Criticism Series #1: Black Art & Criticism - Entry #3
So: Blacks and art and criticism.
Ready? Let's do this...
Just to recap slightly:
Wanda Coleman wrote a review of Maya Angelou's book. It wasn't pleasant.
People were generally split: some thought it was about time, some thought Coleman was way out of line. BLACK people, however, were somewhat less split. Coleman was, to the eye, doing something wrong.
In the fallout, an appearance of Coleman at a prominent Black bookstore - arguably the most prominent Black bookstore in L.A. - was cancelled.
Coleman wrote some articles about the fallout.
Everybody went back to their corners.
This analysis is less about the situation of Coleman or her review, and more about the dynamic orbiting the situation: the fallout. The fallout is extremely significant not only because it was well-publicized, but because of what it says about Black people's ability to deal with art in general, with perceptions about their art specifically, and with what negative reactions to these perceptions does to Black art itself. I found one of Coleman's response articles (“Hunt and Peck”, in part below) to be a great springboard into such a discussion, both for its points and its contemporary rarity.
Black criticism - in print, publicized or recorded for public consumption in almost any way - is rare, and Black criticism about Black criticism is all but non-existent. The most popular magazines within Black society steer clear of anything smacking of criticism of the entertainers and their offerings within their pages. The television channel named for Black people - Black Entertainment Television (BET) - consistently soft-shoes around any analysis of the numerous presentations of Black art that it broadcasts almost hourly, and this before they were bought out and became, for all intents and purposes, a white-owned company. Trying to find a Black person speaking on the merits of Black art in this day and age is a Sisyphean task, and Coleman’s article speaks directly and concisely to many of the dynamics inherent in the discussion.
Black people are generally starved for images of themselves in any medium, both for their traditional scarcity through mainstream channels and for any measure of quality or positive reproduction of their values and humanity. Scores of material has been created on this dynamic so I won’t dwell on it too much here, but it bears pointing out time and again in this discussion as needed because it is the reason why Blacks do not respond favorably to pointed, academic criticism of their art when it is negative. The core feeling is that it is hard enough for the art to find its way into the minds and pocketbooks of society at large without branding what offerings do make it through as unworthy or worse, bad art. If, goes the thinking, only five of the couple hundred films that make it through the monstrous machine that is Hollywood in a given year are Black-helmed, its best to keep quiet about what might be wrong about it, lest they shut the gate on all of us and brand us inferior by creed. And while I’m oversimplifying the issue somewhat (a number of other factors play into the popularity of negative, damaging art amongst Blacks outside of a fear of premature closure), this appears to be the thing that hangs up the discussion every time. “At least SOMEBODY did SOMETHING.”
Of course, it isn’t that Blacks can’t be critical or don’t know good art when they see it, despite the deafening ring of cash registers every time Master P releases another cinematic haymaker. Blacks speak amongst themselves all the time about the quality of art as much as any other group of people. EVERYONE, after all, thought very little of “Hook”. On top of that, the avenues for serious criticism are few and far between, and the avenues that do exist do not hold, to any great extent, much import on the little Black art deemed worthy of such consideration. When it isn’t February, it’s tough to get a writing gig at one of the major newspapers or magazines, if you catch my 28-day drift.
So let’s take a moment to go through Coleman’s article and see what we can glean from it (or rather, what you can watch me glean from it, my little reading hostages):
First, a quick look at what was said about Angelou’s book, “A Song Flung Up To Heaven”:
“In writing that is bad to God-awful, Song is a tell-all that tells nothing in empty phrases and sweeping generalities. Dead metaphors (sobbing embrace, my heart fell in my chest) and clumsy similes (like the sound of buffaloes running into each other at rutting times) are indulged. Twice-told crises (being molested, her son's auto accident) are milked for residual drama. Extravagant statements come without explication and schmooze substitutes for action . . . . There is too much coulda shoulda woulda. Unfortunately, the Maya Angelou of A Song Flung Up to Heaven seems small and inauthentic, without ideas, wisdom or vision. Something is being flung up to heaven all right, but it isn't a song.”
Wow, right?
I posted the review (don’t tell) about three posts back, so you can see it for yourself, but, wow, right?
Coleman isn’t wrong, and I’m not just saying that because I am smitten with her writings in general (her poetry is visceral and evocative. I have been moved to fear by Coleman’s work). Angelou’s book is sub-par compared to even her earlier work, and the things about it that are wrong are laid out clearly above by Coleman. Of course, Coleman crosses some lines even before getting into the book review proper (go back two entries) with too much predisposition about Angelou’s wealth and fame, but her analysis of Angelou’s book itself is pretty spot-on. Personally, I couldn’t get a quarter of the way through it, but let’s move on.
Coleman goes on to write:
“Reactions to my critical rip caused an immediate furor in the African-American community, yet none of the many letters reportedly sent to the L.A. Times were ever published, for who-knows-what reasons. End of story? Not quite. As bizarre punishment for my violation of the unwritten law that blacks not criticize one another in front of whites, I was then not allowed to appear at Eso Won Books, L.A.'s popular outlet for African-American literature (and pseudo-literature), for the signing of an anthology I contributed to...”
This was the fallout in question. Onward:
“…The message?
Critically reviewing the creative efforts of present-day African-American writers, no matter their origin, is a minefield of a task complicated by the social residuals of slavery and the shifting currents in American publishing. Into this 21st century, African-Americans are still denied full and open participation in the larger culture. Thus, our books remain repositories for the complaints and resentments harbored against the nation we love, as well as paeans to the courage, fortitude and sacrifice of peers and forebears.”
…and there it is. Why do Blacks respond the way they do to such criticism (when it is done fairly, which admittedly Coleman has trouble with in this review)? Baggage. Starvation. A desire to be represented by any means necessary. Our pains are apparent and long-standing. Any attempt by a Black writer to capture that pain, to address it and fling the damage back at the oppressive society that wrought the pain, is to be applauded.
It’s the revolution without the guns. And yet, if Def Poetry Jam - or BET’s own broke-ass version - is any indication, the revolution will not only be televised, but given a Tony award if it pushes the right buttons of not only Blacks, but guilty whites.
More from Coleman:
“Few Los Angeles bookstores then featured black literature, even in the sociology section, and few publishers braved carrying more than two African-American authors. Black-owned presses, sans white patronage, led short lives. Books by blacks had even less of a shelf life when reviews -- good or bad -- failed to appear. Good reviews written by whites were the ideal, but bad reviews were welcomed if they generated enough controversy to sell copies. The few black reviewers were usually one of the ranking spokesmen, and between them lay an ideological divide -- those writing for whites and those writing for blacks, with the former receiving far greater attention.”
This is the distillation of Black audience hunger in the arts. I cannot count how many participants in Black-centered book clubs I have encountered - particularly in my years of service with the Columbus Public Library - that admit that, while the books they read aren’t the best, they’re “better than nothing.” Well, thank God for Terri McMillan, then, I suppose.
Coleman again:
“The truths of our daily lives defined the truths for our literature: We were constantly discriminated against, monitored and censored.”
…which of course hasn’t changed much, but which, after the formation of some very progressive Black grassroots groups, book clubs and distribution systems (mainly bookstores), leads us to:
“Supported by the leading black celebrities of the day, and underwritten by a riot-singed loosening of cultural constraints, African-American reviewer-journalists began appearing in the mainstream print media... The publish-or-perish mandate of academic life, in tandem with increases in the black middle and under classes, accelerated the outcry for cultural redress.”
In essence, tell my story and I won’t dog yours.
Coleman one mo’ ‘gin:
“It is thus incumbent upon any book reviewer to grasp the multifaceted broadening of what was once simply summarized as "The Black Experience," and it is the duty of the African-American reviewer to accurately portray, critically assess and convey this to potential readers. The ironic complexity of this task, no matter how savvy the reviewer, is best illustrated when the quality of the work produced by black writers is measured against that of whites using the criteria of excellence governing standard English and its genre, Ebonics aside. Ideally, the social context within which the work under review is created should be factored in, but should that be done to the exclusion of evaluating the quality of the writing?”
Coleman answers her own question with “a resounding ‘NO!’”, but allow me to further speak on the answer: anyone who suggests that Black writing or art I general should not be held to the same qualitative standards of structure, composition, tone, texture, message, storytelling, sublimity, intelligence and craftsmanship of their white or non-white counterparts is either scared of what the criticism will wring from the work or is a cultural zealot whose mind and heart are twisted around the notion of Black is Beautiful to a ludicrously unproductive degree. Ask most Black artists if they wish to be considered a great Black artist and at least half of them will answer as almost all of our classic minds and pens have answered, “I want to be considered a great artist, period.” And while Black people may cheer this sentiment half the time, the rest of the time we spend protecting tripe created by the likes of Michael Baisden whose work wouldn’t have been picked up by a major publisher had he not already hocked enough copies of it on his own to justify the printing expense for a company who wouldn’t have otherwise looked at even the cover of such a tome as “The Maintenance Man”. We cannot expect to see Black art grow and change if we only ask that it pushes our buttons and in turn do not call it what it is: propaganda and/or bad art.
I was somewhat taken to task last summer after the 2003 National Poetry Slam for my breathlessness at the dearth of variety and the abundance of derivativeness in the work of the mostly-Black finalists by the event’s end. When others - meaning whites and other non-Blacks - spoke out on the matter with a similar stance, they were chided for not getting the work, not being open-minded and otherwise plying the parts of pawns in The Man’s game to keep us all down. When I, by contrast, voiced similar dismay at the work, the criticisms, naturally, twisted in the wind, finally to rest upon the platform that suggested that I might be an elitist or that I had no right to carry on in such a public forum because of my seat on the Executive Council of the steering organization. Nothing could be further from the truth on both counts. I have the least faith of anyone in my own work and ever speak what’s on my mind regardless of position where art is concerned. I was not out of character; poetry was. And by God, somebody Black had to say something about the Black art on that stage.
Coleman says it best:
“But fostering an illusion of excellence where none exists, regardless of the writer or subject matter, is to do a democratic readership the ultimate disservice. Saying amen to the going cultural directives, minus a true analysis, is as morally suspect as any bigoted criticism -- whether done out of guilt, fear, or the desire to compensate the author for the social ills that shaped his or her existence.”
Hear hear, sister. Hear hear.
(P.S.) But don’t think I don’t know what you said about Audre Lorde. That was WAY off.)
Ready? Let's do this...
Just to recap slightly:
Wanda Coleman wrote a review of Maya Angelou's book. It wasn't pleasant.
People were generally split: some thought it was about time, some thought Coleman was way out of line. BLACK people, however, were somewhat less split. Coleman was, to the eye, doing something wrong.
In the fallout, an appearance of Coleman at a prominent Black bookstore - arguably the most prominent Black bookstore in L.A. - was cancelled.
Coleman wrote some articles about the fallout.
Everybody went back to their corners.
This analysis is less about the situation of Coleman or her review, and more about the dynamic orbiting the situation: the fallout. The fallout is extremely significant not only because it was well-publicized, but because of what it says about Black people's ability to deal with art in general, with perceptions about their art specifically, and with what negative reactions to these perceptions does to Black art itself. I found one of Coleman's response articles (“Hunt and Peck”, in part below) to be a great springboard into such a discussion, both for its points and its contemporary rarity.
Black criticism - in print, publicized or recorded for public consumption in almost any way - is rare, and Black criticism about Black criticism is all but non-existent. The most popular magazines within Black society steer clear of anything smacking of criticism of the entertainers and their offerings within their pages. The television channel named for Black people - Black Entertainment Television (BET) - consistently soft-shoes around any analysis of the numerous presentations of Black art that it broadcasts almost hourly, and this before they were bought out and became, for all intents and purposes, a white-owned company. Trying to find a Black person speaking on the merits of Black art in this day and age is a Sisyphean task, and Coleman’s article speaks directly and concisely to many of the dynamics inherent in the discussion.
Black people are generally starved for images of themselves in any medium, both for their traditional scarcity through mainstream channels and for any measure of quality or positive reproduction of their values and humanity. Scores of material has been created on this dynamic so I won’t dwell on it too much here, but it bears pointing out time and again in this discussion as needed because it is the reason why Blacks do not respond favorably to pointed, academic criticism of their art when it is negative. The core feeling is that it is hard enough for the art to find its way into the minds and pocketbooks of society at large without branding what offerings do make it through as unworthy or worse, bad art. If, goes the thinking, only five of the couple hundred films that make it through the monstrous machine that is Hollywood in a given year are Black-helmed, its best to keep quiet about what might be wrong about it, lest they shut the gate on all of us and brand us inferior by creed. And while I’m oversimplifying the issue somewhat (a number of other factors play into the popularity of negative, damaging art amongst Blacks outside of a fear of premature closure), this appears to be the thing that hangs up the discussion every time. “At least SOMEBODY did SOMETHING.”
Of course, it isn’t that Blacks can’t be critical or don’t know good art when they see it, despite the deafening ring of cash registers every time Master P releases another cinematic haymaker. Blacks speak amongst themselves all the time about the quality of art as much as any other group of people. EVERYONE, after all, thought very little of “Hook”. On top of that, the avenues for serious criticism are few and far between, and the avenues that do exist do not hold, to any great extent, much import on the little Black art deemed worthy of such consideration. When it isn’t February, it’s tough to get a writing gig at one of the major newspapers or magazines, if you catch my 28-day drift.
So let’s take a moment to go through Coleman’s article and see what we can glean from it (or rather, what you can watch me glean from it, my little reading hostages):
First, a quick look at what was said about Angelou’s book, “A Song Flung Up To Heaven”:
“In writing that is bad to God-awful, Song is a tell-all that tells nothing in empty phrases and sweeping generalities. Dead metaphors (sobbing embrace, my heart fell in my chest) and clumsy similes (like the sound of buffaloes running into each other at rutting times) are indulged. Twice-told crises (being molested, her son's auto accident) are milked for residual drama. Extravagant statements come without explication and schmooze substitutes for action . . . . There is too much coulda shoulda woulda. Unfortunately, the Maya Angelou of A Song Flung Up to Heaven seems small and inauthentic, without ideas, wisdom or vision. Something is being flung up to heaven all right, but it isn't a song.”
Wow, right?
I posted the review (don’t tell) about three posts back, so you can see it for yourself, but, wow, right?
Coleman isn’t wrong, and I’m not just saying that because I am smitten with her writings in general (her poetry is visceral and evocative. I have been moved to fear by Coleman’s work). Angelou’s book is sub-par compared to even her earlier work, and the things about it that are wrong are laid out clearly above by Coleman. Of course, Coleman crosses some lines even before getting into the book review proper (go back two entries) with too much predisposition about Angelou’s wealth and fame, but her analysis of Angelou’s book itself is pretty spot-on. Personally, I couldn’t get a quarter of the way through it, but let’s move on.
Coleman goes on to write:
“Reactions to my critical rip caused an immediate furor in the African-American community, yet none of the many letters reportedly sent to the L.A. Times were ever published, for who-knows-what reasons. End of story? Not quite. As bizarre punishment for my violation of the unwritten law that blacks not criticize one another in front of whites, I was then not allowed to appear at Eso Won Books, L.A.'s popular outlet for African-American literature (and pseudo-literature), for the signing of an anthology I contributed to...”
This was the fallout in question. Onward:
“…The message?
Critically reviewing the creative efforts of present-day African-American writers, no matter their origin, is a minefield of a task complicated by the social residuals of slavery and the shifting currents in American publishing. Into this 21st century, African-Americans are still denied full and open participation in the larger culture. Thus, our books remain repositories for the complaints and resentments harbored against the nation we love, as well as paeans to the courage, fortitude and sacrifice of peers and forebears.”
…and there it is. Why do Blacks respond the way they do to such criticism (when it is done fairly, which admittedly Coleman has trouble with in this review)? Baggage. Starvation. A desire to be represented by any means necessary. Our pains are apparent and long-standing. Any attempt by a Black writer to capture that pain, to address it and fling the damage back at the oppressive society that wrought the pain, is to be applauded.
It’s the revolution without the guns. And yet, if Def Poetry Jam - or BET’s own broke-ass version - is any indication, the revolution will not only be televised, but given a Tony award if it pushes the right buttons of not only Blacks, but guilty whites.
More from Coleman:
“Few Los Angeles bookstores then featured black literature, even in the sociology section, and few publishers braved carrying more than two African-American authors. Black-owned presses, sans white patronage, led short lives. Books by blacks had even less of a shelf life when reviews -- good or bad -- failed to appear. Good reviews written by whites were the ideal, but bad reviews were welcomed if they generated enough controversy to sell copies. The few black reviewers were usually one of the ranking spokesmen, and between them lay an ideological divide -- those writing for whites and those writing for blacks, with the former receiving far greater attention.”
This is the distillation of Black audience hunger in the arts. I cannot count how many participants in Black-centered book clubs I have encountered - particularly in my years of service with the Columbus Public Library - that admit that, while the books they read aren’t the best, they’re “better than nothing.” Well, thank God for Terri McMillan, then, I suppose.
Coleman again:
“The truths of our daily lives defined the truths for our literature: We were constantly discriminated against, monitored and censored.”
…which of course hasn’t changed much, but which, after the formation of some very progressive Black grassroots groups, book clubs and distribution systems (mainly bookstores), leads us to:
“Supported by the leading black celebrities of the day, and underwritten by a riot-singed loosening of cultural constraints, African-American reviewer-journalists began appearing in the mainstream print media... The publish-or-perish mandate of academic life, in tandem with increases in the black middle and under classes, accelerated the outcry for cultural redress.”
In essence, tell my story and I won’t dog yours.
Coleman one mo’ ‘gin:
“It is thus incumbent upon any book reviewer to grasp the multifaceted broadening of what was once simply summarized as "The Black Experience," and it is the duty of the African-American reviewer to accurately portray, critically assess and convey this to potential readers. The ironic complexity of this task, no matter how savvy the reviewer, is best illustrated when the quality of the work produced by black writers is measured against that of whites using the criteria of excellence governing standard English and its genre, Ebonics aside. Ideally, the social context within which the work under review is created should be factored in, but should that be done to the exclusion of evaluating the quality of the writing?”
Coleman answers her own question with “a resounding ‘NO!’”, but allow me to further speak on the answer: anyone who suggests that Black writing or art I general should not be held to the same qualitative standards of structure, composition, tone, texture, message, storytelling, sublimity, intelligence and craftsmanship of their white or non-white counterparts is either scared of what the criticism will wring from the work or is a cultural zealot whose mind and heart are twisted around the notion of Black is Beautiful to a ludicrously unproductive degree. Ask most Black artists if they wish to be considered a great Black artist and at least half of them will answer as almost all of our classic minds and pens have answered, “I want to be considered a great artist, period.” And while Black people may cheer this sentiment half the time, the rest of the time we spend protecting tripe created by the likes of Michael Baisden whose work wouldn’t have been picked up by a major publisher had he not already hocked enough copies of it on his own to justify the printing expense for a company who wouldn’t have otherwise looked at even the cover of such a tome as “The Maintenance Man”. We cannot expect to see Black art grow and change if we only ask that it pushes our buttons and in turn do not call it what it is: propaganda and/or bad art.
I was somewhat taken to task last summer after the 2003 National Poetry Slam for my breathlessness at the dearth of variety and the abundance of derivativeness in the work of the mostly-Black finalists by the event’s end. When others - meaning whites and other non-Blacks - spoke out on the matter with a similar stance, they were chided for not getting the work, not being open-minded and otherwise plying the parts of pawns in The Man’s game to keep us all down. When I, by contrast, voiced similar dismay at the work, the criticisms, naturally, twisted in the wind, finally to rest upon the platform that suggested that I might be an elitist or that I had no right to carry on in such a public forum because of my seat on the Executive Council of the steering organization. Nothing could be further from the truth on both counts. I have the least faith of anyone in my own work and ever speak what’s on my mind regardless of position where art is concerned. I was not out of character; poetry was. And by God, somebody Black had to say something about the Black art on that stage.
Coleman says it best:
“But fostering an illusion of excellence where none exists, regardless of the writer or subject matter, is to do a democratic readership the ultimate disservice. Saying amen to the going cultural directives, minus a true analysis, is as morally suspect as any bigoted criticism -- whether done out of guilt, fear, or the desire to compensate the author for the social ills that shaped his or her existence.”
Hear hear, sister. Hear hear.
(P.S.) But don’t think I don’t know what you said about Audre Lorde. That was WAY off.)