At its peak, Black Tumblr was unbeatable. It served a continual dose of contemporary and archival images of black celebrities and strangers alike, an antidote to the mostly white artistic canon that extended on the website.
Photographs of activists and authors circulated with quotes of their work and facts from their lives. Each of Lilâ Kimâs four color-coordinated looks from the âCrush On Youâ video appeared neatly screenshotted and catalogued. In 2015, Black Tumblr users even organized a #blackoutday, urging their peers to upload selfies and flood the platform with faces of black folks.
I can clearly recall first coming across Kwame Brathwaiteâs photograph of his wife Sikolo Brathwaite between Tumblrâs dark blue borders. That same image, at a much more lavish scale than my computer screen allows, was the first to greet me at the Museum of the African Diasporaâs current exhibit Black is Beautiful: The Photography of Kwame Brathwaite. The retrospective, organized by New Yorkâs Aperture Foundation, features photographs, posters and other ephemera from the 81-year-old photographerâs universe in the late 1950s and 60sâa time when black nationalist thought prevailed in cities across the United States.
Kwame Brathwaite, ‘Sikolo Brathwaite wearing a headpiece designed by Carolee Prince, African Jazz-Art Society & Studios (AJASS), Harlem,’ ca. 1968. (Courtesy the artist and Philip Martin Gallery, Los Angeles)
In that introductory photograph, Sikolo, who was a frequent model for Brathwaite, wears an intricate beaded headpiece, made by designer Carolee Prince, that dangles above her head like a frozen fountain. Against a tan background, her dark brown skin glows. And though sheâs looking down, her chin is lifted regally. Hers is a beauty that does what we dream beauty can do: it stuns you, empties your head of other thoughts, and imprints itself in your memory.
Brathwaiteâs photography was part of a larger campaign he led with his brother Elombe Brath through the artist collective, African Jazz-Art Society and Studios. Enterprising and intentional, Brathwaithe and his peers organized jazz concerts, assembled The Grandassa Models (a cast of models embodying black beauty ideals) and produced âNaturally: The Original African Coiffure and Fashion Extravaganza Designed to Restore Our Racial Pride and Standards.â The hair and fashion showâoften shortened to just âNaturallyââfeatured black stylists, designers and hairdressers, a thorough alternative to white beauty standards and institutions. With âNaturally,â their many jazz concerts, parades and others campaigns, AJASS not only encouraged divestment from such standards and institutions but provided alternatives for reinvesting in black values and businesses.
Kwame Brathwaite, ‘Self-portrait, African Jazz-Art Society & Studios (AJASS), Harlem,’ ca. 1964. (Courtesy the artist and Philip Martin Gallery, Los Angeles)
The most interesting criticism of âBlack is Beautifulâ comes from Toni Morrison. In the late 60s, around the same time as Brathwaiteâs heyday of cultural production, Morrison was on the precipice of releasing her debut novel, The Bluest Eye, written partly in response to the refrain the photographer popularized.
âBefore we all decide that we are all beautiful, and that we have always been beautiful, let me speak for just a moment here for some of us who didnât get that right away,â she later said in a 2004 interview. âI was deeply concerned about the feelings of being ugly.â And so Pecola, Morrisonâs central character in her first novel, is painfully unconvinced of her beauty.
Morrison further elaborated on her reaction to the 1960s rhetoric in 2015 saying, âI understood black is beautiful. But that was a generation a little bit younger than me. And I thought, wait a minute. Do you have to say that? Of course we are. And then, is that all? Itâs about beauty again?â She also went on to bring up the inherent white gaze that statement contained: âYouâre talking to white people who are saying youâre not [beautiful] and therefore you should be segregated or oppressed.â
Kwame Brathwaite, ‘Sikolo Brathwaite, African Jazz-Art Society & Studios (AJASS), Harlem,’ ca. 1968.
This conversation between Morrison and Brathwaiteâbetween a writer committed to excavating the ugly sins of a nation, and photographerâs adamant exclamations in response to white supremacyâproduced a remarkable collection of cultural objects. Itâs something that can only happen when one group is sincerely tuned in to another, especially through disagreements. The discourse at MoADâs exhibit is dynamic in its own way, providing a deeper context for Brathwaiteâs prolific aesthetic production.
As the photographerâs images continue to circulate in black digital repositories and serve as moodboards for contemporary artists, I wonder, optimistically, if they may also inspire the kind of artistic production that stems from divergence.
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