Their Eyes Were Watching
By Ida Harris
In an era where fifteen minute fame and point-and-shoot-and post is the shit, the crème de la crème often gets lost — in the sauce. And sometimes, it’s just hyper laid back, quietly creeping in the cut, like the illest, blackest Panther in all of Wakanda, planning and plotting the next best move. Camera-god, Terrell L. Clark, is the latter and he is no microwave wonder. He’s been around, seen a few things, and is thoughtful enough to bestow his greatness on average eyes. Thus, it is important to respect this shooter. His work is vast — ranging from the charmed wedding to the puissant protest. In 2014, he photographed fellow artist Fahamu Pecou’s nuptials and in the same year, was given the honor of photo-documenting the 50th Anniversary of Bloody Sunday: the historical march over Edmond Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama. Clark’s genius seized 104 year-old Amelia Boynkin-Robinson’s activist hand midair. Her spirit transitioned from earth days later.
Despite solemn and volatile times, Clark procures magical moments that humanize his subjects. His creative endeavors highlight this most, and may be seen through his series, Eyes of Uganda, Unfocused Paris, 3 Feet Above Sea Level, Barrel Gang, and most recent — Eyes of Havana, currently showing at Mason Fine Art gallery at 415 Plasters Ave NE, Atlanta, GA 30340.
Eyes of Havana is not the typical gallery spectacle. It’s a quasi-interactive rendering that shifts the gaze from you, the viewer — to it, the subject. Instead of onlookers ogling an image and piecing together mysteries of Cuba; the not-so-far off land is eyeing privileged folk who have opportunities the embargoed nation does not — the right to examine, explore, and exist by its own will. Through this visual transference, Havana is liberated. Black and whites are not merely monochromatic stills of landscape and local Cubans, but a capture of revolutionary ruins and resourceful skin-folk engaged in everyday life. A 50’s Chevy is no longer a candy painted, antiquated vehicle with scores of mileage, but rather a functional time machine with a wealth of history tucked within its wheel well. Unlit — a deeply, plum-skinned mujer, — with a bejeweled décolletage, a bouquet headpiece, tired jaundiced eyes, and fleshy pink lips, pursed around a hand wrapped Cohiba — is not fetishized as society’s throwback caricature, nor is she shirked like some wrinkle in time, but rather exalted as a staple in history, una pillar del barrío — yo’ Mama.
