of both satire and struggle. Conceived in 2016 amid rising racial tensions and now opening at the start of Trump’s second term, the exhibition speaks to what Hancok terms as the “American Contract” and they cyclical nature of power structure in America. Through Hancock’s vivid, often unsettling imagery, his work asks: how do we confront a history that refuses to stay in the past? This show was on view until March 30th, 2025 at the Jewish Museum

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EO: Some may say that your work reflects different dimensions of power—individual power, as seen in your anti-hero character; your power as an artist, magnified through radical imagination; and societal power, particularly in conversations about structural inequalities in American society. How is the concept of power—its presence, absence, or maintenance—negotiated throughout the works in your exhibition?"

TDH:
That’s a big question, especially when it comes to the idea of power, because it's so multifaceted. How we perceive power depends on which side of the table we’re on at any given moment. The works in this show focus on Philip Guston, particularly his work from the late 60s, during a time of American upheaval and civil rights movements, where power dynamics were at the forefront. At that time, Black people had little stake in the American enterprise, especially in the governmental sphere. Guston’s work addresses these issues, particularly the participation in needless wars, the persistence of colonialism, and the power structures that perpetuate them. He touches on the role of terror organizations, specifically the Ku Klux Klan, in relation to Jewishness, as well as his personal understanding of power—how it can be perverted and used to oppress and instill fear.

The show spins off from this historical context, but also incorporates my own personal narrative coming from Paris, TX. I wanted to highlight the fact that the Klan still exists and continues to operate today. When I started working on this ten years ago, I would have said the Klan was still operating somewhat under the radar. But now, we know for a fact they’re no longer hidden—they’re part of the broader network of white supremacist organizations that have woven themselves into American politics in a visible way. While this has always been an aspect of how the country has been run, it’s become much more overt.

So, in the context of the show at the Jewish Museum, the first and foremost definition of power I’m addressing is white power—how it’s used to oppress and perpetuate an American contract that we've all signed, to a degree. The reality is that the ink in that contract is already corrupted, and we need to be aware of that. It’s about looking at these multiple layers of power dynamics, and it's a complex argument to navigate.

EO:
I’m curious about the Klan figure in the exhibition. I know you have a character named Loid, who seems to be based on a Klan figure. But the figure I’m seeing in the exhibition, it’s not Loid, is it? It's a separate character, even though it seems to function as an authority figure. So, is this figure within your mythology distinct from Loid?

TDH:
Yes, you’re correct. The character Loid is underneath that shroud or hood—a Black man who has been lynched and is now coming back for vengeance. So, Loid is a very different kind of character. The figure you see most prominently in the show is actually a direct reference to Philip Guston’s "Klansman" from his work, where he did a deep dive into the terror organization of the Klan. I used that figure to not only address my relationship with Guston, but also to explore issues surrounding Black excellence. My character, Torpedo Boy, is a Black superhero, and through him, I wanted to delve into the mythologies and discussions surrounding Black excellence, while also examining the opposing force of white supremacy.

EO: In you step and screw series usually there are exchanges. In one painting, the Klansman figure is give Torpedo boy, headphones, in another an apple of the knowledge of good and evil, in another  the star of code switching. I'm curious about what you trying to communicate about this American contract and specifically the role that black Americans play within the system

TDH:
Yes, I use the concept of an "exchange" in my work, where generally, Torpedo Boy is on one side of the canvas and the Klansman is on the other. The Klansman often hands over an object, and that object is usually symbolic of a condition—whether it’s a historical narrative, a myth, or something else. It’s often self-referential, like in the case of Guston’s work, where a light bulb is used. A light bulb, for instance, symbolizes ideas and knowledge. The apple, on the other hand, references the Garden of Eden, the moment of original sin, and the idea that humanity became self-aware and guilt-ridden.

These objects anchor the viewer in a specific allegory or narrative, which allows me to address themes like the American contract. I focus on cultural diversity, property—both land and the things we own, including ideas and identity. These things are part of us, like our psychology and history. At any given point, these things can be taken or used, which is a constant struggle.

For example, in the painting with the apple, the Klansman is trying to sell Torpedo Boy the apple. But Torpedo Boy realizes that he already owns the apple—it was stolen from him, and now the Klansman is trying to sell it back. This moment represents the breakdown of the contract, as Torpedo Boy becomes self-aware. It’s like the moment in the Garden of Eden when Adam and Eve first became aware of themselves and their place in the world.

This piece also connects to my issues with Christianity. Coming from that background, I disagree with how certain religious jargon has been weaponized to control people. So, ideas of sin, good and evil, and the ability to determine where that line lies are part of the conversation. These concepts were sold to us as absolute truths, but I believe they deserve to be questioned.

The "Star of Code-Switching" title speaks to how language shifts to gain access to different communities and, by extension, power. But the trade-off is that sometimes, in gaining something, you lose something else. I think that’s what this piece is about.

EO: I love how your characters are different manifestations of you and in some cases you actually put yourself into the works. Another image from that series that I love is Step and Screw: West End Scrap where instead of and exchange between a klansman we see an exchange of a klans hood between your character the artist and Torpedo. The Creator and created.  The works Boys in the hoods are always hard and also It takes three or four to even the score give glimpses to me into what you are trying to communicate in West End Scrap, but I was wondering igf you can elaborate on that image and also this interplay of different apects of yourself in all of these characters.

TDH:
Yes, the three pieces you selected all explore the breakdown of the self, sometimes splitting it into two or, in the case of “It Takes 3 or 4 to Even the Score,” even five versions of me. In that piece, there's a reference to the Sistine Chapel—like God reaching down to touch the figure. It's a specific historical reference, but it also speaks to the idea of the creator or author as a god-like figure, someone who reigns over the world of his imagination. As a world-builder, which is how I see myself, this piece breaks down how power circulates in my own studio. At any given moment, there’s an aspect of me that’s in the driver’s seat, holding the power and taking the reins. That’s how the power dynamic visually manifests in the work.

All three of these works also have a psychosexual component. I want to make that clear. I believe there’s a connection between our libido and creativity. The urge to create as artists is linked to the urge to procreate and proliferate as a species. Image-making becomes an extension of that drive. I’ve been drawing myself as “the artist” since high school, often wielding a large pencil, which is a libidinous or phallic symbol. If you look at the piece closely, you’ll see how Torpedo Boy holds the pencil in a way that almost feels sexual, how it hangs there. He’s in charge at this point because he’s handing over the severed head of a Klansman, almost as if to say, “Here’s this gift.” I wanted the work to be open-ended. There could be multiple readings—perhaps it's a violent act with a severed head, or maybe it’s just a mask that represents the symbol of the Klansman’s head.

Right across from this piece, there’s another one where Torpedo Boy is literally severing the head of the Klansman. These pieces are meant to be seen together, like one is before and the other is after. However, it’s not necessarily that simple. The show has a serialized effect, which you can read into the work if you choose, because the characters are identifiable from picture to picture. Guston did a similar thing in his later work, where you might see a grouping of three Klansmen in one painting and then another grouping in a different piece. You’re not sure if it’s the same three, but they become a symbol or placeholder for something larger. I feel the same way about Torpedo Boy, the artist, or Bringback.

In “The Boys in the Hood Are Always Hard,” which references the N.W.A. song, the person in the hood represents someone cultivating fear, and they are always erect with power. This figure is trying to control the artist. He’s sitting behind me, but the light bulb in the image represents the phallus. The figure grabs the light bulb, and it lights up as Torpedo Boy draws. The whole image becomes a kind of machine. The artist is drawing, creating images of himself killing that side of himself. Even though this side powers and fuels him, he also wants to destroy it. This creates a paradox.

Many of the works in the "Step and Screw" series have this paradox. In the pieces where the Klansman is across from Torpedo Boy, I see these works as machines—like reading clocks. You read from one side to the other, from top to bottom, and they keep circling around. There’s usually a fulcrum, a focal point in the middle, where the power either stays or spirals out from that point, fueling the work and keeping it moving. The three pieces we just discussed follow this structure. They may be arranged differently, but they all operate on the same principle—there’s a potent symbol at the center of the piece, fueling the narrative.

For example, in the “Weston Scrap” piece, the Klansman’s hood is the focal point, and it’s the first thing you’ll notice. It’s typically placed in the middle or top-middle so that it’s hard to miss. This structure is something I always fall back on to make a picture work as a narrative. While it may be an easy method, it’s effective.

EO:
How do you navigate the tension between creating art that is deeply personal to you and making work that also serves as commentary on broader societal issues? Is there a conscious effort on your part to make the work speak to both realms simultaneously, or does that just naturally manifest through what you do?

TDH:
I think it just manifests through what I do. My concerns about broader societal issues always originate from a personal place. Before a work can have a broader voice, it has to come from something personal and pointed. I create the work for myself—because I want to see something. The hope is that others can connect with it and identify with what I’m presenting in the pictures.

EO:
So, you’ve been developing the Moundverse for some time. I’m curious, where does “Draw Them In, Paint Them Out” fit within that mythology? Is it a separate entity from the Moundverse, or does it exist within its timeline?

TDH:
It fits into the timeline I’ve created. I’d describe it as a fever dream where Torpedo Boy is grappling with the other aspects of my own self. "Bring Back" represents a very mysterious part of my psyche. Then there’s the artist—who is mortal, flesh and blood, and ineffectual. Torpedo Boy is an eternal, spiritual being who can’t die, so he never really understood the plight of the human body—especially the Black body. The work helps Torpedo Boy develop empathy, understanding what it means to be vulnerable. He realizes, for the first time, the struggles people face—whether physical, systemic, or through language manipulation. He becomes aware that he has the luxury of being “bulletproof” and that others do not. This realization might make him a better hero in the end.

EO:
It’s interesting that Torpedo Boy is immortal, while the power of Klansmen and extremist groups comes from their ability to oppress and kill. Perhaps that’s why the Klansman has to make exchanges with Torpedo Boy, because he can’t use the fear of death to control him.

TDH:
Exactly. There’s a deeper dynamic at play there, where Torpedo Boy isn’t subject to the same power that Klansmen use to instill fear. That’s why the exchanges are so important. The Klansman has to find another way to exert power, since Torpedo Boy isn’t afraid of death.

EO:
I’m curious about humor in your work, particularly in "Draw Them In, Paint Them Out." Does humor serve as a way to disarm or engage the audience, or is it more of a coping mechanism for exploring darker themes?

TDH:
Humor has always been a survival tool, both in the Black community and the Jewish community. After experiences like slavery or the Holocaust, humor becomes a way to deal with trauma. You can either cry or laugh—sometimes you do both. Someone like Richard Pryor explored that range, where he could make you laugh and cry in the same act. Comics, cartoonists, and artists work with ideas in a way that allows us to propose arguments or take on topical subjects in a memorable way. Constructing a joke isn’t so different from constructing a painting. When Philip Guston used absurdity and dark humor in his later works, it made sense because he was grappling with a lot of conflicting emotions, and it became cathartic for his audience. I think I’m doing something similar. While I can’t speak for others’ trauma or their sense of humor, I know I try to push the boundaries of what can be funny, probing, terrifying, and, at times, a little uncomfortable. I want to create something that sticks with you—even if you walk away with a half-smile. Sometimes, I think of my works as giant cartoons. They can be political, but they can also be lighter. A lot of times, I’m laughing in my studio, and I hope that energy comes through in the work.

EO:
Piggybacking off that, you said you want people to walk away with a smile, but your work also addresses very serious issues. The show was conceived during the first presidency of Trump, and we’re now in the second, with some of the same issues still present. Are there specific reactions or thoughts you hope to provoke in viewers, especially regarding America’s current racial and political climate? Do you ever feel concerned about how your work might be interpreted, especially when addressing sensitive themes?

TDH:
I don’t really care about the interpretation. There are as many interpretations as there are people, so I can’t control that. What matters is why I made the work. The show at the Jewish Museum is an extension of a show I did at James Cohan Gallery in Tribeca. I created that work because I wanted to see Torpedo Boy fighting and destroying Klansmen. It was something I needed to express, something I had to get out of my system. And with each passing day, especially with what’s happening in the news, I realize I might never be done with it. Hopefully, people can engage with these paintings and reflect on the idea of the American contract. Some works serve as teaching moments, while others explore violence. I don’t want to see peace in these pictures right now because I don’t think it’s possible. Sometimes, I want to see violence, but it’s always simulated. I’m a fan of horror films and war movies, where violence is presented in an unmediated way. Some works lean toward cartoonish violence, while others are more serious. I want people to find their place in that range.

EO:
I definitely saw that in your show at James Cohan—the last scene of Django Unchained where Jamie Foxx enacts all the repressed anger on those who oppressed him. It’s a cathartic release.

TDH:
That’s a great scene. Also, the last scene of Inglourious Basterds had a similar feel. Those scenes are all about unleashing anger and trauma, in a way that feels necessary.