LOS ANGELES — Betye Saar, a Los Angeles artist who transformed collections of bigoted bric-à-brac — Sambo dolls, ceramic mammies and crude renderings of pickaninnies — into potent works of assemblage that mined the searing history of race in the United States, and whose works influenced generations of artists, has died. She was 99.

Saar died in her sleep — just a few days short of her 100th birthday — in Los Angeles, her longtime gallerist Julie Roberts at Robert Projects said. Saar’s death was confirmed by her publicist Hannah Gottlieb-Graham.

“Betye Saar was one of the greatest artists of our time, and it has been an immense honor to work with her for nearly 20 years,” Roberts said. “Her singular vision transformed the course of contemporary art, and her legacy will continue to inspire generations of artists, scholars, and audiences around the world.”

A diminutive woman with a low-key manner that belied a steely resolve, Saar was known for combing garage sales, flea markets and junk piles for objects that she employed in collages and assemblages large and small. These explored difficult aspects of American history — including slavery and Jim Crow — but also touched on more personal themes of family, memory, magic and spirituality.

“My work has to do with recycling,” she told a documentary crew in the 1970s. “Each item I collect has a certain energy from its previous function that carries over into its new use.”

In a 1984 profile, Times art writer Suzanne Muchnic described Saar as an artist who used found objects in a way that “draws on the power of mystery, the hurt of discrimination and the authenticity of individual vision.”

As Saar’s 100th birthday approached, her work and its groundbreaking importance were celebrated afresh in a slew of articles, including two recent profiles in The Times. As she approached the momentous milestone, Saar appeared more interested in creating new art than in dissecting her legacy. “That’s what art is,” she told The Times in an interview in late June. “Making something where there was nothing.”

Saar first rose to prominence in the 1970s, after crafting a small assemblage — roughly the size of a shoebox — that featured at its center a stereotypical Black mammy figurine bearing a rifle in one hand and a grenade in the other. The piece was first shown at the Rainbow Sign, a community center in Berkeley that was located near the headquarters of the Black Panthers.

The artist had begun her professional life as a designer of greeting cards and home accessories. But 1972’s “The Liberation of Aunt Jemima,” as the assemblage was called, catapulted her into the center of the Black Arts Movement and connected her with a broader tradition of assemblage in California and the art world at large. Three years after its creation, she had a solo exhibition at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York. Decades later, activist Angela Davis credited “The Liberation of Aunt Jemima” with spurring the Black women’s movement.

“It’s like they abolished slavery, but they kept Black people in the kitchen as mammy jars,” Saar said in a 2015 interview. “I had this Aunt Jemima, and I wanted to put a rifle and a grenade under her skirts. I wanted to empower her. I wanted to make her a warrior. I wanted people to know that Black people wouldn’t be enslaved by that.”

In June 2020, in the wake of the uprisings following the murder of George Floyd, Quaker Oats announced that it would retire the Aunt Jemima brand. Saar took to Instagram with an image of her famous work and a message: “She’s liberated! Finally at long last! And it’s about time!”

“Liberation” now resides in the collection of the Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive, not far from where it was first shown.

Betye Saar was born Betye Irene Brown in L.A. on July 30, 1926, the eldest of Jefferson Maze Brown and Beatrice Lillian Parson‘s three children. Her father, with whom she was close, died when Saar was about 5. And shortly thereafter, Parson relocated the family to Pasadena to live with her maternal aunt, Hattie Parson Keys. (Years later, Saar created a series of works in honor of Keys, employing objects that her aunt had left behind — something she would do for other family members as well.)

Saar’s parents weren’t artists, but art was in the air. When she was a child, her mother encouraged her to sew and make crafts. And, in the summers, she spent time at the home of her paternal grandparents in Watts, where she saw Simon Rodia building the Watts Towers and was struck by his use of materials.

“The one I find the most amusing is the corn cob,” she told the podcast “The Modern Art Notes” in 2016. “He had a piece of space with wet cement so he just put the corn cob in there. And I just love the kind of freedom to make the piece. Anything can go in there.”

After graduating from high school, Saar spent two years at Pasadena City College before transferring to UCLA in 1947. She majored in design, figuring that she would become an interior decorator — and, for a time, she did indeed work in that field, teaming up with Curtis Tann to form a cleverly named studio called Brown and Tann. Operating out of Tann’s home, the company produced an array of decorative and functional objects, including bowls, ashtrays and jewelry.

To market their goods, they turned to an informal network of African American artists, staging pop-up exhibitions in people’s homes and in other impromptu locations. In 1951, the pair was featured in Ebony magazine.

It was through that circle that she met a ceramicist of German American descent by the name of Richard Saar. In 1952, they married. The following year, their daughter Lezley was born. Two other daughters followed: Alison in 1956 and Tracye in 1961. (Lezley and Alison are now respected artists in their own right. And, in fact, on more than one occasion, all three women have shown their work together, most recently at the Museum of Art & History in Lancaster in 2018.) In 2024, the Equal Justice Initiative Legacy Gallery installed Saar’s “Seeking Secrets of Destiny” alongside her daughter Alison’s sculpture “The Beckoning.”

In 1962, the Saar family moved to a rambling hillside home in Laurel Canyon, then a very rustic part of L.A. It put them in a hotbed of hippiedom right as the 1960s got rolling.

“Down the road was Frank Zappa,” Saar recalled in one interview. “There weren’t that many houses. We had the long skirts and long hair, and it was very casual. You’d go to a love-in or a concert.”

“We were as hippie-ish as hippie could be, while still being responsible.”

By the late ‘60s, she and Saar had divorced. But she remained in Laurel Canyon, where she would live and work until the end of her life.

Saar came to art almost by accident. In the late 1950s, she enrolled at Cal State Long Beach to pursue a master’s degree so that she could teach. But a stroll through campus led her past the university’s printing department.

“I walked past the print workshop and I was like, ‘Heyyy!’ ” she later recalled.

The master’s degree never happened. Instead, she poured herself into printing.

“I loved making prints,” she recalled. “The move into fine art, it was liberating. It gave me freedom to experiment.”

A pair of other, longer journeys, also proved formative.

There was a trip to Chicago’s Field Museum, where she immersed herself in the institution’s extensive collection of African art, followed by a trip to Haiti in the early 1970s. Saar was drawn to the Caribbean nation because of her interest in voodoo and magic — and the power that these could confer on inanimate objects.

“In the early 1960s I began going to coffee houses and they’d have books on the occult,” she told the New York Times in 1978. “I was attracted to signs and diagrams of alchemy and palmistry, and I began to use them in my prints. I also haunted second-hand and junk stores, and I started to frame my prints in old window frames.”

But it was a visit to an exhibition of the work of Joseph Cornell at the Pasadena Art Museum (now the Norton Simon Musuem) that inspired her to take a three-dimensional turn in her work. Saar was moved by the surreal qualities of the New York artist’s intimately scaled assemblages, which were often presented in small boxes.

“I immediately started collecting stuff after I saw that show,” she told the L.A. Times in 2016. “I started going to yard sales and estate sales.”

During the ‘60s and ‘70s, she took on a series of part-time jobs to provide for her children, designing costumes at a cultural center and teaching at area art schools. These provided her with necessary income, but also allowed her enough time to make work — which she often did at the kitchen table.

Saar’s creations from that era are on display through Aug. 22 at Roberts Projects. Titled, “Let’s Get It On: The Wearable Art of Betye Saar,” the show covers the years Saar spent in the costume department for the Inner City Cultural Center’s theatrical productions.

“Art comes from the heart and the head,” she once said. “You don’t need to have a separate space in which to make it.”

Plus, art gave Saar a crucial political voice at a time of the civil rights and Black power movements. “If you are a mom with three kids, you can’t go to a march,” she once stated, “but you can make work that deals with your anger.”

In her assemblages, she incorporated symbols that channeled dark episodes of U.S. history and African American struggle: the schematics of slave ships, the hackneyed images of vintage kitsch and the cruel sobriquets used by white supremacists to describe Black children.

At first she was apprehensive about using this type of imagery in her work. “Blacks were ashamed of those derogatory images,” she told the New York Times. “I like to think I recycled those images from negative to positive.”

But there was power in those images — and Saar knew just how to harness it.

“Saar’s assemblage doesn’t just describe history,” wrote former Times art critic Christopher Knight of her work in 2019, “it embodies a visceral connection to it.”

She would go on to deploy these tropes in myriad ways throughout her career — in particular the stereotypical figure of the Black mammy.

This included one particularly potent work: a glass bottle featuring the visage of a smiling mammy, which she transformed into a Molotov cocktail. The piece, which for decades had been in a private collection, reappeared in the traveling exhibition “We Wanted a Revolution: Black Radical Women, 1965-85,” which went on view at the California African American Museum (CAAM) in 2017.

“Historically, the mammy was the ultimate image of Black female servitude in the American psyche,” wrote historian Steven Nelson in the catalog that accompanied a 2017 exhibition of Saar’s work at the Craft Contemporary (then known as the Craft & Folk Art Museum). “She was kind and giving. She cooked and cleaned and did the laundry. She took care of the children. She was harmless.”

By arming her mammies with revolvers, rifles and bullets, Saar turned a symbol of servility into one of militancy and power.

Her work also frequently touched on the personal: family, dreams, magic and the body (particularly the Black female body). In the process, she influenced a younger generation of artists, key figures such as Houston Conwill, Senga Nengudi and David Hammons.

“You can really see the impact she had on them,” said Kellie Jones, a scholar and independent curator who organized “Now Dig This!: Art and Black Los Angeles 1960-1980” at the Hammer Museum in 2011. “She had this multimedia practice. It was about Africa, but it was about the world. She has works with Mexican milagros, she has titles in Spanish, she at certain points has Asian influence and Haitian influence. She was really looking at the globe. She was a person in the world, and she really modeled that for people like Hammons and Conwill and Nengudi.”

Saar’s work resides in the permanent collections of more than 80 international museums, and in recent years, she was the subject of solo shows at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the Prada Foundation in Milan and the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art in Arizona (which hosted a retrospective).

In L.A., she had regular exhibitions at her Culver City gallery Roberts Projects, as well as one-woman shows at CAAM and the Craft Contemporary. In 2019, a small but potent show at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art explored the ways in which her drawing process factored into her assemblage work. But a full retrospective at one of her hometown’s major museums eluded her.

Saar told The Times that she didn’t let it bother her: “I’ve always done what I did and never felt I was competing with what was going on.”

If anything, she competed only with herself.

Well into her 90s, she continued to get up every day to craft assemblages out of the objects she had amassed in her studio. At 96, she scoured the Huntington Library gardens for a commissioned installation she called a “full-circle” project.

“I used to come to the Huntington with my mother when I was a child. She loved to garden, especially African violets, and she passed that love of plants and nature on to me,” Saar told the New York Times Style Magazine in 2024.

That love is palpable in “Drifting Toward Twilight” and its accompanying documentary, which sees Saar fawning over the orange tint of sloughed bark and the mystical qualities of garden scraps.

“Even in death those things can be really beautiful,” Saar said in the short documentary.

After working with a 17-foot canoe as a centerpiece for the Huntington exhibition, Saar told Curate LA that she felt compelled to return to small-scale pieces. The result was her 2024 Roberts Projects exhibit, “Betye Saar: New Work,” an objet trouvé medley in bronze and gold hues.

“At first, the new works were more nostalgic, with vintage photos and female ephemera, like gloves and such,” Saar said. “Then I brought in the tall ship bookends and African masks, and the works moved in a more ancestral and political direction.”

Even her grandson’s discarded computer parts made a cameo, a testament to Saar’s uncanny ability to mine inspiration from the most mundane objects.

“The worst problem for an artist is having nothing to say,” she once said in an interview. “I just have so many ideas. … Look at things that are important to you, what’s happening in your life. If you have that, you never run out of ideas.”

With her centennial on the horizon, Saar in 2025 formed the Betye Saar Legacy Group, a committee of her trusted curators and collaborators charged with preserving her vast archive and keeping her name fresh in the minds of new generations of artists.

A Saar biography penned by Zoé Whitley, who co-curated “Soul of a Nation: Art in the Age of Black Power,” is expected in 2027.

Saar is survived by her daughters Lezley, Alison (both artists) and Tracye (a writer), and her grandchildren Kyle Leeser, Maddy Inez, Sola Saar, Gen Saar Agustsson, Spencer Saar Cavanaugh, Megan Cavanaugh

—Times staff writers Malia Mendez and Jessica Gelt contributed to this report.

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