You never know what a simple “yes” can transform into. As the dust clouded around the soles of my Timberland boots for the first time in 2017, I had no clue that my life — and my impact on the world — was about to completely change.
I entered the gates of Burning Man, the annual week-long community and art festival of around 75,000 people held in Black Rock City, a temporary city in the middle of the desert of northwestern Nevada, as an insecure young woman who didn’t quite know where she fit. Photography was my gift, self-taught but God-given, and all I wanted was to travel, to tell stories, and to inspire people through my work. When a friend gifted me a ticket that year, I really wanted to say no. I was terrified and definitely didn’t think it was a space for me, given its historical reputation as overwhelmingly White, wild, and male. I’m glad I did, scared and all. It set off a ripple effect that continues to shape not just my life, but the community around me.
Erin Douglas, photo from the Black Burner Project (2022)
That first year was everything people say about Burning Man and more — magical and hard, overwhelming and beautiful, reflective and transformative. And while I came back unsure if I’d ever return, I carried with me a new understanding: that there’s beauty and growth in the unknown, that representation matters, and authentic stories matter even more.
In 2018, I returned with a mission: to photograph and share the stories of Black and Brown Burners. Out of that came the Black Burner Project, a storytelling initiative dedicated to documenting and celebrating our presence, shifting narratives, and proving that we, too, belonged in this radical space of creativity, freedom, and self-expression. My hope was to inspire others who looked like me to take up space, to create, to dream big, and to understand that they were worthy of belonging in spaces of healing and joy. And almost immediately, that hope took form in what became my first real art piece.
Erin Douglas, Black Burner Project group photo (2018)
The very first Black Burner Project group photo was more than an image — it was a vision, an expressive gathering; live artwork. A moment of emotion, beauty, and connection. I knew that even before I clicked the shutter. It was an experience. Presence itself became the medium. When a bystander said that witnessing the gathering was the most powerful and beautiful art piece she’d seen on the playa — what we call the dry lakebed on which the festival takes place — I held those words close to my heart. That photo foreshadowed everything that came after. It was proof that gathering, documenting, and honoring our community could be as transformative as any sculpture in the dust.
That very first experience eventually carried me somewhere I never imagined: into the world of large-scale art. I didn’t think of myself as an artist. But when I created “Black! Asé” in 2022 — the first large-scale photography installation featuring portraits of Black Burners on playa — I understood what art could do. I recognized my gift and stepped into my new role, gathering, activating, and creating spaces that can be felt, not just witnessed. With massive portraits of Black humans standing tall in the desert, people had no choice but to see us, to honor our beauty, to ask questions, to sit with their discomfort. That’s what art does: It shifts perception. And if I could do it without prior experience, others could too.
Erin Douglas, Black Burner Project group photo (2019)
Fast forward to this year, seven years in, and I find myself in a different role. I decided to attend this year’s festival at the last minute, and, for the first time, I went mainly for myself. Not to lead a build, not to run an activation, not to photograph, but simply to witness — to stand back and look at the movement I had helped spark. And, of course, above all, to play. To find new parts of myself; to discover my own story after years of dedication and passion towards this work.
What I saw humbled me.
Erin Douglas, “Jen Reed’s Compost Playground – The Apple Core” (2025)
Kate Moss, artist/fabricator Jen Reed (photo courtesy the artist)
All across the playa, I stumbled upon pieces of art created and birthed by Burners of Color. I didn’t seek them out — they found me. As I biked toward playa Alchemist — the 71-foot silver pyramid sitting in the distance, the complete opposite direction from my camp — the unmistakable curves of Jen Reed’s “Apple Core,” the remains of a piece of fruit eaten down to its core, sculpted from steel and rope, rose from the dust like a living organism, inviting pleasure and reflection at monumental scale.
At the base of the Man, Zulu Heru’s powerful and masterful “Whispers of Waste” mask towered above me, a reminder of ancestral presence. Its weathered surface and framing horns evoked an artifact unearthed by archaeologists, a relic from the Motherland carrying echoes of centuries past.
“I’m working to break the stereotype that African masks are ‘primitive,’” Zulu told me. “They should be seen as fine art, as high art, and Burning Man is a stage to show that.”
Erin Douglas, “Hey Queen” by artists Chelsey Hathman & Sterling Benefield
Erin Douglas, Chelsey (Chels) Hathman
Riding around the dust mounds in another direction on the compacted, dusty ground, I came upon “Hey Queen” by lead fabricator Chelsey Hathman and artist Sterling Benefield, a regal, unapologetic depiction of a brown queen crowned in glory. She was Beautiful.
Hathman told me: “It feels like a full-circle moment. My first burn was in 2022. I was definitely on the lookout for more Black folx, especially Black queer women like myself. I found them in glimpses. One night, I stumbled upon an art piece of a large figure, a Black man with a red bandana on his face, neon circular glasses, and a tough hat. I was mesmerized. You could see the dust on his arm hair! I felt drawn to him, to the playa. The grind that it requires to bring art there. I felt seen, and I wanted to bring that feeling to other Black and Brown folx.”
Arin Fishkin, “Dispensing Influence” (2025) by Gerry Laureus, Atwane Calderon, and Daquan Carathers (photo courtesy Daquan Carathers, Gerry Laureus, and Antwan Calderon)
As I headed to another camp across the playa, there stood “Dispensing Influence” by first-time artist lead Gerry Laureus, a larger-than-life gumball machine. Turning its knob felt like being a child again — anticipating what surprise might roll out — but instead of candy, it released radiant, circular Yoruba orishas: divine spirits embodying nature, emotion, and the cosmic.
Yomi Ayeni, “Dispensing Influence” (2025) leads Daquan Carathers, Gerry Laureus, Antwan Calderon (photo courtesy the artist)
And then, as I made my way towards the Temple, the spiritual heart of every Burning Man, where we reflect, release, and hold space for those we’ve lost — there, I was met by “The Pillar of Po Tolo,” the latest Afrofuturist column from artist and architect Antwane Lee. His first installation, the pillar work “The Solar Shrine” (2022), created a holistic space of healing and shared visions of the future — witnessing his second installation here filled me with pride and joy.
Each discovery stopped me in my tracks. Each one filled me with awe, pride, and a deep sense of completion. To see people I’ve known for years — friends, collaborators, community members — step into their own greatness of creation, fabrication, and gifting was nothing short of electric.
Erin Douglas, Antwane Lee’s “The Pillar of Po Tolo” (2025)
Erin Douglas, artist/architect Antwane Lee (2025)
Today, the presence of Black-led art at Burning Man is undeniable, and it’s growing. To stumble upon five pieces in one ride out on playa alone is a victory, a testament to what is possible when representation takes root and grows.
It wasn’t like this in 2017. By then, the only Black artists I’d ever heard of were Hank Willis Thomas and Martha Reid, whose monumental Afro pick sculpture drew me to the playa early so I wouldn’t miss its unveiling. I didn’t know of any other Black-led projects at Burning Man. If there were, they went largely unrecognized, dwarfed by the hundreds of other installations.
“I wanted to create a beacon that would call more people from all backgrounds into play, and I felt ‘All Power to All People’ could live up to that,” Willis Thomas told me. “I’m most excited about what you and others have done, and I hope the afro pick helped others to feel they could be ambitious.”
Marsha Reid, “All Power to all People” (2018) (photo courtesy the artist)
Erin Douglas, photo of “All Power to All People” (2018) by Hank Willis Thomas, Marsha Reid, and team
I met Zulu in 2018 on playa — his first Burn, my second. As I wandered, still figuring out how to approach this photography project idea, I stumbled into his camp just up the road from mine. He was an obvious creative, someone I felt compelled to keep in touch with. I had no idea I’d later call him back to playa as one of my build leads for my first-ever installation in 2022. By 2023, he was leading his own honoraria project — the highly competitive Burning Man Arts grants awarded each year to a select number of large-scale installations on playa.
Jen Reed joined my team in 2022 after a 10-year break from the Burn. We met for the first time on the playa as we prepared to build. She then stepped up as my build lead and fabricator for my second large-scale installation, “Barbershop” (2024), inspired by the cultural significance of barbershops in Black communities and my own family’s journey with mental health. Designed as a sanctuary, it became a site for reflection, healing, and dialogue — honoring Black men’s mental health, creativity, and connection while sparking broader conversations about identity, belonging, and resilience. This year, Jen brought her own vision and installation to life for the first time at Burning Man, one she had been ideating and patiently waiting to gift to the playa and beyond for years.
Martin Rodriguez, artist Zulu Heru (photo courtesy the artist)
The people I’ve met through chance encounters have become part of my story, and in turn, they’ve launched new and expansive creative journeys of their own.
This year, I realized something: My mission may be complete, but the work is far from over. The Black Burner Project was never about me; it was about us. About planting seeds, building bridges, and opening doors so that others could walk through and create their own magic. Be their own magic. And now, standing in the dust and witnessing this flourishing of Black art and presence, I see that we are in a new phase.
The next chapter isn’t just about representation — it’s about expansion. It’s about ensuring that artists of color continue to be supported, encouraged, and championed not only at Burning Man but far beyond it.
Because what started as a terrified “yes” in 2017 has grown into a movement. And movements, once born, don’t stop; they multiply. As artist Reed put it: “I hope my project inspires artists to dream something that makes no sense at all. You don’t have to be practical or follow many rules. You just have to believe that whatever you really want to create is worth creating simply because you thought of it.”
Erin Douglas, Burning Man attendees (undated)
Erin Douglas, the playa at Burning Man
