I am not an artist, and I don’t think I even really understand art enough to write about it, but here I am, officially leaving my comfort zone. I’m a music major, why should I even have to take a writing course? …And how am I supposed to write about portraits? I scroll past photos by Garry Winogrand, unenthused, then past the work of Walker Evans, which piques my interest. Butwhat do I have to say about it? Not enough, I decide.
I continue browsing the collection of suggested photographs. There’s something so familiar about a photo of a little girl and her mother putting on makeup at the kitchen table. I stare, and their faces begin to morph: I see myself, and my mother. I keep staring, and the entire photo seems to melt away, transforming entirely into my family portrait—until I blink, and I’m looking at Carrie Mae Weems’ “Woman and Daughter with Makeup” once again. I see so much of myself, and my mother, father, sisters—my whole family. So, this is the “Wilderness of Mirrors” that Neil Gaiman experienced as he strolled through the London Portrait Gallery, connecting so deeply that he could see his own reflection in the visages on the walls? As I look through Weems’ collection, I connect to the exact medium that has, in the past, alienated me. I am riveted, I am curious. I am here—writing about art.
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In a world where we are constantly alternating between trying to fit in and stand out, art can anchor us to our identities. Until this point, all of the visual art I’ve been exposed to was created for and curated by consumers that I sense I have nothing in common with. I’ve spent my life avoiding all visual art; the elitism and forced exclusivity that traditional visual arts are typically surrounded by felt insurmountable, as if there was always a correct answer that I was not privy to. But being able to relate—to truly see myself in a piece of art—has opened my mind, allowing me to explore a side of myself that I didn’t know existed and forge a deeper connection with the medium as a whole.
In Kitchen Table Series (1990), with a single room, a table, an unchanging light source, and black and white still images of herself and various companions, Weems embodies and incarnates the universal: platonic love, familial love, romantic love, love both mutual and unrequited, all portrayed within the series, along with the trust, admiration, respect, and companionship that we, as humans, seek out. Weems’ work evokes emotions that everyone has experienced; her photos conjure a viewer’s own memories of their home and leave them inadvertently feeling connected to strangers in a picture.
Credit: Untitled: Woman Brushing Hair. 1990, silver print, Museum of Modern Art, New York.
In “Woman Brushing Hair,” a woman stands behind Weems, who is seated at the head of the table, in a dark slip with thin straps. Her collarbones, jutting out, cast shallow pools of shadow, and the tendons in her neck strain against the pull of the brush in her hair. It makes me think of waking up early in the morning in elementary school, sitting on the soft carpet at my mother’s feet, and resisting the force of the brush (or her fingers) in my hair as she readied me for another day of classes. I can smell the pink oil lotion, feel the prick of bristles against my scalp, feel the heat buzzing beneath the skin from the simulation. Weems’ expression is ambiguous—there’s both tension and ease in her body. Her eyes are closed gently, her expression unstrained and even lax, yet her lips are ever so slightly pursed. I’m transfixed by the beauty of the faint darkness under her eyes, the hollowness below her cheekbones, the strength of her arms, the openness of her chest, and the bright reflection of the light across her breast just above the neckline of her slip. In one hand, she holds a cigarette, in the other, a glass of liquor; the face of her companion is almost completely obscured by shadows, while Weems rests with her eyes closed, brightly lit by the solitary, overhead light. This is the first photo in the series where the main wall isn’t empty—a dark, woven, rectangular tapestry hangs behind the women, the subject indeterminable, yet stark against the white wall. The table is nearly bare, save an ashtray, a matchbook, the pack of cigarettes, their glasses, and a candle.
Is this what my life will look like in 10 years? Or what my grandmother’s life looked like over 50 years ago? Every aspect of the photo conjures thoughts and memories—moments so seemingly insignificant that I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten them. The longer I look, I see more of my life in the image, relationships captured within the photo; while I can’t say for sure what their relationship is, their bond emanates from the image. It conjures feelings of being cared for—a feeling that, arguably, everyone desires—and makes me nostalgic for old friends and distant family, and for being a child. Engaging with these photos has opened the flood gates; suddenly, I have so much to say about what I’m seeing, a far cry from the apathy and avoidance I felt when I first began. I’m almost overwhelmed by the instantaneous rush of thoughts and emotions, and an unfamiliar eagerness to continue looking through these photos.
In “Eating Lobster,” that same table is now full. Three cans of beer sit at a man’s elbow, a glass and a full plate of food in front of each of them, an ashtray for them to share. A deck of cards sits forgotten and slightly out of focus in the foreground. The man, seated at the head of the table, is holding a morsel to his mouth; he indulges in the meal before him as Weems, to his left, caresses his head, eyes closed again. His expression borders on hedonistic; he is enraptured, utterly ignorant to his surroundings, as she cups his head and coos. While the couple in this image are the picture of domesticity, something about their pose is imbalanced and unrequited: she is taken with him—the only part of her body that isn’t straining, leaning, desperate to be with him is her left hand, occupied with keeping the burning cherry of the cigarette from scarring her skin. And though he leans into her touch, he still is disconnected, trapped within himself–– fixed upon his own pleasure. The bird perched inside the hung cage is the first set decoration that isn’t on the wall in this series, it casts a wide shadow that stretches into the corner of the room; its presence in a kitchen is peculiar to say the least. On the main wall hangs a still life portrait of flowers, hidden by darkness.
This image doesn’t remind me of my parents’ relationship at all–– my mom never doted on my father like Weems does with the man in the photo. Looking at the two adults as individual subjects, however, I do see some similarities. The man’s expression makes me think of my dad and how he loves food. When my mom makes dinner, he fills a trough and retreats to the recesses of our apartment to gobble–– to indulge like the man in this photo. Weems’ expression reminds me of how my mom cared for my sister and I when we were young: eyes gently closed, lips curled around an affectionate murmuring; the saccharine countenance is wholly loving, almost maternal. At our table, Mom would feed us dinner, or just sit across from us, smiling and watching us eat.
In “Man Smoking,” cigarette smoke fills the frame, the air hazy and thick around the bright hanging light. The whole scene is reminiscent of the way my mother, our upstairs neighbor, Ms. Bernie, and their friends would all sit around Ms. Bernie’s rectangular, green-glass kitchen table and talk for hours while I sat on the couch, playing games with my sister, a few feet away. A man sits on Weems’ left, head turned too far away from the lens for any distinguishing features to have been captured. His hair, thick and soft atop his head, is cut into a short fro with gentle angles. He’s sporting a knit sweater that looks heavy against the smooth, dark skin of his arms. He holds a cigarette to his mouth, taking a drag. His hand is partially exposed to the camera, as he gazes intently at his opponent. An empty glass, once filled with liquor, rests at his elbow, a pile of peanut shells lays blurred, front and center. There’s a glass in front of Weems as well, a splash of dark alcohol swirls at the bottom, the half-full bottle is set down within reach, next to the large bowl of peanuts and the sleeve of cards. The camera cannot see her hand, but Weems is winning. Her stare is fierce, heated, and confident: the arch of her eyebrow, the set of her eyes, the small, deadly smirk covered by the fingers curled in front of her mouth all give her an air of dominance.
Weems’ simper reminds me of the expression my mom wears in photos taken of her during college—youthfully confident, nearly smug, and challenging the lens, or maybe the photographer. Weems sits with her head high and her shoulders rolled back, relaxed, yet postured; her hair is tucked away in a scarf. A large photo of Malcolm X hangs right behind her head, it’s the only discernible photo on the wall; the other, smaller images sit in columns, mysteries in shadow. X’s power emanates out of the photo and into Weems, his presence only serving to make her seem sharper. Her certainty and poise reminds me so much of my mother. As a child, I believed my mother knew everything—she had an aura of omniscience. I trusted her implicitly because she never, ever looked doubtful—always calm, collected, and ready to take anything my sister and I threw at her. I imagine that back in the late seventies and early eighties, a similar photo would’ve been taken of my mother on any given Friday night.
And that’s what makes Carrie Mae Weems’ work so powerful. It’s not fully about feeling represented by the photos: it isn’t only because all of the women in my family are black, but rather that the photos she so carefully posed and framed were able to capture something unquestionably universal, something anyone— regardless of sexuality, gender, race, or religion—can connect with: the human experience. Our connection to others is among the most fundamental parts of life, and in TheKitchen Table Series, Weems recalls so many different bonds: between parent and child, between siblings, partners, and friends—even with one’s self. There are a number of images of Weems alone in that same room with that same light; from superficial smiles to raw and vulnerable moments, I don’t believe it’s possible to not see yourself in these photos. The mood of these images is like an outsider’s view of our private lives, the parts—both mundane and traumatic—we all inaccurately believe are so unique to ourselves.
As influential artist, photograph author, and Chair of the Department of Photography at NYU’s Tisch, Deborah Willis writes, “Weems, who serves as her own model, reenacts scenes and photographs them with such precision that viewers feel as if they have joined the table.” Which was exactly her intention: Weems says “TheKitchen Table Series started as a response, to my own sense of what needed to happen […] and would not simply be a voice for African-American women, but would more generally, be a voice for all women.” She sought to represent and humanize people like herself, and by making herself the foremost subject of a series so incredibly relatable and human, she does exactly that. With this series, and almost all of her other work, she dismantles the current narrative about beauty, including the exclusion of black women from said narrative–– the concept is subtly present in the images, but powerful nonetheless.
Weems sought to use her art as a way to represent the black community, specifically black women. By creating images that stir sentimentality and nostalgia in any viewer, she is able to make people who look nothing like the subjects of the photos see their own reflections in the images before them.
