Soul of a Nation: Art in the Age of Black Power at the Tate Modern

If you’re in London in the next week, and you’ve not yet visited the Soul of a Nation exhibition at the Tate Modern, let this be encouragement to see it before it closes on the 22nd. If that’s not you, let this be a way to enjoy some excellent art. Content warning: some of these images are violent. Super important and well done, but potentially disturbing. Copyright note: I believe this falls within the Tate’s photography requirements of “personal use.”

The Soul of a Nation at the Tate Modern is one of the most challenging, upsetting, and thrilling art exhibitions I’ve been to in years. Before you even enter the exhibition space, you can watch snippets of speeches from five leaders of civil rights, Black Power, and liberation movements (Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, James Baldwin, Stokely Carmichael, and Angela Davis). You see Stokely responding to MLK and Malcolm X, James Baldwin teaching Europeans about American racism, Angela Davis taking a broad and pragmatic view of how the struggle fits in her life and she in it. This introduction to the exhibition is small but important. It situates us firmly within the black community in the United States in the 1960s and ’70s. We’re not hearing what white people thought about the issues or what approach white people thought black people should take; we’re hearing how black people had this discussion amongst themselves, and the myriad approaches they took to dismantling systemic racism and building a better world.

soul of a nation black power art london

April 4 by Sam Gilliam

Once you enter the exhibition space, with the voices of cultural and political leaders still ringing in your ears, you immediately meet the artistic leaders. Let no one tell you that art and politics don’t interact: the Spiral artistic group was formed in direct reaction to the March on Washington in 1963, so members could discuss how to represent black folks in their art, and how to fight political battles in their art.

soul of a nation black power art london

America the Beautiful by Norman Lewis

soul of a nation black power art london

Processional by Norman Lewis (apologies for the slight blurriness)

My favorite thing about these two paintings by Norman Lewis is how they talk to one another. “America the Beautiful” on the left is a collection of white figures on a black background, which as you look more closely you see is a KKK rally, taking over the canvas and popping up almost randomly, like you never know where they’re lurking, intending harm. “Processional” on the right is a collection of white figures on a black background, which as you look more closely you see is an energetic crowd of people marching forward. It’s the Selma march, and as the museum placard suggested, the gradually widening scope of the view of figures is like a flashlight leading through the darkness. Two similarly simple approaches, two radically different results.

The next room cleverly combined art of the Black Panther group (mostly from their paper but also from posters they mass-produced to reach more people) and murals painted in black neighborhoods in cities across the United States — this room was “art on the streets,” art that was made to inspire and fire up. Some of the murals have fallen into disrepair, but I know I’ve seen some — or some like them — on the south side of Chicago, although I can’t recall if I’ve seen the Wall of Respect, one of the first murals to go up during this time.

Some of the stories behind the pieces I was familiar with, and others were new to me. I did not know about Fred Hampton — Black Panther activist shot to death in a raid by Cook County cops after being drugged by an FBI informant. I did not know that during his trial for conspiracy and inciting a riot as part of the Chicago Eight, Bobby Seale was ordered bound and gagged in the courtroom by the judge because the judge didn’t like his outbursts. (Also Seale’s later prison sentence was not for the original charges but for contempt charges the judge applied during that trial.) Archibald Motley, who painted “The First One Hundred Years” over a ten-year period, never painted again after he completed this work.

Other groups and collectives formed, including the Weusi collective, the Black Emergency Cultural Coalition, AfriCOBRA, Smokehouse Associates, and many others. A few of the rooms in this exhibition feature work from just one or two groups, so you can get a good sense of the general approach and what they focused on.

soul of a nation black power art london

I Got Rhythm by Betye Saar

A room full of collage, sculpture, and found object art had some truly chilling pieces. Betye Saar’s work is deeply affecting — titles that seem carefree like “Sambo’s Banjo” and “I Got Rhythm” are attached to mixed-media punches to the gut. Each tiny item in each piece adds layers of meaning — the little crucifix at the bottom of a lynched man in “I Got Rhythm,” the toy gun nestled in the top of the banjo case so Sambo might have a chance of resisting and surviving in “Sambo’s Banjo.”

soul of a nation black power art london

Revolutionary by Wadsworth Jarrell

soul of a nation black power art london

Detail of Black Prince by Wadsworth Jarrell

Walking into the AfriCOBRA room midway through the exhibition was like walking into an air-conditioned building after walking for miles in summer heat, a relief. The AfriCOBRA manifesto was explicitly hopeful: they wanted an aesthetic of “rhythm,” “shine,” and “color that is free of rules and regulations.” They made works to lift people up, and they reprinted them for wide distribution, so that black people all over the country could be inspired by positive images of black folks. Which is not to say that this isn’t itself a challenge, because it certainly challenges the white supremacist myth that black people are inferior and not worth celebrating. And in fact most of the art was explicitly political as well, like the work by Gerald Williams reminding people “don’t be jivin” or Wadsworth Jarrell’s portrait of Angela Davis, made up of words from her speeches radiating from the center of the painting. Make no mistake, representation on your own terms is a powerful form of resistance.

One of the debates within the black artistic community at the time was whether abstract art could be considered part of the movement as a whole. Abstract artists argued that because the art was theirs, and they were black, it was therefore part of the political black art movement. It’s like improve in jazz, William T. Williams said, and then he painted Trane, named for John Coltrane, which I think is an excellent way to win an argument.

There was a room on photography and how different ways of developing film brought out different skin tones in the black subjects; there were connections to the wider Black Arts Movement and samples from poets who collaborated with visual artists; there were many reminders that one of the constant themes in black liberation movements of 50 years ago was an end to police brutality — for all those who want to talk about “how far we’ve come”; there was a Spotify playlist you could listen to on your headphones during your walk around the exhibition and which I listened to after, getting pumped up to Gil Scott Heron as I strode along the Thames. There was so much to see, read, and absorb. Much gratitude to the artists who fought the good fight and explored their own creativity during the 1963-1983 period explored here, and beyond.

soul of a nation black power art london

Bill & Son by Roy DeCarava

A Room With No View

The lake wasn’t visible yesterday. It wasn’t even a cloudy day, but when I stood at the window of the 27th floor of my office building and looked out across Adams and past the Board of Trade, I saw no horizon. There was only a soft gray sky settling down beyond Michigan Ave. It didn’t bother me, because I have this view every work day, so I get to see the lake in all its changeability. But I thought about all the tourists at the Sears Tower and wondered how many of them were disappointed that they’d made it to the tallest building in the country, only to see the city slip into a gray haze instead of a blue expanse.

Travelers want to see certain sights, take pictures of the main attraction and put those pictures up on their Facebook wall and in their Christmas cards. Even travelers who say they “don’t want to do the tourist-y thing” want to take good photos of whatever sights they do see. Despite being able to buy the main views on a postcard or in a souvenir book (with, let’s face it, a way nicer camera than most of us have), we keep snapping away to have our very own version. It matters, for some reason, that we have our own. How disappointing, then, when we can’t have it.

Helena Bonham Carter in "A Room with a View"

Lucky Lucy Honeychurch--she got the view AND the man to go with it.

I was going to turn this post into an upbeat piece on finding the beauty in every situation, and cherishing the memories of your travels more than their digitized representations, but the truth is, I really care about my photos. I’m the self-appointed photographer of most group outings with my high school friends. I have a wall in my dining room covered in snapshots of friends and family. I don’t travel through a lens, by any means; I know how to put the camera down and be in the moment. But I like to look at the picture later and think, “that was me, I took that, I was there, I remember what it felt like to be there and take that.” So when I can’t get a good shot of some view or monument on my travels, it bugs me. Especially when I’m visiting a place I’m likely to never visit again.

It’s not that the excitement of being at the Parthenon or atop Mount Kilimanjaro is any less when the view is obscured or it’s raining. It might be a bit more uncomfortable or look a little different than expected, but that basic traveler’s thrill I feel when I approach a monument or peer out over a vista is basic and deep, and utterly disconnected from peripherals like cameras or even other people. Arriving at a destination and finally viewing a sought-after view or work of art really is its own moment of joy. A photo can’t capture it.

Still, a photo can help me remember that original thrill. It can send me back to that place and time in a way a postcard or purchased photo can’t. I’m a bit of a nostalgia junkie, and although I’m trying to kick the habit so I can live in the now, etc., a little nostalgia is good for ya, and dwelling a bit on great travel moments is one of the best ways to experience it. I feel more connected to the place when I see a snapshot of it on my wall, and I feel a sense of accomplishment as I consider how I got there in the first place.

So when I’m at a scenic spot or famous destination and the view is obscured or the building covered in scaffolding, I know that the only thing to do is shrug my shoulders, take the best photo I can, and move on with my day. But I turn my head and look behind me as I go, always hoping the clouds will part and my photographic moment will return.