by Stephon Senegal
“Fuck you my nigga!” His voice carried with force. The irony of being “his nigga” and spurned all at once. Cohorts near. We stood center in that customary circle, our makeshift coliseum. Something familiar from my youth. To my sides and rear stood our audience. Tapping their feet, waiting for the competition to begin. Some were friends, most caged observers. The contest for that day had not escalated, for now this would be one on one. We were all Black, negros, niggas and twentysomethings, typical for this area. These occasions were like real life rehearsals for us, a brand of hood improv. The stakes were high, but not that high. We were there to test our mettle, not save our people. He began to come closer. I asked him again as I did before his previous outburst, if his posture was a true signal of what he desired. Not in those words, but that was the gist. His response was in the affirmative. . . . .
Clamoring for the compassion of your enemy is an affront to your community and a threat to its existence and identity. I am an artist. My movements are a series of expressions that detail my history and my present. Both the visual object and performance are part of those expressions. We are orchestrating a series of movements, objects and conversations to reestablish our identities and contribute to Suma Mbok. .
by Stephon Senegal
There he laid. His head torn from his body. I picked him up. A part of. Prodding for a sign. Holding his lifeless body. Destro! I shouted. Muted. Pleading with whomever would listen. I stared at him. A swell of dry tears. A soundless breath. In shock. A playful demeanor replaced with a deft stare. Rage overtook. Eight-year-old me plotting a path to sweet vengeance. Over the faint whisper of a cooling unit in the window. I looked up. And there he was. My cousin. The kid destroyer. Waiting. Looking. Mouthing a pitiless sorrow. He picked up the polished head of Destro. Attempting to put it back on. To no avail. Oblivious to what he had just done. . . . .
by Stephon Senegal
Moat. Cavernous, pensive. A fissure. Still. Mudded. This is the pursuit of absolution. It beacons because you asked. Mitigating. Ignoring their cries. Their tears make you seethe. Sinking teeth into brutalitys forever. Its burden stains. Undissipated with the vanquished. The moat must eat. The sum of killing. Genocide is not a conclusion. But a beginning. I stand in awe of its glory. The trench that is freedom. Its cost. The hero. For one day. If only for one. To be remembered.. . . . .
by Stephon Senegal
High schools Friday night lights. Red and blue warm southern darkness. The brightness. Fooled more than its share. To believe they were enough. A weeks reprieve from the offense of adolescence. Those content with feebleness. Gifts for no effort. Skinned and deboned. The sparkle was intoxicating. Suited for the game. The play was the normal mix of reward and punishment. This was a scrimmage I think. A simulation of worth. Do not press for more. I have only this moment for you. I hit him. Grabbing my helmets cage as I launched into the ball carrier. His only transgression was participation. The bodies were piled. The smell of dirt. The weight of strangers. Arbitrary kicks and pinches. Oh its sweetness. The tackle pile was the stuff of relief. Whether pioneer or carpetbagger. You soaked in the conclusion of one, and the beginning of another. Play. The green dust covered us. I raised from. Satisfied with the damage. Feeling it worth what it cost. Dislocated. The hand had been caught between my helmet and his. I played free safety. I hit whomever made sense. To me. I ran to the side lines peering at the disfigured hand. Slighting confounded. Taking in the reality of this treasure. It was proof. And somehow, I wanted more. The coach came to. With a half measure of testiness he asked, “Whats the issue”. I showed him. He asked if I wished to continue. I thought it a silly question. Alas, we are here to please. To be enough. The cheers. No pain would keep from. For glory. He grabbed my shoulder and then hand. He pulled. I do not recall much else. Crossing the white line. I ran back to the huddle. . . . .
by Stephon Senegal
Dark. Those nights were dark. I would walk out the house and hurry to the light switch. A quick reprieve before we hit the streets. A welcomed transition and break from the dark. My cousin would have already arrived. It was his knock that prompted the exit. “The light switch was right there”, I thought. But he would not touch. Standing there. Menacing, faintly impatient. The family peeps always felt tougher or at least meaner. Fifth grade. I was only a hare pass ten. Tense from his stare. Not the cousins. But fear. It told me things. My night lamp was intermission. A hall pass from its teachings. Some veneers we need. . . . .
The census has overtly dismantled African and Native American identities since its inception. This installation series presents strategies to lift the veil of deceit embedded in how European led governments count others. What does it mean to be counted and marked in a system built on Black and Brown labor and exclusion?
by Stephon Senegal
I sit here. Puzzled by the way they describe me, or at least my people. I have always been uncomfortable with certain labels. The compulsory monikers that guide our daily. Equally perplexing is the modern scholar’s assimilation. They do so easily, the Negro ones. Maybe they know something different from the books they read or the “battles” they fought. Maybe I simply need to read more. Nonetheless, those labels guide our dealings in the mundane and the perilous. In war and pandemic, those labels find permanence. Guiding sympathy and directing vehemence. There is something to these labels and marks. They are so ingrained, nearly indiscernible from, and now synonymous with. An unnerving judgement of a people hidden discretely in their lines of statutes. Catalogued in annals of twisted scripture and dubious regulation. Such is the case with race.. . . . .
We did not choose, nor have we accepted the stain of enslavement. The American telling of chattel slavery casually excludes our rebellion. Dread Scott took this narrative head on and lead hundreds into history with the reenactment of the largest slave rebellion in the history of the United States. In 1811, an unlikely band of maroons and slaves rose to burn and pillage the German Coast in southern Louisiana. The actual rebellion took place in the river parishes outside of New Orleans. We marched nearly twenty-eight miles in our performance of the rebellion. One of my assignments in the production was to strike down Manuel Andry (or the actor playing that part) of the Andry plantation. Symbolically, the first blow. Part performance and part film production, the project involved over two hundred reenactors in period specific clothing. Filmmaker John Akomfrah documented the reenactment.
by Stephon Senegal
A day in February. The one month set aside to reminiscence, however briefly, about the free labor that built this country. I am not particularly inclined to indulge in the celebrations, but nonetheless, people see Black when they see me. I am an artist, part of my practice involves installing public art in marginalized Black and Brown neighborhoods. Today, it has me in a smallish Pennsylvanian city. As I exit my lodging for the week, a winter white has blanketed the streets from last night. I begin my walk. Car after car passes as I navigate snow and slush to avoid getting the Chucks soaked. To the left a truck pulls up. I pay it little attention until I realize it is following slowly and keeping pace. I give it some discrete inspection as its pulls ahead to the stop sign ahead and waits. And then I remember, I am behind enemy lines, and these boys in blue are the reminder. . . . .
This series is titled — Necessary Invisibles. One installation is placed on the building of Morse Lumber, a business in that area since 1857. Located on the westside of Main Street, they are an informal marker for the Black and Brown side of the city. the placement of this work alludes to the Black free labor that built this nation. The other installation is placed on the eastside of Main Street, a predominantly White area. Placed on the grounds of an Episcopal Church in Rochester established in 1855, This work addresses the historical abuse of our women. Nonetheless, our value is ours to claim, it is not the responsibility of others.
by Stephon Senegal
The story of a negro reenacting negro enslavement and negro rebellion should not be compelling to descendants of enslavers, it should possibly be alarming. A number of months ago, I participated in a reenactment of the 1811 Slave Rebellion Reenactment (SRR) in New Orleans Louisiana. The reenactment was organized by artist Dread Scott. In January of 1811, led by mulatto Charles Deslondes, an unlikely band of maroons and slaves rose to burn and pillage their way through the German Coast in southern Louisiana. The actual rebellion, the largest slave rebellion in the history of the United States, took place in the river parishes outside of New Orleans. . . . .
Our families are marginalized by policies that shift resources away from communities of color. Nonetheless our growth will not come by policy but by our willingness to develop independence systems of sustainability. In this act of service, we fostered opportunities for urban families to learn about hydroponic growing programs within their neighborhoods.
The Black body has been under attack. The frequency of those attacks has received more attention. Nonetheless, the specific plight of Black women and girls goes largely unacknowledged. We should protect our woman and children, but simultaneously honor their strength and resourcefulness. In this act of service, we taught a group of young girls a variety of self-defense techniques.
The dilemma of inclusion for communities of color starts at a very early age. Youth hierarchy and specifically a child’s esteem hinges partially on their ability to participate in activities with their peers. In this act of service, we gifted young Black girls bicycles and riding lessons for those who needed.
Building a community requires reinforcing all its parts. It is especially important to lend resources to those without supportive guardians or peers. Black mothers are an important component of our families. In this act of service, we provided a multitude of bulk resources to young mothers and young girls in challenging environments.
There is an explicit attack on bodies of color, but neglect is an equally damaging tactic of disenfranchisement. The stealth of the food and water crisis in our communities has wrought a heavy price on our learning and health. In response to the water crisis, we delivered pallets of water to the residents and facilitated supplies for further delivery of much needed provisions.
The power of language cannot be overstated. In the absence of our original tongues, linguistics has covertly operated as a device of abuse. Nearly half of the Africans forcibly brought to the United States came from Senegambia – a part of present day Senegal. Wolof is a language spoken in Senegal and surrounding areas. This work was installed on the street where a lone Negro gunman victoriously battled several police officers. It uses a tongue indigenous to West Africa to translate a colloquialism used in our community.
by Stephon Senegal
Hip-hop culture is part of how my community connects. It is a representation of our story built from the trauma of chattel slavery and our resilience. Even though the spotlight of this party is famous Black and Brown, the crowd is overwhelmingly white and opulent. These are the type, I thought, they owned those plantations, robbed and whipped the melaninated, but tonight, they celebrated us or at least were entertained. . . . .
Our communities have stories of heroism and rebellion. We should embrace those stories and pursue courage unapologetically. This piece was affixed on the South Bronx apartment where approximately nine police officers forcibly entered a residence to apprehend a suspect; a gun battle ensued. The negro gunman shot and wounded nearly all the police officers while escaping unharmed. He was later acquitted after being charged with the attempted murder of those police officers.
A Black military veteran of Miami was chased and brutally beaten by four white police officers. The aftermath of those events and acquittal of those officers resulted in the 1980 Miami race riots. Starting at the Downtown Miami Metro Justice Building, the riots concentrated in Liberty City, Black Grove, Overtown and Brownsville. With the police cornered and overwhelmed by sniper fire and rampant reprisals, the governor sent in nearly 4000 National Guard troops to quell the uprising.
by Stephon Senegal
When I walked into the neighborhood, the sound and smell was familiar. This was Liberty City. Though the heyday of violence that once wrecked this neighborhood had waned some, its notoriety had not. Warmly known as Pork and Beans, the dope game has not yet released its hold. I recognized the stares from the young boys on the streets and the subsequent apathy from their customers. It was the early part of the day. I had already driven the streets the previous night and spoke with some of my hardhead brethren about the when and how of my arrival the next day. They assured me that they would not be a problem, and neither would the youngsters in the hood, but I should be wary of the police. . . . .
The notion of freedom is these communities is hindered by a multitude of factors, many unconscious, fueled by covert and caustic messaging. This series presents itself as a contrasting narrative, roused by the high speech of the Douglass broadside originally written as a “call to arms” for a people teetering on the edges of freedom. Today communities of color are instead covertly shackled to an existence that offers few options. Too often, productive dialogues about the most disenfranchised segments of the community take place in safe spaces far and away from the very peoples being discussed. And yet, the folklores of these communities are used to fuel profits and further dismantle African identities.
The Jamaican Maroons are a group of former captives in the seventeenth century who were able to establish free communities in the mountainous interior and eastern parishes of Jamaica. They were a part of two wars for their freedom. The Windward Maroons and the Cockpit Country participated in the First Maroon War. This was resolved by government treaties from which the european aristocrats soon backtracked. The Second Maroon War involved the Leeward Maroons who eventually found their way to Freetown in present-day Sierra Leone. This installation was inspired by those stories and the brewing conflict for authority over Colored bodies globally.
In repurposing these land movers as musing of a coming cerebral mutiny, I am interested in the conversation sparked within the laborers who participate. It is important to understand how your labor in key to this displacement. Seemingly necessary for survival, the blue-collar colored feels the conflict no matter how deeply layered. He or she, in exchange for paper dreams, is part of an equation of disenfranchisement. Though the necessity feels unavoidable, there are lessons that can adjust this equation.
Construction vehicles are a symbol of upheaval. In marginalized communities these large movers of land and debris are often a precursor to gentrification. Residents are conflicted. Intuitively they understand that those vehicles represent something new and the building of an alternative future. They also understand that that future is not meant to include them.
In the midst of the most sought-after blocks in Manhattan stands the Fulton Houses and the Chelsea-Elliot housing projects. They exist in contrast to the gangs of wealth who barely notice or acknowledge their presence. As a stark example of gentrification, I felt that this setting would be a suitable inaugural location for this series of work.