Ronnie Robinson Builds Portals, Not Paintings

Walking into Ronnie Robinson’s Los Angeles studio feels less like entering a workspace and more like stepping into a system of thought. Nothing here reads as accidental. The objects, the books, the layers of paint built up over time all suggest a practice rooted in listening as much as making.

Ronnie’s path matters. Born in Mt. Vernon, shaped in Brooklyn, now based in LA, his work has always circled symbolism, ancestry, and the unseen forces that sit just behind the visible world. Early on, that language showed up through African masks and sigils. Those pieces weren’t aesthetic exercises. They were about power, ownership, and reclaiming symbols that were once functional, then flattened or demonized through a Western lens. That energy hasn’t disappeared. It’s expanded.

In conversation with Perri Dash, our Super Niche founder, Robinson traces how that symbolic thinking moved into portraiture, then into florals, materials, and thick, almost geological layers of paint. He’s careful to say this wasn’t a pivot. It’s a continuation. Masks, figures, flowers all operate the same way for him. They’re portals. Each carries meaning, intention, and energy depending on how you approach it.

One of the most grounding threads comes from a family photograph. Finding an image of his uncle, someone present but largely unknown, forced Robinson to confront how little we often know about our immediate ancestry. We speak broadly about lineage, but rarely interrogate the stories one generation back. His figures aren’t portraits in the conventional sense. They’re attempts to reopen those closed loops. To create dialogue across time.

Geography quietly reshapes everything. Robinson describes New York as dense and predetermined, a place where structures already exist. Los Angeles feels open, unfinished, more dependent on imagination. That openness shows up in the work. Concrete gives way to flowers. Grit gives way to growth. Plants become instruction. They bloom without explanation, without apology. That expectation of growth becomes a metaphor for how he thinks about life and practice.

Intuition is the constant throughline. Books read decades ago resurface mid-process. Objects like bells enter the work as symbols of readiness and awakening. Paint isn’t just surface. It’s matter. It holds space. Layers accumulate because they carry weight, not because they decorate.

This isn’t about branding an artist or packaging a narrative. It’s about watching someone build a visual language by trusting what keeps calling to them. Watch closely. There’s more happening beneath the surface than the first glance lets on.