Ari Moore’s Long Road From Buffalo Police Officer to Transgender Icon

This article is part of Hyperallergic‘s 2024 Pride Month Series, featuring interviews with queer and trans elders in the art world throughout the month of June.

Artist, teacher and activist Ari Moore entered the Buffalo art world in the 1970s. Today, she is dedicated to sharing her decades of knowledge with the next generation. “The Buffalo art scene is growing, thriving and, dare I say, thriving,” she said over Zoom.

Moore’s career in the art world has not been without interruption, however. After teaching at the Buffalo AKG Art Museum (formerly known as the Albright-Knox Art Gallery) and working in for-profit galleries, Moore spent 25 years as a Buffalo police officer.

From exhibiting her work at Buffalo’s Juneteenth festivals to her two decades of campaigning for trans rights, Moore delves into her personal story in the latest edition of our Pride Month series.

H: How did you get into the art world?

AM: A family friend, a gay artist, saw artistic potential in me when I was young. He sponsored me to take art classes at the Albright Knox Art Gallery here in Buffalo. Through this opportunity, I not only gained a sense of self-worth and an art education, but I also gained the knowledge to challenge some of the norms of the art world.

H: What were some of these norms and how did you challenge them?

AM: I had wonderful art teachers at Buffalo East High, a 99% black school in a city that was still pretty segregated. I spent a few years at the University of Buffalo, then I went to Rosary Hill College, which was a very white suburban college at the time. I saw the old boys network in action. I had to do some code-switching. I was then offered an assistant art teacher position at Albright Knox and later hired by a major gallery. I may not have been able to break some of the glass ceilings at the time, but I knew where they were and I moved up the ladder in a leisurely manner.

I taught at Albright Knox for 14 years and continued my studies. I gave a lecture on African American art from the 1700s to 1965, which many professors and instructors had no idea about. To this day, when I talk to executive directors of galleries and museums, some of whom have wonderful shows, I ask them, “Do you have a Robert Duncanson? Do you have a Jacob Lawrence? A Romare Bearden? A Faith Ringgold?” If they look at me quizzically, I briefly explain why they should have these pieces in their collections.

H: Who do you consider your mentors?

AM: I ran my own art studio for a number of years when I was young, and artist Bill Cooper lived a few doors down from me. Having someone like that in a space where I could pop my head in and ask, “Hey, what do you do? How do you do that?” was very educational. While I was teaching at Albright, I was taking summer jobs at the Langston Hughes Center here in Buffalo as a painting instructor. Seeing professional Black artists doing huge things and then making space for other young Black artists to show in the center made me think, “Yes, I can do that. I can be that.”

I came out to my mom at 16 and her acceptance of me was another big thing for me. As for my trans experience, which happened in the 70s and 80s, I met a trans woman named Dixie Gilbert and she introduced me to a troupe of female impersonators called the Pearl Box Revue (as opposed to the Jewel Box Revue in New York). They were a black troupe that traveled with their cabaret through Western New York, northern Pennsylvania, Ohio, and up into the Poconos. I met Bobby Lopez, Wanda the Cox, Tanya Nelson, Irma Love, Randy Martini… all these interesting names and flamboyant characters.

I stand on the shoulders of so many giants before me. I stand in many rooms: one foot in the black community, one foot in the trans community, one foot in white society. Being black in a white society is always stressful. I am active, I am productive, I am blessed and I am lucky because many people who look like me don’t make it this far. They suffer from stigma and oppression.

H: How has your identity played a role in your work?

AM: I did an art exhibition called The Queens I’ve Knownwhich includes paintings of trans and drag people from Western New York. I did another series called Two by two of gay couples who had been together for over 10 years. This is ongoing. Many of them were purchased and given as gifts for their wedding.

H: Do you now consider yourself a mentor?

AM: I noticed there was no room for transgender women of color, so I started African American Queens in the early 90s. Then in 1999, a friend of mine, Camille Hopkins, was transitioning and asked me to go to the Capitol with her to advocate for transgender rights. It took almost a decade, but I met so many transgender fighters. Camille and I founded the Spectrum Transgender Support Group of West New York. We pushed forward with strength and kept going for almost 20 years until COVID put a stop to everything. It’s important to have love and support and to be able to see other people like you, who at least congratulate you and say, “Well done.” “In 2019, I got a call from the governor of New York to come to New York for the signing of the Gender Expression Nondiscrimination Act, which we had been working on since those early years. It was an honor. But at my age, I had to slow down a little bit.

I have mentored several young people here in Buffalo. As my grandmother always said, “Honey, education, education, education.” Education is something that can’t be taken away from you once you learn it and know it. You can take other things away from you, but you can’t take that away from you. I have a young woman of color and another young black man who have opened their own galleries. A black trans woman is now the director of our organization here in Buffalo. Another, a trans man (I call him my son), has exceeded my expectations and dreams. They are the chosen family that we seek out and choose, and when they succeed, I can rest easy. As an elder, if I don’t share my knowledge, it will be wasted when I am gone.

H: What made you want to join the police and how were those years?

AM: During those 14 years, when I was an art and painting teacher, I lived my best gay life. But when the funds and money dried up at the gallery and our staff went from 12 to 4, I realized I needed a job that would keep me employed for a long time. My father worked in a steel mill, but every now and then they would lay off workers. My mother had worked at the hospital. I realized I needed a job that would give me health care, a pension, and job security—where I wouldn’t be laid off, furloughed, or laid off. So that job would be in government. In the ’70s, I heard Dick Gregory speak, and he made a statement that stuck with me: “If government isn’t what you need, get involved, get involved, and make those changes.”

I literally had to go back into the closet. I cut my hair and tried to grow some lip hair. I was able to effectively present as a man for about twenty years. The first year after I left, I began my transition.

It was difficult and dangerous, but also rewarding because I was able to help people who had no other recourse. I was able to help people who saw the police officer as a gatekeeper and a scarecrow. So I stepped in and showed empathy, understanding and compassion. In some cases, I accompanied people to court to make sure they had protection or to let the judge know that they needed these documents now because they had an abusive partner.

Being able to make a difference for the queer community, as well as the black community, was rewarding to me. But over the last five years, I got tired of being misgendered and sometimes ridiculed. It wasn’t because of the neighborhood, it was because of the people I was working with. It was starting to wear on me. After 25 years, I had enough. I left the organization in 2007.

H: What does Pride Month mean to you?

AM: I have a vision of myself that comes from my mother. Then, as a teenager, seeing gay adults who were active and productive members of the community and hearing about the Stonewall riots gave me courage and strength. I lived through the civil rights movement, I witnessed the feminist movement, I saw the protests against the Vietnam War, and then I saw the struggles for gay liberation and transgender rights. Pride is a continuation of a struggle for human rights.

Partners and alumni who have been in this field for a long time complain, “It’s so big, it’s so commercial.” I have to remind them, “Isn’t this what we were looking for all along? To be included in mainstream society, to be accepted, and to rejoice in our very existence?” Maybe we’ve done it too well, but the queer community still has issues with stigma, gender, and racism. We have a chance to make a difference for our youth.