Went to an opening of a photo exposition by my friend Phyllis Galembo last night. I hadn’t seen her new work for a few years, so this was a chance to catch up. Wow. I was knocked out. The show was in a relatively out of the way gallery (Sepia International), that is not on street level, so there won’t be the walk-in traffic of the Chelsea galleries. Worth checking out, as I think it puts a lot of contemporary “fictional” photo work to shame. Hell, it puts a lot of stuff in other mediums outside photography to shame too.
I was familiar with her photos from Brazil, Cuba and Africa — many of which are formal portraits of practitioners of Candomblé, Santeria and the African roots of these religions. We were introduced at least 15 years ago by Robert Farris Thompson, the Yale professor and author. Her newer Haitian stuff of course touches on Voudoun, but there are lot of Jacmel carnival participant portraits too — these are astounding. And there are new African images that connect the dots between a lot of the New World cultures.
Most of all, the work is, in my opinion, not romantic — some of the stuff is hard, emotional, serious as death and as a result the beauty has depth. I’ve seen Phyllis work (in Brazil) and she affects a slightly ditzy casual demeanor — that disguises the fact that she knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. It helps her get these kids to stand against this wall while carnival rages all around them.
Or this man, comfortable in his housedress, holding a mirror and a paintbrush!
Or this participant in that Atam Masquerade in Nigeria?
There’s probably a debt to Irving Penn’s famous series of portraits of “exotic” peoples here — his pix of Peruvian Indians and Mudmen — taken in a portable formal “studio”. But somehow those seemed like an extension of the live Indian or the Venus Hottentot in the sideshow or in the Natural History Museums compared to this.
Besides, these subjects are in costume. They have intentionally transformed themselves into something exotic, charged, even frightening. Here is combined a long deep legacy of dress-up for masquerade, for carnival, for possession by the Gods combined with personal creativity and ingenuity. These are not people in their ordinary dress — they are intentionally fantastic, shocking, wild.
After that I caught a Brazilian composer at Joe’s. Guinga. I’d heard only a little about him and had only heard a bit of a suite he’d written about a train station as an allegory for Rio. I didn‘t much care for it when I heard it. So, I didn’t know what to expect, though I did expect that since his shows here are rare the Brazilian ex-pat community would as usual be out in force, and tickets would be scarce.
I was wrong, the club was far from full, and many were simply curious, like me. The music turned out to be a cross between chamber jazz and intricate beautiful compositions that echoed — to me — Gershwin, Villa Lobos, Charlie Parker, Stravinsky, Nina Rota and of course forro, choro and other Brazilian roots and folk styles. Apparently lots of Brazilian artists have covered his stuff, but the public doesn’t recognize the name of the composer, hence the sparse turnout.
The band was two guitarists (one was the composer) a clarinetist and a young guy on trumpet/flügelhorn. None of them had music stands or charts in front of them — which, given the intricacy and complexity of some of this stuff, would have been unheard of if a North American group were to perform this material. These composed sections, as opposed to the improvisations, were my favorites — lyrical and complex. Like a lot of Brazilian music it admits to loving beauty, without shame, and then proceeds to make a world based on that point of view that can discuss anything — racism, politics, sadness, love and even landscape. The group would occasionally improvise but the solos were fairly brief and lyrical — the was no obvious showing off, or flashy pyrotechnics.
The audience was hushed, there was almost no clinking of glasses, background conversation, or movement. It should have really been at Zankel Hall or the Rose Theater uptown, so I felt sort of privileged, as if I was hearing Gershwin play in a living room.
In Brazil, there is no issue or problem referring to a songwriter as a composer, whereas here composers are in the concert halls and academia, and songwriters are often considered skillful hacks, tradesmen, adept at their craft. Naturally I prefer the Brazilian POV. In this case the Brazilian view is clearly justified, one can hear why — the “classical” tradition IS that of their nation's best songwriters…just as up north the “classical” music of the 20th century will be remembered as that of the great songwriters — Ellington, Porter, Hank Williams, Gershwin, Lennon & McCartney, etc… I’m afraid as cool as it is, a lot of academic classical music will end up being footnotes. Standards have survived Rod Stewart, Johnny Mathis, Willie Nelson and Björk — (some of whom did incredible interpretations of classic songs) so there must be something there.
Am I being cruel here, unfair?
