About World-Building and Black Quantum Futurism

Edward Buchanan in conversation with Moor Mother

Camae Ayewa, known as Moor Mother, is a multidisciplinary artist, poet, musician, and activist from Philadelphia whose work redefines creativity and its impact on Black communities. As co-founder of Black Quantum Futurism (BQF) with Rasheedah Phillips, Moor Mother explores the concept of time, drawing on a fusion of quantum physics, Afro-diasporic traditions, and practical community action. They reimagined time as being nonlinear, fluid, and intimately tied to memory, history, and collectivity. By challenging Western constructs of time, she and BQF offer tools to reclaim narratives, confront systemic oppression, and envision liberatory futures.

Moor Mother integrates BQF principles into her music, crafting experimental soundscapes that blend spoken word, jazz, gospel, blues, and raw emotion. The Great Bailout, her new album released in March 2024, explores themes of displacement, colonial legacies, and liberation—confronting historical traumas while celebrating Black creativity as an act of resistance. Described by Pitchfork as “the poet laureate of the apocalypse,” her work bridges art, activism, and community empowerment.

To join the conversation with Moor Mother, DUST has invited Edward Buchanan, the Milan-based designer born in Ohio in 1970, celebrated for his groundbreaking knitwear, together with his commitment to inclusivity. From his pioneering role as Director of Design at Bottega Veneta (1996–2001) to founding Sansovino 6, Buchanan has also collaborated with Max Mara, Off-White, and Pucci, where he currently serves as Knitwear Designer. Blending his African-American heritage with a Milanese perspective, Buchanan consistently challenges industry norms and champions authenticity in fashion.

Edward Buchanan – Good morning, I should say.

Moor Mother – Well, it’s 9:00 AM in L.A., you’re in Italy, aren’t you? What are you doing there?

E.B. – I’ve actually been living here for 28 years. I grew up in a family of musicians but moved to Milan in the 90s to be a fashion designer. I was working for a brand.

M.M. – Who were you working with?

E.B. – I moved to work for Bottega Veneta. I was the first designer at Bottega Veneta. Few people know this, but the first designer at Bottega Veneta was in fact a black man from Ohio. So, I ended up staying there. Now, I work in many different spaces. I’m interested in culture, and as a Black male living in the European space, I’m interested in talking about creativity and expressing creativity through the eyes of Black bodies within that context.

M.M. – That’s incredible.

E.B. – Tell me more about your upbringing. I read that your father was very active in the church, and you grew up in Aberdeen, Maryland, surrounded by siblings and a close-knit community.

M.M. – It felt like a utopia—a place where I could truly see community economics in action. It was incredibly inspiring. Yesterday, my students asked me, “How did you get into everything you’re teaching us?” I told them it was because of that experience. The idea of community economics captivated me—it allowed people to sell and offer things not to strangers but to neighbours and friends.

I shared an example with them: we had a Candy Apple lady, someone who made treats for people she knew. It wasn’t about anonymity; it was personal. Of course, there was always the risk—they could shut you down—but that uniqueness, that closeness, was inspiring. The community was filled with small, meaningful businesses. There was a guy who fixed bikes, another who worked as the local taxi driver. All these layers of connection and support showed me the power of a true community economy.

E.B. – So, community action was central to where you grew up?

M.M. – Absolutely. Everyone contributed—my great-grandmother sold food platters from her window and the neighbourhood felt like a tribe. That sense of connection and shared purpose was incredibly inspiring.

E.B. – It must have shaped your outlook.

M.M. – Definitely. It taught me the power of creating something meaningful for those around you. Even nowadays, the neighbourhood still carries that spirit.

E.B. – What were your key influences and inspirations growing up?

M.M. – Growing up, I was inspired by the idea of Black excellence—icons like Ruby Dee, Ossie Davis, and the stylish, free-spirited people in my neighbourhood. Everyone could be whoever they wanted—there were no boxes like ‘girly’ or ‘tomboy’. It was a place of acceptance and individuality.

I didn’t have many photos taken in my childhood since I was the youngest, but I loved the few that existed. A newspaper photographer who was friends with my grandma would take pictures of me playing basketball, and seeing myself in print made me want to capture moments.

Photography became my focus when I studied in Philadelphia, but music was always a dream. I’d plan imaginary albums, draw covers, and write songs—without knowing how any of it actually worked. I tried to focus solely on photography, but it only lasted a month before music pulled me back in.

It all started when I met some kids who were into graffiti and invited me to a party. I found myself rapping there and in that moment everything changed—I formed a hip-hop group, which eventually evolved into a band.

E.B. – Was forming a band always part of the plan?

M.M. – Not at first. It started with rapping, freestyling over A Tribe Called Quest. But I was drawn to punk and its raw, political energy. Over time, I realised I wanted a band to explore those ideas further.

E.B. – How did punk’s politics influence you?

M.M. – Punk felt revolutionary to me—simple, personal stories that challenged norms. Even Nirvana’s songs about everyday life felt political. Then discovering Bob Marley, with his fusion of punk and reggae, expanded that perspective. It was about resistance, identity, and storytelling.

E.B. – Did you feel the lack of representation in those spaces?

M.M. – I didn’t fully realise it then, but there weren’t many Black artists or women in punk where I grew up. I discovered music through cheap CDs and word-of-mouth, piecing it all together on my own. It was a journey of constant discovery.

E.B. – Today, would you describe yourself as an activist?

M.M. – These days, I wouldn’t but I do care a lot. Sometimes I care too much. When I moved to California, I wanted to live downtown, but I realised it would overwhelm me—I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about everything going on. That’s just my style. I like to think of myself as a kind of angel here, you know?

E.B. – Well, your work definitely inspires others. How do you think you use your creative voice to positively impact the future? You’re a multifaceted artist who collaborates with so many, and I imagine young Black and Brown kids look at what you do and think, “Wow, I want to be like that.” How does that make you feel?

M.M. – It’s humbling. People write to me after shows—folks I’ve never met—telling me how my work inspires them to think differently about their own. It’s always surprising and beautiful, but there’s a duality to it. There’s this strange line between people being inspired by you and others wanting to be you, and that can feel weird.

E.B. – That must make collaboration tricky at times.

M.M. – It does. I’ve learned to be mindful of who I work with—focusing on people who want to build something meaningful, not just wear the image of it. I’m into world-building, and I’m still figuring out how to show up more for myself and others.

There’s this thing I’ve noticed—when I call someone to collaborate, it often happens at just the right moment for them. They’ll tell me things like, “I’ve been struggling, and this project is pulling me out of my depression.” That’s powerful, but it’s also puzzling to me—navigating this role and figuring out how to keep creating spaces for those connections.

E.B. – You’ve created a space that feels honest and meaningful, and that’s why so many young artists look to you as a beacon. Your work resonates deeply because it seems to come from a place of genuine action and reflection.

M.M. – It’s challenging—it takes constant redesigning and remapping—but that’s part of my practice. I don’t force things; I let them evolve naturally.

E.B. – Let’s talk about Black Quantum Futurism. You co-founded it with Rachida Phillips. How did it evolve from Afrofuturism?

M.M. – Afrofuturism was a great starting point. Our primary focus was exploring time—how this is experienced, controlled, and manipulated, particularly in Black communities. However, the public seemed more interested in the aesthetic aspects—fashion and costumes—while we were drawn to practical applications. Rachida and I wanted to bring time to the forefront, connecting it to how communities navigate and shape their futures.

E.B. – So it’s about applying theory to action?

M.M. – Exactly. Black Quantum Futurism isn’t just a concept; it’s about tangible change. Like the jazz musicians who inspired us, we’re rooted in community action—opening spaces, running programs, and creating tools for empowerment. In Philadelphia, for example, we opened a community space funded by grants like those from A Blade of Grass in New York.

E.B. – How does time factor into that work?

M.M. – Time is central—it’s about reclaiming narratives and disrupting linear timelines that often trap marginalised communities in cycles of oppression. We explore how to reimagine time, memory, and futures through workshops, art, and education. It’s about giving people the tools to break free from systemic constraints and build something new.

E.B. – So it’s a form of liberation?

M.M. – Exactly. Time isn’t just theoretical for us; it’s a tool for transformation. Whether it’s creating art, running programs, or opening spaces, Black Quantum Futurism is about making change real and sustainable.

E.B. – Right.

M.M. – Centering the community, not the material—that’s been key for us. The material, meaning the product, isn’t the focus. And I think that perspective has helped us a lot. It’s about showing communities how the arts can have a practical impact, not just something to be looked at or admired. It’s about asking questions like, How can this help my life? How can I map my future through this? Black Quantum Futurism is hands-on, requiring no prerequisites, which I think is really beautiful.

We’ve created works with the aim of selling them, sure, but our goal isn’t to make something for a museum to market. For example, we have an installation right now called Memory Vortex Inn. It’s like a hotel—you can go in, make tea, reflect on the future, play synthesisers, or contribute to oral histories and oral futures. It’s a space for participation and connection. The idea is to look at a museum not just as a place to showcase art but as a refuge for creativity, a space for the neighbours and the community to feel seen and involved.

E.B. – I love how you focus so much on the idea of community. I read you’ve called gospel, jazz, and blues ‘liberation technologies’. What does that mean to you?

M.M. – It’s about seeing music as a kind of mathematics—a tool for dividing, combining, and creating. Music, especially that created by African and African-American people, is an innovation that goes beyond sound. It’s material capable of creating worlds, to heal ourselves and our communities.

E.B. – Music as something material?

M.M. – Yes—music as a means to create with, to rebuild and thrive, not just survive. Gospel, for example, has always been about transformation. People who’d fallen on hard times or felt disconnected from the church—what they called backsliders—could return and rebuild their social standing. Someone who’d been a local thief could work their way up to leading solos or even becoming a bishop. It wasn’t about credentials or connections—it was about finding worth and purpose within yourself and your community.

E.B. – Like the character in The Color Purple.

M.M. – Exactly. Gospel allowed people to reclaim themselves, and jazz did something similar. A lot of great jazz musicians came out of the military or wartime marching bands. They took those experiences, those tools, and turned them into melodies that healed and transformed. Blues did the same—it could pull you out of despair and guide you somewhere unknown but comforting. These genres aren’t just music—they’re technologies of liberation, survival, and connection.

E.B. – It’s music as a form of salvation—saving lives, saving sentiments, pure survival.

M.M. – Exactly—what’s possible is the fact that it can open up so many possibilities.

E.B. – You’ve described yourself, interestingly enough, as complicated and weird. What does that mean to you?

M.M. – I don’t remember saying that, but maybe it’s true. I’ve always stayed close to my childlike sense of play. I love imagining worlds, mapping ideas, laughing, and even performing. Teaching brings some of that out—I enjoy engaging with students, especially younger ones.

E.B. – That’s fascinating. I also teach, and I find it’s as much about learning from students as sharing knowledge. How do you balance teaching with your creative work?

M.M. – Teaching has been a learning process. I’m very analog, so seeing how students approach things digitally and in post-production is fascinating.

E.B. – How does being a queer artist influence your creativity? Does it lead or shape your process?

M.M. – Honestly, not much. My focus has always been on the stories and sounds I need to express. I’ve got so much I’m working through creatively—organising, planning, and clearing space to reach the next phase of my work. Even though I’m busy with collaborations and projects, I’m finally reaching a point where I can map out the next five or ten years and focus on my solo endeavours, like building my band and exploring visual art.

E.B. – Speaking of your work, I was blown away by your Irreversible Entanglements Tiny Desk performance. One line stuck with me: “I’m interested in what made you give a shit.” What drives that?

M.M. – I think about that often. It’s about the moments that shatter our belief systems—when the rose-coloured glasses come off. I’m fascinated by the switches that happen in people’s minds, the events that make them question everything, and how they carry those realisations forward.

E.B. – On stage, you exude such confidence. Is it genuine, or is there still fear behind live performances?

M.M. – It’s genuine confidence, especially in a group setting where there’s no ‘star of the show’. It’s about everyone doing their part, and that collective energy is magnetic.

E.B. – You recently won the 2024 Chanel Next Prize. That’s an incredible recognition, especially from such an iconic fashion house. What does that mean to you?

M.M. – It’s surreal. I love fashion—it’s a journey of discovery for me. When Chanel dressed me for the Venice event, I put on these trousers, and I immediately thought, “This is different.” The fabric, the stitching, the feel—it was like discovering a whole new world. It’s incredible to be part of that exchange, and I’m so grateful for the platform it’s given me.

E.B. – Fashion thrives on exchange, and collaborations like yours highlight how powerful that can be. I see so much space for you in that world. Whether through me or someone else, I’m manifesting that for you. Your work transcends disciplines with such beauty and confidence—it’s a space you’re destined to occupy.

M.M. – Wow, thank you. That means a lot.

E.B. – Let’s talk about your ninth album, The Great Bailout. Nine albums—that’s incredible. What was the process like and what have you learned from this journey?

M.M. – This project started as an orchestra collaboration with the London Contemporary Orchestra while we were on tour. It was taking a long time to come together and I didn’t want to wait anymore. So, I broke the poem apart and turned it into an album myself. A lot of this work was created during 2020 when I had the time to focus. I love reworking on material—whether it’s breaking down live performances, creating blues or rock versions, or revisiting orchestral work. For me, nothing is ever finished; everything is reusable. It’s like fashion—how many ways can you reinvent a turtleneck?

E.B. – That’s such a great analogy.

M.M. – Exactly. To me, every piece of work is material that carries me to the next creative flow. Nothing is trash; everything has a purpose. But it’s not all easy—there’s a balance between creative work and navigating contracts, collaborations, and the business side. That’s part of the job, but I try to minimise it so I can spend more time creating.

E.B. – You’ve spoken about music as a tool for building community. How does that influence your work?

M.M. – It’s everything. Music has the power to feed and enrich a community, not just on a surface level but deeply. When I create, I think about how it can bring people together and how it can inspire others to build and thrive. Of course, I’m still learning, finding mentors, and figuring out how to navigate the business side while keeping my work authentic and impactful.

E.B. – Have you had the chance to perform in Africa yet?

M.M. – Not yet, but it’s a dream. I’ve been putting it out there to play in Johannesburg. It feels like something I need to do. Bob Marley had the same dream, and I see it as a powerful way to connect with people and build relationships across the music world.