Mitchell L. H. Douglas is a poet, visual artist, and former punk kid whose work is fueled as much by comic books and hip-hop as by the landscapes and histories of the American Midwest and South. Now based in Indianapolis, Mitchell is fresh off final edits for Universal Corner, a project that connects his practices as both a writer and visual artist: it’s the title of a collage and, maybe even more importantly, of his forthcoming book of poetry. “Now it feels like my poetry and my visual art are tied together and kind of walking forward,” he says.
Mitchell grew up with a painter and art historian for a father, suspended between Louisville and the open fields of Iowa City. At 13, in the long shadow of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he started writing poetry. “Art starts in Louisville. Poetry starts in Iowa City,” Mitchell says. “Those cities walk with me creatively.”
His collages start with scraps of paper, bits of found images, layered and pressed onto foam board until they jut out from the wall. Words like bop, thoom!, and buddha budda leap across the surface, an onomatopoetic nod to the hip-hop, graffiti, poetry, and comic books that shaped his childhood. “It felt like a natural way of connecting my practices,” Mitchell says.
At the center of his practice is “Universal Corner,” a collage named after a song by the legendary L.A. punk band X. Mitchell describes it as a metaphysical place where different worlds and influences, like punk and hip-hop, meet. That intersection, the “corner” where everything collides, is where Mitchell’s work comes to life.
His poetry collection of the same name, arriving in late February, extends this idea, charting a personal topography where radical Black art traditions, pop iconography, and the sounds of a life lived at the intersection of genres converge. “For me, it’s about things that connect us,” Mitchell says. “Music, punk, hip-hop—they all fit.”
Experience Mitchell L. H. Douglas’ collage work firsthand in our December 2025 show, Works on Paper. Read his interview below and preorder his debut poetry collection, Universal Corner, on BookShop to explore where his visual and literary worlds meet.
In Today’s Q+Art Interview…
Mitchell L. H. Douglas discusses his father's advice about the heartbreak of being an artist, the need to confront uncomfortable historical truths, and his experiences as one of the few Black punks in the Midwest music scene.
Your father, painter Dr. Robert L. Douglas, told you, "Being an artist will break your heart." That's such a powerful thing to carry with you. Has that turned out to be true?
Mitchell L. H. Douglas: He didn’t lie. We laughed when he said it, but I think we’ve all had times when we wonder if our work is finding an audience or if it’s really moving people. It’s not like we can control how much anyone likes our work, but we can find joy in its creation. That’s what I get excited about: the act of making something new. The feeling tells me this is exactly what I’m supposed to do.
I have always been in awe of my father’s sharp hand and mind, and one of the goals of my work is to honor him. We are a family of artists, and he is the foundation. I create to add to that legacy.
You write about "appreciating what we find in history's truths" rather than just acknowledging history. What's the difference for you between those two things?
MLHD: A recent and frightening example: In a 2025 interview, a member of a newly established all-white community in rural Arkansas used Black Wall Street as an example of Black prosperity and independence in America. But what he ignored that the interviewer had to remind him of is that Black Wall Street was literally bombed out of existence by a white mob in the Tulsa Race Massacre of 1921.
The mob, angered by reports that a Black man attempted to rape a white woman, decided to exact its own justice before the accused could be tried. Three hundred people died in the massacre. The oldest known survivor, Viola Ford Fletcher, just died in November 2025 at the age of 111. She was still haunted by the event and never knew justice. You can’t just acknowledge the parts of history that are convenient for you. You have to look it squarely in the face and not turn away.
Let's talk about growing up in the Midwest with punk rock as part of your formation. Black folks are so often erased from that narrative—punk gets sold as this white suburban story, but that's never been the whole truth. What was your experience in that scene?
MLHD: I’m blessed to have experienced two very different scenes up close: the Iowa City scene, where I first cut my teeth on the defiance of the music and supporting local bands at 13, and the Louisville scene, where I played in my own bands in college and dreamed about where the music could take us. Iowa City is also where I first started writing poetry, inspired by punk and—as if through osmosis—writing in a town that housed what is arguably the nation’s most famous writing program. In Iowa City, I was the only Black punk that I knew, and that made me fiercely independent. I also had a strong group of friends, so I didn’t have to figure everything out alone.
Which bands or venues mattered to you, and how did being a Black kid in predominantly white punk spaces shape not just your art, but how you think about belonging, community, and who gets to claim what cultural territory?
MLHD: In Iowa City in the early ’80s, my group of friends were referred to as “disco punks” by older kids (as in, we were so new to punk, we were listening to disco yesterday). It was an odd dynamic, one that was so insulting, I think it made us a little tougher. When I moved from Iowa City to Columbus, Ohio, I missed the phase when my Iowa friends started bands. I was so proud of them; it was a dream I held onto.
By the time I made it back to Louisville in the ’90s after graduating from high school there, the scene was supportive. I was the singer and lyricist in my bands, and my friend, Lionell, was the lead guitarist and main songwriter. We were always the only Black members of our bands, so there was a tight brotherhood there. Bi-racial punk bands weren’t an oddity in Louisville, and we were embraced. To be in Louisville and watch bands like Slint and Crain evolve (and work with Steve Albini years before Nirvana existed) and the brief, but beautiful, rise of Rodan—it's hard to put in words. I don’t think we knew how blessed we were at the time. Louisville made extraordinary music, and we just soaked it all in. It was clear how much art, especially music, mattered.
All of the clubs that supported us are gone: the Zodiac Club on Main, the Butchertown Pub, Tewligan’s (that later flipped its name to Snagilwet) on Bardstown Road, the Wrocklage in Lexington. But I’ve got so many good memories and DIY drive. I still think of myself as this little punk rock kid chasing his art dreams.
Can you make us a mini playlist—maybe five or six tracks from your punk rock roots that you'd want people to listen to while looking at your collages?
MLHD: “Universal Corner,” X
“Paranoid Chant,” Minutemen
“Police Story,” Black Flag (Keith Morris version)
“At the Movies,” Bad Brains
“Germfree Adolescents,” X-Ray Spex
“Ghetto Defendant,” The Clash (feat. Allen Ginsberg)
I should also acknowledge that shortly after punk, hip-hop was raising me too. So I’ll include these six hip-hop songs that have become a sort of forever soundtrack:
“Ego Trippin’,” Ultramagnetic MC’s
“Turbo Charged,” Just-Ice
“Eric B. Is President,” Eric B. and Rakim
“My Philosophy,” Boogie Down Productions
“Award Tour,” A Tribe Called Quest (feat. Trugoy the Dove from De La Soul)
“Runnin’,” The Pharcyde
Finally, what three books would you recommend to our readers?
MLHD: I’ve been reading some great books of poetry lately, ones that take you on journeys and make you think about the possibilities of poetry. They inspire me to do more with my work.
A Love Tap, Bernardo Wade: The poet’s debut. Wade is good at weaving music into narrative and using it to convey a specific mood in memory.
Obit, Victoria Chang: Written in two weeks following the death of the author’s father, Obit is a masterclass in the power of mourning as an engine for art.
The Renunciations, Donika Kelly: No one uses myth quite like Kelly. In this poet’s hands, figures from Greek mythology are shields against harm and a vehicle for survival in her second collection of poems.
Mitchell L. H. Douglas: Website | Instagram | Preorder Universal Corner
This interview has been edited for length and clarity. All images published with permission of Mitchell L. H. Douglas.