So here we have it, still the burning question of identity, and the value of the equality involved, so rages on with a living metaphoric burning in hell, whilst staying faithful to “the” culture prays for new ideas of belief, or at the very least, an inspired remembrance of what Black identity ought to be.d remembrance of what Black identity ought to be.
We, “the” culture, have been subjected to breaking news depicting the murder of an identity, continually, withered down to knees on pitches before games are to be played, and the treatment of, the body-politic appears as racist as it’s ever been, and as such, affectedly, and naturally so, it’s no wonder songs, poems, and blogs recite bleak and mournful words of emotional bankruptcy, and abandon.
What can a photographer do? They who, by the personal default of others, represent Black identity, they who themselves struggles to articulate what the identity is. Well, no doubt they’ll use lots of conjectures, various philosophies, lots of recollections to relate to, that and draw from books read on rightful places, and true lineages, and an endless array of unfavoured motivational speeches, the truth is you can’t relate fully the vibe you feel, hence why “it’s a black thing”, really is a’ black thing, and In our quest for redemption, and repatriation, and basic civil liberty, the long lost flocks of brethren still line this particular passage, on this already exhausted quest.
That identity is still here, still shared, still widely universal, still, as in from the day black is born the black identity is defined by uncompromising struggles, and often, with the nature of lack of self, being what it is, doing what it efficiently does, identity doesn’t ask for permission with regards to your participation, not when the entire mind-set is occasioned by a glorious heritage, compounded by what slavery knows little about.
For me, caught up in my shades of black nuance, I’m trying to communicate to you; the reader, voyeur of sorts, the invested individual, that I am driven by this admirable republic, this beautiful Black-body politic, and as a consequence I get dirtied by carnages, and when I march in solidarity, with the believers of their identity and its adjoining cause, like my photographic lens the attentions remain accurate, the devotions are never overstated
And whilst what has been said, and has been said a thousand times, and writers of their word sincerely wish they could write their grievances in fire, only to set alight the tinderbox that race and relation find themselves boxed in. with every recognised exhale the premise of breathing has long since become critical, and I, and “me”, and “us” is aware, and devoted to capturing this enduring essence of “I”. “me”, and “us”.