I Hate Being Lion Fodder
An Interview / Conversation via Email Between Darius James and Kara Walker
Kara Walker's controversial exhibition from the collection of the Deutsche Bank can currently be seen in the Museum voor Moderne Kunst in Arnheim; starting on October 21, it will be shown in the MuseumsQuartier in Vienna. Walker's exhibition has provided us with the opportunity to ask the African American author Darius James to conduct an online dialogue with the artist. James' book "Negrophobia" unleashed a scandal upon its appearance in 1992. Much like Walker's work, it reflects upon the subconscious, the dreams and fears of America marked by a subliminal racism; the book met with criticism within the black civil rights movement, as well. Read excerpts from their correspondence, exclusively at db-art.info - and follow their conversation about exotic sexual predatory animals and the abyss of erotic racist clichés.
James: The first thing that struck me in your work was that your use
of paper cutout and silhouette has the feel of folk art, grounding the
work in black storytelling traditions. I like how the frozen moments of
the images narrate an entire tale, sung with the wit and cunning of the
blues trickster. I say "sung," because the stylistic execution is lyrical.
Thus, your work simultaneously encompasses the visual, the narrative, and
I am also impressed by your satirical boldness. I
don't see much of that. And when it is attempted, it isn't done well. It
doesn't go for the throat. It doesn't smell blood. When "Negrophobia"
was first published in hardback, the cover featured a white woman whose
shadow was a thick-lipped, light bulb-headed coon.
Some folks inside the publishing house were offended and threatened to
sic the NAACP on me.
Then, I kid you not, in some black bookstores, it was sold under counter
in a plain brown wrapper. Now, the cover is hanging in the Smithsonian.
Curiously, the people who seemed most offended by my work were middle to
upper class blacks. Working class blacks, for the most part, see the humor
and get the point. I tell you all this in order to ask how black people
in the U.S. are reacting to your work.
Kara Walker: There
have been letter-writing campaigns: once after being awarded a MacArthur
Fellowship in 1997, and once, at least so far, for the removal of one
of my least offensive prints from a museum in Detroit. My work has also
been lambasted in the International Review of African American Arts:
17 pages with no byline, mostly ribbing me for my hair, my white husband
– nothing at all unique – too young, haven't paid my dues, etc. It was
quite embarrassing and strangely obtuse that two issues of a magazine supposedly
devoted to unraveling the lure of stereotypical, racist imagery should
rely so heavily on stereotypical racist imagery of the kind that blacks
dole out among themselves. Harvard and Henry
Louis Gates, Jr. also put on a kind of niggerati circus in 1998
that I failed to attend – probably to my detriment, but I hate being lion
I read "Negrophobia" when I was still in grad school (I
graduated in 1994) working out these notions. It was one of those good
but rare occasions when I thought there might be one other person in the
world that would get what I was doing. The only thing I didn't like were
the pictures in between. Sorry. We're talking about a proud fine arts grad
student here. I remember thinking, No, this is wrong. Those postcard coon
images aren't ugly because they're ugly, they're hateful because they're
cute, loveable, desirable. They feed on scatological, pedophiliac, incestuous,
murderous longings and, like Jlo's children's line or ads for Babyphat,
they do it in a nostalgic, seductive way.
In your letter, you wrote that Henry Louis Gates Jr. ringmastered a niggerati
circus at Harvard in 1998. What was that exactly? And why would you have
been "lion fodder?"
Kara Walker: I was having a show there
of a large suite of silhouette pieces. And Gates organized a weekend-long
series of lectures and films around the slippery slope of race and representation.
It included a panel with Betye Saar, who started a censorship/hatemail
against my work and against my positive reception by the art market/MacArthur
Award folks, Howardina Pindell, and Michael Ray Charles (also much-hated
for his pickaninny
art). And from the reports of my disappointed friends, dissed because
I wasn't there, Mr. Charles couldn't hold up his end of the argument –
and he has an advertising background, for shame! Now, if I hadn't been
on a much-anticipated trip to the German Oma and Opa, they anticipating
their first and only grandchild, I would have simply sat on the stage and
nursed my Quadroon baby and said nothing. I mean, you know when it comes
to our sordid racist past and our sordid racist relationship with Race,
there is going to be some shouting. Much of it was cross-generational.
Yeah, I was also taken aback by an ad supposedly against child
sexual exploitation, which really struck me as needlessly sexy, exploiting
the notion of the Beautiful Black Child wearing her poor ragged shift.
She is central to the image, totally exposed in all her shame-faced beauty.
Her face is in profile and cast downward, toward her white Barbie doll,
which she's about to abandon. The unseen force of the image, the one we
passersby are meant to identify with, is the faceless white man pulling
her by the arm in the opposite direction. She's nearly spread-eagled across
the image and he's shrouded in mystery, setting up the classic tension
between illicit desire and access. The tagline, something like "she's a
child, not a sex object," could just as easily read, "she's a child, and
a sex object." It might also apply to the doll.
When I began researching "Negrophobia", along with turn-of-the-century
coon images on postcards, pancake-mix boxes and tin toys, I also
came across some Civil War-era editorial cartoons, some of which were as
sexually explicit as your own, though without the graceful lines, of course.
You seem to draw inspiration from these images, as well. I have one image
in my collection of a Northern abolitionist on his knees with his tongue
inserted into the rectum of a nappy-haired jungle Negress.
is not divorced from sexuality in the American imagination. Racism is rooted
in the hypocrisy of puritanical sexuality. America's first sex shows were
plantation owners overseeing that their property bred right.
Did you know Joel
Chandler Harris would write his fiancée love letters in Uncle Remus
dialect? It was how he showed his sexual side.
Mostly I am influenced by literature, particularly bad romance novels and
porno, because it's a given that the reader should experience titillation.
My experience also includes a heavy dose of shame, not just because maybe
I should have been doing close readings of Black Feminist Theory, etc.,
instead of pursuing "The Master's Revenge," but also because so much of
that base-level literature is so raw. So much irritating fucking truth
about us and our reliance on the old master/slave dialectic to define and
redefine our selves and our history. I really started working this way
because I was so sick of that dialectic being the guarantor of my colored
gal experience. Also, I began working this way because, conversely, so
much of that paradigm became my experience, when I really wasn't looking
for it to do so.
Still, it feels a little bit strange to be here
in cyberspace, spinning the all-too-familiar yarns on plantation imagery
for a German audience that may be inclined to take that stuff at face value.
I say this in a vain attempt to invite controversy. I like to think I know
these Germans well. That advertisement
for West cigarettes would never fly in the States – the one with the
crazy disco Afro woman and the average white guy offering her his little
ciggy. She's all teeth and hot red Amazonian sex. The catch phrase is "Test
Darius James: I've lived here for four years
and, like yourself, I'm intimately involved with a German. I couldn't say,
however, "I know these Germans well." But I also understand what you're
saying about taking your work at face value. I might walk into a
record or comic book shop and the most ig'nint fool gangsta rap will be
blasting out of the speakers. I'm not condemning gangsta rap, or rap in
general, or sex and violence. I'm talking about some drunken and blunted
fool spewing abusive and dysfunctional bullshit that's not about anything
at all, except being abusive and dysfunctional. And a lot of young Germans
listen to this shit because it's supposed to be hip, not really
understanding what's going on in the lyrics. If they knew, they would puke.
Going out for cigarettes this morning, I saw the specific West
cigarette ad you were referring to in your letter. There are a few now.
Around Christmas time, there was one featuring an Afro-haired woman in
Santa's helper suit complete with reindeer. This one you are concerned
with I hadn't seen until this morning. What I find interesting about the
ad is this – the woman towers over the man offering her a cigarette, and
she appears to be having a hearty laugh at the idea he is offering her
such a small object. The image of the woman is clearly a projection of
white male sexual fantasy, but white male sexual inadequacy is also implied
by the image – desire and fear encompassed in a single image.
image is not so much one of racism as it is one of exoticism. One
of the things I find interesting about exoticism in the context
of interracial sexual liaisons is that it is a kind of racism by
mutual consent. Each party projects fantasies onto the other. If there
is a solid basis to the attraction and a relationship is formed, the fantasy
stage is transcended and one finds oneself dealing with the funky humanness
of the other. Exotic differences are of no importance because one
is dealing with the hard realities of another human being. Some people,
of course, fetishize the idea of exoticism. I live in Europe. I
have all manner of exotic masturbatory fantasies about women here,
black, white, Middle Eastern, Asian, etc. Subverting gender/power sexual
relations within a hetero context appeals to me.
like the stereotypes some like to believe about themselves attraction based on exoticism
also occurs among exotics. For example, the fetishizing of black
women as the Queen Mums of Africa within romantic black cultural
nationalist thought. Or, like the East Indian and Bavarian German woman
with whom I had an affair some years back, who complained about how she
was being treated like an exotic by all the white boys she had been
involved with. Yet, at the same time, as she had never been involved with
a black man, she projected her particular fantasies onto me.
Walker: I have a similar reading of the West ad, however, I was troubled
by it just the same. One reason is because I'm a tall fancy-ass American
black woman ("Are you a model?" or "Aren't you that model in…?" have been
asked of me more than I care to recall) who has always relished the idea
that I could be an exoticized sexual predator. However, my internal reality
is so altogether different, so 13-year old suburban sniperish. "She was
always so quiet... I can't believe she would do this." I both relish and
resent those crazy-sexy-cool attitudes that seamlessly conceal internal
angst. In my premarital exploits I can safely say I had a few open wounds
through which I let slip the unseemly, the ironic, and the paranoiac, which
leads to another favorite stereotype, the crazy-ass nigra.
I found this situation Black Amazon meets sexually frustrated white
agent, – face it, in the West ad he's still doing all the offering, her
laughter is passive, it's a response – iconic for the immensity of the fabrications involved, and the
impossibility of sustaining the illusion of race or gender roles.
said: "If there is a solid basis to the attraction, and a relationship
is formed, the fantasy stage is transcended and one finds oneself dealing
with the funky humanness of the other. Exotic differences are of
no importance because one is dealing with the hard realities of another
human being." But transcendence doesn't always occur. I based many a notebook
page on the idea of sustaining the tension that occurs when each party
only partly reveals, does an elaborate striptease with their funky humanness.
Seeking fetishized comfort in the fantasy version of one's own body, in
other words. Really, the ad for West cigarettes would be more to my liking
if the funky chick had a revealing bulge in her pants.