"The Prodigal Son"

"The Prodigal Son" by James Weldon Johnson

Young man— 
Young man— 
Your arm’s too short to box with God. 

But Jesus spake in a parable, and he said: 
A certain man had two sons. 
Jesus didn’t give this man a name, 
But his name is God Almighty. 
And Jesus didn’t call these sons by name, 
But ev’ry young man, 
Ev’rywhere, 
Is one of these two sons. 

And the younger son said to his father, 
He said: Father, divide up the property, 
And give me my portion now. 

And the father with tears in his eyes said: Son, 
Don’t leave your father’s house. 
But the boy was stubborn in his head, 
And haughty in his heart, 
And he took his share of his father’s goods, 
And went into a far-off country. 

There comes a time, 
There comes a time
When ev’ry young man looks out from his father’s house, 
Longing for that far-off country. 

And the young man journeyed on his way, 
And he said to himself as he travelled along: 
This sure is an easy road, 
Nothing like the rough furrows behind my father’s plow. 

Young man— 
Young man— 
Smooth and easy is the road
That leads to hell and destruction. 
Down grade all the way, 
The further you travel, the faster you go. 
No need to trudge and sweat and toil, 
Just slip and slide and slip and slide
Till you bang up against hell’s iron gate. 

And the younger son kept travelling along, 
Till at night-time he came to a city. 
And the city was bright in the night-time like day, 
The streets all crowded with people, 
Brass bands and string bands a-playing, 
And ev’rywhere the young man turned
There was singing and laughing and dancing. 
And he stopped a passer-by and he said: 
Tell me what city is this? 
And the passer-by laughed and said: Don’t you know? 
This is Babylon, Babylon, 
That great city of Babylon. 
Come on, my friend, and go along with me. 
And the young man joined the crowd. 

Young man— 
Young man— 
You’re never lonesome in Babylon. 
You can always join a crowd in Babylon. 
Young man— 
Young man— 
You can never be alone in Babylon, 
Alone with your Jesus in Babylon. 
You can never find a place, a lonesome place, 
A lonesome place to go down on your knees, 
And talk with your God, in Babylon. 
You’re always in a crowd in Babylon. 
And the young man went with his new-found friend, 
And bought himself some brand new clothes, 
And he spent his days in the drinking dens, 
Swallowing the fires of hell. 
And he spent his nights in the gambling dens, 
Throwing dice with the devil for his soul. 
And he met up with the women of Babylon. 
Oh, the women of Babylon! 
Dressed in yellow and purple and scarlet, 
Loaded with rings and earrings and bracelets, 
Their lips like a honeycomb dripping with honey, 
Perfumed and sweet-smelling like a jasmine flower; 
And the jasmine smell of the Babylon women
Got in his nostrils and went to his head, 
And he wasted his substance in riotous living, 
In the evening, in the black and dark of night, 
With the sweet-sinning women of Babylon. 
And they stripped him of his money, 
And they stripped him of his clothes, 
And they left him broke and ragged
In the streets of Babylon. 

Then the young man joined another crowd— 
The beggars and lepers of Babylon. 
And he went to feeding swine, 
And he was hungrier than the hogs; 
He got down on his belly in the mire and mud
And ate the husks with the hogs. 
And not a hog was too low to turn up his nose
At the man in the mire of Babylon. 

Then the young man came to himself— 
He came to himself and said: 
In my father’s house are many mansions, 
Ev’ry servant in his house has bread to eat, 
Ev’ry servant in his house has a place to sleep; 
I will arise and go to my father. 
And his father saw him afar off, 
And he ran up the road to meet him. 
He put clean clothes upon his back, 
And a golden chain around his neck, 
He made a feast and killed the fatted calf, 
And invited the neighbors in. 

Oh-o-oh, sinner, 
When you’re mingling with the crowd in Babylon— 
Drinking the wine of Babylon— 
Running with the women of Babylon— 
You forget about God, and you laugh at Death. 
Today you’ve got the strength of a bull in your neck
And the strength of a bear in your arms, 
But some o’ these days, some o’ these days, 
You’ll have a hand-to-hand struggle with bony Death, 
And Death is bound to win. 

Young man, come away from Babylon, 
That hell-border city of Babylon. 
Leave the dancing and gambling of Babylon, 
The wine and whiskey of Babylon, 
The hot-mouthed women of Babylon; 
Fall down on your knees, 
And say in your heart: 
I will arise and go to my Father.

"16 Shots"

'16 Shots" - In memory of Laquan McDonald - Acrylic on canvas, 60"x72"

I'm angry.  This is the realization that I had walking to the gym on Tuesday.  It's not new.  I think I've been angry for a while but have not had the freedom to realize it, acknowledge it, or express it.  With the opportunity to exist in a totally creative space for 3 months, I am finding myself much more sensitive to my deepest thoughts and feelings.  I was listening to Vic Mensa's album "There's A Lot Going On" (disclaimer: certainly not for young, sensitive, or conservative ears) and it ignited a lot of emotions that I have suppressed in order to stay focused.  In particular, his song "16 Shots", a response to the murder of 17-year old Laquan McDonald by Chicago Police, reminded me of the feeling of frustration and helplessness I often feel as a black man in America.  Every time I see a story on the news about police brutality against black people or rampant inequity in the justice system, I am reminded of how in 2016, being black is still a crime.  As someone who has seemingly made all the right decisions in life, I still cannot avoid micro-aggressions in the workplace, looks of sheer terror when I walk into an elevator with a white woman, and being pulled over for nothing other than driving while black.

Just recently, I was in the car with a co-worker, also a black man, who had just purchased a new BMW.  He drove to my apartment in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn to pick me up so we could head to the gym.  Two brothers in tank tops, driving in a new BMW?  You can probably finish the story.  The police who were driving behind us on Atlantic Ave. pulled us over and 3 policemen hopped out.  They circled the car looking for suspicious clues and then finally one of them signaled my friend to roll down the window.  He asked for license and registration and stated we were pulled over because he was missing tags in the front, but they were riding behind us the entire time, there's no way they could have known that the front was missing tags.  They let my friend off with a "warning", pulled off ahead of us, and proceeded to go pull over a red Lexus with custom rims on the same street - probably for the same offense, driving while black.

When having conversations about these types of experiences with folks who aren't black, somehow it inevitably goes to "well, why didn't your friend have tags on the front?"  That is not the point.  Why am I a target?  "Well Laquan McDonald wasn't exactly a Boy Scout."  I'm not saying he was; his record certainly says he wasn't.  What I am saying is there was no need to shoot him 16 times when he was walking away from the police.  If I have a son - how do I have this conversation with him?  How do I explain that the justice system is not set up in his favor?  Earlier this year, I had the eye-opening experience of serving on jury duty in Brooklyn.  It was an attempted rape case amongst other lesser crimes.  From the very beginning I could tell the defendant was probably doomed.  He, the defendant, was a black man and the victim a white woman.  He looked like he may have played college football back in the day and she looked like an art student.  While the DA used a well structured powerpoint deck and laser pointers to deliver closing arguments, his attorney (probably a public defender) had a yellow legal pad that looked like it lived in the backseat of his car somewhere between his running shoes and his coffee mug.  He flipped vigorously through pages of chicken-scratch, as if trying to remember which case he was even working on.  Attempted rape is a serious crime, and here is a brother in court who will likely spend the next 20 years of his life in jail because he doesn't have enough money to afford an attorney with a laser pointer (and more than 48 hrs to review the case).  

The defendant had actually committed a similar crime over 20 years ago and the DA wanted to bring the former victim in as evidence.  The defense attorney objected saying that the previous crime for which he was tried, does not prove that the defendant was more likely to commit the crime.  The judge sustained the objection but allowed the victim from the previous crime to testify.  His reasoning for allowing it in as evidence was "only for identification purposes, not as proof of a predisposition to a certain behavior or crime."  What does that even mean???  How can you allow a jury to hear someone say the defendant sexually assaulted them 20 years ago and not expect it to taint their view in any way? The judge knew that would influence our decision making, but he allowed it anyway, probably because he himself had already decided the defendant was guilty.  

When we, the jury, got to the deliberating room, we took an initial vote.  Though the jury was quite diverse, you could clearly see how prejudice finds its way into the justice system.  When the forewoman asked "Ok, who thinks he's guilty?" every white woman in the room raised her hand.  When asked who says not guilty (more specifically, not enough evidence to prove guilty) every black man in the room raised his hand.  This, ladies and gentleman, is how the justice system works.  Now imagine white police officers on trial for the shooting of Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO and a grand jury where 9 of 12 jurors were white and probably from that community.  It makes sense why in so many of these cases, the police officers are acquitted.  

What is clear to me is that race and wealth greatly impact one's access to justice, but that's not really justice at all, is it?  So if I have a son I guess I'm supposed to tell him, "If you ever find yourself in trouble you will be assumed guilty because you're black, unless of course you have a lot of money... then you can just buy your way out."  

And so I've decided to start on a new series, one which expresses my thoughts and feelings about the realities of the black experience in America.  It won't be colorful but it will be real.  "16 Shots" is the first piece in that series.  I will continue my work on God's Trombones but will also be developing this one at the same time.  More to come... 

Divorcing from the Figure

I went to the Whitney Museum yesterday and had the pleasure of checking out the Stuart Davis exhibit "In Full Swing."  I am a big fan of his work as well as many other artists during the same time period.  Davis is regarded by many as a precursor of both pop art and contemporary abstraction.  I'm very glad I went to the exhibit and also learned more about Davis' philosophy as an artist.  I was surprised to learn that it is quite similar to the direction which I seem to be heading in naturally.  I doubt it is coincidental, given I was drawn to his work enough to want to attend the exhibit; something about it resonates with me.  

One of the pieces I felt most drawn to was "Mural for Studio B, WNYC, Municipal Broadcasting Company" painted in 1939.  The piece is huge - 7ft x 11ft.  You have to pay attention to because of its size, if for no other reason.  Reading the museum label next to the mural, I saw a caption that, though in different words, has been a recurring thought of mine in how I want to approach my art.  It said that for Davis, "...the juxtaposition of seemingly unrelated imagery reflected the way he imagined people remember scenes or events: 'Certain aspects of it are exaggerated and others are suppressed.  The scene is rearranged and recomposed according to the importance and meaning which the different elements had for the spectator.'"

Study for "The Prodigal Son" from the God's Trombone's series.

This describes (way better than I could have ever articulated) how I am approaching the God's Trombones series.  When remembering a scene or visualizing a poem written by Johnson, I imagine our brains select and emphasize certain images while omitting others.  Additionally, some images are abstracted while others are more literally interpreted.  This is why I choose not to include every image James Weldon Johnson writes in his poems, because in the mind's eye, it is likely to be insignificant.  Embracing this philosophy of expression, I'm feeling more comfortable dealing almost completely in the abstract.  In the past, I've always felt a need to include some form of human figure in my work, perhaps a small fear of jumping totally off the "abstract artist" cliff.  With this series, however, I'm beginning to feel that the human figure is actually one of the insignificant details which the mind's eye might omit.  This will reduce the pieces to pure feeling and imagination through color, texture, and abstracted forms - which is the lane that feels most natural for this series.