Inside the Cover Story: Patrick Eugene Reflects on Faith, Family, and Freedom

In his luminous new studio at the Goat Farm Arts Center in Atlanta—a sprawling former cotton mill steeped in Southern history—Patrick Eugene is finding fresh rhythm. The Haitian-American artist, known for his evocative portraits of Black life and introspective meditations on legacy and resilience, recently collaborated with Dior on a poetic trio of handbags titled The Pearl of the Antilles. The Dior Lady Art project offered a chance to honor his heritage and reimagine Haiti’s story through craft, texture, and form.

When we spoke, Eugene had just returned from New York, still settling into his newly expanded space. Between family life—he and his wife, a chef, are raising three young sons—and the demands of his practice, the artist moves through each day with ritual precision. His paintings, rendered in rich oils and glowing hues, are conversations with ancestors as much as with paint and canvas. They hold a stillness that is both meditative and alive, tethered to memory yet forward-looking.

From abstraction to figuration, from the Brooklyn to Atlanta, from solitude to community, Eugene’s journey is one of spiritual clarity and creative devotion—a practice grounded in grace, growth, and faith in process.

In the Studio with Patrick Eugene

WHITEWALL: So maybe we can start with just like you said, you’re in a new studio space. Tell me about your studio.

PATRICK EUGENE: Yeah, so I’ve been on this property called the Goat Farm in Atlanta for about five years now. It’s a beautiful space—an old cotton mill factory, actually, a historically protected building with incredible architecture. They renovated half the property recently, and during that process, they moved us off-site for a bit. Now they’ve brought us back, and I’m in this loft space—about 2,000 square feet—so it finally feels right again.

The previous space they gave me felt more like an apartment, and with the scale of my work, it just wasn’t working. I told them, “Hey, listen, this is not gonna work for me.” Thankfully, they moved me back to the old side, which they weren’t planning to reopen for another year. It’s beautiful—tall ceilings, history in the walls, just the kind of space where I can feel the energy again. I haven’t really started painting in it yet because I’ve been traveling, but I can already feel there’s some magic here.

WW: How long have you been in Atlanta now?

PE: About five or six years. My wife and I moved here in 2019—right before everything shut down. We’d been together for about a decade, both working in New York, both in that constant hustle. She’s a fine dining chef who worked in a Michelin-starred restaurant in Times Square, and I was doing the art circuit—every opening, every event. It was nonstop.

So we made a conscious decision to slow down, focus on our crafts, and maybe start a family. We came to Atlanta, got married, and—well—we had three little boys back-to-back.

WW: Three!

PE: Yep—one right after the other. We have a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and an eleven-month-old. It’s a lot! But it’s changed how I approach my practice. I’m more of a nine-to-five artist now. I drop them off at school, go to the studio, get home for dinner. It’s structure, which I wasn’t used to before, but it’s good. It’s grounding.

From New York to Atlanta

WW: I get that. I moved from New York to Philly for similar reasons—just wanting that shift in pace. Do you like Atlanta?

PE: I do. It’s definitely a different rhythm, but that’s what I wanted. It’s smaller in feel, especially within the arts community—it’s tight-knit. The first people I met were Kendra Walker, who started Atlanta Art Week; Lauren Tate Baeza, curator at the High Museum; and Hassan Smith, who now works with me as my manager. They connected me immediately to this ecosystem.

You go to an opening and see the same faces—it’s like a family. I love that. It allows for real, intentional relationships.

WW: Speaking of painting, I want to talk about the Dior collaboration. It wasn’t one of your portraits, which you’re known for. How did it come about?

PE: That came through my gallery, Mariane Ibrahim. Some of the people on the Dior team were already familiar with my work—they’d collected pieces in the past. They reached out through Mariane, wanting to collaborate, and I saw it as a chance to do something different.

I’d seen artists do portraits on bags, but I wanted to take a different route—to talk about Haiti. The project became The Pearl of the Antilles—a title Haiti was given during colonial times. It’s such a beautiful term, but one the people never truly benefited from. I wanted to reclaim that and give it back with pride.

There’s also the poetic coincidence that many of my portraits feature women wearing pearls, and Dior has such a strong history with them. It just felt aligned. So instead of a portrait, I designed something abstract—landscapes of Haiti, the hills, the topography, the beauty and struggle of it. I used raffia, which is common in Caribbean craft, combined with Dior’s materials—leathers, golds, fine stitching.

They were amazing—so open and trusting. I sent sketches, notes, and historical photos from 1950s Haiti—images of women in pearls, that mid-century elegance I’m obsessed with. They loved it so much they made three bags instead of one, each with a single pearl hanging in front. That detail says everything.

Translating Paintings Into to a Dior Icon

WW: That’s beautiful. What was it like seeing your drawings translated into those materials?

PE: Honestly, it was incredible. The process was really collaborative. My brother-in-law, who’s a digital artist, helped me visualize the designs, and then I sent everything—sketches, concept notes, and vintage photos from Haiti—to Dior. I wanted them to feel the textures of the place, not just see them.

The colors came straight from my own palette—those warm oranges, dusty blues, deep greens. Even the gestures on the bags mimic the one-line faces in my paintings. Dior’s team came to Atlanta with a suitcase of materials—different leathers, threads, pearls, netting—and we spent hours putting mockups together. Later, I flew to Paris to finalize everything.

What struck me most was how much they trusted me. They didn’t try to alter the concept or sanitize it. It was about honoring Haiti’s beauty and resilience. That kind of collaboration—between art, fashion, and history—was really special.

WW: You mentioned resilience, and I feel that throughout your work. 

PE: That comes from my family. My grandmother came from nothing. She moved from Haiti to New York and worked as a cleaner on Wall Street. Someone there taught her how to invest her little bit of savings, and she used it to build a beautiful home back in Haiti over 20 or 30 years.

You’d never know she was a cleaning lady—the grace and pride she carried herself with. That stayed with me. My paintings reflect that same energy: dignity through struggle, elegance amid hardship.

When I went to Haiti for the first time in 2010—after the earthquake—I saw devastation, yes, but also this unshakable pride. People carried themselves like royalty, even in ruins. That experience changed everything for me. It’s what drove me to start painting seriously.

“That experience changed everything for me. It’s what drove me to start painting seriously,”

—Patrick Eugene

Inspired by Haiti

WW: You hadn’t painted before that?

PE: Not really. I used to doodle cartoons as a kid and played piano growing up. I’d always been creative, but I didn’t study art. At 27, I picked up a paintbrush for the first time—mostly as stress relief. I was working at a bank, burned out, just needed something to escape.

My girlfriend—now my wife—let me turn our spare bedroom in Brooklyn into a studio. I didn’t know the difference between oil and acrylic, nothing. I just dove in. Then I realized, okay, if I’m going to take this seriously, I need to study. So I read everything, watched documentaries, went to museums. Living in New York, you’re surrounded by art history.

At first, I tried to paint figuratively—faces, features, trying to get it right. Then I got into abstraction. For ten years, that’s all I did—just experimenting, making assemblages, learning by doing. I didn’t care about recognition; I just wanted to feel free in the work.

WW: And then the portraits came later?

PE: Exactly. During COVID, I didn’t have a studio. My wife was like, “You’re not doing those messy abstract works in the apartment!” [Laughs] So I set up a small space at our dining table. I thought, maybe I’ll just paint some figures again. That’s when it clicked. That’s when this chapter began.

I rediscovered the feeling I had with abstraction—but through faces, through people. It wasn’t about technical perfection; it was about spirit. That’s what people respond to.

WW: I was struck by your use of color—the way it feels timeless but deeply personal.

PE: Color is memory for me. I’m fascinated by mid-century aesthetics—the ’50s in both Haiti and America. It was a complex time, politically and socially, but visually, it had this clarity and order. People dressed up, held themselves with purpose.

I didn’t live through it, but I feel connected to that era. Maybe it’s because my grandparents came of age then. I look at photos from that time—of Haiti, of Harlem—and see both beauty and restraint. It’s like everyone was holding their breath, trying to hold onto something pure.

And painting in oil helps me slow down, too. Everyone was using acrylic when I started, but I wanted to learn the patience of oil painting. It’s a living medium—it moves, it breathes.

“Color is memory for me,”

—Patrick Eugene

Painting as Prayer

WW: You’ve said your process is meditative, even spiritual. What does that look like when you’re in front of the canvas?

PE: It’s prayer, really. I don’t use references; I don’t sketch first. I just show up, pray, and start. I paint in series, so I usually have a theme in mind—something I’ve been reading or researching. For example, my show 50 Pounds was about the migration from Haiti to New York in the mid-20th century. I studied that era deeply before painting a single piece.

When I start, I just let go. It feels like I’m in conversation with ancestors. I know that sounds mystical, but it’s true. I step back at some point and realize someone has appeared on the canvas. I don’t plan their expression; it just emerges. None of my figures smile, but they’re not sad either. They’re in contemplation, between peace and tension. It’s like a dialogue across time—me listening more than speaking.

WW: That’s beautiful. I’ve been hearing more artists talk about this kind of spiritual openness lately—connecting beyond themselves in the studio.

PE: Yeah, I think our generation is redefining spirituality. I grew up Catholic, but I’m not religious in the same structured way now. Still, I crave that connection to something greater. Painting is my cathedral—it’s where I pray.

Maybe people aren’t going to church like before, but they’re still searching for transcendence. For me, this is it. I light incense, I pray, I paint. That’s my ritual.

WW: That feels so universal. And I love how that translates even in your materials—you’re exploring framing, sculpture, object-making.

PE: Yeah, I’m building my own frames now. They’re not traditional rectangles; they have shape and weight, so the frame becomes part of the work. It’s my way of turning the paintings into objects—like living things.

I’ve been learning woodworking with my team, experimenting with form. The first few sold right away, which was wild. But more than that, it opened a new door for me. It’s another way to experiment—to not be boxed in.

Even in my show 50 Pounds, I included my mother’s dress from when she first traveled to the U.S., which my grandmother made, and my grandfather’s photographs. It’s all connected—painting, memory, family, material.

WW: When did you decide to go full-time as an artist?

PE: Pretty early—about a year after I started painting. It was a leap of faith. I left my banking job at 27. My wife believed in me, supported us for a while. She saw how consumed I was by this thing.

I had my first solo show at a small artist-run space in Brooklyn called the Brooklyn Arts Fellowship. No staff, no budget—just passion. Friends volunteered to sit in the gallery so it could stay open. PBS ended up writing about it. It was called Deconstruction, about gentrification in Brooklyn. The whole show sold out. That’s when I knew.

From there, it was step by step. I started showing with Gallery 1957 in Ghana, then with Mariane Ibrahim in 2022. We’ve done some great projects together, including Dior.

“I pray, I paint. That’s my ritual,”

—Patrick Eugene

Patrick Eugene on Legacy and Gratitude

WW: You mentioned a series inspired by Roy DeCarava and Langston Hughes—The Sweet Flypaper of Life.

PE: Yes! That collaboration between them is one of my favorites. I’ve always felt like it needed a painter in the conversation. [Laughs] So I started developing a series inspired by that—centered around the home, Harlem, faith, and the everyday poetry of Black life.

It’s still in progress, but I’ll come back to it. It’s about capturing the spirit of that time—people in their Sunday best, church hats, kitchen tables, quiet pride.

WW: You’ve mentioned legacy several times—how does that play into what you’re building now, especially as a father?

PE: Legacy drives everything. I want my boys to grow up surrounded by images that reflect them with pride and dignity. When they come to my studio, they ask questions—“Who’s that, Daddy?”—and we talk about history, about why these faces matter. That dialogue is as important as the painting itself.

My oldest, he’s 19, and he’s starting to see the bigger picture. The little ones come in, touch the paintings—I let them. It’s their inheritance, not something precious they can’t touch. I just want them to know they can create their own worlds. That’s the real legacy.

WW: I love that. Is there anything else you want to add?

PE: Just gratitude. For where I am, for the people around me, for being able to do this every day. Even without a big show right now, I’m in a space of discovery. That’s the real reward.