James Baldwin: Pessimist, Optimist, Hero


“My father said, during all the years I lived with him, that I was the ugliest boy he had ever seen, and I had absolutely no reason to doubt him.” So wrote James Baldwin in 1976, and he repeated his father’s phrases typically. He did have cause to doubt them although. They didn’t jibe with my impression of the author’s look as taken from on the quilt of the 1955 paperback version of “Notes of a Native Son,” which I owned and treasured after I was a youngster, and a replica of which you’ll discover on show towards the beginning of the exhibition “God Made My Face: A Collective Portrait of James Baldwin” at David Zwirner.

I might have first seen that picture sooner or later within the early 1960s. Baldwin was African-American; I used to be a white child within the technique of working my approach by the sociopolitical dynamics of all that by studying him. What I primarily noticed within the picture, although, was a younger man, slope-shouldered in a floppy sweater, wanting warily self-contained, and emphatically un-butch. I might relate.

As a teen, I used to be a relentless, precocious reader, as he had been — binging on Dickens at 11, Shakespeare at 12; that sort of factor. My wonkishness led me to make older mates; as a highschool freshman I frolicked with juniors and seniors, who would go on literary contraband. And in, I feel, 1962, one good pal, Nina Angelo, gave me a replica of Baldwin’s novel “Giovanni’s Room,” which had brazenly gay characters.

Again, I associated. And I quickly bought my arms on a second Baldwin novel, “Another Country,” revealed that yr, through which same-sex love and racial politics are inextricably knotted.

That knotting is the fundamental dynamic of the Zwirner exhibition, which has been organized by the critic Hilton Als. Two years ago, Mr. Als produced a kind of rough draft version of it called “James Baldwin/Jim Brown and the Children” for the Artist’s Institute at Hunter College. In that show he pinballed around an eclectic range of images referring to black masculinity and added an autobiographical spin. At Zwirner, he streamlines his material and zeros in on Baldwin himself.

The opening section has a family-album vibe. There’s a contact sheet of images of the writer with his mother, Emma Jones, taken in 1962 by Richard Avedon, Baldwin’s high school classmate in the Bronx in the late 1930s. (Their collaborative photo-and-text book “Nothing Personal,” which I snapped up on publication in 1964, was an eye-opener, and era-opener, for a future art critic.)

And there’s a photo of Baldwin’s father, David, who was actually his stepfather. (When Baldwin was born in Harlem in 1924, his mother was unmarried. David came along later.) Baldwin described the man as both punishing at home and wrathful toward the world outside, especially toward white America. Three small, undated photographs that Mr. Als has placed near David Baldwin’s portrait help explain the environment that shaped him: they depict lead-up scenes of a lynching.

In the 1960s, with the civil rights movement in full swing and news media paying attention, white America finally started to learn about racial violence: the fire hoses in Birmingham, the bombings, the assassinations. By contrast, African-Americans like David Baldwin, descended from slaves, knew from childhood onward that such violence was the stuff of daily life across the land.

He reacted with hostility when a young white Harlem grade-school teacher, Orilla Miller, known as Billy, took the 10-year-old Baldwin under her wing. “I was an exceedingly shy, withdrawn, and uneasy student,” Baldwin later wrote. “Yet my teachers somehow made me believe that I could learn.” Miller topped the list of those mentors. Perceiving his talent as a writer, she took him to movies and plays.

In 1948, Baldwin left New York for Europe, where he would stay for several years. He returned in the late 1950s to immerse himself in the American civil rights movement. During that time he became a cultural star, a political fixture (within black activism, a controversial one), and one of the grand moral prose rhetoricians.

In the process, Mr. Als suggests, he also disappeared from public view as a knowable, relatable person, someone still wrestling with conflicted ideas about race, sexuality, power, family, and his own creativity (he wanted to make films but never did); someone who could describe himself, in his late 40s, as “an ageing, lonely, sexually dubious, politically outrageous, unspeakably erratic freak.”

Interestingly, that figure eventually vanishes at Zwirner too. Baldwin’s face is literally absent from much of the second half of the show, which shifts from personal narrative to a far less-compelling essay on influence, a study of developments in contemporary art that he, or his work, anticipated, but that he wasn’t around to see.

He was back in Europe by the time the African-American photographer Alvin Baltrop was photographing out-in-the-open gay sexual life on the West Side piers in Manhattan in the 1970s. (Baldwin himself came out as gay, in his writing, only in 1984.) And he was away when the city became a ground zero of AIDS in the 1980s.

Baldwin died in France of cancer in 1987, at 63, so he couldn’t see what 21st-century artists would do with the ideas that mattered most to him. Probably, though, he would have been intrigued by some recent work in the show: Kara Walker’s animated excoriations of American racial history; John Edmonds’s subtle video choreographing of black male erotic encounters; Cameron Rowland’s grimly annotated Jim Crow relics; and Ja’Tovia Gary’s video mash-up of 19th-century slave narratives and Black Lives Matter protests. It would have pleased him — the preacherly pessimist, the fit-to-be-tied optimist — to see that although Ms. Gary’s piece is titled “An Ecstatic Experience,” its contents short-circuit uplift.

He was skeptical of uplift. As a teenager he left preaching, he said, after he came to see it as just another form of theater. My guess is he sometimes felt the same about the salvational spirit of the early civil rights movement. To the very end, he was negative in his assessment of progress made. “The present social and political apparatus cannot serve the human need,” he wrote bluntly in his final book, “The Evidence of Things Not Seen” (1985). He believed in the positive potential of community, though “in the United States the idea of community scarcely means anything anymore, except among the submerged, the Native American, the Mexican, the Puerto Rican, the Black” — the one hopeful word here being “except.”



Source link Nytimes.com

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