"A Man Was Lynched Friday"

On September 16, 2016 (a Friday), Terence Crutcher, a 40-year-old African-American man, was fatally shot by white police officer Betty Shelby in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He was unarmed during the encounter, in which he was standing near his vehicle in the middle of a street.

The shooting led to protests in Tulsa. On September 22, the Tulsa County District Attorney charged Shelby with first-degree manslaughter and later the shooting was labeled a homicide.

Hibbert painted this simple but powerful piece just days after Crutcher was killed.  The painting is a historic reference to the flag which the NAACP used to hang outside of its New York City headquarters in the 1920s and 1930s saying "A Man Was Lynched Yesterday" the day following a report of a man being lynched across the country.  Lynching is defined as: "an extrajudicial punishment by an informal group.  It is most often used to characterize informal public executions by a mob in order to punish an alleged transgressor without legal trial.. It is an extreme form of informal group social control."  Through this piece, Hibbert draws a painful parallel between modern day police brutality and lynchings of the early 20th century.
 

"Back to Work"

I went back to work on November 1st.  I'm quite positive I lost a lot of folks money who bet I wouldn't come back - but I came back, and I knew I would for multiple reasons.  It's not because I had to, that was one thing the 3 months taught me - I could definitely survive if I took the jump, but there is a season for everything and now is not that season.  

It took me a while to write a blog on what it is like to be back.  It is the one conversation everyone wants to have - the blog that most folks were interested to read.  I waited to write a blog on the topic because I needed to give myself time to really process it all and what it means.

The day I came back to work, I instinctively went to the Jersey City office where my team is based.  I was there for only an hour when my manager called and asked me to come to the New York office because there was a project he needed me to get involved in straightaway.  Time to swim.  I hopped on the first conference call and had no idea what anyone was talking about.  It was like they were speaking a different language that I knew but had not spoken in a long time.  I was fumbling over my words and my comprehension was slow from trying to translate vaguely familiar acronyms and terms into regular-people speak .  I wasn't disappointed or irritated by being back I just felt awkward, off my rhythm.  My questions didn't feel insightful and my statements didn't feel well-articulated.

By Day 3, I was beginning to become a little more familiar.  Things were coming back - that good ole' left brain started kicking again.  Doing what I do best and actually really enjoy  - analyzing things, picking up on patterns that didn't make sense, thinking three steps ahead about what would drive the most efficient outcome.  But at the same time, I felt like I was slowly losing the peace of mind that had taken me so long to find during my 3 months.  Not from the standpoint of being stressed, I wasn't stressed, but my ability to be fully present in the moment was waning.  During the sabbatical, I developed a really useful discipline of focusing on one thing at a time.  If I'm painting, I'm painting - I'm not thinking about other things. If I'm out to drinks with a friend, I'm 100% focused on engaging my friend - I'm not worried about what I didn't do today or need to do tomorrow.  Presence.  Where am I right now?  I'm here.  With her.  With him.  Holding this glass.  Having this conversation.  Listening to this song. I'm angry.  I'm sad.  I'm content... Awareness.

By week 2, I started losing sensitivity to the fact that I was even allowing myself to be distracted.  While on Day 3, I could feel the temptation creeping in, by Week 2 it was no longer a temptation, it was my operating mode - being on conference calls while emailing, instant messaging, texting, and talking to other people while on mute.  My attention was spread 6 different ways at any given time.  Even outside of work, I was finding myself scrolling Instagram and checking email while on the phone, not because I wasn't interested in the conversation but because I felt uneasy just being still.

By the end of week 2, I felt myself getting irritated by little things again, things that probably shouldn't matter.  When I paused to ask myself why I feel so deeply about whatever is bothering me, I had a hard time locating the actual feeling and it's root.  My "auto-suppress" function had returned and swiftly filed the feeling away in the storage room in the back of my brain without me even knowing.  Wow... It took me 3 months to reach full peace of mind and only a few days to undo it.   Hold that thought...

Week 2 of my return was also election week.  I came home from work Tuesday evening, turned on the polls, saw Trump was up, and thought there is no way he is actually going to win.  Michigan is still out, so is Ohio, and a couple other states.  I fell asleep unbothered because I knew that I would wake up and see Hillary had won by a respectable margin.  Instead, I woke up to a text from my girlfriend who said "What are we going to do?"  My response was, "About what?"  She said, "Tump won."

Oh.. 

My.. 

God...

What just happened?  Is this really where our country is?  Are there really that many people in America who hate blacks, Mexicans, women, and Muslims?  Or are there just a lot of people (47% of the population to be exact) who are indifferent towards racist, misogynistic, and xenophobic messaging?  We spent 8 years as a country reveling in our culturally significant accomplishment of putting a black man in the Oval Office.  Views on foreign and economic policy aside, we thought that the last 51 years of work since the Civil Rights Act had put us in a place of true forward progress.  But much like my sabbatical, it only takes one election day to undo 51 years of progress. 

I got on the subway the day after election day and it was the weirdest experience ever.  No one said a word.  It was 815 in the morning, and I was riding the normally packed and noisy A train to work...  It was still packed with people, but you could hear a mouse piss on cotton from Bed Stuy to World Trade Center.  Folks were angry, folks were hurt, folks were afraid - and folks were silent.  The only time in the entire 30 minute ride someone said something was at Hoyt-Schermerhorn St. station in downtown Brooklyn.  A middle-aged white woman was getting on the train and yelled out "EXCUSE YOU!!" to a younger white man who was also getting on the train behind her.  He looked at her and said, "What's the matter lady?"  She said, "You stepped on my heel getting on the train!"  He calmly replied, "Ma'am, I didn't step on your heel.  The man getting off the train did."  He carefully put his earphones back in his ears and joined the silent chorus with the rest of us on the train.  The woman looked at him and said, "I'm very sorry, I'm not in a good a mood today, for obvious reasons."  She looked around as if looking for validation of her sentiment from other riders.  A few folks nodded subtly and a few others cracked a forced smile, but no one said anything.  

I found myself looking around the train, trying to identify who looked a little too relaxed.  Who looked too happy for the tragedy that had just occurred.  Who looked like they might be racist?  How did it come to this?  How did I go from assuming the best in my fellow New Yorkers on the train to looking for enemies, overnight??  You can't identify a racist by just looking at them.  But that is the kind of division this event created.  Eight years of hope and unity seemingly undone overnight.  I pondered the thought as we approached my station and considered it a lesson learned:  Maintaining your peace is a decision, a choice.  You can work so hard to find it and then decide to give it a way in an instant.  I got off the train, walked down Murray St. to my office and then just thought to myself, "Back to work." - DH

"Changing the Narrative"

I had several great conversations this past week that made me consider a few things both personally and artistically.  Last Sunday, the Gateway Project Space in Newark, NJ, where my studio is located, hosted an Open Studios event which it does every quarter.  Open Studios is a meet and greet of sorts where the 30+ artists in the space open their studio doors to the public who is able to engage them and see what they are working on.  I believe this is the third open studios event I've participated in since moving into the space and probably my most confident one yet.  In previous instances, I had work in my studio, mainly music-inspired, but there was no story to connect the pieces together.  I often found it difficult at times to "frame" my work (as artists would say), meaning how to explain what it is, why I did it, and why it's of significance.  This last time, however, I really felt like I was in my element.  It was very easy for me to explain the significance of the two series that I'm working, God's Trombones and the series on realities of blackness in America (actual series name TBD - we'll call it Blackness for now), and the inspirations behind them both.  The difference this time is I had a story to tell - two very different stories at that, both different but equally meaningful.  

God's Trombones is a more cerebral series.  When considering my work more deeply, I 'discovered' that historically, my art has been about creating visual interpretations of non-visual forms of art - such as music and poetry.  Poetry is just the latest subject in my ongoing dialogue of what non-visual art "looks like".  I enjoy the simultaneous freedom and challenge of translating for others a world which they don't see.  When they listen to Miles Davis' "On Green Dolphin Street" - they don't see rich green, grey, and light blue hues, with accents of raincoat yellow and cobalt violet.  Translating art forms gives me the freedom I need while continually testing my abilities.  When starting the God's Trombones series, I approached it with the sub-conscious expectation of keeping it in the same visual style as my previous work - bright, colorful, figurative but abstracted.  When I started to sketch, however, I felt a mental block.  The language I had become accustom to using to express myself no longer seemed sufficient.  It wasn't until I embraced the idea of going totally abstract that I felt inspired and creatively free.  It was then, that I got the vision of telling stories primarily through color and texture - like a voice.  I wanted to patch together visual elements within the poem that collectively tell an interesting story.  I wanted the pieces to be colorful and emotional like sermons of black preachers in the late 1800s/early 1900s, which James Weldon Johnson captured through verse in God's Trombones.  When conducting my research for the series, I looked into African-American storytelling traditions and kept running into "story-quilting".  Story-quilting is an African-American tradition of telling stories through quilts with vibrant colors and non-conventional patterns and shapes.  It draws it's historical influence from African textiles which also use vibrant colors and patterns to communicate meaningful messages.  In an effort to acknowledge the traditions of the past while adding my own form expression, I decided to paint the God's Trombones series in a style reminiscent of story quilts - colorful, geometric, textured, and patterned.

My series on the realities of Blackness in America is entirely different.  It is not based on music and it is not colorful.  It has its cerebral elements but is intensely emotional - if you allow it to be.  During open studios, I had both series displayed in different rooms.  Throughout the day, people came into the first room with the God's Trombones series.  They pondered each painting after I explained the context, and then spent time considering the significance of each visual element - like solving multiple 48"x48" puzzles.  Towards the end of the day I also opened up the second room - containing the Blackness series.  It was an entirely different experience.  I explained my inspiration for each piece - "A Man Was Lynched On Friday", "16 Shots", and "Post-Blackness" - all heavy stuff.  In particular, when I explained the "16 Shots" piece (in honor of Laquan McDonald who was fatally shot 16 times by Chicago Police while walking away - see previous blog post "16 Shots") and the significance of the creation process - it was met with a moment of silence...every time.  At the end of the event I explained the process one more time:

"I took a very large canvas - 5ft x 6ft into a large loading dock at two in the morning and spray painted it with a special spray paint so it looks and feels like asphalt.  I propped the canvas against the wall, walked about 15 feet away, took a yoga ball, dipped it into a bucket of black paint and hurled it at the canvas as hard as I could - 16 times.  Once for each time Laquan McDonald was shot by the Chicago Police Department.  

"BOOM!!"...

"BOOM!!"...

"BOOM"..

The entire loading loading dock echoed with the impact of the ball hitting the canvas.

I got to seven times and was ready to quit.  

I felt like I was murdering the canvas.  

I had to push myself to 16.  It disturbed me.  It made me wonder, "If I can only hit this canvas 7 times, what kind of hate do you have to have to shoot a man 16 times?"

I let the canvas dry.  It was sitting in that empty dock, propped against the wall and dripping paint.  I walked away, removed my gloves, and disposed of the evidence of what had just happened.  I had murdered Laquan Mcdonald in that loading dock and left him on the wall to dry.

When you look at the piece, not only do you see the large marks from where the ball hit canvas, but you also see some small paint marks that were created naturally from the impact.  Like bullet fragments when you shoot something or someone in real life.  Those fragments to me represent the fragments that hit every black person when we see another innocent black life shot and killed by police.  We each take a hit every time it happens.  And when you go to work the next day, feeling drained, and unable to focus.. it's because you're bleeding and don't even know it.  You've been it with a fragment."

So I now have close to 10 black people standing in a 300 square foot studio listening to this explanation.  It is met with the usual silence at first, then some reflections, some initial conversation, and then a very passionate conversation ensues.  Everyone is sharing their thoughts, frustrations, concerns, philosophies, and experiences.  Some people don't agree and they go back and forth challenging each other assertively but not quite arguing (yet).  This is what I wanted.  This is what you hope for as an artist.  To initiate conversations amongst the people viewing your art.  Not to impart your own views or ideals necessarily but to cause others  to think and re-consider their own or those of the environment around them.  

In the midst of the conversation, one person (a close friend of mine) turns to me and asks, "Dan, I have to ask.  Do you explain it like that every time?  Meaning, are you just as comfortable explaining '16 Shots' in a room full of white people as you are in a room full of black people?  Or does the narrative change?"  That was quite a question.  I thought and reflected for a minute and then gave my honest answer.  I'm not as comfortable explaining something so emotionally, politically, and racially charged to someone who doesn't identify with the root.  There's always a risk they can interpret my explanation as "militant" or "anti-white", none of which are true.  So no, I'm not as comfortable, BUT... even in my discomfort, the narrative doesn't change.  Because the narrative cannot change.  To change the narrative is to rob the piece of its purpose.

And so it caused me to think.  In general, why are we so quick to change the narrative?  Not just on matters of race - but matters of the heart, matters of purpose, matters of faith.  Why do we feel the need to dilute our deepest beliefs and passions to make others around us somehow feel more comfortable?  After this past week, I have explained "16 Shots" to white, black, latino, Indian, South African, French, English, and German people.  The reaction was the same - it didn't change.  It taught me something important - be confident in initiating important discussions regardless of how it may be interpreted.  Don't get me wrong the temptation was definitely there to "lighten the message", but I'm glad I didn't.  I now believe there are so many opportunities for critical conversations that we miss because we assume others won't understand or won't be open.  But change often begins with a meaningful dialogue.  Folks will be moved to take action in their own way and at their own pace, but don't rob them of the opportunity by not initiating the dialogue.

I have a close friend, a very successful professional, who commissioned me last year to paint a piece inspired by a gospel song.  I was happy to do it because I welcomed the opportunity to work in elements of faith into my work.  After I completed it, I knew it resonated with him deeply because we had discussed the significance of the song in his life and I was very careful to make sure I included those elements into the painting.  What disappointed me though, was his unwillingness to explain to other people why he chose a gospel song.  It was as if everything in his life was open for discussion except this one thing - why?  Why change the narrative?  Why hide such an important element of who you are and how you make decisions?  His response to me was that in a world where he is constantly on display and open to public scrutiny, he wanted to protect something that was special and sacred to him.  But I challenge that.  You can't protect who you are by hiding who you are, you protect who you are by being who you are.  You cannot please everyone without losing a piece of yourself in the process.  

Here most recently, as an artist, I've learned that me and my art are inextricably connected.  There is no separation point, nor should I try to create one.  My art is an extension of me.  My inspiration, process, and thoughts behind my art are just as (if not more) important as the visuals of the painting itself.  When I fail to explain a piece with the genuine passion, inspiration, thought, and vulnerability it deserves, not only do I rob myself of the chance to connect (and hopefully make a sale) but I rob the piece of its true value.  That is why I cannot afford to change the narrative based on fear of how it will be received.  I think this applies outside of art too.  Our dreams, passions, and core beliefs deserve to be shared with others with the fullness in which they were created, because to change the narrative is to rob them of their true value - DH