 © Tavis Cockburn
|
France: Feeding the African- American Artist Click to read Click to |
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© Tavis Cockburn
|
France: Feeding the African- American Artist Click to read Click to |
France:
Feeding the African-American Artist
I’m in love with France—a country that I snubbed for years. I once
thought, "What can France offer me that will feed my soul—African-American
woman, writer-dancer-wanderer?" Then I learned that France had offered solace and the
sanctuary to write, paint, and study to a stream of African-Americans during the
nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Some African-Americans, like novelist Richard Wright
and artist Henry Ossawa Tanner, never returned to the United States. Others, like writer
James Baldwin, went back and forth. Still others, such as pianist Hazel Scott, or artists
Meta Vaux Fuller and Romare Bearden, spent a few years in Paris before returning to the
States.
I went to Paris for the first time in November 1995 to visit a friend and see what made Paris such a haven for African- Americans. While there, I felt relieved of the invisible borders between white people and black people that exist in the States—the evil legacy of slavery biting at our heels. The barriers that were clearly drawn until the 1960s are now gone, yet many still fear to say "Hello," or to look a person of a different race in the eye.
I learned that Richard Wright had been sickened by the acid racism of the United States in the 1940s. The "little" things built up: His daughter not being allowed to use the bathroom in Bergdorf Goodman. Greenwich Village neighbors complaining when he, a "black man," moved in. Not being allowed to ride the hotel elevator to go to Sinclair Lewis’s room. So, in 1947, he moved to Paris. In France, he could live where he pleased and could spend long hours in cafes, conversing with people such as Jean Paul Sartre, exploring parallels between Sartre’s existentialism and Wright’s own novels. Yet, he also saw France’s struggles with former colonies Algeria, Senegal, and Morocco—which were playing out in France as well as Africa—demonstrate another form of racism.
In Paris, seeking the African-American past, I joined Julia Browne Figuereo’s "Walking the Spirit Tours." Julia was an Afro-Canadian filmmaker who had lived in Paris for six years. She led me through the narrow cobbled streets of the Latin Quarter, pointing out hotels and apartments where African-American talent flourished. In a romantic tale that captured something of the city’s magic, Julia explained that Paris saved bebop pianist Bud Powell. Given a year to live by the doctors in the United States, he moved to Paris. Here his health improved so much that he performed for many more years. Across from the Hotel Louisiane, where he lived, is the famous Buci market—it smells of roasting chickens and salted cheese. The huge Comice pear that Julia picked for me was juicy, satiny sweet, and so ripe that I could almost believe that the Parisian food alone cured Powell.
Sadly, there are few markers of the African-American expatriates. For this reason, I am moved by the memorials of Richard Wright’s life: the plaque at 14 Rue Monsieur le Prince where he lived from 1949–1959, the black marble square at Pere Lachaise cemetery which marks his resting place. I followed the Seine, seeking out cafes where Baldwin came to escape his cold apartment and craft his books, where Wright gathered with his friends. I marveled at this country that seemed to value its past as much as its present: row after row of sixteenth-century buildings standing next to modern apartments. Even as a woman alone, I found the streets safe at night.
In April, I returned to Paris. Hungry to learn about present-day African-American musicians in Paris, I attended a gospel brunch at Chesterfield Café on Rue de la Boétie. African-American women in the audience (who now make France their home) responded to the soulful music with tears in their eyes. "Yes," they murmured, and "Oh, Lord," while softly waving their hands. Even some of the French people in the restaurant joined in.
The next day—over a lunch of fried chicken, spaghetti, and Spanish red wine—Tori, one of the gospel singers who performs at ChesterWeld, told me that although Paris is still a wonderful place to live, Paris is not loyal. Tori explained that she was reluctant to teach her music for fear that once the French could perform it, she would not be hired. She echoed Julia Browne’s claim that French musicians are hired more readily than African-Americans with the same musical repertoire. French nationalism is strong.
Yet the French love of art and creativity is equally strong. It is that appreciation—together with a curiosity, rather than disdain, for the African-American artist—that continues to cultivate the talent and careers of those of us who sojourn to France.
Profile
There was a DJ sitting in a booth, who I can’t remember—this was seven years ago, in 1989—but today most DJs at the club are in their mid-thirties and definitely into pleasing the crowd. Sande was wearing something bright and form-fitting, as always. Sande is a striking woman, fairly tall. Her cheeks have a strong bone structure. Her eyes are intense, and when she is dancing she looks you in the eye and pulls you in.
This club caters to West Indians and West Africans. Of course there are also Ethiopians and Kenyans and other East Africans. Also, about a quarter of the dancers are African-American. When I take my African friends there, they say, "Wow! This place is just like home." The food at the club has aromas of the African Diaspora—fried plantains, rice and peas, and digag iyo baris (chicken with rice and cabbage and vegetables and spices). This part of Philadelphia is a predominantly African-American community, nothing unusual. When you walk into the club, suddenly you are in the West Indies or somewhere on the continent. The room is drab, lights are dim. On the walls are posters from Jamaica and Ethiopia, posters of Bob Marley. And the place is jumping. People are dancing, eating, and conversing. It’s vibrant and full of life. Sande and I danced until closing, 2:00 am.
Our birthdays are three days apart, and Sande and I are kindred spirits, sistahs in the Diaspora. Sande is a serious writer who is definitely going places. Her creative energy inspires and challenges me as an artist. So does her commitment to documenting the lives of people of African descent. She pulled me into the National Writers Union and also has supported me in my own film and video career. We meet occasionally at Borders Book Shop at 18th and Walnut and drink iced coffee and iced tea to catch up on our lives.
So, if you want to know one thing about Sande, it’s dancing. Dancing is her life—not like a career, not like making money. But something she does for herself. For Sande, dancing is the whole African Diaspora: Brazilian, West African, Caribbean, African-American. Dancing is a way that Sande recognizes herself as a citizen of world African culture.
—Aishah Shahidah Simmons
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