Kennedy June

Author: Kennedy June

  • Flowers in the Wind

    Ceramic
    5 x 6 x 3 in
    2026

  • Unicorn

    Ink on woodcut reduction print
    7.5 x 9.5 in
    2025

  • Untitled

    Wood, liquid latex, human hair, nylon string, foundation, aloe gel
    9 x 14 x 16 in
    2026

    I want the non-Black viewer to see this body and become disgusted, but not to avert their eyes. The shocking nature of the materials- skin-like latex, blood-like gel, and human hair- adds another layer of horror and reality to this body. The non-Black viewer may feel sympathy for the broken down and bloodied body, molded over the wooden house skeleton, but this won’t be enough. I want the non-Black viewer to think of their own home, their own comfort, their own life, and compare it to this grotesque scene.
    Perhaps the non-Black viewer would see this and consider how their comforts rely on Black bodies, Black labor, and Black tragedy, and that this comfort consequents the discomfort, pain, and exploitation of Black people. 

  • Desire

    Ink on aquatint zinc etching
    6 x 9 in
    2025

    I made this piece about the guilt I’ve felt not knowing how to handle the intimacy of another person. I’m not sure how to ethically consume desires, dreams, and sadness. I’m not sure how much is too much of someone for me, or how much is too much of me for someone.

  • Touch

    Oil pastel on printed video stills
    2025

    “Touch” is based off of a poem I wrote while exploring the intricacies of romantic and sexual intimacy.

    I like the idea that touch is waterlike. Both touch and water aren’t permanent but even their absences have a presence, juxtaposing itself by existing with both fragility and solidity. After water I am left wet. And after touch, I am still left with touch. Like the first chill of the wind on my wet skin, after releasing myself from a cool cocoon of water, letting go of your touch is a sensation on its own. I am now different.
    Touch is a vessel of love. In this way I imagine some to be strong currents. The kind where if you stand exactly at the right spot, it will sweep you into itself. Your arms swell over me. I think these are smooth waters, so I indulge. I like how the cold sting begins to settle into an embrace, almost consuming me. I think about drowning. How hard will the tide hit me? How deep can I go before I lose my ground? If I sink any more will I be submerged?
    Sometimes I worship those I hope can save me, thinking I have something inside of me that needs cleansing and hoping it is their touch that can purify me. In that way, touch is unlike water.
    The baptization I seek does not come just from the water, as much as the love I seek does not come just from the touch.