Greetings from the Crescent City

Allen Jaffe, Owner of Preservation Hall, 1965

Doing online historical research takes me to some places that I regret running into because they suck so many hours out of my days.  The New Orleans Public Library’s Louisiana Photograph Collection is one of those places. It has everything from Works Projects Administration images commissioned by FDR’s New Deal agency, to newly digitized personal collections of images taken at the turn of the 20th century. And while it’s true that some great American photographers like Walker Evans, Berenice Abbott and Dorothea Lange cut their teeth taking pictures for the WPA, there’s also an abundance of the mundane in this collection. Pictures of houses, farms, parades, parks, zoos and public projects designed to put people to work during the Depression.

As much as I love stumbling across wonderful, obscure pictures from the past, I’m also fascinated by the ordinary. Sometimes a poorly composed or slightly out of focus image is every bit as interesting to me as the iconic ones because they remind me of flipping though an old family album. The photography may not always be inspiring, but these imperfect snapshots make it so much easier to step back in time if you’re not in constant awe of the photographer’s talent.

In a few weeks I’m heading down to Louisiana to speak at Southern University Law Center in Baton Rouge, and I’m planning to spend a few days in the Crescent City for Mardi Gras.  With that in mind, here’s some of the more interesting pictures I stumbled across in this magnificent, time-sucking collection.

A.P. Tureaud, left

Irish Channel Shotgun Shack

Rex Parade

Mardi Gras, 1901

St. Louis Cemetery

Night School

Horseshoes

Syphilis Drip

Kenya (Robinson): Pomade in America

Recently, I was doing a photo shoot for Mizani—a L’Oreal division of products targeted to the African American hair salon/stylist—and I got into a conversation with one of the models, Kenya (Robinson) about the politics of black hair.  Kenya, it turns out, is from North Central Florida—an area I’ve been spending a lot of time in lately, doing research for my book about Thurgood Marshall.  But Kenya is also a “visual-conceptual-performance-artist” and she recently traveled around the country with her exhibit, HairPolitic, The Pursuit of Nappiness, making her an authority on the subject as far as I’m concerned.  Because she’s inspiring, opinionated, and full of life, I wanted to interview her about her work, and also get her take on the recent Publishers Weekly flap over their “Afro Picks” issue.

GK: What do you think about this Publishers Weekly controversy over this “Afro Picks” cover?

K(R): I believe, what is most fascinating about the imagery featured on the cover of Publishers Weekly is the ensuing discussion that is taking place.   It is a testament to how far black people must travel to reach a social-cultural space that lends itself to autonomy.  Unfortunately, our actions are often defaulted to the inherently political, eliciting responses that dismiss the selection as an editorial decision and concern themselves with an imagined ‘read’ from the mainstream audience.  So what if (white) folks view work by black authors as “cultish…voodoo…foreign”?  That perspective is entirely allowed and it doesn’t seem to be an absolute deterrent to penetrating new audiences.  In keeping with a political vein however, I vote that black folks continue to make work that is focused on the creative impulse and let the ideological chips fall where they may.

GK: So, who are you, where are you from and what are you doing in New York?

K(R): My name is Kenya Naila (Robinson) and I am from Gainesville (by way of Laundstuhl, Germany and Seattle,Washington). Both my parents are Gainesville natives as well; we’ve even had some of the same teachers, which illustrates the type of comforting redundancy found in towns like these. I’ve worked as a fashion designer, patternmaker, and graphic

designer, and I’ve also stumbled upon a number of copywriting projects- all of which serve to support my passion as an emergent artist/independent curator.

My move to New York (Brooklyn), almost 6 years ago, is a testament to a previously unrequited love affair with the city. I first visited when I was sixteen on a delightfully touristy trip with my father. All the things that imagined about New York City, from watching movies and television seemed to be true, and I felt a connection with all the possibilities that the big apple represents and, in fact, presents, to those willing to jump in with both feet.

GK: You told me you grew up in North Central Florida, and early on, you experienced reactions from whites about your hair.  Someone once called you a Pickaninny, you mentioned.  So you must have stood out there, even at an early age.

K(R): To be sure, I think I was seen as unique in Gainesville. Coming from Seattle Washington at age 7, I had a different way of speaking, so that was an easy characteristic to use as an identifier. This trait was racialized as soon as I went to public school (having come from the Montessori tradition). I have always been a friendly person, a talker, so I never had a problem expanding my friend circle as far as it would go. This behavior translated into the fact that most of my closest friends as a youngster were white girls, thereby introducing questions of beauty and difference early on. It wasn’t until high school that my social groups started to homogenize darkly. Because the University of Florida is so large, there are/were a number of international professional students with families, American faculty members and other folk associated with the university whose children I went to school with. Thinking back on it, I must have been viewed as an “appropriate playmate” since at the birthday parties, bar/bat mitzvahs, and sleepovers, I was the only black kid there.

In turn, I was always exposed to glimpses of a higher-end lifestyle only to return to “the eastside” (the black side) of town. Fortunately, I think I was more curious than envious of these differences. It was clear that black people were poor(er) and white people all lived in nicer houses and neighborhoods- even the ones you could identify as having ‘less’. This continues to intrigue me, especially in light of what I know and have discovered about the connection between racism and white privilege. I think my way of being as a youngster may have confused some of the significant adults in my life (both white and black). I believe each group– and make no mistake, these are generally very separate groups– they believe the hype so to speak. Both about themselves and the ‘other.’ Ultimately, though it has been the layered context of my upbringing that gives rise to much of my creative work, but I suppose this is consistent with most creative people.

GK: What is different about black hair in New York, as opposed to black hair in the South?

K(R): Fundamentally, there is nothing different about black hair in New York vs. the South. The rules are equally restrictive, albeit in different ways. The southern climate usually requires a more sculptural approach–gelled waves and coiffures hair-sprayed to a lacquered finish, are still the norm. While in the North, with its cooler weather, has traditionally allowed for longer periods between visits to the salon, and freer configurations. In my heyday, I went to the salon a minimum of twice a month, more if there was a special occasion. I woke up 5 am each morning during High School to arrange my hair into spiral curls that could easily be undone by the morning dew on my walk to the bus stop. I would often wear a shower cap through my morning commute to preserve my ‘do, and no one gave me a second glance (lawd!).

In New York there is this faction of militant naturalists that supply similar restrictions as to what is appropriate. To some, grooming (dread)locks at a salon is sacrilege and any type of artificial or chemical accoutrements is tantamount to ‘blackness denial’, while others eschew the long hair aesthetic altogether. Then there is the issue of weaves and wigs. The technology of weave installation seems to be on a higher level here, probably because the income of the patrons is higher, and these cutting edge techniques seem to trickle down more democratically in the North.

Both regions fixate on creating looks that require extreme care/up-keep, but I think this is a complicated mixture of tradition (take a look some the time intensive examples from west Africa) and a transformed aesthetic that is based on standards of mainstream (White) culture. Speaking of which- White people continue to surprise me with their lack of boundaries when it comes to Black hair. I have been approached by complete and utter strangers (male and female), with questions, and sometimes physical invasions of personal space, (in the North and the South), all in an effort to touch my hair (the nerve!). And it’s still an issue in the workplace, whether we wish to acknowledge it. What is most disturbing is that in almost every region of the African Diaspora, water is kryptonite to 90% of black women. Can you imagine? Being literally disabled by the thought of an impromptu dip in the pool, just because of your hair?

GK: What are you working on these days?

K(R): I feel like Black people in America (specifically) feel a sense of shame attached to the brutality of our collective history. I hope to inspire a sense of entitlement that comes from acknowledging our strength and recognizing our birth right to the American dream. I wish to inspire active questioning through my artwork. Whether it’s an address to the lucrative ambitions of the prison-industrial complex (or a visual investigation of the misrepresentation of women in mass media (White Bitches: The Platinum Eaters). There is a reason that Art can transcend language- I believe that I can help create a space to insert diverse voices into this dialogue.

I am very proud to be an LMCC WorkSpace resident, and the level of diversity expressed in this year’s class inspires me. Perhaps it is the ‘Obama Effect’, but more likely it is the culmination of all those struggles from before. I truly believe in the American experiment, even though, at its inception, it was not meant for a person like me. I am a member of the Hip-Hop generation, so the bragadocious co-opting of what ever I can get my hands on, and making it my own, is a cultural touchstone that has significant merit.

Technology through performance is yet another conduit I plan to ride until the wheels fall off. And the challenge of these serious economic times is a testament to the legacy I am helping to create.

To learn more about Kenya and her work, travel here…

Kenya (Robinson) at LMCC Workspace:

http://kenyaworkspace.blogspot.com

http://lmcc.net/art/residencies/workspace/2009/session/kenya-robinson.html

Online Portfolio

http://www.wotartist.com/art-website.asp?profileid=4781

The Professional Muse ~”Strategic Inspiration”

“Get Them Kids” by Kenya (Robinson)

http://www.vimeo.com/6690067

http://theprofessionalmuse.googlepages.com/home

www.facebook.com/TheProfessionalMuse

Barack Obama’s Afro Pick

This week, Publishers Weekly ran a cover story on “new books and trends in African-American publishing.”  Nothing unusual there.  Except the cover headline, “Afro Picks!” was illustrated with the image of dozens of fisted Afro picks packed into the hair of a young black woman.  Now, the publishing world is trying to figure out whether the trade magazine is guilty of anything beyond hackneyed double entendre.

Clearly, the Afro Pick still packs a political punch.  But I was reminded of a time, not long ago, when the Afro Pick packed a punchline.  In November of 2007, I attended a cocktail party/fundraiser for Barack Obama at a friend’s house in Harlem.  With no video cameras around, Obama was loose and clearly in a good mood as he gathered himself to say a few words before heading out to another fundraiser at the Apollo Theater.  Just then, he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror and remarked that he needed to get back to Chicago and “get myself a haircut.”  At that point, the Afro-sporting author and professor Cornell West pulled from his pocket a large Afro comb and handed it to the Senator, who began to pick at his hair, much to everyone’s delight.

When the laughter began to subside, Obama paused and took one final look at the pick.  Then, with perfect comedic timing, he handed it back to the author.  “Brother West,” he said, “I’m disappointed.  I expected to see a big fist on the end of this!”

Aside from the aesthetics of PW’s cover, there seems to be a larger dynamic at play, as some African-American writers believe the magazine’s cover choices only serve to endorse the continued segregation and placement of their books in “AFAM” sections of bookstores and effectively limiting their commercial appeal.

As someone who is working on a book about Thurgood Marshall’s life in the years leading up to Brown v Board of Education, I’m sympathetic.   I’d prefer to see it not tucked away in the AFAM section of bookstores, but in American History.  Where it belongs.

Happy Birthday, X

It’s almost ludicrous to believe that Malcolm X would have been 84 years old today had he survived a shotgun blast at the hands of Talmadge Hayer at the Audubon Ballroom in Upper Manhattan in late February of 1965.  Before the decade was over, assassins would strike out at America’s most divisive and beloved figures, black and white, and no one had a bigger target on him than the man born as Malcolm Little in Omaha, Nebraska.  

After breaking with the Nation of Islam, Malcolm X began to speak of working with civil rights leaders, but his only meeting with Martin Luther King Jr. was brief–barely enough time together for a photo op.  There would be no photos of Malcolm X and Thurgood Marshall, however.  Malcolm X despised Marshall’s integrationist views and had been referring to Marshall as the “half-white Nigger,” in speeches at the Hotel Theresa in Harlem.  Marshall was not amused.  ”I’m about the same color he was,” Marshall told author Juan Williams for his book, Thurgood Marshall: American Revolutionary.   

The two met on Seventh Avenue in Manhattan one afternoon after Malcolm X had returned from Mecca, and according to Marshall, “we called each other sons of bitches and that was all there was.” Marshall told Williams that he thought Malcolm X had changed after the pilgrimage, but he still didn’t hold Malcolm in high regard.  ”What did he ever do?” Marshall asked, adding that Malcolm X “was a bum, hell, he was a damned pimp–a convicted pimp, about as lowlife as you can get.”  

Dirty New York

Shadows by John Cassavetes

 

A few years ago, I had a photographic assignment to shoot street scenes, buildings and locations all around New York City for a coffee table book, City in Time.    The point of the book was to compare, side by side, images of New York as far back as the 19th century, and attempt to replicate those images from the exact vantage point.  In some cases, the passage of time was obvious.  In others, little had changed.  

Taking of Pelham 123

 

 

 

It was an opportunity to look at the city I’ve lived in for the past twenty-five years in a different light.  New York as a visceral set.  But because the majority of the “old New York” images were taken before World War II, there was an understandable gap in the coverage.  With the old photographs in hand, I’d travel the city and painstakingly attempt to find the precise spot and the same lens needed to capture an image that matched the original.  Sometimes, new trees would make the job impossible.  Other times, new buildings got in my way.  And sometimes, everything lined up perfectly.

Kojak

 

 

My favorite shots were the ones that transported me back to those gap years, in the 1960s and 70s, when the city was grimy and rough around the edges. A city I remember from watching movies like Shadows by John Cassavetes, and William Friedkin’s The French Connection, and TV shows like Kojak. Or from childhood visits, where payphones, pimps and Plymouths littered the streets, and I’d peer out nervously from the back seat of our family station wagon, making sure my car door button was depressed as we rolled down Broadway.  

The Warriors

 

 

While shooting for this book I’d walk everywhere, and once in a while, I’d turn a corner near South Street Seaport or in Murray Hill and the drab signage of years gone by would instantly, if only momentarily, hearken me back to a time in the city that is indelibly and visually etched into my psyche. Sometimes it would be graffiti.  Or garbage piled up on a corner.  New York was definitely dirtier then and somehow got by on less advertising. But it was in color now–unsaturated, Kodachrome color with shallow depth of field, and it was terrifying at times.  Nobody thought to have block party barbecues during the blackout of 1977.  Son of Sam was lurking out there, somewhere, and Jimmy Breslin was on (and in) the story for the Daily News.  And somewhere, a detective slapped a cherry on the roof of a Plymouth Fury, and the tires screeched as the smell of smoke from a tenement fire in the Bronx permeated the air.  

Obamanominee? Get Shorty.

On the heels of endless evaluation of Barack Obama’s first 100 days in office (all concur, he was busy) comes the President’s first chance to select a Supreme Court nominee, and another news cycle that promises to be rife with speculation.  A Woman?  A Pragmatist?  The answer is yes. 

It’s no secret that Thurgood Marshall is one of Obama’s heroes. “I would imagine that if Barack had a free hand to appoint judges without having to worry about confirmations, about politics, that his idea of a great justice would be someone like a Thurgood Marshall,” said Geoffrey Stone, the former dean of the University of Chicago law school, in the New York Times. 

If anyone provides a link to Marshall, it’s Elena Kagan, the former dean of Harvard Law School. Obama nominated Kagan (who was recently confirmed) as the nation’s first female Solicitor General, a position that is sometimes referred to as “the 10th justice.”   Marshall was appointed the nation’s first black Solicitor General by Lyndon Johnson two years before Johnson named him to the Supreme Court.  

And if that link isn’t enough, after graduating magna cum laude from Harvard Law School in 1986, Kagan was a law clerk for Justice Thurgood Marshall, who, according to Kagan, called her “Shorty.”

Strange Fruit

Just before Brown v. Board of Education, Thurgood Marshall became involved in a dangerous and dramatic case that centered around the citrus industry in Central Florida.  White “citrus lords” maintained control over black labor with the help of local law enforcement and a sheriff’s department that worked hand in hand with the Ku Klux Klan.  It was a semi-feudal system that lasted for decades, and violence was often the preferred method to rid communities of troublemakers.  Sometimes, the burning of neighborhoods was necessary to impose control.  

Today, the orange groves of Florida employ mostly Hispanic migrant workers who provide cheap labor.  Last week, I was in Central Florida doing research and I came across one of the local groves, where I took this picture.  I’m not sure things looked much different when Thurgood Marshall was down here in the late 1940s, and I wondered what the Hispanics working these groves knew or cared of this historic and often deadly part of the American South.

John Hope Franklin 1915-2009

When Thurgood Marshall was preparing to argue Brown v. Board of Education before the US Supreme Court, he called historian John Hope Franklin and “persuaded” Franklin to join his legal team.  Marshall wanted a historian’s perspective on the intent of the framers of the Fourteenth Amendment with respect to segregation in the schools, and the NAACP attorney was able to transform Franklin’s research into an “urgent plea for justice” before the Court.  It’s rare that a scholar and historian is able to see the results of his own contribution to a moment that he believed, “reversed the course of history.”

On Wednesday, John Hope Franklin died at the age of 94.   Franklin was the author of From Slavery to Freedom (1947) which was a landmark book, integrating black history into American history at a time when most American historians ignored the treatment of blacks in this country. Franklin’s work is even more impressive when you consider that he was attempting to conduct much of his research in libraries and archives in the Jim Crow south, where buildings had no separate facilities for him to work, no bathrooms for him to use, and he often had to persuade staff to let him view materials in closet-like rooms away from white scholars.  

In his obituaries, John Hope Franklin is usually described as a scholar, historian or professor.  But you didn’t have to read too far into his books to see where his heart was.  ”One feels the excitement of hearing an untold story,” he once said. “We must go beyond textbooks, go out into the bypaths and untrodden depths of the wilderness and travel and explore and tell the world the glories of our journey.”

Gay for a day

I did a book event in Portland, Oregon the other day and what a thrill.  I was immediately recognized in the hotel lobby.  ”Sam?” the man asked.  ”Are you Sam?”

“No, I’m not Sam,” I said.  He looked at me in disbelief, then walked away. Not a minute later, near the elevators, another man approached.

“Hey, Sam.”  Only he didn’t look happy to see me.  I told him I wasn’t Sam, but that somebody else thought I was, too.

“Well, you must get that a lot,” he said.

I told him I was from out of town, and he explained to me that I looked just like Sam Adams, the Mayor of Portland.   I went upstairs to my room and did a quick Google Image search and damned if I don’t look a little like the Mayor of Portland…..Make that Sam Adams, the gay Mayor of Portland…..Sam Adams, the gay Mayor of Portland who they are trying to run out of office for having a homosexual liason with a teenaged boy!

I was bummed that Sam is a little better looking than me, too.  If you’re going to be a doppelganger, I think you always want to believe that you’re the more attractive of the two.  But Sam is more put-together than I am.  His hair is neater and there’s a nicer glow to his skin, I don’t mind saying.  It’s not too hard to guess which of us was able to land a young stud named Beau Breedlove. (Not kidding.)

An hour or so later, I shared an elevator with a middle-aged woman who got off on the same floor as me.  ”Are you staying here?” she asked, and I knew what she was thinking.

“You think I’m the Mayor of Portland, don’t you?”

She stared for a moment.  ”You do look like him.”

Later that night, I drew a few strange glances from patrons at the restaurant I was eating at.  It was a little unnerving, and it might be the only time I wished I looked like another mayor.  Any mayor.  Ed Koch.  Ray Nagin. Mayor McCheese.  I quickly ate my meal and left. But part of me wanted to do something a little wild in there and cause a scene.   Something, perhaps, involving the Latino busboy.  Give the diners a reason to go into work the next morning, saying, “You should have seen the Mayor last night. He’s gotta go.”

Sam Adams, Mayor of Portland

Author, Doppelganger

Model Behavior

Models sometimes get a bad rap.  They make news for the ways in which they unwind after a hard day’s work, their use of cell phones and even their exercise habits.  On the bright side, I once did a shoot with Ivanka Trump, who spent time in the hair and makeup chair reading Ulysses by James Joyce.  Joyce!  And you never hear about her doing any court-ordered community service.  

Yesterday, I did some backstage shots at Patricia Field during New York Fashion Week for Gerlan Jeans where the talented team of hairstylists from Mizani was at work.  The styles were complex and the models had a lot of time on their hands.  But I was happy to see so many books being read.  Models may well save the publishing world.  Or at least, publishing in the former Soviet Union.  In truth, most of the models were Russians reading Russian books, and I was too busy to write down titles and author names.  

 

Some Russian book.

 

The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari

A Greek novel

 

Sex and the City: The Movie by Amy Sohn

Another Russian book