Overview:
In this one-on-one conversation, painter Patrick Eugène reflects on growing up in a Haitian household in New York, embracing his culture and discovering art as a spiritual calling. He shares how family values, Haitian history, ancestral memory and resilience guide his portraiture and approach to opportunities like the design collaboration with Dior.
ATLANTA — Long before Patrick Eugène burst onto news and social media feeds this year with his Haitian-inspired Dior handbag collaboration, his portraiture’s subjects were quietly present. Sitting in a kind of guarded stillness, dense with interior life, they ask the viewer to slow down long enough to really see them.
And, in a world that rewards spectacle, that restraint reads like a decision, like protection. The feeling seems to permeate Eugene’s studio, located in Atlanta’s Goat Farm Arts Center, itself.
Over a recent video call, Eugène, 41, greeted The Haitian Times in a brown shirt, a canvas leather apron, black wireless headphones resting over his ears — a practical, almost monk-like outfit made for labor rather than display.
Walking virtually through the space, Eugène points out a painting in progress, its surface still wet with decisions being made. Nearby, another canvas rests, part of a commission for Celine, another French luxury house, still unresolved, still protected from premature meaning. That same intentionality has carried Eugène from a Haitian household in Brooklyn and Long Island to a studio practice in Atlanta run like a nine-to-five, and into luxury spaces like House of Dior.
The latter collaboration celebrates Dior Lady Art’s 10th anniversary. It entailed Eugène crafting the brand’s signature bag in raffia, gold, leather patchwork, woven straw, macramé, pearls and bamboo. Items reminiscent of Haiti’s topography, earthy greens, deep blues and burgundies evoking the country’s hills and the sea.
Fashionistas and art lovers alike embraced the innovative, colorful purses. Yet, it’s not hype that drives Eugène, he says. It’s a legacy. Faith. The ancestors. Family.
He paints the Black figure in a new language, one shaped by Haiti’s history, the responsibility of diaspora pride and the need to preserve what too often gets reduced to crisis. His resistance isn’t loud, he says. It’s visual. It’s insistence on beauty, dignity and resilience through elegance.
“I’ve never walked alone,” he says often during the interview. Not as branding, but as truth.
The interview has been condensed for clarity and length.
The Haitian Times / Wedly Cazy: Can you share a bit about the home that raised you?
Patrick Eugène: I was born in New York to Haitian parents who immigrated very young, so I grew up in a traditional Haitian household. My father was an engineer, my mother a nurse.
Like many Haitians in the diaspora, I balanced American life outside the home with Haitian values inside it. Raised Catholic, faith has always shaped how I understand the world.
As a child, I didn’t yet understand the depth or global importance of our culture, and for a time, being Haitian wasn’t always celebrated. That began to shift in high school when I joined a Haitian club. I saw pride take root, people wearing our flags, embracing our culture openly and moving with confidence. I first traveled to Haiti in 2010 and returned almost every year after. Even now, Haiti remains deeply present in my life, spiritually and culturally.
What values did your family instill that still guide you in the world and your work?
My parents raised me with love, respect and dignity at the center. From a young age, they taught me to value people for who they are and how they move through the world. That foundation showed itself clearly when I left a stable corporate career in Finance to pursue art full-time. I feared disappointing them, but instead, I received unwavering support. They told me, “Whatever you choose, we’ve got you.”
I wasn’t an easy child. I questioned, challenged and pushed back, but my parents gave me the freedom to find my own answers. The values they modeled — elegance, pride, resilience and posture — live directly in my work. How you carry yourself matters. No matter the environment, self-respect was non-negotiable.
At the core of our household was something simple but powerful: love and respect. Those values still guide me.
What were the early experiences in your childhood that shaped how you observe or make sense of the world, and how did your family support or influence that?
Creativity and spirituality were always present in my childhood, even if they weren’t labeled that way. My mother was the first person I watched engage in a creative process — knitting, crocheting, filling our home with Haitian artwork. Before I had the language for it, I was being visually shaped.
My father expressed creativity through music. Our house was always filled with sound, and that influence stayed with me. Art and music weren’t careers in our home, but they were quietly embedded in daily life. Travel and faith further expanded my perspective.
Were there moments when you felt the weight of being Haitian? How did they shape your sense of purpose to intersect with your work as an artist?
Yes. That feeling began when we moved to Long Island [from East New York in Brooklyn], and I entered spaces with very few Black people. I experienced racism early, and at that age, what I felt wasn’t pride, it was awareness and fear. My parents had accents. We were clearly “from somewhere else.”
Pride came later, and with it, guilt. I felt guilty for hiding who I was, for not waving my flag. I didn’t yet know Haiti’s history, only my family’s values. Learning stories of my grandmother in Pétion-ville, who had very little but still fed her community, shifted everything. That spirit of service is the foundation I come from.
Eventually, I realized I had a choice: hide who I am or wear it proudly. I chose to wear it. That decision shapes my work today, it’s not just about expression, but responsibility, legacy and honoring those who came before me.
When did you begin to paint?
I discovered art in my late twenties, and it felt less like a decision than a calling. Being self-taught, creating became a spiritual practice, something ancestral and guided. Through abstraction and figuration, I try to express energy, memory and the unseen, drawing directly from Haitian spirituality and ancestral strength. In the studio, I pray, give thanks and stay mindful of the energy present. My work is a way of honoring where I come from.
Picturing the past through portraiture
Your paintings often feel like quiet acts of remembrance. That feeling really came through in your solo exhibit exploring Black figures, “Where Do We Go From Here.” Do you see yourself as documenting memory, protecting it or questioning it?
I see my work as documenting memory, but more importantly, protecting it. We’re living in a time that feels constantly accelerated, always reacting, always distracted — rarely still. Something essential is lost when we move that fast.
My paintings are quiet on purpose. They’re meant to slow you down, invite reflection and serve as acts of remembrance. Ultimately, I want to protect the values at risk of being lost — presence, dignity, community and memory — so they remain available for future generations, especially my children.
Preservation is central to my practice. I’m drawn to things that carry history — old jazz records, classic films, fashion from earlier decades — because they feel grounded in a way that’s rare.
Your figures often appear guarded, yet deeply present. In “Portrait of a Contemporary Artist,” for example, there’s a refusal of overt expression. What conversations are you having internally or with your subjects as you paint them?
I don’t use reference photos. I leave space for myself and the viewer. Emotion doesn’t need to be announced. I’m interested in the in-between states.
Spiritually, the process is intimate. I pray in the studio and trust ancestral energy. I’m not forcing a narrative. Sometimes I step back and say, ‘thank you for showing up.’ That quiet exchange keeps the work honest.
When you entered a global luxury space like Dior, what boundaries did you set to ensure your work remained rooted in truth rather than aestheticized identity?
Members of the Dior team had been collecting my work for years before we ever discussed a collaboration. I spent a lot of time working in Paris on my Solitude exhibition at Mariane Ibrahim Gallery, exploring introspection through painting, collage, and sculpture, and participated in Art Basel Paris, showcasing my expressive portraits of Black figures known for their dignity and quiet power, often inspired by memory, family, and ancestral heritage. So there was already familiarity with my practice. When they reached out, it didn’t immediately register how significant the opportunity was. I approached it with openness and curiosity.
Once I understood the scale, I began researching Dior’s past artist collaborations. Many were beautiful, but I didn’t want this to be a surface-level translation of my work onto a product.
I led with a story. I wrote an essay explaining why the collection needed to be called “La Perle des Antilles” and shared archival images of Haiti that showed elegance, beauty and fullness — images rarely seen. I made it clear that while the work wasn’t overtly political, it was deeply rooted in my heritage, and that foundation wasn’t negotiable.
How do you stay emotionally connected to the version of yourself who existed before recognition, before institutions, before Dior?
Honestly, the recognition hasn’t changed me. I’m grateful for it, but I’m still in my studio painting. That’s where I’m most grounded and stay true to myself. My family keeps me rooted. I’ve got three young boys at home, and they don’t care about accolades or hype. That daily reality keeps everything in perspective. Life is very real, very present and very human.
I also think timing matters. Doing this at 41 gives me clarity. If this had happened in my twenties, maybe it would’ve felt different. But I came into art knowing it was about legacy and longevity, not celebrity. The work I do in the studio every day is far deeper and more important to me than any single moment of attention. For me, success is simply an opportunity to start conversations. If this moment offers even a little inspiration, that’s enough.
Where can people find the bags? Are they available online or through a preorder?
The three distinct handbags are currently sold out. They were released through Dior flagship stores in extremely limited quantities, approximately 200 to 250 of each design, priced at around $30,000 each. Every piece was entirely handmade, almost made-to-order. Given that level of craftsmanship and months-long production cycle, there are no plans for additional production at this time. They may appear on the secondary market, similar to how artwork circulates once it’s been collected.
Do you see those collaborations as a way of supporting up-and-coming artists, or more as a mutual benefit situation?
I think it’s more organic than transactional. The people I’ve worked with genuinely collect and love my work, they were fans before any collaboration ever happened. Of course, there’s a business exchange involved, and that’s real. How impactful an opportunity is depends on how you choose to move with it.
One of the most important and often taboo things for artists to understand is the business side of art. The romantic idea of the isolated artist isn’t sustainable. You have to know what’s happening beyond the studio walls: how galleries, museums, collectors and institutions operate.
I truly believe I’m in this position to help guide and support other artists, especially those coming up behind me. That sense of responsibility matters just as much to me as the work itself.
Preserving Haiti’s truths
Haiti is so often reduced to a crisis in prevailing media narratives. What truths about Haiti, emotional, cultural or spiritual, do you feel most compelled to preserve?
The truth I’m most compelled to preserve is resilience. That’s the throughline of Haiti’s history, from the revolution onward, though it’s rarely taught fully. When I say, “I’ve never walked alone. Ancestors with me. All praise to God,” I mean that literally. I’ve seen that resilience firsthand in my family. My grandmother immigrated to the U.S., worked as a cleaning woman on Wall Street while raising eight children, invested back in Haiti and built stability in both worlds. That’s the truth of Haiti.
My work is an act of preservation. I want to show beauty, dignity, elegance and quiet strength, how deeply we value family, elders and community. My work expresses resilience through elegance, a spiritual inheritance that carries us forward.
What stories about Haiti or the Haitian diaspora feel most urgent for you to tell now before they are rewritten or erased?
The most urgent story to tell is the Haitian Revolution. Many people still can’t comprehend that a small, enslaved population defeated one of the most powerful armies in the world and then chose to help liberate others. That combination of brilliance, strength and selflessness is foundational to who we are. What’s often erased is the punishment that followed. History didn’t fail Haiti; Haiti was punished for succeeding.
Simply telling that history opens the door to deeper conversations about power, accountability and why freedom fighters are still condemned on a global scale. These conversations matter because narratives get rewritten when they’re left unchallenged. Preserving the truth of Haiti’s past is essential not just for Haitians but for understanding global history and justice today.
Do you ever see yourself collaborating with Haitian creatives, the fashion designers or other artists or musicians?
Absolutely. Collaborating with Haitian creatives is something I care deeply about, and I want to approach it with real intention. One of my goals is to bring Haitian American artists back to Haiti, especially those who’ve never been, often because they were taught to fear going home.
I’m currently thinking through the idea of creating a retreat or exchange in Haiti, where we can teach young Haitian artists about the contemporary art world while also learning directly from the culture and being on the ground, letting our feet touch the soil. That kind of exchange feels necessary and healing.
Moving forward, everything I do will be intentional, rooted in respect, and focused on honoring the talent and brilliance within our community.
Building up from a Black oasis
How has living in Atlanta shaped your understanding of Haitian identity within the broader Black diaspora?
Atlanta feels like an oasis of Black success. Here, I’m surrounded by Black Americans in positions of power and influence across business, government, culture and entrepreneurship, and that visibility has been deeply inspiring.
There’s a quiet confidence here, a sense of ownership and presence that resonates with me as a Haitian American. It reflects something I’ve always known about our people: That we’re resilient, capable and foundational, even when history has tried to divide or diminish us.
Seeing Black excellence so openly represented encouraged me to return to the Black figure after years of working abstractly in New York. It reaffirmed my belief in the importance of visibility and dignity in representation. That sense of connection continues to push my work forward and has taken my practice to a deeper, more intentional level.
What’s a typical day for you like juggling family and work?
I’m a family man first. That foundation keeps everything else in my life and work aligned. I don’t want success to come at the cost of presence, so my days are very structured around family.
My wife, who came from Haiti in eighth grade, is an exceptionally talented chef with a serious career of her own, and together we’ve made intentional choices so our family stays grounded. I try to honor that by being home for dinner, helping put the boys to bed, and staying involved in their daily lives — school pickups, activities, weekends together. I’m very protective of that balance.
My four children are my greatest motivation. They give me energy and purpose, and they’ve completely reshaped how hard and why I work. Being able to walk them into a museum and show them my work among artists I admire is something I don’t take lightly. This isn’t just about making paintings; it’s about building a legacy they can one day be proud of.
I have a flexible schedule, that rhythm allows me to stay present at home. I’m a family man through and through,
A conversation with Haiti itself
Knowing that younger Haitian artists are paying attention to your journey, how would you want your body of work to influence the youth on their journeys through life?
More than the work itself, I hope my journey is what inspires young Haitian artists. I became a father at 20, and that forced me into responsibility early. I learned quickly that survival alone isn’t enough. You also have to find fulfillment, because the best version of yourself is the one that’s whole and present. If you’re going to leap, go all in. Commit fully, with faith and discipline. Fulfillment matters. The best version of yourself is the one living with purpose.
I believe God and the universe respond to intention and perseverance. My hope is that young Haitian artists see that it’s possible to build a life rooted in purpose, responsibility and joy, and that success doesn’t have to come at the cost of who you are.
If your art could ask Haiti a question, what would that question be? Instead of your art explaining Haiti to the world, what would your art want to ask Haiti itself?
That’s a beautiful question. My work isn’t meant to speak over Haiti, but to remain in conversation with it to move with humility, reverence and love.
So if my art could ask Haiti a question, it would be about accountability and love. The question would be simple: ‘Am I honoring you the way you deserve to be honored?’ I would be asking Haiti as a child asks a parent, or an ancestor asks their lineage: ‘Am I listening closely enough? Is there something I’m missing? Am I carrying you with the care, dignity and responsibility you require?’
Looking ahead, what should we be on the lookout for from Patrick Eugène?
There are major exhibitions on the horizon, including museum shows and international presentations over the next few years, and other large-scale collaborations. I want to use this moment as an entry point, a way to introduce new audiences to contemporary art and to living artists who are actively shaping culture today, to redirect attention toward the paintings and the larger conversation around legacy, value and visibility — especially for Black artists. The exhibitions ahead are an extension of that commitment, and I’m excited for what’s coming next.
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