JUMPIN' & JEERIN' WITH JIM CROW

While there are many motivations for creating art, one of the most profound is certainly “art as educator.” It’s not the most popular form with the masses, but then it doesn’t seek to be a Renoir or Monet, singling out a spot of nature or a woman drinking tea and imbuing it with color, beauty and emotion. Art as educator can certainly have these elements, but its true mission is to illuminate the oppression and/or history of an individual or people. 

Mark Steven Greenfield’s Mammygraphs exhibit at Chaffey College’s Wignall Museum explores this educator mode by shining a light on the American Minstrel Show—the most popular form of stage entertainment in the US from the 1830s until the 1900s. This means, of course, that the “black” actors in Greenfield’s larger than life sepia-toned photographs are not African Americans, but white men in blackface who performed skits characterizing blacks as lazy and buffoonish. It’s yet another sordid aspect of our American history and a genius concept by Greenfield—not only does he point out the oppression of a race and show the oppressor in the act, but by focusing on “artists” engaging in what was an accepted and prosperous mode of expression (instead of, say, white men with whips or fire hoses), he challenges the notion that some forms of oppression hurt less than others; this is a type that served to erode the self-esteem of blacks on a daily basis, and they were considered poor sports if they didn’t laugh along—if they were considered at all.

Had Greenfield merely shown us these unnerving portrayals, it would have been enough. After all, the exhibit program says the works are intended to “prompt the viewer to consider the effect this history has on our culture today.” Noted—and how. But Greenfield also decided to superimpose a doctor’s eye chart with a coded message over the images. Now, except for when this image obscures the face of a minstrel actor, the eye charts themselves are rarely distracting and are a somewhat interesting choice (except that why he chose an eye chart in particular is unclear)—but it’s the message within the charts where the problem lies.

Phrases such as “Mammy should have whooped yo ass,” “So what’s yo punk ass thinkin’ bout,” “Don’t hate the playa, hate the game,” “So whassup wit this shit,” and the like lack any real creativity or punch. They also have no correlation to what’s happening in the photo, and seem to be directed from the artist to the person in the photo or from the artist to the viewer of the photo (us), or both. Any way you serve it, they downgrade this exhibit from shockingly sophisticated to tinged with juvenility—and here’s why: We already get it. Most people who view these photographs will likely be older than teenagers and aware at least somewhat of black history, so asking us what-is-up-with-this-shit is redundant. We know what’s up, and if we don’t, the photo itself is already making those wheels turn. 

Fortunately, Greenfield manages to hold back a few times. “Don’t judge a look by its color” is a clever eye chart line, and the image on which it’s stamped is disturbing: a distinguished man in a graduate’s mortar and a clown suit holding a banjo. It evokes both awe for the beauty of the shot and nausea for the content of it. Greenfield also has great success with his wall of 20 tambourines—a staple instrument of minstrels. On each canvas front a cartoon pickaninny, sambo, Tom or mammy face is embossed in exaggerated expression. Horrible. No explanation needed.

In the adjoining room, Greenfield offers the images with more artistic flair. The most seamless is a lenticular print of a minstrel man-girl (bows in hair) looking up to heaven in fear, guitar picks raining down, and at “her” feet lays a beautiful porcelain-skinned woman either dead or passed out. It’s re-imagined melodrama and the title, “Oh, Lawd, what we gonna do now,” is the perfect notation: reminding us of the stereotypical language of the past is much more effective than any modern incarnation and serves to heighten our experience of discomfort and disbelief. Had Greenfield continued in this vein, evoking such atrocities as “I don’t know nothin’ bout birthin’ no babies,” and the multitude of antiquated racist slurs, the show would have elicited even more feelings of anger and shame that such historical fare deserves.

Being battered over the head with what would otherwise have been a superior presentation is no reason to skip this show, however. Greenfield’s work is important, and for a younger audience, such as elementary through high schoolers—and even some undergrads who’ve been living in a Caucasian bubble—his images would certainly resonate and the street language might play. For everyone else: go see this history and look past the hip-hop vernacular, for one gaze into these faces from the past will tell you all you want to know—and even more of what you don’t.

Mammygraphs and Trick Baby at the Wignall Museum at Chaffey College, 5885 Haven Ave., Rancho Cucamonga, (909) 652-6492; www.chaffey.edu/wignall. Open Mon., Thurs. & Fri., 10AM–4PM; Tues. & Wed., noon–8PM; Sat., noon–4PM. Thru Sept. 27. Free