Rebecca Senf, University of Arizona

Louis Carlos Bernal, a Chicano photographer born in the Arizona border town of Douglas in 1941, invented a style of art photography that honored his Mexican American culture. In the process, he created an indelible record of life in Southwestern barrios – low-income, primarily Spanish-speaking neighborhoods – in the 1970s and 1980s.

He died tragically in 1993 when he was just 52 years old. With his photographs in only a few museum collections, his legacy received little attention over the past three decades. Now, his powerful images are reaching new audiences through a bilingual book and exhibition of 120 photographs.

As chief curator of the Center for Creative Photography at the University of Arizona, I’ve been working with Bernal’s photographs over the past decade. In 2014, his family donated his photographs, negatives, contact sheets, working materials and memorabilia, which allowed us to establish the Louis Carlos Bernal Archive at the center.

The exhibition, which runs from Sept. 14, 2024, to March 15, 2025, will feature the portraits of everyday Mexican Americans from his most famous series of photographs, “Barrios.” And thanks to the work of photography scholar Elizabeth Ferrer, we’ve learned even more about Bernal’s artistic technique, process and goals.

Capturing ‘Chicanismo’

As a child, Bernal was given a camera and became captivated by making photographs. He enrolled at Arizona State University thinking he would become a Spanish teacher, but his fascination with photography won out.

Bernal pursued various projects as he deepened his exploration of photography. He created collages featuring iconic images of former president John F. Kennedy, who, as the first Catholic president, was particularly revered in the Mexican American community. Responding to the Watergate hearings, and interested in the impact of media on public perception, he worked on a series in which he instructed family members to hold a life-size mask of Richard M. Nixon up to their faces. Emulating the work of one of his mentors, visual artist Frederick Sommer, he made abstract images using sculptural cut paper.

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Ultimately these experiments gave way to a rich and sustained project of photographing Mexican Americans and their homes.

In doing so, he turned his neighbors, relatives and other Chicanos living in the Southwest into his artistic subjects. Together, the images convey Bernal’s goal of expressing his Mexican American pride, known as “Chicanismo.”

In this way, he was a part of the Chicano art movement, which sought to address the political and cultural concerns of the Mexican American community. Chicano artists highlighted issues such as labor exploitation, immigration, gender roles and racial discrimination. Their goal was to upend stereotypes about Mexican Americans, critique the status quo and cultivate a shared cultural identity.

‘Art of and for the people’

Bernal’s photographs might remind some viewers of snapshots found in a family album, and they do share many qualities with family photographs: They feature people in everyday settings; the subjects are often centered, posing naturally and appearing relaxed; and he preferred color photography, which, by the 1970s, had become a popular way to document birthday parties, holidays and other family milestones.

Bernal, however, gave a lot of thought to the elements in each photograph. He had a process for making pictures just as he envisioned them.

Throughout the many photographs he took inside homes and businesses, and of gatherings of relatives and friends, he deliberately highlighted personal possessions: framed family photographs, altars, posters, religious icons, textiles, and floral and seasonal decorations. Beyond the people in the images, he wanted to convey themes of family, spirituality, home and community.

In a 1982 video interview, Bernal described his process, and how he would “(work) things out in advance in my head before going out.”

This allowed him to work quickly when he was in someone’s home, minimizing the imposition his presence might cause. He also liked to photograph variations of the same setting – for instance, a room with and without family members, or a scene in both color and black and white. Later, he reviewed all the options, selecting the best from a group of images with subtle differences.

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In this way, he was able to create photographs from the world around him based on his deep familiarity with Chicano life and culture. These images introduced a way of life to people beyond the barrios. But they held up a mirror for other Mexican Americans, who could easily recognize the scenes.

“The Chicano artist cannot isolate himself from the community,” Bernal said in 1984, “but finds himself in the midst of his people creating art of and for the people.”

Elevating the everyday

Bernal’s process can be seen in a pair of typical portraits.

In “6th Street Barrio, Douglas, Arizona, 1979,” Bernal photographs a young boy in the living room of his family’s home.

The boy represents one point of a triangular composition. A dark brown, upholstered couch acts as the other, while family photographs high on the yellow wall form the apex. Bernal situated himself across from the corner of the room, where a small end table covered with the family’s possessions sat.

The triangular arrangement of the photograph’s key elements – and the symmetry of the vertical line formed by the room’s corner at center – gives the image balance, stability and permanence, reflecting the way family and home serve as an anchor for the Chicano community.

In “Leon Speer’s Barber Shop, Felix Valdivezo & Daughter Patricia, Lordsburg, New Mexico, 1978,” Bernal places the wall of the barbershop parallel to his lens. This choice creates an organized, composed and easily understood environment in which to make a photograph of the barber, the customer and the customer’s daughter.

Through this perspective – and with some help from a row of mirrors and lights – Bernal captures a little world in its entirety, from the tiled floor reflecting sunlight to the collection of items on a shelf below the pressed-tin ceiling. In doing so, Bernal elevates an ordinary place and everyday people as something special to behold. Instead of the spontaneous and candid qualities you might expect from the casual documentation of, say, a child’s first haircut, Bernal has used a deliberate and formal approach, rendering a familiar subject art-worthy.

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Bernal’s legacy

Bernal was building this incredible document of contemporary Mexican American culture when his life was cut short.

He had built the photography program at Pima Community College, in Tucson, Arizona, and his photography practice was thriving. But in 1989, as he was biking to work, he was struck by a car. He spent the next four years in a coma, passing away on his birthday in 1993, at age 52.

Although he had achieved acclaim in the U.S., his career was more acknowledged in Mexico, where he had developed a strong community and thriving professional network. Following his death, his work was not widely circulated in the U.S.

With the establishment of his archive, the publication of “Louis Carlos Bernal: Monografía,” and the opening of a large exhibition celebrating his work, I hope his Chicano pride and artistic vision will be introduced to a new generation of viewers, cementing his legacy in the history of American art.

Rebecca Senf, Chief Curator, Center for Creative Photography, University of Arizona

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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The Bridge is a section of the STM Daily News Blog meant for diversity, offering real news stories about bona fide community efforts to perpetuate a greater good. The purpose of The Bridge is to connect the divides that separate us, fostering understanding and empathy among different groups. By highlighting positive initiatives and inspirational actions, The Bridge aims to create a sense of unity and shared purpose. This section brings to light stories of individuals and organizations working tirelessly to promote inclusivity, equality, and mutual respect. Through these narratives, readers are encouraged to appreciate the richness of diverse perspectives and to participate actively in building stronger, more cohesive communities.

https://stmdailynews.com/category/the-bridge

Alisha Gaines, Florida State University

A peculiar desire seems to still haunt some white people: “I wish I knew what it was like to be Black.”

This wish is different from wanting to cosplay the coolness of Blackness – mimicking style, aping music and parroting vernacular.

This is a presumptive, racially imaginative desire, one that covets not just the rhythm of Black life, but also its blues.

While he doesn’t want to admit it, Canadian-American journalist Sam Forster is one of those white people.

Three years after hearing George Floyd cry “Mama” so desperately that it brought a country out of quarantine, Forster donned a synthetic Afro wig and brown contacts, tinted his eyebrows and smeared his face with CVS-bought Maybelline liquid foundation in the shade of “Mocha.” Though Forster did not achieve a “movie-grade” transformation, he became, in his words, “Believably Black.”

He went on to attempt a racial experiment no one asked for, one that he wrote about in his recently published memoir, “Seven Shoulders: Taxonomizing Racism in Modern America.”

For two weeks in September 2023, Forster pretended to hitchhike on the shoulder of a highway in seven different U.S. cities: Nashville, Tennessee; Atlanta; Birmingham, Alabama; Los Angeles; Las Vegas; Chicago and Detroit. On the first day in town, he would stand on the side of the road as his white self, seeing who, if anyone, would stop and offer him a ride. On the second day, he stuck out his thumb on the same shoulder, but this time in what I’d describe as “mochaface.”

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Since September is hot, he set a two-hour limit for his experiments. During his seven white days, he was offered, but did not take, seven rides. On seven subsequent Black days, he was offered, but did not take, one ride. He speculated that day was a fluke.

Forster is not the first white person to center themselves in the discussion of American racism by pretending to be Black.

His wish mirrors that of the white people featured in my 2017 book, “Black for a Day: White Fantasies of Race and Empathy.” The book tells the history of what I call “empathetic racial impersonation,” in which white people indulge in their fantasies of being Black under the guise of empathizing with the Black experience.

To me, these endeavors are futile. They end up reinforcing stereotypes and failing to address systemic racism, while conferring a false sense of racial authority.

Going undercover in the South

The genealogy begins in the late 1940s with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Ray Sprigle.

Sprigle, a white reporter at the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, decided he wanted to experience postwar racism by “becoming” a Black man. After unsuccessfully trying to darken his skin beyond a tan, Sprigle shaved his head, put on giant glasses and traded his signature, 10-gallon hat for an unassuming cap. For four weeks beginning in May 1948, Sprigle navigated the Jim Crow South as a light-skinned Black man named James Rayel Crawford.

Sprigle documented dilapidated sharecropper’s cabins, segregated schools and women widowed by lynching. What he witnessed – but did not experience – informed his 21-part series of front page articles for the Post-Gazette. He followed up the series by publishing a widely panned 1949 memoir, “In the Land of Jim Crow.”

Sprigle never won that second Pulitzer.

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Cosplaying as Black

Sprigle’s more famous successor, John Howard Griffin, published his memoir, “Black Like Me,” in 1961.

Like Sprigle, Griffin explored the South as a temporary Black man, darkening his skin with pills intended to treat vitiligo, a skin disease that causes splotchy losses of pigmentation. He also used stains to even his skin tone and spent time under a tanning lamp.

During his weeks as “Joseph Franklin,” Griffin encountered racism on a number of occasions: White thugs chased him, bus drivers refused to let him disembark to pee, store managers denied him work, closeted, gay white men aggressively hit on him, and otherwise nice-seeming white people grilled him with what Griffin called the “hate stare.” Once Griffin resumed being white and news broke about his racial experiment, his white neighbors from his hometown in Mansfield, Texas, hanged him in effigy.

For his work, Griffin was lauded as an icon in empathy. Since, unlike Sprigle, he experienced racist incidents himself, Griffin showed skeptical white readers what they refused to believe: Racism was real. The book became a bestseller and a movie, and is still included in school curricula – at the expense, I might add, of African-American literature.

Griffin’s importance to this genealogy extends beyond middle-schoolers reading “Black Like Me,” to his successor and mentee, Grace Halsell.

Halsell, a freelance journalist and former staff writer for Lyndon B. Johnson’s administration, decided to “become” a Black woman – first in Harlem in New York City, and then in Mississippi.

Without consulting any Black woman before baking herself caramel in tropical suns and using Griffin’s doctors to administer vitiligo-corrective medication, Halsell initially planned to “be” Black for a year. But after alleging someone attempted to sexually assault her while she was working as a Black domestic worker, Halsell ended her stint as a Black woman early.

Although her experiment only lasted six months, she still claimed to be someone who could authentically represent her “darker sisters” in her 1969 memoir, “Soul Sister.”

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Turn-of-the-century ‘race switching’

Forster writes that his 2024 memoir is the “fourth act” – after Sprigle, Griffin and Halsell – of what he calls “journalistic blackface.”

However, he is not, as he claims, “the first person to earnestly cross the color barrier in over half a century.”

In a 174-page book self-described as “gonzo” with only 17 citations, Forster failed to finish his homework.

In 1994, Joshua Solomon, a white college student, medically dyed his skin to “become” a Black man after reading “Black Like Me.” His originally planned, monthlong experiment in Georgia only lasted a few days. But he nonetheless detailed his experiences in an article for The Washington Post and netted an appearance on “The Oprah Winfrey Show.”

Then, in 2006, FX released, “Black. White.,” a six-part reality television series advertised as the “ultimate racial experiment.”

Two families – one white, the other Black – “switched” their races to perform versions of each-otherness while living together in Los Angeles. While the makeup team won a Primetime Emmy Award, the families said goodbye seething with resentment instead of understanding.

A masterclass of white arrogance

Believing it would distract from the findings of his experiment, Forster refuses to show readers his mochaface.

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Even after confronting evidence forcing him to question his project’s appropriateness, like the multiple articles condemning “wearing makeup to imitate the appearance of a Black person,” he insists his insights into American racism justify his methods and are different from the harmful legacies of blackface. As he stands on the side of the road, sun and sweat compromising whatever care he took to paint his face, Forster concludes that racism can be divided into two broad taxonomies: institutional and interpersonal.

The former, he believes, “is effectively dead,” and the latter is most often experienced as “shoulder,” like the subtle refusal to pick up a mocha-faced hitchhiker.

Forster’s Amazon book description touts “Seven Shoulders” as “the most important book on American race relations that has ever been written.”

Indeed, it is a masterclass – but one on the arrogance of white assumptions about Blackness.

To believe that the richness of Black identity can be understood through a temporary costume trivializes the lifelong trauma of racism. It turns the complexity of Black life into a stunt.

Whether it’s Forster’s premise that Black people are ill-equipped to testify about their own experiences, his sketchy citations, the hubris of his caricature or the venom with which he speaks about the Black Lives Matter movement, Forster offers an important reminder that liberation can’t be bought at the drugstore.

Alisha Gaines, Associate Professor of English, Florida State University

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This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The Bridge is a section of the STM Daily News Blog meant for diversity, offering real news stories about bona fide community efforts to perpetuate a greater good. The purpose of The Bridge is to connect the divides that separate us, fostering understanding and empathy among different groups. By highlighting positive initiatives and inspirational actions, The Bridge aims to create a sense of unity and shared purpose. This section brings to light stories of individuals and organizations working tirelessly to promote inclusivity, equality, and mutual respect. Through these narratives, readers are encouraged to appreciate the richness of diverse perspectives and to participate actively in building stronger, more cohesive communities.

https://stmdailynews.com/category/the-bridge

Colette Gaiter, University of Delaware

The three qualities that matter most in real estate also matter the most to graffiti artists: location, location, location.

In Miami and Los Angeles, cities that contain some of the most expensive real estate in the U.S., graffiti artists have recently made sure their voices can be heard and seen, even from the sky.

In what’s known as “graffiti bombing,” artists in both cities swiftly and extensively tagged downtown skyscrapers that had been abandoned. The efforts took place over the course of a few nights in December 2023 and late January 2024, with the results generating a mix of admiration and condemnation.

As someone who has researched the intersection of graffiti and activism, I see these works as major milestones – and not just because the artists’ tags are perhaps more prominent than they’ve ever been, high above street level and visible from blocks away.

They also get to the heart of how money and politics can make individuals feel powerless – and how art can reclaim some of that power.

Two cities, two graffiti bombings

Since late 2019, Los Angeles’ billion-dollar Oceanwide Plaza – a mixed-use residential and retail complex consisting of three towers – has stood unfinished. The Beijing-based developer was unable to pay contractors, and ongoing financing challenges forced the company to put the project on pause. It’s located in one of the priciest parts of the city, right across the street from Crypto.com Arena, where the 2024 Grammy Awards were held.

Hundreds of taggers were involved in the Los Angeles graffiti bombing. It may never be publicly known how the idea was formed and by whom. But it seemed to have been inspired by a similar project that took place in Miami during Art Basel, the city’s annual international art fair.

In November 2023, the city of Miami announced that a permit to demolish One Bayfront Plaza site, an abandoned former VITAS Healthcare building, had been filed.

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Miami is known for its elaborate spray-painted murals. There’s also a rich tradition of graffiti in the city. So Miami was a natural gathering place for graffiti artists during Art Basel in December 2023, and One Bayfront Plaza became the canvas for taggers from around the world.

Over the course of a few days, graffiti artists – some of whom rappelled down the side of the building – tagged the brutalist, concrete structure with colorful bubble letters spelling their graffiti names: “EDBOX,” “SAUTE” and “1UP,” and hundreds more.

The response to the Miami bombing was more awe than outrage, perhaps because the building will soon be torn down. It elicited comparisons to 5Pointz, a collection of former factory buildings in the Queens borough of New York City that was covered with graffiti and became a landmark before being demolished in 2014.

Meaning and motivation

In the early 2000s, when I started researching street graffiti, I learned that there are different names for different graffiti types.

“Tags” are pseudonyms written in marker, sometimes with flourishes. “Fill-ins” or “throw-ups” are quickly painted fat letters or bubble letters, usually outlined. “Pieces” involve more colorful, complicated and stylized spray-painted letters.

The tradition of painting ornate graffiti names made me think of Paul Cézanne, who painted the same bowl of fruit over and over. The carefully chosen names and their letters become the subject that writers use to practice their craft.

But I also wanted to know why people graffitied.

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Many graffiti writers tagged spaces to declare their existence, especially in a place like New York City, where it is easy to feel invisible. Some writers who became well known in the early 1970s, like Taki 183, scrawled their names and street numbers all over the city.

During my research, I spoke with one New York graffiti artist whose work had garnered a lot of attention in the 1980s. He explained that his writing had no concrete political messages.

“But,” he added, “the act of writing graffiti is always political.”

Another graffiti artist I interviewed, “PEN1,” stood with me on a street in lower Manhattan, pointing out one of his many works. It was a fill-in – huge letters near the top of a three- or four-story building, very visible from the street.

“Those people have paid so much money to put their message up there,” he said, pointing to nearby billboards, “and I get to put my name up there for free.”

Through my project, which I ended up titling “Unofficial Communication,” I came to understand that writing graffiti on walls, billboards and subway cars was a way of disrupting ideas of private ownership in public, outdoor spaces.

It involved three different sets of players. There were the taggers, who represented people defying the status quo. There were the public and private owners of the spaces. And there was the municipal government, which regularly cleaned graffiti from outdoor surfaces and tried to arrest taggers.

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In cities across the U.S., then and now, it’s easy to see whose interests are the priority, whose mistakes governments are willing to overlook, and which people they aggressively police and penalize.

Loud and clear

The names painted on the Los Angeles skyscrapers are the faster and easier-to-complete fill-ins, since time is at a premium and the artists risk arrest.

These vertical graffiti bombing projects on failed skyscrapers, deliberately or not, call attention to the millions of dollars that are absorbed by taxpayers when private developers make bad investments.

Because the names painted on the buildings are fill-ins, they’re not especially artistic. But they did, in fact, make a political statement.

A former graffiti artist who goes by “ACTUAL” told The Washington Post that he’d come out of retirement to contribute to the Los Angeles project.

“The money invested in [the buildings] could have done so much for this city,” he added.

Some of the graffiti artists in Los Angeles were arrested, and the Los Angeles City Council is demanding that the owners of Oceanwide Plaza remove the graffiti, described as the work of “criminals” acting “recklessly.”

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Meanwhile, the developers of buildings that have sat, unfinished, for years, in the middle of a housing crisis, have broken no laws.

Some reckless acts, apparently, are more criminal than others.

Colette Gaiter, Professor of Art and Design, University of Delaware

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.