{"id":176450605,"date":"2015-02-23T00:23:47","date_gmt":"2015-02-23T06:23:47","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/kalamu.com\/neogriot\/?p=176450605"},"modified":"2015-02-23T00:23:47","modified_gmt":"2015-02-23T06:23:47","slug":"photo-essay-teju-cole-a-true-picture-of-black-skin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/kalamu.com\/neogriot\/2015\/02\/23\/photo-essay-teju-cole-a-true-picture-of-black-skin\/","title":{"rendered":"PHOTO ESSAY: Teju Cole \u2014 A True Picture of Black Skin"},"content":{"rendered":"

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FEB. 18, 2015<\/p>\n

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A True Picture <\/strong><\/span><\/h1>\n

of Black Skin<\/strong><\/span><\/h1>\n

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By\u00a0TEJU COLE<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

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\n<\/a>\u00a0“Mississippi Freedom Marcher, Washington, D.C., 1963” – Roy DeCarava. Copyright: Sherry Turner DeCarava\/RSD Foundation<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

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\n<\/a>“Couple Talking, Subway Platform, 1952” – Roy DeCarava. Copyright: Sherry Turner DeCarava\/RSD Foundation<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

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\n<\/a>“Garment Man and Covered Cart, 1961” – Roy DeCarava. Copyright: Sherry Turner DeCarava\/RSD Foundation<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

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\n<\/a>“Self Portrait, Reflection, 1949” – Roy DeCarava. Copyright: Sherry Turner DeCarava\/RSD Foundation<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

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\n<\/a>“Trumpet Player, Connie’s, 1956” – Roy DeCarava. Copyright: Sherry Turner DeCarava\/RSD Foundation\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

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\n“Ellington Session break, 1954” – Roy DeCarava. Copyright: Sherry Turner DeCarava\/RSD Foundation\u00a0<\/strong><\/span>
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What comes to mind when we think of photography and the civil rights movement? Direct, viscerally affecting images with familiar subjects: huge rallies, impassioned speakers, people carrying placards (\u201cI Am a Man\u201d), dogs and fire hoses turned on innocent protesters. These photos, as well as the portraits of national leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X, are explicit about the subject at hand. They tell us what is happening and make a case for why things must change. Our present moment, a time of vigorous demand for equal treatment, evokes those years of sadness and hope in black American life and renews the relevance of those photos. But there are other, less expected images from the civil rights years that are also worth thinking about: images that are forceful but less illustrative.<\/span><\/p>\n

One such image left me short of breath the first time I saw it. It\u2019s of a young woman whose face is at once relaxed and intense. She is apparently in bright sunshine, but both her face and the rest of the picture give off a feeling of modulated darkness; we can see her beautiful features, but they are underlit somehow. Only later did I learn the picture\u2019s title, \u201cMississippi Freedom Marcher, Washington, D.C., 1963\u201d which helps explain the young woman\u2019s serene and resolute expression. It is an expression suitable for the event she\u2019s attending, the most famous civil rights march of them all. The title also confirms the sense that she\u2019s standing in a great crowd, even though we see only half of one other person\u2019s face (a boy\u2019s, indistinct in the foreground) and, behind the young woman, the barest suggestion of two other bodies.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Credit<\/span>Roy DeCarava. Copyright: Sherry Turner DeCarava\/RSD Foundation<\/strong><\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

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The picture was taken by Roy DeCarava, one of the most intriguing and poetic of American photographers. The power of this picture is in the loveliness of its dark areas. His work was, in fact, an exploration of just how much could be seen in the shadowed parts of a photograph, or how much could be imagined into those shadows. He resisted being too explicit in his work, a reticence that expresses itself in his choice of subjects as well as in the way he presented them.<\/span><\/p>\n

DeCarava, a lifelong New Yorker, came of age in the generation after the Harlem Renaissance and took part in a flowering in the visual arts that followed that largely literary movement. By the time he died in 2009, at 89, he was celebrated for his melancholy and understated scenes, most of which were shot in New York City: streets, subways, jazz clubs, the interiors of houses, the people who lived in them. His pictures all share a visual grammar of decorous mystery: a woman in a bridal gown in the empty valley of a lot, a pair of silhouetted dancers reading each other\u2019s bodies in a cavernous hall, a solitary hand and its cuff-linked wrist emerging from the midday gloom of a taxi window. DeCarava took photographs of white people tenderly but seldom. Black life was his greater love and steadier commitment. With his camera he tried to think through the peculiar challenge of shooting black subjects at a time when black appearance, in both senses (the way black people looked and the very presence of black people), was under question.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Credit<\/span>Oscilloscope Pictures\/Everett Collection\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

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All technology arises out of specific social circumstances. In our time, as in previous generations, cameras and the mechanical tools of photography have rarely made it easy to photograph black skin. The dynamic range of film emulsions, for example, were generally calibrated for white skin and had limited sensitivity to brown, red or yellow skin tones. Light meters had similar limitations, with a tendency to underexpose dark skin. And for many years, beginning in the mid-1940s, the smaller film-developing units manufactured by Kodak came with Shirley cards, so-named after the white model who was featured on them and whose whiteness was marked on the cards as \u201cnormal.\u201d Some of these instruments improved with time. In the age of digital photography, for instance, Shirley cards are hardly used anymore. But even now, there are reminders that photographic technology is neither value-free nor ethnically neutral. In 2009, the face-recognition technology on HP webcams had difficulty recognizing black faces, suggesting, again, that the process of calibration had favored lighter skin.<\/span><\/p>\n

An artist tries to elicit from unfriendly tools the best they can manage. A black photographer of black skin can adjust his or her light meters; or make the necessary exposure compensations while shooting; or correct the image at the printing stage. These small adjustments would have been necessary for most photographers who worked with black subjects, from James Van Der Zee at the beginning of the century to DeCarava\u2019s best-known contemporary, Gordon Parks, who was on the staff of Life magazine. Parks\u2019s work, like DeCarava\u2019s, was concerned with human dignity, specifically as it was expressed in black communities. Unlike DeCarava, and like most other photographers, he aimed for and achieved a certain clarity and technical finish in his photo essays. The highlights were high, the shadows were dark, the mid-tones well-judged. This was work without exaggeration; perhaps for this reason it sometimes lacked a smoldering fire even though it was never less than soulful.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Credit<\/span>Carrie Mae Weems\/Jack Shainman Gallery\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

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DeCarava, on the other hand, insisted on finding a way into the inner life of his scenes. He worked without assistants and did his own developing, and almost all his work bore the mark of his idiosyncrasies. The chiaroscuro effects came from technical choices: a combination of underexposure, darkroom virtuosity and occasionally printing on soft paper. And yet there\u2019s also a sense that he gave the pictures what they wanted, instead of imposing an agenda on them. In \u201cMississippi Freedom Marcher,\u201d for example, even the whites of the shirts have been pulled down, into a range of soft, dreamy grays, so that the tonalities of the photograph agree with the young woman\u2019s strong, quiet expression. This exploration of the possibilities of dark gray would be interesting in any photographer, but DeCarava did it time and again specifically as a photographer of black skin. Instead of trying to brighten blackness, he went against expectation and darkened it further. What is dark is neither blank nor empty. It is in fact full of wise light which, with patient seeing, can open out into glories.<\/span><\/p>\n

This confidence in \u201cplaying in the dark\u201d (to borrow a phrase of Toni Morrison\u2019s) intensified the emotional content of DeCarava\u2019s pictures. The viewer\u2019s eye might at first protest, seeking more conventional contrasts, wanting more obvious lighting. But, gradually, there comes an acceptance of the photograph and its subtle implications: that there\u2019s more there than we might think at first glance, but also that when we are looking at others, we might come to the understanding that they don\u2019t have to give themselves up to us. They are allowed to stay in the shadows if they wish.<\/span><\/p>\n

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Credit<\/span>Eli Reed\/Magnum Photos<\/strong><\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

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Thinking about DeCarava\u2019s work in this way reminds me of the philosopher \u00c9douard Glissant, who was born in Martinique, educated at the Sorbonne and profoundly involved in anticolonial movements of the \u201950s and \u201960s. One of Glissant\u2019s main projects was an exploration of the word \u201copacity.\u201d Glissant defined it as a right to not have to be understood on others\u2019 terms, a right to be misunderstood if need be. The argument was rooted in linguistic considerations: It was a stance against certain expectations of transparency embedded in the French language. Glissant sought to defend the opacity, obscurity and inscrutability of Caribbean blacks and other marginalized peoples. External pressures insisted on everything being illuminated, simplified and explained. Glissant\u2019s response: No. And this gentle refusal, this suggestion that there is another way, a deeper way, holds true for DeCarava, too.<\/span><\/p>\n

DeCarava\u2019s thoughtfulness and grace influenced a whole generation of black photographers, though few of them went on to work as consistently in the shadows as he did. But when I see luxuriantly crepuscular images like Eli Reed\u2019s photograph of the Boys\u2019 Choir of Tallahassee (2004), or those in Carrie Mae Weems\u2019s \u201cKitchen Table Series\u201d (1990), I see them as extensions of the DeCarava line. One of the most gifted cinematographers currently at work, Bradford Young, seems to have inherited DeCarava\u2019s approach even more directly. Young shot Dee Rees\u2019s \u201cPariah\u201d (2011) and Andrew Dosunmu\u2019s \u201cRestless City\u201d (2012) and \u201cMother of George\u201d (2013), as well as Ava DuVernay\u2019s \u201cSelma\u201d (2014). He works in color, and with moving rather than still images, but his visual language is cognate with DeCarava\u2019s: Both are keeping faith with the power of shadows.<\/span><\/p>\n

The leading actors in the films Young has shot are not only black but also tend to be dark-skinned: Danai Gurira as Adenike in \u201cMother of George,\u201d for instance, and David Oyelowo as Martin Luther King Jr., in \u201cSelma.\u201d Under Young\u2019s lenses, they become darker yet and serve as the brooding centers of these overwhelmingly beautiful films. Black skin, full of unexpected gradations of blue, purple or ocher, set a tone for the narrative: Adenike lost in thought on her wedding day, King on an evening telephone call to his wife or in discussion in a jail cell with other civil rights leaders. In a larger culture that tends to value black people for their abilities to jump, dance or otherwise entertain, these moments of inwardness open up a different space of encounter.<\/span><\/p>\n

These images pose a challenge to another bias in mainstream culture: that to make something darker is to make it more dubious. There have been instances when a black face was darkened on the cover of a magazine or in a political ad to cast a literal pall of suspicion over it, just as there have been times when a black face was lightened after a photo shoot with the apparent goal of making it more appealing. What could a response to this form of contempt look like? One answer is in Young\u2019s films, in which an intensified darkness makes the actors seem more private, more self-contained and at the same time more dramatic. In \u201cSelma,\u201d the effect is strengthened by the many scenes in which King and the other protagonists are filmed from behind or turned away from us. We are tuned into the eloquence of shoulders, and we hear what the hint of a profile or the fragment of a silhouette has to say.<\/span><\/p>\n

I think of another photograph by Roy DeCarava that is similar to \u201cMississippi Freedom Marcher,\u201d but this other photograph, \u201cFive Men, 1964,\u201d has quite a different mood. We see one man, on the left, who faces forward and takes up almost half the picture plane. His face is sober and tense, his expression that of someone whose mind is elsewhere. Behind him is a man in glasses. This second man\u2019s face is in three-quarter profile and almost wholly visible except for where the first man\u2019s shoulder covers his chin and jawline. Behind these are two others, whose faces are more than half concealed by the men in front of them. And finally there\u2019s a small segment of a head at the bottom right of the photograph. The men\u2019s varying heights could mean they are standing on steps. The heads are close together, and none seem to look in the same direction: The effect is like a sheet of studies made by a Renaissance master. In an interview DeCarava gave in 1990 in the magazine Callaloo, he said of this picture: \u201cThis moment occurred during a memorial service for the children killed in a church in Birmingham, Ala., in 1964. The photograph shows men coming out of the service at a church in Harlem.\u201d He went on to say that the \u201cmen were coming out of the church with faces so serious and so intense that I responded, and the image was made.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The adjectives that trail the work of DeCarava and Young as well as the philosophy of Glissant \u2014 opaque, dark, shadowed, obscure \u2014 are metaphorical when we apply them to language. But in photography, they are literal, and only after they are seen as physical facts do they become metaphorical again, visual stories about the hard-won, worth-keeping reticence of black life itself. These pictures make a case for how indirect images guarantee our sense of the human. It is as if the world, in its careless way, had been saying, \u201cYou people are simply too dark,\u201d and these artists, intent on obliterating this absurd way of thinking, had quietly responded, \u201cBut you have no idea how dark we yet may be, nor what that darkness may contain.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n