An Ode to Tina
By Leeza Joneé
The year is 1993 and four year old me is probably, no, definitely, running around our home in Goldsboro, North Carolina exasperating my mother, “Mommy! I want to be made up too! I want a picture like yours. Can you take me to get a picture like yours?” As if my mother didn’t have me in front of a camera all of the time from quick flicks at home to the finest of Sears and Walmart photo studios since birth. In this case, my mother had taken some Glamour Shots; the Olan Mills version, not the actual branded, 80–90s phenomenon that would “glamourize” the everyday woman. You know, the frosted images of overdone hair, heavy makeup and feather boa’s to make that woman feel beautiful. Something about this style of beauty seemed so close to the physiognomy that I had already seen and known amongst the black women around me that calling it a glamour shot seemed too forced. The thing is, I believe, in some unpremeditated way, black women have always acknowledged their beauty. We didn’t need “big” hair. Our hair was already that. We didn’t need overdrawn lips, our lips were already full. We embraced these coveted differences.
My stacks of family photo albums are home to the likes of my mothers, aunties and grandmothers best angles, best fits and of course their best selfies before the term ever existed. Whether I found myself scouring the pages or rummaging through loose vintage photos of these black women or flipping through old magazines to find the celebrities we know and love, there’s almost no difference between the two. There was and is this essence of confidence and glamour that existed naturally. Black women in my family didn’t have to be somebody in order to see themselves as beautiful.
I come from a lineage of women whose lived experiences chronicles slavery, segregation and blatant racism. Less than fifty years ago, my aunt was once expected to receive that she was, “pretty for a Colored” as a compliment from one of her peers. We have always been at war defending our blackness and our womanness. The sheer verity that we granted ourselves the permission, then and even more so today, to exist with such grace considering the hate on our backs, is what I pay homage to.
My mother passed away when I was eight years old, four years after she’d taken her famed glamour shot. Since her transition, I’ve studied these photos of her just to see how much I’ve grown into her. My mother’s “glamour shot” had always been a favorite. It had easily become my laptop and iPhone wallpapers but her at home photo shoots and candid images reflected a type of confidence that would today be cultivated by Instagram likes and comments. My mother knew herself and I’ve been remarkably inspired by this knowledge and how she chose to capture her own spirit as well as the moments around her.
Twenty six years later my four year old desire to be made up like my mother resurfaced. I looked in the mirror and I noticed my eyes were now more like hers. The corners of my mouth curve like hers. In these years that she’s existed in photos, she recently appeared in home videos a cousin shared with me. I see, now, that I move like her, too. This October 17th, makes twenty two years since she’s transitioned. As this date approaches, it has almost become routine for me to feel many things as I ponder on the last time I shared space with my mother. Had I been granted more time with her, I profoundly wonder, countenance aside, what other traits and peculiarities of hers I might have received. My acknowledgment of black glamour, surpasses any physical attribute and my desire to embody that essence is simply to honor my blackness and femininity that hasn’t always been celebrated. My mother taught me well as she seemed to always celebrate hers. So, as I appear more like her, I’ve become eager to celebrate and channel her wit, sass, tenacity, elegance and her coolness.
Some months ago, I posted her image on my Instagram stories hoping to catch the eye of any one of my photographer friends who’d be down to collab and recreate such a look. One photographer I had been wanting to work with, Poochie Collins, raised her hand in my dm’s and we agreed that we’d make it happen. She built a mood board of Phyllis Hyman, Eartha Kitt, Joyce Bryant, Donna Summer, Josephine Baker, Lola Falana and, of course, photos of my mother. We partnered with our friend Elle Pierre, a phenomenal makeup artist, who we knew would and could fully embody the nature of what we were creating. Poochie’s friend Dominic Jones agreed to assist and he also suggested the colors for the backdrop and the location of the shoot. We were ready.
The process was…interesting. Our location changed the hour of the shoot. We were asked to leave the initial location because the Airbnb host exclaimed that no parties be had in his space. “Party.” Our set was now at Elle’s home. After we took the first few shots, something clicked and I noticed the design unintentionally yet beautifully replicated the decor of my home as a child, specifically the curtains. In that moment, I believed this was exactly what I needed to be doing and who I needed to be doing it with. I felt my mothers energy, I felt at home.
What began as an ode to my mother, Lillian Cutina Bizzell, easily and majestically became an ode to black beauty as a whole. Honoring that our beauty, through space, time, famed luminary or not, is and always will be, transcendent.
