CHILDREN OF : BÁEZ AND DUVAL-CARRIÉ—MENDING THE FUTURE BY VISUALLY EXPLORING A TURBULENT PAST AND PRESENT

Mariah Morales

A Thesis

Submitted to the Graduate College of Bowling Green State University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

August 2018

Committee:

Rebecca L. Skinner Green, Advisor

Sean V. Leatherbury

© 2018

Mariah Morales

All Rights Reserved iii ABSTRACT

Rebecca L. Skinner Green, Advisor

The goal of this thesis is to delve into the tumultuous past and present of

Hispaniola and to explore the ways and the have developed and coexist on this island. Each country developed a completely different social, political, linguistic, and cultural system than that of its neighbor. I am focusing on particular historic political episodes from Haiti’s Revolution (1781-1804),i the emancipation of Dominican Republic

(1844),ii and slave era Louisiana, and why these events influenced two diasporan artists—Firelei

Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié—and how they are using their art to create a means for reestablishing mutual respect among their respective compatriots. This thesis will follow the path of dislocation that resulted from the booming slave trade on the Island of Hispaniola to the creolization of the new colony of Louisiana. The thesis will analyze the visual resistance of Afro-

Caribbean women in 1800s Louisiana and how this resistance can inspire people of today. Artists and cultures have been embedded within globalization and creolization for centuries, even though non-Western artists such as Báez and Duval-Carrié and their cultures have remained in the periphery of the Western mindset. Having been born in the Dominican Republic and Haiti respectively, these two artists each emigrated to the . As diasporan artists, both engage their countries’ problems and triumphs through their artwork. Thanks to the physical and emotional distance from their countries of origin, they have a broader perspective of their island’s past and present. These descendants of Hispaniola are working to create a dialogue through their artwork on their respective countries and through discussions with other migrants

i Ott, “The 1789-1804,” 3. iv about how to mend the bonds between Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Through their art they are proclaiming, “Here we are, we’ve been here for awhile, we cannot be so easily quieted or hidden… Look at us! Hear us!” They are a force that is demanding the Western world to expand its mindset by acknowledging and reconsidering its propensity to overlook the particular circumstances and problems of marginalized cultures.

ii Rayford W. Logan, Haiti and The Dominican Republic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968): 12. v

They don’t know how much restraint we have to put on ourselves to show only a fraction of our experience. There is so much more to say and this is just the needle’s eye being allowed at this moment. We as immigrants have access to all this information, all these rich complex histories

which we have no problem understanding and translating because we’re used to seeing

ourselves as Other, and Other in ourselves.

--- Firelei Báez

vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This thesis would not have been possible with out the guidance and support of Dr.

Rebecca L. Skinner Green and Dr. Sean V. Leatherbury, who both took the time to read through my ideas and give advice numerous times over on this expedition. With their expertise and insight I was able to explore my interests and make this thesis one of the best versions of work it could be. Dr. Skinner Green thank you for letting me pick your brain of all your knowledge and help me come up with the balance to this thesis. Also for your continued guidance in helping me see the complexities of diaspora artists and their worldview they live in.

I am forever grateful for the Muratore family, friends, and peers, who all in their own way made this experience a little bit easier to handle. Thanks to my Art History, MFA cohorts who made me smile and laugh through this whole experience.

To my Mama, especially, a tremendous thanks to you! I could not even fathom doing this without your love and support. You are always a constant rock for me when I need you to be!

Thank you for being there to listen to my worries and telling me to keep going and follow through with my goals! Last but certainly not least I dedicate this thesis to my other huge supporter that is always with me in spirit my Nana, thank you Nana, for always being my biggest fan! vi

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

INTRODUCTION ...... 1

CHAPTER I. HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE ...... 7

CHAPTER II. CHILDREN OF HISPANIOLA ...... 19

CHAPTER III. PERIPHERAL MODERNISM: THE MIGRANT CONNECTION ...... 40

CHAPTER IV. CONCLUSIONS ...... 55

BIBLIOGRAPHY ...... 58

APPENDIX A. FIGURES ...... 61 1

INTRODUCTION

Time and time again the willful and resilient people of Hispaniola have triumphantly rebelled against powerful unjust tyrannies that have attempted to impose unyielding dominance over their freedoms. Hispaniola is an island infused with rich diversity and an inspirational legacy that is transfused within its native people. Two children of Hispaniola, Firelei Báez and

Edouard Duval-Carrié, are contemporary diaspora1 artists who are continuing this tradition of breaking down barriers of hate, segregation, and insularity. The past struggles and triumphs of Hispaniola and its people are brought to the fore in the artwork of Báez and Duval-

Carrié. Báez depicts the history of power through resistance movements of different groups and cultures in such pieces as Sans Souci and Bloodlines (figs. 4 and 6). Edouard Duval Carrié’s works La Traversée and Crystal Explorer (figs. 7 and 8) explore historical and cultural connections between the Caribbean and . To better understand what drives these two distinct artists, therefore, one must revisit the past.

Although the two nations of Hispaniola have come to despise each other due to racist views and racially-driven political movements, which in turn propagate the continuing segregation between both countries, as evidenced by the Parsley War of 1937,2 there was a time when Haiti and the Dominican Republic were united in a fight against two powerful 18th century

Western , and . Haiti and the Dominican Republic initially came together in the aftershock of the Haitian Revolution (1784-1801),3 a seminal revolution that not only caused the French to retreat from Haiti, but sent shivers up all Western colonial powers’ backs, and proved just how strong a repressed group could be under inhumane treatment. Through their

1 Diaspora is a term that is complex and multilayered. Scholars endeavor to understand what this term means in theory and to a people. Migrants/diaspora people are constantly moving. 2 Abby Philip, “The Bloody Origins of the Dominican Republic’s Ethnic ‘Cleansing” of ” Washington Post, June 17, 2015. 3 Thomas O. Ott, The Haitian Revolution 1789-1804 (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1987), 3. 2 revolutionary efforts, Haitians first attained their own freedom from France and then aided the

Dominican Republic in realizing their freedom from Spain.

By successfully fighting against and for their freedom, the people of these two nations have established that they were willing to work together for the rights of the voiceless and the subjugated. Although these nations are no longer allies, there are people who are picking up the torch of their ancestors in a valiant attempt to rebuild the once strong bonds. Hispaniola of today, however, continues to face many pressing challenges. In addition to the two countries being at odds with one another, the island has suffered natural disasters, exploitation by western commercialism, and droughts, all of which are exacerbated by not having a strong enough global presence. All these hurdles and more must be addressed in order for Hispaniola and its people to once again thrive. Two individuals who are currently addressing Hispaniola’s past and present problems are neither peace negotiators nor affiliated with any government. No, these two people are artists attempting to shoulder the lofty and daunting task of refocusing attention on the details of Hispaniola’s past to clarify and open pathways into a future in which the two sides reestablish respect for and trust in one another.

As Caribbean diaspora artists who no longer reside in Haiti or the Dominican Republic,

Báez and Duval-Carrié both continue to be deeply tethered to their respective ancestral and cultural homes, as is evident in their art. The issues with which Hispaniola grapples affects these artists regardless of their current geographical location. In response to their island’s turmoil, they are attempting to affect a positive change. Due to being situated in the diaspora, these artists are afforded a broader perspective; because they are located in the United States, they have ample opportunity to rectify the often monolithic perception of the rest of the world, and they have the potential of addressing a larger audience than they would if they had remained on Hispaniola. 3

Through their efforts—of creating art, exhibiting it, participating in interviews—they in a position to bring about awareness and possible positive change for the people who call

Hispaniola home and also for fellow migrants who carry the island within their hearts.

These diasporan artists are using their art to remind viewers of their nations’ resilient histories, and that their two nations were at the forefront of past acts of defiance. New York- based Dominican painter Firelei Báez creates work (figs. 4 and 6) that echoes major problems and triumphs of her island’s past and present by creating an artistic narrative laced with telling symbols of resistance. Alone, these symbols and their stories have a power unto themselves.

When one considers her pieces in their entirety, one realizes that the artist has deftly woven the individual symbols to create a more cohesive, and therefore potent, imagery. It is quite possible that Báez is attempting to state that, individual moments in art, just as in solitary moments of resistance, are powerful but that the sum of many such acts delivers a much stronger impact. It is my belief that Báez is creating artwork highlighting the importance of the Caribbean to the

Western art world.

The ambition of Báez’s Haitian counterpart, Edouard Duval-Carrié, is to break the insularity between both nations as well across the rest of the Caribbean. Duval-Carrié lived in

Haiti under the tyrannical rule of the Duvalier regime in the 1950s. Forced into exile when he was a child, his family fled Haiti in 1956, ultimately landing in , Florida, where he currently resides in the enclave of Little Haiti.4 His work (figs. 7and 8) addresses the complex history the Caribbean islands have faced during centuries of Western colonial rule. Duval-

Carrié’s paintings portray Haiti as a place of resistance and strong-willed people who acted against colonial rule, as well as depict it in its current ravaged and desolate state.

4 Duval-Carrié in Megan Myers, “Big Ideas in Little Haiti: A Conversation with Contemporary Haitian Artist, Edouard Duval Carrié.” Afro-Hispanic Review 32.2 (2013): 95. 4

Diasporan artists have a complex worldview grounded in their lived experiences and embedded in their art. Yet, it is through their complex artwork that audiences are starting to become aware of the possibilities within a multifaceted and rich diasporan worldview. The audience is starting to become more in tune with matters of migrations since many of them have also had to leave their ancestral lands due to economic, educational, and/or political concerns.

Diaspora artists are now being invited into galleries in the West because of their diverse views and layered interpretations of the world as expressed through their work. Diasporan artists working within the Western art world were always seen as “Other” because they did not easily fit into a set niche or category within the mainstream postmodern conception of art. In order to redress this complexity, a new movement has come to the fore, Altermodernism. Nicolas

Bourriaud coined this term in 2009 to address the lack of diaspora-based art,5 and demonstrated its parameters through an exhibition that he curated at the Tate Museum that same year.

Bourriaud claims that artists are only now thinking in a global worldview and traveling more, thereby resulting in a creolization6 of art. Yet, while altermodernism may well apply to mainstream Western artists and their work, Bourriaud fails to see that diasporan artists such as

Báez and Duval-Carrié have been living and working with an inclusive world view for quite some time. Altermodernism, therefore, falls short. In order to more fully define diasporan artists and to give them their rightful place in the postmodern movement, I propose an alternate term,

Peripheral Modernism. Peripheral modernism belongs within the postmodern movement, though

5 Nicolas Bourriaud, “Altermodern Explained: Manifesto” last modified October 28, 2008. http://www.tate.org.uk/whats-on/tate-britain/exhibition/altermodern/altermodern-explain- altermodern/altermodern-explained. 6 I define creolization as a mixture of different cultures, such as Caribbean, European, and African, that can occur a result of colonization. This is broader than the more nuanced definition of creolization offered by others, such as Shannon Lee Dawdy, who, in “Understanding Cultural Change through the Vernacular: Creolization in Louisiana,” discusses three variants: transplantation, ethnic acculturation, and hybridization. 5 it considers the dynamic migrant contexts of artists—their cultural, geographic, political, religious, and historical experiences—which not only affect their worldviews, but their global perceptions, and the art and messages resulting from it.

The goal of this thesis is to delve into the tumultuous past and present of the Caribbean island of Hispaniola and to explore the ways Haiti and the Dominican Republic have developed and coexist on this island. Each country produced completely different social, political, linguistic, and cultural systems than that of its neighbor. I am focusing on particular historic political episodes from Haiti’s Revolution (1781-1804),7 the emancipation of Dominican

Republic (1844),8 and slave era Louisiana, and why these events influenced two diasporan artists—Firelei Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié—and how they are using their art to create a means for reestablishing mutual respect among their respective compatriots. This thesis will follow the path of dislocation that resulted from the booming slave trade on Hispaniola to the creolization of the new colony of Louisiana. For example, in order to provide a deeper understanding of some aspects of Báez’ work, I will also explore the visual resistance of Afro-

Caribbean women in 1800s Louisiana and how this resistance can inspire people of today.

Migrant artists have grappled with globalization and creolization for centuries, even though these artists and their cultures have primarily remained in the periphery of the Western mindset. Firelei

Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié each left her/his respective country, though they have continued to engage their countries’ problems and triumphs within their art. These descendants of

Hispaniola are working to create a dialogue through their artwork on their respective countries and through discussions with other migrants about how to mend the bonds between Haiti and the

Dominican Republic. Through their art they are proclaiming, “Here we are, we’ve been here for

7 Ott, “The Haitian Revolution 1789-1804,” 3. 8 Rayford W. Logan, Haiti and the Dominican Republic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), 12. 6 awhile, we cannot be so easily quieted or hidden… Look at us! Hear us!” They are a force that is demanding the Western world to expand its mindset by acknowledging and reconsidering its propensity to overlook the particular circumstances and problems of marginalized cultures.

7

CHAPTER I. HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

Hispaniola was wrought with years of struggles and strife. Starting in the ,

European settlers from Spain and France fought for control of territories in the Caribbean and

North America, with some lands changing ownership many times as the colonizing power vied for the rights to exploit local populations that were viewed primarily as slave resources. In the late 18th century the oppression and subjugation of slaves hit its breaking point, resulting in an uprising of the Haitian slaves.9 The Haitian Revolution (1781-1804) brought together subjugated people from across the island in the battle against French colonial rule. After their success, the newly independent Haitians helped the Dominican people in their fight for freedom against their colonial rulers. The sense of unity created through this collaboration, however, did not last and the Dominican Republic broke away from Haiti in 1844, after only 40 years as one country.10 In the years that followed, relations between the two distinct countries continued to erode, to the point that racially motivated violent exchanges were not unusual. The struggles Hispaniola continues to face today have grown increasingly worse. Researching Hispaniola’s past may provide solutions that could possibly open a positive dialogue between the two countries in the future.

The geographically rich and diverse island of Hispaniola attracted many claims of foreign powers that desired to control its abundant natural (and human) resources. When Christopher

Columbus set his eyes on this magnificent island in 1492, he named it Hispaniola (fig. 1), disregarding the fact that the indigenous Taino (of origin) had already aptly named their

9 Rayford W. Logan, Haiti and The Dominican Republic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1968), 9. 10 Logan, 11. 8 land Haiti, a word that means ‘mountains’ in their language,11 a name that fittingly describes the landscape of the Western half of the island, which today continues to carry this name.

After ‘discovered’ Hispaniola in 1492, Spain took control of the island by enslaving, exploiting, and diluting the indigenous Taino peoples. Spain saw Hispaniola as a lucrative resource for trade due to its fertile soil that allowed the settlers to easily grow crops such as coffee and cane.12 Hispaniola initially seemed a good business venture for Spain, because it gave the Spanish another source of valuable income. However, the extreme humidity and heat caused the Spanish settlers to develop malaria and , diseases that are common in such climates, and ultimately caused them to abandon their claims to Haiti. In the

1780s, the German explorer Baron de Wimpffen drolly described European distaste for the climate and mosquitos by noting that, “Europeans have…no small difficulty to accustom themselves to the climate: severe labor though would infallibly destroy them, and this distinction

(malaria) whatever the motive may be, is extremely troublesome to those who are honored with it, and who cannot, with all their efforts, escape from the sting of the perfidious animal.”13 Even though Hispaniola had lucrative natural resources, once Spain had depleted most of the island’s mineral deposits it all but abandoned the lush western part of Hispaniola by 1697 due to the rampant out breaks of malaria and yellow fever in favor of the more moderate environment of the eastern half of the island.

After the Spanish left western Hispaniola, the French, who controlled the neighboring island of , came to the abandoned Spanish settlement at the end of the 16th century in search of a steady supply of food. The French sailors that came to the island were the infamous

11 Ott, 3. 12 Logan, 9. 13 Ott, 4. 9 ,14 ex-navel officers who had turned to .15 France sent high-ranking naval officer, Bertrand d’Ogeron, to Haiti in order to organize an official colony. When he landed, however, he found the buccaneers in a dreadful state of disorder.16 D’Ogeron sent those buccaneers who were rough and disagreeable back to Tortuga, and sought to tame the rest by bringing women from Paris to the island.17 Once French women had been introduced to the island, d’Ogeron then encouraged French families to settle and cultivate several towns in the western part of Hispaniola.18 His plan worked. By d’Ogeron’s death in 1675, the buccaneers had become planters and the French colony of Saint-Domingue was fully established.19

By the eighteenth century, the French administration of Saint-Domingue did not run as smoothly as France wanted other European countries to believe. The planters, ,20 and

French natives argued with one another about property rights, and the percentage of taxes demanded by the French empire. The governor and fiscal minister, both appointees from France, had more authority than the local government. When successive governors were replaced, their replacements tended to be even more money driven and power hungry than their predecessors.

Local planters did not have any political strength until 1787, when the crown established two superior councils, one of local planters and the other of elected settler officials, a system that permitted more local control.21 However, while the new councils may have provided the French planters and settlers with a greater say in political matters, economic problems persisted since the

14 Ott, 4. Boucaner comes from the French term, “to smoke.” They hunted boars and smoked their meats 15 In the face of the ‘pirates,’ the French needed d’Ogeron to settle the colony of Tortuga and to begin setting up a colony on the western part of Hispaniola, what we know as Haiti. 16 Ott, 5. 17 Ott, 8. 18 Ott, 8. 19 Ott, 9. 20 was the term used for the mixed race of Spanish and the indigenous population of the Arawak. 21 Ott, 9. 10 majority of economic profits continued to go to the fiscal minister, the French governor, and back to France.

Saint-Domingue was important to France (and to other colonizing powers such as Spain and England) because of its natural resources and because of its convenient location along slave and trade routes. In fact, the colony revealed just how vital an asset it truly had become to France during a significant economic decline in the eighteenth century. While the British

Trading Company suffered a major setback,22 France’s Saint-Domingue was experiencing an agricultural boom. The ‘golden age’ of Saint-Domingue (1763-1791) was as follows:

On the eve of the Haitian Revolution, Saint-Domingue had 655 sugar plantations, 1,962 coffee plantations, and 398 cotton and indigo plantations and in 1788 importation of legal slaves had reached 29,506. Saint-Domingue was contributing two-thirds of the French tropical produce, and of significant importance, the French colony comprised one-third of the foreign trade of France.23

Saint-Domingue was clearly a crucial port that contributed much to France’s wealth in

1 rd 24 the eighteenth century, by providing /3 of the trade for the empire. While the trade consisted mostly of the exportation of cotton, coffee, and sugar, it also necessitated a corresponding importation of slaves. Around 1787, American observer Samuel Perkins noted that the harbor at

Le Cap François “for three quarters of a mile was filled with merchandise being shipped; all was bustle, noise, and cheerful labor.”25 The hustle and bustle of the port is a consequence of activity through which Saint-Domingue helped to maintain France’s prominence in international trade networks, and the corresponding increased need for slave labor helped to revitalize the British

West Indies Trading Company.

22 Ott, 6. 23 Ott, 6. 24 Ott, 6. 25 Ott, 6. 11

The colonial powers in French Haiti struggled to maintain an iron grip on its slaves and class structure. The social structure of Haiti at the time it was colonized by France (1787) consisted of a three-part caste system—whites, gens de couleur (people of color), and slaves.26

The mulatto gens de couleur were free, however they were still treated as “lesser” than whites.

The structure of this system was dangerously unstable because the slave population was significantly larger than that of both the whites and the gens de couleur combined—at the time that France took possession of Saint-Domingue, the slave population had soared to 408,000, while the white population stood at 24,000, and the gens de couleur numbered only 20,000.27

The on-going deplorable treatment of slaves, coupled with a slave population that greatly out numbered the other two castes, provided two key factors leading to the slave revolution against

French colonial rule. Moreover, the (1789-1799) also had an impact in the colony. French revolutionaries arrived on Saint-Domingue and began distributing pamphlets to the French settlers and the gens de couleur, and speaking about change, rights, and revolution throughout the colony. The whites and the gens de couleur began discussing the pamphlets and their thoughts on justice, prosperity, and equality. These dialogues took place openly and unguarded in front of the most repressed and abused in the society, their slaves. The gens de couleur and whites began arguing with each other about what they thought each group was rightfully entitled. The white class thought they were due a larger share of the remaining profits that were not sent to France, and proclaimed they deserved higher pay for work than they currently received. The gens de couleur demanded the same rights as their white counterparts; they wanted to own businesses and to have a voice in the government system.

26 Patrick Bellegarde-Smith, Haiti The Breached Citadel (Canadian Scholars Press, 2004), 8. 27 Bellegarde-Smith, 8. 12

The highest populated group in this caste system, who were the most mistreated and unrepresented, and who were witness to the arguing and discussion between and among the whites and gens de couleur, ultimately felt the time was upon them to grasp their own freedom.

The casual acceptance of slavery was the deplorable atmosphere of the age. The importation of slaves and the blatant disregard for their welfare was appalling. In 18th century Haiti, it was financially cheaper for a plantation owner or farmer to work a slave to death and to purchase a replacement slave than it was to provide that person a decent life, or to “encourage their reproduction.”28 The act of reducing a fellow human’s worth to an object that has the ability to perform work was, unfortunately, commonplace.

Religious beliefs of the enslaved peoples survived the journey to Haiti, stowed away in the hearts and minds of the subjugated. Vodou remained moored in the slaves from Africa while they endured terrible tribulations. The slaves from Saint-Domingue derived unity from their inhumane treatment and their strong religious connection to Vodou. These two powerful factors helped the enslaved people of Saint-Domingue retain an agency based on a grounded foundation that provided them the strength and resilience to rise up against their oppressors. In fact, as

Thomas Ott notes, “Voodoo was perhaps one of the most cohesive forces among the slaves and one which the whites tried to suppress.”29 The white class knew how powerful a united group of slaves could be. And so, although the white class may not have agreed that Vodou was a religion, the two empowered but lesser populated groups knew to fear Vodou’s uniting potency for the majority population of slaves.30 Vodou, therefore, helped to instill power in the seemingly

28 Ott, 17. 29 Ott, 15. Although religious beliefs from a variety of African cultures were on the island, the most common religion was Vodou, whose spiritual leaders, known as loas, were bringing together different groups within the slave population to fight for a common goal, freedom. 30 Ott, 15. 13 powerless people in Haiti.31 Because the whites and mulattos were preoccupied in verbal and physical altercations,32 they made the serious error of paying too little attention to their slaves and missed the earliest signs of revolution.

The word and spirit of the French revolution spread throughout Haiti with a light that penetrated the darkest places of despair. “Neither white nor mulatto appeared to be aware that the sparks of their various conflicts had been smoldering in the veritable “powder keg” of slavery.

Soon even before the new general assembly could reconvene an explosion occurred, which completely shattered Saint-Domingue[;] from the rubble modern Haiti emerged.”33 The new spirit of freedom permeating the colony, coupled with the internal power struggle between the two-minority groups, became the forge that fashioned an opportunity that slaves seized to break the chains of barbarism and become a freed people. The night came on August 22, 1791,34 when thousands of slaves began rioting and revolting against their oppressors, the whites and mulattos, who, terrified by the sheer numbers of the rebellion, could not control the island as they once had. Progressively they started to hand over control of the island to the slaves, a transition that led to the abolishment of slavery.35

When word spread that the slaves in Saint-Domingue had overthrown their oppressors and established Haiti as an independent country, other Caribbean island nations derived a sense of hope and pride—if Haiti could be successful, then they be too. Freedom was within reach!

Haiti’s eastern neighbor, the Dominican Republic, was also greatly inspired by their success, and with Haitian help, soon attained emancipation from their Spanish colonial powers as well.

31 Vodou continues to be a religious beacon for many Haitians today. 32 The altercations were typically over rights, land, and profit portions. 33 Ott, 42. 34 Ott, 42. 35 Ott, 42. The date of emancipation is tricky to place because the dates vary across the island, even within Saint-Domingue. The emancipation came in stages in the island so the date 1798 is just one of many in the time of emancipation of Haiti. 14

The Dominican Republic had similar beginnings as the western side. This was also colonized by Spain after Christopher Columbus spotted the island in 1492. The

Dominican Republic shares a mountain range, humid climate, and low plains with Haiti. Spain recognized the valuable natural resources that the eastern side of Hispaniola had to offer and thus the set upon colonizing this region in the ,36 calling it .37

The Spanish Empire did not relinquish its interest in Hispaniola entirely when it signed the Treaty of Ryswick (1697), which created the two separate French and Spanish colonies of

Saint-Domingue and Santo Domingo respectively (fig. 2).38 Although the two were colonized by different European powers, the inhabitants of Hispaniola initially continued to interact and traded in similar items. Historian Anne Eller states, “The Caribbean Islands changed hands at the muzzle of a cannon, symbiotically, Santo Domingo and Saint-Domingue grew together with , hide, and foodstuffs.”39 Sugar plantations yielded one of the highest sources of economic stability for the colony of Santo Domingo.40 However, although the economy was dependent on plantation labor, the number of slaves being imported into Santo Domingo was significantly less than that being imported into Haiti, since Spain, unlike France, allowed its slaves to reproduce.

The settlers of Santo Domingo, like those of Saint-Domingue, wanted independence from their colonizing power, in this case Spain. As had occurred in Saint-Domingue, the colonists in

Santo Domingo attempted to fashion their own political and governing laws. Yet, they were

36 Logan, 21. 37 Anne Eller, We Dream Together: Dominican Independence, Haiti, and the Fight for Caribbean Freedom (Durham: Duke University Press Books, 2016), 8. Interestingly, the Dominican Republic revolts were little and they wanted to abolish slavery in a more political way, unlike the way, Haiti did with a violent uprising. 38 Ott, 5. 39 Ott, 5. 40 Eller, 10. 15 similarly met with strong colonial opposition and an iron grip upon purse strings. Ultimately,

Santo Domingo remained a Spanish colony from 1500 to 1795.41 However, after the slave uprising began in Saint-Domingue in 1791,42 the call for freedom spread across the border into

Santo Domingo. The resulting slave revolts in Santo Domingo caused the Spanish Empire to cede Santo Domingo to France in 1795 as a way to rid itself of the whole affair.43

The slave rebellion continued to escalate in Santo Domingo under France’s rule. A significant uprising occurred in the Dominican territory at a sugar mill in 1796.44 In response,

General , a Haitian, and chief player in the successful uprising in Saint-

Domingue, came from Haiti to help negotiate the abolishment of slavery in Santo Domingo.

Louverture, four Dominicans, and a representative of France signed Louverture’s 1801 constitution, which abolished slavery in the Dominican Republic for the first time.45 , the Emperor of France, did not agree with either the abolishment of slavery or the establishment of the constitution, and sent French troops to forcibly reinstitute slavery. The practice of slavery returned to Santo Domingo, therefore, in 1802.46 General Louverture was captured and deported to France where he later died while in prison (1803).47 Two French generals then came into power as co-rulers, establishing themselves in the Dominican capital.48 Both generals were decidedly pro-slavery and they enacted new grueling taxes on land and crops. Inspired by Haiti’s declaration of independence from France (1804),49 however, the Dominican people made a great effort to get rid of the French and began to elicit help from Spain, which they got in the

41 Eller, 11. 42 Logan, 31. 43 Eller, 9. 44 Eller, 9. 45 Eller, 9. 46 Logan, 30. 47 Logan, 43. 48 There is no note as to who these two generals are in any records that were researched for this thesis. 49 Logan, 43. 16 beginning of this battle. Ultimately, the French troops were expelled from the Dominican territory in 1809 by the allied forces of Dominican rebels, aid from Spain, and Puerto Ricans, aided by British ships and Haitian munitions.50

A Dominican, Juan Sánchez Ramirez, a figurehead appointed by Spain was now in control of the Dominican territory.51 During this period, Spain neglected Santo Domingo and proved to be little help with aiding its territory with on-going struggles of internal factions vying power. Some Dominican citizens elicited help from the newly independent Haiti in the desire to unite the two countries. There were attempts by another faction seeking to overthrow the

Dominican government.52 Though this did not come to pass some rebels designed to change the country’s name to “Spanish Haiti.”53 Dominicans living closer to the Haitian border began to celebrate Haiti’s independence. In 1822 Jean-Pierre Boyer, Haiti’s President, backed by many

Dominican supporters, declared the Dominican territory emancipated.54 The Dominican colony then joined with Haiti55 to form a united island called the Republic of Haiti under the leadership of Boyer.

In 1838, Dominican elites, a population comprised of Dominican, Spanish, and US ancestry, started a dialogue with imperial, xenophobic groups such as the United States and

Spain about separating fully from Haiti, now seen as a French and African “Other.”56 Juan Pablo

Duarte started a secret society of nine men to remove the now despised Haitian government from the Dominican Territory.57 The Dominican elites created a culture of racist anti-Haitian

50 Eller, 7. 51 Eller, 7. 52 Eller, 11. 53 Logan, 45. 54 Logan, 45. 55 Logan, 45. 56 Logan, 45. 57 Logan, 45. 17 propaganda, and charged Haitians an exorbitant amount to cross the border into the Dominican side. The Dominicans were fashioning a society that segregated against the largely black population of Haiti. In the late 1830s Santo Domingo’s predominantly Spanish upper class wanted its outside audience—white investors—to help deport the Haitian ‘interlopers’ still living within its territories.58 A shift in language and religion that corresponded with an increased connection with Spain in this region began to alter the island’s previous singular spirit. The population was becoming increasingly Spanish-speaking as well as increasingly Catholic,

Christian, and a substantial Jewish population, furthering the cultural differences between Haiti and the Dominicans.59 A racialized nationalist view was taking hold of the Dominican side of the island that fueled the population to negatively focus on the increasing differences with the

Haitians. The Dominicans began to express a view more closely aligned with that in Central

America. As explained by Eller, “Just as in the Central American context, their fraternity was a whitened one, they asserted the existence of a ‘permanent war’ with Haiti to an audience that was immediately receptive to a race-war paradigm.”60 The ‘audience’ was a group of receptive white-aligned Dominican people who were already primed to discriminate. The island only remained unified therefore, until 1844 when the Dominicans proclaimed its independence from

Haiti.61

Because the primary foci of this thesis are diasporan artists hailing from Hispaniola, an understanding of the complex and layered cross-cultural relations, and the complicated and multifaceted histories influencing the developing narratives upon which the present and future

58 Logan, 45. 59 This religious distinction continues to this day, with Dominicans practicing predominately non- African-based religions, and Haitians following the religions beliefs associated with Vodou. 60 Teresita Martínez-Vergne, Nation & Citizen in the Dominican Republic 1880-1916 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2005), 25. 61 Eller, 39. 18 are based, is essential. The work of Firelei Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié grapples with

Hispaniola’s past, in order to address contemporary issues still affecting both Hispaniola and its diaspora.

19

CHAPTER II. CHILDREN OF HISPANIOLA

Firelei Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié are making artwork that carries a message of resistance and empowerment from this tumultuous island in the Caribbean. By creating artwork underscoring past relations and depicting events from the Haitian revolution, an event that once sparked optimism and pride between the two countries, these artists may help to diminish some of the hostilities within this complex intra-island relationship. As contemporary artists from both sides of the border, perhaps they will be able to breach the on-going conflicts while also promoting solidarity through visual dialogue occurring in non-combative forums, such as art museums and art galleries.

The Dominican diaspora artist, Firelei Báez, creates works that speak to the history of resilient Afro-Caribbean women and draws attention to their acts of defiance through works such as Bloodlines and Sans-Souci (figs. 6 and 4). Báez embeds images within her artwork that are symbolic of the Trans- and have references to Africa, Hispaniola, and the rich cultural past of Louisiana, a slave era community in the United States that exhibited a similar cultural, social, and political mix to that of Hispaniola. The subtle but powerful narrative within her large-scale pieces and her sometimes dynamic range of color evoke a multi-sensory response as viewers become enveloped within them, engaging him or her with the various histories being told in each work. The importance of Báez’s work is immediately, visually apparent to even the casual viewer. However, the full weight of the symbolic images embedded in her work resonates even more acutely for viewers who have a deeper historical knowledge. Báez’s seemingly unassuming imagery actually depicts acts of defiance, which, when coupled with other strong moments of resistance, alludes to the profound. One act of defiance may derive strength and 20 inspiration from another, with each successive act merging together to create a ever-more powerful wave of resilience.

Born in Santiago de los Caballeros, Dominican Republic in 1981,62 Firelei Báez grew up along the border of the alienated country, Haiti. Living along this border zone as a child, the artist experienced the stark differences between the lush green scenery of the Dominican

Republic, and the ravaged, deforested, and tense (fig. 3). As a child, she and her mother’s family left the Dominican Republic to live in Miami.63 Coming of age in the United

States as an immigrant, Báez felt the different spaces and binary structures of being a dual citizen and a Dominican female rather strongly. In an interview with Angie Cruz, Báez talks about the view she has of the Dominican Republic and how it has been shaped over time and distance:

It’s funny, I’m a Dominican citizen, but I was raised here. My accent’s American, my sense of the world is American, a lot of the work I’ve made wouldn’t have been made if I’d been raised in the Dominican Republic. My work addresses race and class and in D.R. they would be like, what’s wrong with your brain? Why are you speaking about these issues? Because they think that they don’t exist or are addressed differently. I exist as a bridge. In this in-between space. Right now, I’m either American or I’m American. The art collections are built around those two identity politics. So someone like me has to choose a camp. There’s no space for that in-between.64

Firelei Báez exists in the in-between space with her work and her very existence. Psychologist

Hussein Abdilahi Bulhan notes that one reaction of people in this condition of in-betweenity is a radicalization of both the dominant culture within which they find themselves and the indigenous

62 Firelei Báez, Gallery Wendi Norris, accessed April 9, 2017, https://www.gallerywendinorris.com/baez 63 Firelei Báez, “In Conversation with Firelei Báez: Her Wondrous Exhibit ‘Bloodlines’ and her exploration of black womanhood” Interview by Jasmin Hernandez. Gallerygurls, March 1, 2016, http://gallerygurls.net/interviews/2016/10/31/in-conversation-with-firelei-bez-her-wondrous-exihibit- bloodlines-and-her-exploration-of-black-womanhood 64 Firelei Báez, “Firelei Báez on Generosity and Freedom in Art” Interview by Angie Cruz. A Journal of Literature, Art, Criticism, April 6, 2017, http://asterixjournal.com/firelei-baez 21 culture in which they are grounded, in order to arrive at a new understanding of their complexly entangled environments.65

Báez uses her art to express and comment on the Dominican Republic’s dominant French and Spanish cultures and the repressed culture of the slaves, creating a new understanding of

Hispaniola as well as her adopted country-of-residence. In particular, Báez dabs her brush into

Louisiana’s rich cultural past, a place that resonates with the artist’s past. She addresses various modes of subjugation that Louisiana’s African women experienced at the height of slavery, including the enactment of a law forcing them to wear head coverings, a move that was intended to visually segregate them from white women. The African women obeyed, but in an act of colorful defiance they began creating beautifully bright and elaborate headdresses. These strong women, while seeming to conform to their oppressor’s demands, turned an act intended to oppress them into a silent but visually vibrant protest that unified a people.

Báez displays in her artwork the complex views of her island’s past history and a wider view that subjugation and oppression are not just a Caribbean issue but a global one. She states in an interview, “They don’t know how much restraint we have to put on ourselves to show only a fraction of our experiences. There is so much more to say and this is just the needle’s eye being allowed at this moment.”66 As an artist who is navigating this complex landscape of migrant experiences, in-betweenity, forced assimilation, and belonging, Báez is trying to communicate with an audience that can relate to and identify with her struggles against repression and subjugation.67

In Sans-Souci (fig. 4), Báez depicts the anthropomorphized image of Haiti’s historic palace of the same name. The woman’s bust, though muddled with a mix of colors such as red,

65 Hussein Abdilahi Bulhan, “Dynamics of Cultural In-Betweenity: An Empirical Study,” 105. 66 Cruz. 67 Cruz. 22 green, purple, and brown, communicates a powerful presence. Because her skin is “every shade” and her individual features are blurred, she is rendered as “every woman.” The intricate detail of the headdress draws in a viewer’s attention, compelling one to look at the resistance symbols that are incorporated within its patterns.

While the imagery upon the headdress’ cloth is integral to Báez’s depiction of resistance

(discussed below), the very headdress itself is grounded in the and oppression in Louisiana. The colony of Louisiana has much in common with Hispaniola, in that it held the interest of both the French and Spanish Empires. In the 18th century, France laid claim to

Louisiana, which became another place in its empire in need of slave labor to help cultivate a growing society of plantations. 18th-century Louisiana, therefore, experienced mass importation of goods, including cotton, sugar, coffee, and slaves. Historian Virginia Meacham Gould explains, “[In] 1719 thousands of Africans were imported into the Louisiana region for the major purpose of plantation agriculture, but, between 1719 and 1731, twenty-two ships carrying nearly

6,000 slaves arrived in Louisiana’s various ports.”68 The main region from which the enslaved people came was Senegambia, near the Senegal and Gambia rivers of .69 This region is not just a geographical area; the great empires of Ghana, Mali, and Songhai were founded in the Senegambia zone.70 A substantial number of people were brought down from the interior around the upper Senegal and Niger River region to the coast of Senegal, sold into the Trans-

Atlantic slave trade, and transported to locations across the Caribbean, and the ,

68 Virginia Meacham Gould, “A Chaos of Iniquity and Discord,” in The Devil's Lane: Sex and Race in the Early South, eds. Catherine Clinton and Michele Gillespie (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 233. 69 Gwendolyn Midlo Hall, Africans in Colonial Louisiana: The Development of Afro-creole Culture in the Eighteenth Century (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1992), 29. 70 Hall, 24. While the majority of slaves came from Senegambia, some did actually come from the Caribbean, such places like Haiti and the Dominican Republic. 23 including Louisiana.71 Historian Gwendolyn Midlo Hall delves into the importance of

Senegambia to Louisiana in her book, Africans in Colonial Louisiana:

During 1726 and 1731, almost all the slave-trade voyages organized by the Company of the Indies went to Louisiana. Thirteen slave ships landed in Louisiana during these years; all but one of them left from Senegambia. Over half the slaves brought to French Louisiana, 3,250 out of 5,987, arrived from Senegambia during this five-year period. The last ship, arriving in 1743, also came from Senegambia.72

This mass exportation from the Senegambian region was significant. When the French were importing slaves to Louisiana they were not just accumulating bodies to work on plantation fields; they also were creating a new and dynamic cultural environment that mixed African,

Caribbean, and European cultures. Báez, through her work, makes visible the connections between colonized Louisiana and her native island of Hispaniola.

One-third of the African slaves taken to Louisiana were women, a majority of them coming from the coast, especially from the Wolof region in Senegal.73 Wolof women played an extremely vital role in passing on their culture to the subsequent generations of Louisiana Creole people. Wolof women had a variety of roles upon arriving in Louisiana—they were wives, concubines, and mothers, as well as slaves.74 Some of the Wolof women served as domestic workers in inns and boardinghouses. French men in Louisiana considered Wolof women, who were fashionable and highly intelligent, to be great beauties. Many French men settling in

Louisiana, therefore, sought out a Wolof woman to serve as either a slave or a concubine,75 and some French colonists brought their Wolof wives with them when they emigrated to Louisiana.

With these liaisons came some Wolof marriage customs. One important marriage practice with

Wolof origins includes the practice that “if a freeborn man married a slave woman, she and her

71 Gould, 249. 72 Gould, 249. 73 Gould, 249. 74 Gould, 249. 75 Gould, 253. 24 children were accorded freeborn status.”76 Although French Louisiana did see a few interracial marriages, it was, however, not the norm for a white man to marry a black woman.

Free black women, or libres, as the French colonials called them, inhabited a complicated and uncertain world.77 Libres were living within a plantation slave society in which racial discrimination and a hierarchy based on race, class, and gender would naturally assign these women to a submissive role.78 The free black women of Louisiana, however, were able to move adeptly within these constrictions. As historian Kimberly S. Hanger states, “New Orleans created a frontier, small scale society in which relationships between persons of different race, status, and gender were fluid, mutable, and highly personalistic.”79 The desire of these free black women to dissolve the distinctions between themselves and whites became prevalent in the 18th century. Some free black women opted to work within the established social hierarchy to negotiate an improved position, while others worked to raze the hierarchy to the ground.80 Those women of color who chose to work within the system had to navigate gingerly and cunningly within the restrictions of a white patriarchal society to attain their goals.81 Yet, they were determined. Hanger points out, “Free black women fought daily oppression and pursued to affirm their identity, in part by striving to get what was important to them: freedom for themselves, friends and relatives.”82 Firelei Báez’s painting Sans-Souci depicts the anthropomorphized figure as “every woman,” through which Báez helps her viewers perceive a link to the free black women who worked within a confining system to help free people less fortunate than themselves.

76 Gould, 250. 77 Gould, 219. 78 Gould, 219. 79 Gould, 219. 80 Gould, 219. 81 Gould, 219. 82 Gould, 219. 25

One way the Spanish colonizers at the time tried to repress the black free and slave women of Louisiana was by implementing laws to control their movements, their rights, and their attire. One law in particular addressed black women’s hair. After the Spanish took control of Louisiana in 1770,83 Don Estevan Miró, governor of New Orleans (1785 to 1791), had a census taken in 1788,84 and, according to Poet Sybil Kein, “the population of free persons of color in New Orleans was given as 820 in the 1788 census, along with 2,131 slaves and 2,370 whites.”85 To counter this surprisingly high number of recorded in the census, and in an effort to maintain class distinction, Governor Miró tried various ways to discourage the acceptance of this population into mainstream white society.86 In order to accomplish this, Governor Miró passed the Tignon Law (1788), which proclaimed that women of color, whether free or slave, must cover their hair and tie it with a knotted headdress, and refrain from “excessive attention to dress.”87 The governor also forbade them to wear any plumes or jewelry in their hair.88

Hair is seen in many cultures, as an important part of religious practices, cultural traditions, and customs. Hair’s importance and substance to many African people was intensified by its spiritual qualities.89 Byrd and Tharps underscore hair’s spiritual importance by noting,

“The hair is the most elevated point of your body, which means it is the closest to the divine, communication from the gods and spirits was thought to pass through the hair to get to the

83 Gould, 219. 84 Sybil Kein, Creole: The History and Legacy of Louisiana's Free People of Color (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2000): 55. 85 Kein, 47. 86 Kein, 47. 87 Kein, 47. 88 Kein, 47. 89 Ayana Byrd and Lori Tharps, Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America (New York: St. Martin's Press, 2001), 5. 26 soul.”90 When the Tignon Law requiring African women to bind and hide the hair was passed, it served to visually distinguish social classes. The Tignon Law was intended to make the unique hair of African women vanish. It also restricted their connections to their gods, and muffled the communication of their prayers.

Many of the targets of this decree cleverly found ways to create small moments of resistance while still abiding by the law. Since the law did not specify what type of fabric had to be used for the knotted headdress, or state that one could not ornament the headdress itself with feathers or jewelry,91 black women (free and slave) used this loophole to create beautiful headdresses with bold, colored fabric that outshone the fashion of the white women. In Báez’s work Sans-Souci, the artist is making a clear connection to Louisiana’s Tignon Law by adorning the figure in a headdress reminiscent of those worn during the slave era.

The headdresses worn by black women in 18th-century Louisiana did not spring forth from a void. Many cultural elements came with the women from Africa. The slave ships from

Senegambia brought slaves from many different ethnic groups, including the Yoruba from

Nigeria.92 Allman notes, “Among the Yoruba, clothing and its accessories constitute the most important form of aesthetic expression. Yoruba popular thought often expressed the relationship between dress and social interaction, as in saying one’s appearance determines the degree of respect one receives.”93 For example, Allman describes how Yoruba women wear three different headdresses depending on status—unmarried women don a small headscarf, idiku,94 while

90 Byrd and Tharps, 6. 91 Kein, 55. 92 Many different ethnic cultures were on those slave ships not just the cultures from the Senegambia region, the ethnic group like the Yoruba were sold into slavery and were brought to colonies like Louisiana. 93 Jean Marie Allman, Fashioning Africa: Power and the Politics of Dress (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004), 32. 94 Allman, 32. 27 married women wear a headdress called the gele, and older women had the right to wear a headdress called the ikaleri. The headdress in Sans-Souci, therefore, is not just a connection to

Louisiana but to Western Africa.

Since style and ornament of headdress are important in Yoruba culture, it makes sense that the fabric chosen to construct a headdress would be equally as important. The quality of a fabric can indicate a person’s social and economic status, because only the wealthy can purchase the finest of cloths.95 According to Allman, certain criteria “must be met to know if one has purchased fine cloth: the quality of the weave, the use of silk instead of cotton thread, uniqueness of the design, depth of color and the amount of fabric used, as well as the delicacy and heaviness of any embroidery.”96 The Yoruba, of course, were not the only ones to have such an acute appreciation and understanding of cloth and fashion; this type of analysis and expectation for cloth was transported on the slave ships to Louisiana along with slaves from across West Africa.

The painting Sans-Souci is Báez’s way of fusing cultural elements of Hispaniola and Louisiana into one painting, much like captured African slaves transported ideas of visual culture of identity to Louisiana, resulting in an amalgamation of practices that led to the creation of beautiful headdresses.

Yoruba (and other) women’s traditional headdresses gave them an identity by visually indicating who they were, how much they were worth, their age, and their marital status. The women of Louisiana did the same; their identity was found in the beautiful selection of cloth used for their headdresses. One’s headdress displayed race divisions, as well as one’s membership in one of two new social groups—free black women, and black slave women. Yet, the influx of slaves caused a blending of cultures, no matter the attempts made to maintain

95 Allman, 32. 96 Allman, 32. 28 segregation of classes. Báez demonstrates how Louisiana’s and Hispaniola’s slave cultures were both determined to create a way for their traditions and cultures to stay alive and thrive in any environment.

The Haitian people manifested their cultures’ survival and strength through constructing palaces such as Sans-Souci (French for “without worries”), along with the Citadel fortress. These two architectural spaces represent for Haitians and people across the Caribbean the fight for freedom and the determination and power that came from fighting against colonial rule. The

Citadel and palace were built under I, a former slave who became the only king in Haiti’s history, who played a pivotal role in the Haitian Revolution in 1804.97 General

Christophe (later known as King Henri I) created not only the palace of Sans-Souci and Citadel, but also bested Napoleon Bonaparte’s French troops.98 The Citadel, therefore, is not just a symbol of freedom but a stand against the inhumane treatment of slaves and the very act of slavery itself. The Citadel stands as a symbolic monument declaring across the Caribbean that freedom was won against the dominant European power, at the hands of slaves.

Báez’s choice of the luxurious palace rather than its accompanying fortress as a symbol of resistance is interesting. The imposing Citadel is the symbol across the Caribbean for strength and power, liberty and freedom for the downtrodden. Christophe’s palace emulated the height of elegance at the time, showing refinement, prestige, and power. Sans-Souci shows how Haiti itself dug its way out of enslavement and poverty and could have been a part of the cosmopolitan empires. The choice of the palace’s name for the title of her work could mean that Báez, a

Dominican, felt island pride in the Haitian palace and how it symbolized the sense of having

97 Frédérick Mangonès, “The Citadel as Site of Haitian Memory,” Callaloo 15, no. 3 (1992): 857. Christophe had fought in the American Revolution, serving in a French “colored” regiment. 98 Mangonès, 857. 29

“arrived,” so to speak. Báez seems to have the intentional desire to highlight the act and the results of a life of success and opulence, above subjugation and slavery.

In Báez’s version of Sans-Souci, each element embedded within the figure’s headdress adds to the artist’s narrative concerning different moments of resistance enacted by subjugated and repressed peoples history. Discussing the work, Baez states: “I wanted to create different emblems that reflected the different rebellions and moments of resistance that happened, starting from the Caribbean, that then influenced global contacts.”99 For example, any Caribbean viewer would understand Báez’s title, Sans-Souci, as intending to bring to mind not only the luxurious palace, but also the Citadel fortress towering above that allowed for the very idea and existence of the palace in the first place. Within the painting’s imagery itself, the chains depicted at the top of the headdress is an overt reference to slavery and the bondage of people from Haiti, Africa, and the United States. The human figures (at the back of her headdress) are half covered and have cuffs on their arms and legs, therefore appearing to represent the enslaved people. The panthers at the top and bottom of the headdress represent the Black Panther movement that was active in the United States in the 1960s.100 Similarly, the fist image in the headdress could refer to ’s raised fist, as well as to talisman pendants called Figa (fig. 5), usually found in

Brazil and the Caribbean to ward off evil spirits and to protect babies. The artist describes the circumstances during which the pendants were used as a system of communication: “Some people say it has a link to slavery in where they would guild male slaves as part of that whole breeding system. If you wanted to be intimate with someone outside of that breeding system as a way of reclaiming your humanity, it was code for ‘hey I want to be with you.’ That

99 Hernandez. 100 Hernandez. 30 resistance, that subversion, was claimed as something for protection.”101 Every symbol that the artist incorporates into the headdress of Sans-Souci, and even the headdress itself, represent forms of resistance. The repressed groups fought against their oppressors and, while some of their modes of resistance may seem small, their impact on future movements of resistance, across

Hispaniola and beyond, has been significant. It is this strength and resilience that Báez is tapping into through her work.

The way Sans-Souci (fig. 4) uses its colors—the dark reds, purples, greens, and browns— gives it a sense of the mixing of blood from the fighting, and of the mixing of races. The artist’s use of green could symbolize the hope that the regions of Haiti that have been deforested will once again be lush and fertile one day. The paint itself looks like it was diluted with water before being applied, and then the artist manipulated the canvas so that the paint ran or dripped across the figure’s body, almost like a stream of mud mixed with blood. The melding of colors creates a cacophonic synergy that produces movement and energy layered upon the otherwise static body.

The swirling, energized palette suggests the turmoil and struggle, the blood and the tears, endured and shed by slaves throughout history. Firelei Báez, being a diasporan artist, could be utilizing her diasporic lens to address a broader struggle of subjugation. I suggest that the fact that Báez incorporates imagery that refers to both Louisiana, West Africa, and slavery in her painting does this, as does her choice of title, which refers to Haitian rebellion and victory and is therefore known to be a major chapter in the history of slavery.

Báez apparently felt the need to explore the symbols of resistance found in the headdress of San-Souci in greater depth. The same year that she painted Sans-Souci, Báez created

Bloodlines (fig. 6), which focuses on one of the cloths she used in the former’s headdress’ fabric, though in a different color. She uses the symbols in this cloth, and therefore in both paintings, to

101 Hernandez. 31 provide examples of subjugation and resistance in different periods and cultures, making the idea of repression and resistance not solely a black or Caribbean issue, but one that has affected other regions and cultures as well.

Fabrics have always played an important part in representing outward expressions of identity. In Bloodlines (fig. 6), Báez is emphasizing details that have significant historical meaning as symbols of empowerment. First, her use of indigo ink to cover her fabric with patterns depicting resistance is of pivotal importance in contextualizing the artwork:

Indigo in itself had such a strong significance in the slave trade. A bolt of indigo cotton was used to trade a body, so a person would be worth a bolt of cotton, which is insane, but the process of making indigo was particular to West Africa. It had been perfected. Something that had been an emblem of culture and progress and specific to the region was used then to further exploit that and take it away.102

Báez’s choice of using indigo ink gives the piece a strong connection to West Africa, the slave trade, and now, through her work, as a tool of power against old and frail forces of oppression.

Second, because the fabric depicted in Bloodlines also appears in Sans-Souci, both paintings include icons representing palampurs, panthers, and Figa. Palampurs are a particular floral pattern that tells a history of a royal Indian family.103 This design comprises the whole background for Bloodlines, while in Sans-Souci it is only featured at the back of the headdress.

According to Báez, she chose this pattern because the flowers,

…were emblems of power for that court. They were then taken by the British crown and used for smoking jackets or for a lady’s gown—really banal things. They were emblems of power in themselves and of the vestige of empire and then were further democratized by people like William Morris, who made like the printed wallpaper for every middle class household to have. That’s further diluted into something like Crate & Barrel making duvet covers and shams. Something that had so much power in itself gets taken away and further separated from its original meaning. That’s how it becomes decorative. Some of the ways that I use it, I started to reclaim that original meaning and to give context.104

102 Hernandez. 103 Hernandez. 104 Hernandez. 32

Báez is reclaiming the power and technology, fabrics and traditions that once directly linked indigo to West Africa and palampurs to Indian royalty. For an indigo cloth, which is part of a long West African tradition of wealth and trade (among other things), to be transformed into a

‘counter weight’ for a human life, one for whom indigo represented a long and proud heritage, symbolized the soul crushing oppression of slavery. Just like the indigo cloth from West Africa, palampurs were once a symbol of affluence and grace for Indian royalty. Yet, this design was turned into a pattern of little meaning and vapid decoration for British people’s amusement and pleasure.

Figures of panthers and Figa talisman are both seen in both paintings as well. While the panther imagery occurs in two different fabrics in the first painting and on only one cloth in the second, the imagery is virtually the same, other than color (brown versus blue). The Figa image, however, is different. While in Sans-Souci, there are multiple Figa depicted, in Bloodlines there is only one, it is very large, and in the center. This emphasis may signal a greater significance of this image to the artwork and to the artist. The icons of resistance in Bloodlines and Sans-Souci, through both imagery and materials, delicately but powerfully communicate the subjugated narrative to contemporary viewers.

Firelei Báez through these paintings, is expanding the scope of resistance movements to include people from West Africa, Cuba, and India, all people who were repressed by colonial rule. Báez parries these conditions of repression and disempowerment by placing these icons on the same cloth, thus unifying them so that they metaphorically stand together against subjugation.

Today, Báez taps into this history to create artwork that explores the histories of the repressed, and offers windows onto different cultures and groups. Mostly, those histories are 33 about women who, although involved in modes of resistance, are not normally addressed in mainstream history. The artist identifies and projects her female identity within the history of resistance. Báez demonstrates a seldom seen female’s perspective which is full of imagery that holds significant meaning, and can, by creating an inclusive space that allows for open dialogue, facilitate powerful narratives. In particular, the gallery space in which Báez displays her work gives the center foci to the unspoken dialogue of repressed groups from different times and regions, and exposes their histories to the western art world.

Another artist from Hispaniola, but who represents an earlier generation of diasporan artists to give a context to and provide a foil for Báez’s work, is Edouard Duval-Carrié. Born in

1954 in Port-au-Prince, Haiti,105 Duval-Carrié fled Haiti with his family when he was a child due to the tyrannical rule of Jean-Claude Duvalier,106 migrating first to , then on to

Ontario, Canada when he was a teenager.107

Though he currently lives in Little Haiti, Miami, Florida, Duval-Carrié’s work and passion for creation has always been about his home country, Haiti and his Island of Hispaniola.

“Edouard shows the true heart and soul of Haiti through his work and speaks to the country’s traumatic past.”108 Duval-Carrié’s artwork is clearly fueled by Haitian issues:

I’m always trying to place Haiti in the larger scheme of things, he says, both in terms of how Haiti is influenced by historical and current events and how the tiny nation influences the world around it. Central to that discussion is the abject fear that gripped the United States after Haitian slaves revolted against the French in 1791. I’m morbidly aware of the failings and at the same time of the daring that it took to fight the rest of the world...in staging the first successful slave rebellion in the history of humanity. Haitians

105 Duval-Carrié in Megan Myers, “Big Ideas in Little Haiti: A Conversation with Contemporary Haitian Artist, Edouard Duval-Carrié''Afro-Hispanic Review 32, no. 2 (2013): 95. 106 Myers, 94. 107 Myers, 94. 108 Myers, 93. In fact, Duval-Carrié created a series of paintings called “Hispaniola” in 2017 http://casadecampoliving.com/edouard-duval-carrie-hispaniola-saga 34

will tell you the whole world has punished them for being so bold.109

His series, Imagined Landscapes (2013), directly relates to the past and current problems

Haiti and the Caribbean have faced and are facing:

Contrasting his signature use of strident colors, a new project, titled “Imagined Landscapes,” presents work executed entirely in black and silver glitter. Involving extensive research, “Imagined Landscapes” presents lush tropical scenes that reference specific nineteenth century paintings executed in the Caribbean and Florida. Duval Carrié’s works translate these historical images into his own contemporary aesthetic language, in order to address the manner in which the tropics of the Caribbean and Florida continue to be sold as tropical paradises, in ways that often obscure traditional economic and social disparities that continue to be perpetuated in these contexts. 110

His paintings, therefore, address Caribbean exploitation at the hand of empires such as France and Spain.

Duval-Carrié’s The Crystal Explorer (fig. 7), may help remind Haiti and the Dominican

Republic of the struggles they went through together, by confronting 19th-century Western depictions of the Caribbean landscape. European landowners in the Caribbean commissioned

European artists to create landscapes that would portray a ‘new Eden’ to attract other Westerners to settle on the new lands. Duval-Carrié recreates these landscapes in his Imagined Landscapes series using dark hues, that one could argue drain his imagery of vibrancy and life. Even the foliage with which he frames his compositions—vegetation that one would normally expect to be verdant—appears ashen and subdued. The artist could be expressing that the colonizers sapped the life from the once bright and lush landscapes of the lands they colonized. The water in the painting is the only place that shows a bit of vibrant color, which could refer to the importance of the seas for colonizers since that was the main route for trade.

In The Crystal Explorer, Duval-Carrié places the title figure in the middle of an enclosed

109 Duval-Carrié in Sibohan Morrissey, “Dreamy Duality Reveals a Somber Tale, Edouard Duval Carrié,” last modified October 13, 2017. http://www.miamiherald.com/entertainment/visual- arts/article178681626.html 110 Edouard Duval-Carrié, “Life in the North Caribbean,” Afro-Hispanic Review 32, no. 2 (2013): 157. 35 space, which could be a cave. The explorer, who appears to be a faceless French colonial cavalry officer, triumphantly holds aloft a stock of vegetation. The title suggests an exploration that accompanied colonial expansion, which in turn could lead to an exploitation of resources of land and people. While crystals would seem to be his target, it appears he has discovered instead an incredibly lush and verdant world. Although the artist’s use of silver glitter, black, and deep blue drains the brilliant colors from the landscape, it also creates a sense of mystery and discovery.

Duval-Carrié could in fact intentionally be making a direct reference to the colonizing of

Hispaniola and to how Spain and France deforested the land in order to establish sugar cane plantations and create towns and ports.

Duval-Carrié shows the crystal explorer (or conqueror) sitting atop his horse in a triumphant pose. The artist seems to be depicting how Western explorers and settlers felt proud of conquering these ‘new worlds’ and making the islanders and land adhere to colonial imperial ideals. The small land masses depicted in the water in the foreground could even be suggesting islands that have been or will be conquered by the might of the dominating empires of the time.

The conqueror, who is set far in the background, however, appears oblivious to the ominous landscape that diminishes him. In Duval-Carrié’s hand, he is small and potentially insignificant.

He looks out of place. One possible motivation behind his work is to expose the Caribbean nations’ commonalties, by portraying the explorer as hunting crystals and not resources more commonly found in the Caribbean. By leaving the landscape dark and mysterious, the people of the Caribbean (or elsewhere) whose cultures faced oppression and exploitation could align themselves against these “treasure hunters.” By depicting the landscape as overwhelming and minimizing this representative of colonial power, the peoples of the Caribbean are in turn, empowered. 36

Duval-Carrié’s La Traversée (The Crossing) from 2016 (fig. 8) depicts a journey.

Because individuals migrating to new lands bring with them everything instilled within their histories, the voyage then becomes both physical and spiritual. The journey portrayed in this painting incorporates shared spiritual traditions, systems of belief, and cultural practices that can unite populations in the Caribbean. In an interview with Heather Lincoln, Duval-Carrié explains,

“La Traversée depicts the gods of Africa coming to Haiti in search of a . Each one represents a different spirit, such as the God of Death, Goddess of Love, Mother Earth, and Envy and Greed. The ancient tree is another religious symbol that has come into civilization bringing with it all the signs and benefits of nature. Even the boat is a goddess carrying these deities to a new world.”111 Duval-Carrié’s African gods and goddesses are crossing the Atlantic, embarking on a journey to empower those who have been affected by the Trans-Atlantic slave trade.

History has shown us that cultures—its religions, rituals, customs, and pasts—are all portable. Duval-Carrié notes his particular focus on the transportation of ideas in an interview with Jenny Sharpe:

My interest in history is very, very serious. I try to understand the slave period, and what it did to Haiti. What is of interested to me is how Haiti differs from or is just like the rest of the Caribbean. If you take account of the slave period, you see that the flow of ideas was much easier back then than it is today. For example, the little that could move around, did move around, maybe not the slaves themselves, but the ideas.112

The artist’s foci is on how the Caribbean was different during the colonial times as compared to today. In the slave era, the Caribbean was a frontier for free flowing ideas that traveled with the help of ports, boats, sailors, and slaves. Duval-Carrié believes that in the modern era, however, island cultures are currently more insular from each other. He feels that they are too distinct and

111 Heather Lincoln, “On a Journey with Artist Edouard Duval-Carrié as he Presents ‘Hispaniola Saga’,” Casa de Campo Living, April 20, 2016. http://casadecampoliving.com/edouard-duval-carrie-hispaniola- saga 112 Jenny Sharpe and Edouard Duval-Carrié, “Plunder and Play: Edouard Duval-Carrié’s Artistic Vision,” Callaloo 30, no. 2 (2007): 562. 37 are unwilling to engage in a cultural or artistic dialogue with one another.113

Although La Traversée means “the crossing,” it does not necessarily refer only to a crossing of the Atlantic, with Haiti/Hispaniola as the singular destination for these gods and goddesses. The African deities could also have been traveling to Louisiana as well. Duval-Carrié and Báez both see the intrinsic connections Louisiana has with Hispaniola. As Duval-Carrié states:

Look at the history of New Orleans. I flipped out when I realized what happened after the Haitian revolution: whites, mulattoes and their slaves just packed up and went to recamp in New Orleans. In just a few weeks, New Orlean’s population doubled! When I first went to New Orleans, I said to myself “this is impossible, this is just like Haiti.” 114 Relating Duval-Carrié’s experience of New Orleans with his painting La Traversée, the connections to Haiti are clearly evident within existing cultural practices carried to New Orleans through the slave trade. His gods/goddesses are the mode of transportation of culture and ideas that travel with their people, their ‘children,’ through these brutal times to empower them throughout this horrific struggle.

The chief religion of Haiti is Vodou, a frequent subject in Duval-Carrié’s art. This African- based religion became a fortifying sanctuary for the slaves during their capture, forced migration, and horrendous enslavement. Kristin G. Congdon notes the Haitian divinities, or Iwa, are always with their ‘children’:

Duval-Carrie expertly makes the Iwa visible instead of representing them in the conventional manner through their attributes. As shown to us by the artist, these Iwa are not omnipresent and they are not perfect. They are more like us. A series of artworks in the exhibition takes the viewer through their migrations. The Iwa are with the people who are enslaved and taken in chains from their homeland in West Africa. They travel overseas with the enslaved and are present when some of them drown in the Middle Passage. They land with the survivors in Hispaniola. But now the Iwa are not staying put. After five hundred years of turmoil, they are now leaving for Florida in rickety boats, following their children north to a new land.115

113 Kaiama L. Glover and Edouard Duval-Carrié, “My Spirit is There,” Transition 111 (2013):18. 114 Jenny Sharpe and Edouard Duval-Carrié, 563. 115 Kristin G. Congdon, Western Folklore 66, no. 1/2 (2007): http://www.jstor.org 38

Vodou was an unseen force that united the Haitian slaves, enabling them to revolt and reclaim their freedom. Duval-Carrié, by making the gods and goddesses visible, pronounces the tangible connection of how Haiti and Louisiana have benefited and derived strength from African-based religions. There is power in the belief of something greater than one’s self. Represented in La

Traversée are powerful entities who are undertaking a journey through power rather than through terror, pain, and agony. This spiritual journey can serve to overlay the misery of the first. Duval-

Carrié’s is a symbolic message that even when ‘alone’ one is never truly alone. We carry within us all the things—beliefs, customs, practices, knowledge—from our earlier selves.

A hopeful tide of change may be developing with the aid of Caribbean diasporan artists.

Báez’s and Duval-Carrié’s work provides a narrative that counters subjugation and colonization by showing their nations and the Western art world the empowerment within cultural practices and the strength of resistance symbols. Although neither of these talented artists is residing in her/his homeland, they both maintain strong ties to their natal cultures and to the peoples there.

The distance of these two diasporan artists from their home nations may have provided them a perspective that artists still residing in Haiti and the Dominican Republic may not have due to being too enveloped by the on-going conflicts. Through their art—Báez’s homage to Haiti’s Sans

Souci palace and to many of the different facets of revolution, and Duval-Carrie’s Crystal

Explorer, which addresses colonial exploitation in the Caribbean—these insightful artists attempt to illuminate the triumphs and struggles these two nations share. Báez and Duval-Carrié are adding their voices to other artists who are addressing Hispaniola as the starting point of resistance and struggle, as part of an effort that may influence the two nations towards positive change. Perhaps future leaders of Haiti and the Dominican Republic will acknowledge these 39 artists as being instrumental in helping their citizens to recognize their shared similarities and to accept their differences.

40

CHAPTER III. PERIPHERAL MODERNISM: THE MIGRANT CONNECTION

Firelei Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié are trying to disseminate the message of triumph through struggle within not only in the Caribbean diaspora but in diasporas everywhere. The way we perceive the world is changing due to the ever-increasing contact of peoples from across the globe, in response to the movement of people from their native lands due to jobs, technology, war, genocide, economic strife, and political views, among other reasons. To a migrant, time and culture become double binds. How much should one assimilate to the host community?

Conversely, how much should one hold onto the culture left behind? Should a migrant only look to the future now that s/he feels dislocated from the collective past of her/his native community?

These questions are just a fraction of what a migrant asks of him- or herself. Migrant artists formulate these and other questions into artistic explorations that visualize their complex realities. Yet, these realities do not always fit nicely into the mainstream Western critic’s conception of the art-making world. In response to this misalignment of migrant artists’ issues and concerns with those of the mainstream art world, and in recognition of a new global culture within which artists are nomads who can move ‘freely’ within different temporal spaces—the past, present, and future—to create art, Nicolas Bourriaud, curator of the British Tate Museum, announced in 2009 that postmodernism was dead.116 Because he understood postmodernism as lacking a global view and therefore not able to fully acknowledge the depth and richness of creolization, Bourriaud proposed instead a movement or philosophy intended to enable the mainstream Western art world to understand the emerging global art world. He proposed a movement called, altermodernism.117

In his manifesto, Bourriaud stated:

116 Bourriaud.

41

If twentieth-century modernism was above all a western cultural phenomenon, altermodernity arises out of planetary negotiations, discussions between agents from different cultures. Stripped of a center, it can only be polyglot. Altermodernity is characterized by translation, unlike the modernism of the twentieth century, which spoke the abstract language of the colonial west, and postmodernism, which encloses artistic phenomena in origins and identities.118

Bourriaud claims that altermodernism is conveyed in the lexicon of global culture. This is hardly a new thought. As sociologist David Cunningham points out, how the declining debate on postmodernism and the growing debate on globalization as the primary outlier of our time show that the discourse of modernity and modernism have made a comeback.119 For example,

Cunningham notes in 2010 that “Modern” was back in fashion, and he critiqued Bourriaud for simply latching onto the trend of the moment. Cunningham further dismantles the very context of altermodernism by noting that, “Bourriaud has always had a way with the nifty sound bite—

‘We are entering the era of universal subtitling, of generalized dubbing’—but, with little more to offer than this, altermodernism becomes less a concept as such, and more a mere nickname, or indeed the brand name, for some vaguely identified feature of contemporary artistic culture as a whole.”120 The fact that Bourriaud’s altermodernism is supposed to grasp ‘our present,’ assumes that we are all experiencing the same type of present. Clearly this is not the case—we are all individuals with unique experiences and interpretations of those experiences. Moreover,

Bourriaud’s fanciful idea that globetrotting artists are free of all ‘origins and identities’ is a naïve concept. All people, artists included, are always linked to community and origin.

Bourriaud used the opportunity of curating the fourth Tate Triennial, an exhibition from

February 3 to April 26, 2009 at Tate Britain,121 to market the idea of the term itself. The exhibition brought together artworks, artists, and scholars who supported the new philosophy in

118 Bourriaud. 119 David Cunningham, “Returns of the Modernism,” Journal of Visual Culture 9, no.1 (2010): 122. 120 Cunningham, 123. 121 Bourriaud. 42 order to demonstrate how it might be applied. The accompanying catalog was designed to have a balance between the altermodern theoretical framework presented and artworks that helped support the claim of the curator. While the show did provide an example of how this model might be applied, there were some flaws, particularly in the large number of British and British- based artists selected versus the small proportion of artists from other parts of the world.

Moreover, Cunningham critiques the exhibition of Altermodern, by noting “The ‘art space’ is reconfigured here as a peculiar (if limited) kind of general public space, in which the art itself— or, rather, the ‘theoretical hypothesis’ behind its ‘narration’—may function as the alibi for discussing all manner of things (politics, philosophy, science, literature) which may not have anything to do with the actual art displayed, or indeed with art in general.”122 It is important that an exhibition based on a theoretical framework clearly and concisely support that theory through texts such as the catalogue and didactic labels, and that reviews of the exhibition positively perpetuate the theory. For example, an exhibition structured around the introduction of a new concept, such as altermodern, needs to have that concept permeate the show, with all art, video, and text providing insight of the new idea for its viewers. Bourriaud’s Altermodern, however, brought about more confusion than clarity. The artists included in the show were called

“nomads” or “Homo Vita,” to underscore the ‘fact’ that they can travel freely and make signs and symbols where ever they go. Yet, Marcus Verhagen expresses concern that Bourriaud’s model is based on an unrealistic underlying optimism in regards to displacement—his is an ideology of open borders where everyone can travel easily:

In sketching an indiscriminate defense of the artist as homo vita, Bourriaud runs the risk of suppressing the diversity of contemporary travel and unwittingly endorsing a blinkered view of globalization. Bourriaud presents travel as an unambiguous good, monolithic and freely available. We need a more nuanced grasp of the contemporary modalities of travel, one that recognizes the new avenues of exchange but also the new constraints and

122 Cunningham, 124. 43

asymmetries that condition the experience of displacement today.123

What Bourriaud presented at the Tate Triennial was a Eurocentric view of ‘globalization’ and of capitalism, but this view is monolithic in scope. There are many other factors to consider.

For example, as Art Historian Elizabeth Perrill points out, “The artist, the quintessential nomad of the altermodern, is part of an elite that can be either celebrated or vilified for its appropriation of global sets of signs without an investment in the local.”124 The artists Bourriaud selected for his show were in fact merely displaying acts of appropriation and therefore representing privileged actions of non-migratory travel. Their works do not threaten the credibility of altermodernism, but they do not fully explore or represent what altermodern is trying to accomplish.

The following examples will illustrate precisely how these artists fail to capture a deep global view that true diasporan artists, such as Firelei Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié, do. One artist that Bourriaud selected was Darren Almond and his series of mountain photographs of the

Huangshan region of eastern China (2008). Like other photographs in his Full-moon series (fig.

9), these were taken by the light of the moon, the artist using a very long exposure to dispel the darkness and create images that resemble daytime photographs. In the short catalog accompanying the exhibition, Almond writes about being inspired by the painting of the German romantic Caspar David Friedrich, whose depictions of the island of Rügen in the Baltic Sea cast the landscape in an eerie glow. Almond approximated this eerie sensation through his nighttime photography, which affected not only the quality of light, but also helped to limit the number of tourists that would have been present during the day. Both Friedrich and Almond are romantic travelers and artists. Their paintings and photographs idealized the landscapes they gazed upon.

123 Marcus Verhagen, “The Nomad and the Altermodern,” Third Text 23, no. 6 (2009): 806. 124 Elizabeth Perrill, “South African Rubber and Clay Material Challenges to the Global Nomad,” Third Text 26, no. 5 (2012): 589. 44

While Friedrich was able to include only what he wanted in his paintings, Almond went to great lengths to make sure the inclusion of people would not ruin his photographs of his ideal landscape. As Mark Prince deftly comments, “Darren Almond can be both an existential minimalist, probing the mysteries of time and space, and a Romantic wanderer. Bourriaud's selections from Almond’s ongoing series of landscape photographs—shot in the middle of the night in exotic locations using long exposure times to create otherworldly lighting—amounted to a biased view of the artist as a kind of flashy tourist.”125 The ‘flashy tourist’ may perhaps be too harsh of a statement, but Almond is showing how he may freely travel at night when the park is closed to regular tourists. I speculate because Almond is a well-known photographer he was able to use his clout to travel unhindered in the park at a time when other tourists would not ruin his imagined landscape. Almond is deploying the Western romanticism of the landscape. Taking this journey at night when the park was empty and the moon full was paramount to Almond in his desire to achieve this eerie mystic quality in his photographs. The artist is underscoring the idea that the appropriation of an exotic landscape is his to adjust, just like the painters who were hired in Haiti or elsewhere in the Caribbean to paint a beautiful islandscape to promote a new and exotic land to better enhance its selling value to Westerners. Almond’s vision, which one could argue is based on an exploitation of the exotic, therefore, is missing the complexities and nuances of perspective that a more expansive global worldview, as is found in the work of Báez and Duval-Carrié, could embrace.

Tacita Dean represents the “translation” part of the Altermodern exhibition, which deals with the incorporation of text within the works. Her work, The Russian Ending (2001) (fig. 10) is a series of prints made from old postcards found in British flea markets, of woeful war-torn or natural disaster zone landscapes. Although Bourriaud chose Dean’s work to show a connection

125 Mark Prince, “Tate Triennial,” Art in America, 97, no. 5, (2009): 165. 45 to altermodernism, it fits well with Craig Owens’s thesis on the allegorical character of postmodernist art.126 According to Owens, “Postmodernist work operates an allegorical doubling by appropriating sites, texts, and images and redeploying them in order to suggest new and possibly critical readings.”127 Dean’s The Russian Ending, therefore, is a prime example of

Owens's thesis. Dean had learned that early Danish filmmakers occasionally made two different versions of a film.128 The first was for American consumption that ended with happiness, the second a bleak ending for Russians.129 The artist selected a post card from her flea market hunts, enlarged it, and wrote directly on it, notating a scene that a filmmaker might direct. For example,

Dean indicated where the lighting should be focused, the angle the camera should have, and finally how the scene should end. In describing how the series The Russian Ending came about,

Mark Prince notes that the images were:

Found in flea markets, of lugubrious landscape images, over which she has scrawled comments in her seductively effete handwriting. The poetic interjections attempt to compensate rhetorically for what the pictures fail to convey. Previously, Dean has referred to the work of the German writer W.G. Sebald as an inspiration and reference, and her presence here seemed intended to bolster the exhibition's themes by invoking the writer's imaginary and literal wanderings across a geographical and historical . But whereas Sebald’s prose is both steeped in specific history and alive to the unknowableness of the past. Dean’s historical melancholy appeared pompous and kitsch, dealing in a generalized romantic pathos.130

Unlike Báez and Duval-Carrié, for whom the contexts, histories, traditions, stories, and memories of their subjects and accompanying imagery is paramount, Dean did not research the different histories associated with the images that she appropriated from flea markets. She simply picked them for their shocking forms. Dean chose not to travel to different countries to find these

126 Perrill, 805. 127 Craig Owens, “The Allegorical Impulse: Toward a Theory of Postmodernism,” The MIT Press 12 (1980): 68. 128 Perrill, 806. 129 Perrill, 806. 130 Prince, 165. 46 prints, but found them in her home country of Britain. She made no attempt to immerse herself in the cultures she was observing through her provincial shopping. Dean is not delving into further detail of the historical significance of these sorrowful scenes. Rather, she is manipulating these images to create and control an exotified narrative.

These two artists that Bourriaud featured in his exhibition underscore the issues of appropriation of landscape and by extension, the people, stories, and memories they represent.

Because migrant artists were not very involved in the exhibition, the show Altermodernism was missing the voice and message of artists who could speak directly to issues of appropriation and the difficulties of displacement. Instead, the primarily British artists in the show were able to move freely between temporal spaces and travel to different countries without problems or concerns about binary restrictions such as citizenship or visas.

The reality of diasporan artists’ experiences is complex and multilayered. Scholars endeavor to understand what diaspora means as a theory and means to a people. I use migrant and diaspora interchangeably, because both words describe movement and constant travel.

Historian Ranajit Guha discusses the complexities of a diaspora migrant's cultural displacement from his/her homelands. The fundamental implication of “diaspora” involves a parting and scattering since a diaspora is already branded by the mark of distance.131 Depending on the contexts and motivations of a migration, breaking loose from the bonds of one’s homeland is to possibly be renounced with the criticism that: “You no longer belong here; you are no longer one of us.”132 This voice speaks for the entire community, it is stating that the migrant will no longer be entitled to call here her/his own. Guha explains:

131 Ranajit Guha, “Migrant’s Time,” in The Migrant’s Time Rethinking Art History and Diaspora, ed. Saloni Mathur (Massachusetts: Sterling and Francine Clark Institute, 2008), 3. 132 Guha, 4. Through out this section the term migrant, and diaspora will be used interchangeably since both the artist use the world movement or mobility to describe their life style and work. 47

The sentence leaves a sharp clean cut, the dismissal leaves its victims with nothing to fall back on, no background where to umbrage, no actual communitarian links to refer to. For it is in their everyday dealings with one another that people in any society form such links in a present which continually assimilates the past to itself as experience and looks forward at the same time to a future secure for all.133

The potential loss of that link to “home” is, to some diasporan migrants, the loss of one’s world. These migrants must then face the sudden break with continuity; when arriving in the new host country the migrant only has the present of this new place. There is no “before” and only an unknown “after,” which creates a whirlpool of strangeness on arrival in the new land. The migrant can literally find him- or herself stranded between the world left behind and the world of the present, whose doors are not yet open to the newly arrived migrant/immigrant. One can speculate that the feeling of anxiety could drive a migrant forward, as well as cause him/her to experience of feeling adrift in a new country. Guha describes migrants as using that anxiety to look to the past as a pool of energy and to clear a path to a potential future.134 “That is why the migrant’s present, the moment of that tide in which his future-orientated past is being carried along, draws attention to itself invariably as the figure of ambiguity.”135 The migrant who leaves his/her homeland faces a never-ending period of adjustments with languages, idioms, and cultures. But with the past to help them, those migrants with firmly held core values and with solid foundations of identity and bearing, can more boldly and firmly navigate their present and move toward the as yet unexplored terrain of their future. It is this physical, spiritual, emotional, and cultural journey that Báez and Duval-Carrié explore through their art.

Despite Bourriaud’s proclamation that ‘postmodernism is dead,’136 the idea of postmodernism can be found in altermodernism, which means that postmodernism is well and

133 Guha, 4. 134 Guha, 4. 135 Guha, 8. 136 Bourriaud. 48 truly alive and thriving. While there are many different modernisms in the art historical dialogue,

I have focused on altermodernism due to its attempt at addressing globalism and global artists.

However, even that attempt is incomplete. In order to fill a void that Bourriaud’s theory lacks, I propose a new term that will more fully embrace all migrant artists. Peripheral modernism, as a philosophy, views artists who are normally relegated to the periphery of the Western mindset— diasporan, migrant, ‘non-western,’ and others—as the focal point, and embraces the depth of history and the complex narratives of the artists and their artworks. Peripheral modernism endeavors to provide a much needed center stage for diasporan artists (and others) to address and discuss the struggles and differences that come with displacement and the disconnection between their host communities and native lands.

To achieve an inclusive art environment for peripheral artists, I take into consideration their overall contexts and histories, and more importantly, create a space in which these marginalized artists are welcome. An inclusive artistic space is one in which diasporan, ‘non- western,’ and other marginalized artists would not have to choose between their local cultural labels and the so-called mainstream contemporary art world. Instead, I propose that they be fully considered within the contemporary art world and not relegated to a ‘silo’ of identity based on place of birth or other category of . A Haitian or Dominican artist can and should be a contemporary artist first and a Caribbean artist second, if he or she so desires.

Although I am just now formalizing the concept of peripheral modernism,137 it is intended to help create an artistic space or environment that would eliminate the ghettoization of

137 I will continue to ground this concept in the broader art historical theoretical landscape as I develop it further. Moreover, it is clear that the very definition of ‘periphery’ is in constant flux, so the populations of artists relegated to the periphery of the art world, and who would then need to be intentionally included in the ‘center,’ will change and evolve over time. Therefore, while in this thesis I am applying peripheral modernism to geographically fluid artists, I realize that this concept must be applied to a range of categories of artists in the future. 49 peripheral artists—it intends to invite these artists to be full contributors to the artistic

‘conversation’—and serve as a counterpoint to appropriation, exotification, and ‘othering’ of non-mainstream peoples, cultures, histories, and stories.

A peripheral modern exhibition (as compared to Bourriaud’s Altermodern at the Tate) would include, for example, diasporan, migrant, or marginalized artists who do not easily fit into a single category but instead span multiple cultural and geographic designations (for example, a

Haitian migrant to America, a Dominican displaced to Mexico, a Syrian refugee to Germany, the daughter of a Chinese migrant, or an American ex-pat in Morocco). The categories within an exhibition would not be based on geographic origin of the participating artists, but instead would focus on broader themes that resonate within this group of artists who are grounded in multicultural and multinational experiences. For example, themes could include genocide, war, or religious persecution, or the more mundane issues that arise when learning how to live in a new and previously foreign place, or issues with cross-cultural (mis)communication. This would validate the histories, cultures, perspectives, and memories of artists who have crossed boundaries and worlds and who continue to experience multicultural lives. The artwork in such an exhibition would not highlight an exotified ‘other’ because the ‘other’ has been invited into the center of the mainstream art world.138

The work needs to address and discuss the issues and triumphs of the artist’s culture such as resistance, empowerment, genocide, slavery, colonization, discrimination, exile, and war.

A peripheral modernist exhibition space would be a platform for diasporan artists to inform Western art consumers of the diaspora artists’ issues. For members of an exhibition’s audience who are diasporan themselves, can enter this space and visually feel the connections

138 Peripheral modernism, in this first iteration for this thesis, is intended to embrace diasporan, migrant, and displaced artists, but it could also be applied to any artists currently relegated to the periphery. 50 with other diasporans. For visitors newly exposed to the complexities of a diasporan worldview, a peripheral modernist experience would help them to understand the migrants’ cultural state thanks to an increased awareness of global issues affecting these diasporan artists.

Firelei Báez fits into the framework of peripheral modernism because her work addresses and informs art consumers of her cultural, gender, race, and identity issues. As a Dominican diasporan artist based in New York, Báez investigates issues of identity in her paintings and collages, be it geographical or cultural and uses her artwork to express the complex forms of her

Caribbean background.139 The high-impact visuals of her work are the cornerstones for her defenses against culturally predetermined ethnic and racial stereotypes that she experiences in her encounters daily.140 Báez, through her work, provides opportunities for viewers to find unification or compatriotism. In Can I Pass? Introduction to the Brown Paper Bag Test (2011)

(fig. 11), Báez brings forth the primary mode of racism—skin tone and racial phenotype—by casting herself as the subject.141 Can I Pass? is a powerful discourse on how the artist grew up in the United States as a Dominican migrant worrying about her skin tone:

I grew up knowing that I was part of a very slippery in-between space of binary-defying identities, which is the construction of race in the Caribbean, not fitting easily into one category. I went into this project thinking that if I have to lock myself down into something, if I have to see myself through a specific filter, as many people of color are forced to in the US, what would it be like? Portraiture, which has a very clear history in the Western tradition, seemed like the ideal medium to talk about these contested issues. The Brown Bag Test, a practice that has a history as far back as the early twentieth century, attempts to categorize the Western canon of beauty. In that series, I retained the gaze out of a need for personal agency, to act as a counterbalance to the inherent psychic violence in those two tests.142

Here, Báez is exploring issues of race and racialized attitudes, in response to people of

139 Cruz. 140 Dempster. 141 Dempster. 142 Hernandez.

51 color having been forced to ‘pick a category,’ though she does so while taking a powerful stand full of agency, confidence, and attitude. A migrant is pushed to utterly abandon her or his native culture and wholly embrace that of the host country. However, for people who are visibly and aurally an immigrant, it often matters little whether or not they have adapted fully to the new culture. They can still be gazed at and perceived through a filter of ‘other.’ Migrant artists like

Báez are fighting back against this labelled gaze (and the perceptions and reactions that so often accompany it) by creating visually powerful work that embraces the differences that everyone brings to her/his adopted country—Indian royalty, West African headwraps, American civil rights movements, Caribbean slave rebellion—to underscore some of the histories shared by her viewers.

Edouard Duval-Carrié also fits into the peripheral modernism model because he looks to the layered past of Haiti and how Haitian and Caribbean issues are not being addressed in the

Western art world. His work, therefore, informs and educates his audience. Jerry Philogene critiques:

In Duval-Carrie’s work, his oeuvre engages in a conversation understood by Haitians living in its many diasporas (not only in Haiti and not only by those who are familiar with Vodou and its iconography). It does so in a language understood by people living in endezo, clearly a diasporic element that makes sense of this “in between” space of existence—an open space where various dialogues take place between Haitian imagery and North American imagination, between spoken Kreyol, French, and English comprehension.143

Duval-Carrié feels that all fellow Caribbean diasporan artists should get to know one another to counter the national insularity that he sees affecting many countries in the Caribbean.

“Insularity is a curse! It is a curse that underlies the vast problems inherent to most of the

143 Jerry Philogene, “The Continental Conversations of Edouard Duval Carrié,” Small Axe. 12, no. 3 (2008): 144. 52

Caribbean Island nations to this day.”144 Yet, Duval-Carrié expressed that the Caribbean used to be a place where ideas and dialogues traveled freely through trade and commerce. Now, however, he views the dialogue with the rest of the world as limited due to the islands being considered by the Western world as places of pleasure and relaxation rather than countries to be taken seriously. In artworks such as La Traversée, Duval-Carrié creates a visual representation of how cultural ideas may travel and empower the people who believe in them.

One could argue that My Life as a Tree (2012) (fig. 12) is a self-portrait of Duval-

Carrié’s life as a diasporan artist. John Coppola of The Miami Herald, describes this work:

A backlit mixed media work on water-jet cut aluminum, depicts a single tree, its serpentine roots not anchored in the ground, it’s beleafed and flowering branches sprawling above. He describes the lone tree as “standing erect, keeping its dignity, yet rootless.” Duval Carrié also cites the trees as a metaphor for the ecological problems in his native Haiti, which has been severely deforested, as well as symbols of family and history. He has made the images even more concrete by incorporating actual tree branches in his mixed media sculpture.145

Duval-Carrié’s piece features the image of a two-dimensional metal tree that is raised above a seemingly solid flat back plate, also of metal. The tree, while appearing to be solid, has small holes cut out of it, through which small lights (installed in the space between the tree and the backing) shine through, creating a constellation pattern on the tree’s surface. Are these constellations referencing those shared across the Caribbean? The branches of the tree show portraits of people, perhaps ancestors providing a bridge back to the Hispaniola in his past. On the side of the tree and in the middle of the branches are depictions of eyes, which could be the artist’s, or could be those of his ancestors watching over this migrant artist, or by extension, over all migrants from the Caribbean. Duval-Carrié’s work is grounded in the deep roots he feels for his island country, his homeland, Haiti. However, although the physical roots may not be

144 Kaiama L. Glover and Edouard Duval-Carrié, “My Spirit is There,” Transition 111 (2013):18. 145 John Coppola, http://www.edouard-duval-carrie.com/2012/05/edouard-duval-carrie-branches-out-but- keeps-roots-in-miami 53 obviously fixed in a solid landscape, they could be interpreted as emotional or psychological roots, based in his deep love for his country. Even though he fled Haiti as a child, he still feels love and longing for his homeland. His tree’s roots also, therefore, could be seen as him feeling detached and disconnected—from Haiti? From the United States?—due to that exiling.

Through My Life as a Tree, the artist may be expressing the sentiment that although he had to leave Haiti for political reasons, he still is proud of his country. We can see that he is proud due to the frequency of references to Haiti and Haitian issues in his artworks and interviews. Duval-Carrié states in an interview with Kaiama L. Glover:

My spirit is there! My whole family is there, so I don’t think anything could cut my links with Haiti. The whole dialectic of being from Haiti doesn’t escape me: it’s a complicated country, a country with an enormous amount of problems, and these days it’s living through a drama that could almost be called biblical. So it’s a country that really needs all its children and everything it can find in terms of support. But I feel like I can serve better by being elsewhere. And I also think that Haiti is a bit too isolated, even at the regional level, especially in terms of art. And my goal is for my Haitian artist colleagues to get to know their colleagues from elsewhere in the region—Martinicans, Dominicans, Puerto Ricans—all that. Because we all emerged out of the same history, really—a painful history of slavery, of the plantation, of failed projects for democracy. Haiti might be a particular case, but we are all the same.146

Even though leaving one's country can cause one to feel adrift, migrant artists such as

Edouard Duval-Carrié and Firelei Báez can hold onto the passion for their natal island and feel an overwhelming need to address the concerns that plague it by creating work that educates and informs through exhibitions, gallery talks, and interviews.

Migrants live in a complex space, and diasporan artists in particular can serve as ambassadors who address the multifaceted landscapes and cultures migrants must deal with when adapting to a new country and community. Diasporan artists have the means to tell their stories and those of their fellow migrants in a compelling, visual manner. They should, therefore, be included within the artistic dialogue of the ever-expanding art world. Bourriaud’s theory of

146 Glover, 20. 54 altermodernism was bolstered by the exhibition of the same name held in 2009, though it did not have a lasting effect on the art world. This exhibition remained problematic, however, because it included only a few true diasporan artists, and Bourriaud never addressed the constraints that displacement or appropriation can have on them. My conception of peripheral modernism on the other hand, is tied more directly to the theory of post modernism and I hope will provide a necessary and long over due forum to encourage the recognition and acceptance of diasporan artists.

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CHAPTER IV. CONCLUSIONS

Living is a journey. The concept of traversing the past to understand the present and to arm and enlighten the future has been an on-going theme not only in this thesis, but has been exemplified in the artists that I have selected, and is one that I intend to put into practice with my emerging concept of peripheral modernism.

Artists Firelei Báez and Edouard Duval-Carrié are using their art develop connections between their natal lands and their adopted countries, their pasts and their presents, the struggles and persecutions faced by peoples of the past and today, and the resilience with which these trials are resisted. Both artists see Louisiana and its history as a counterpoint to elements of

Hispaniola’s past. Both were colonized. Both transformed into multicultural, creolized spaces.

Both experienced the tragedy of slavery. Both had populations engaged in active modes of resistance to that slavery and its accompanying cruel repression.

Firelei Báez uses her diasporan and feminist lenses to widen the dialogue of subjugation and resistance. Because she does not see this as a solely black or Caribbean issue, Báez weaves other regions into her exploration of repression. In the works discussed in this thesis, she looks beyond Hispaniola and historic Louisiana to West Africa, Cuba, civil rights-era USA, and historic India. Although her starting point for this visual dialogue is Haiti, she emphasizing the complexities and layers of repression by referencing different regions, eras, and events. In San

Souci and Bloodlines she creates a network of ties to different regions by including symbols related to their repression and resistance. And in Can I Pass? she brings the issue home with an image that is both highly personal, but that resonates far.

Edouard Duval-Carrié is proud of Haiti and the people who fought against colonization and slavery. La Traversée depicts the empowerment of cultural ideas like the Vodou pantheon and 56 how its gods and goddesses provided a core value for the slaves who were taken to new lands, whether to Haiti, Louisiana, or elsewhere. In Crystal Explorer, he addresses the exotification of

Haiti and its commodification by the Western world in both the past and present through the perpetuation of the Caribbean as paradise. Duval-Carrié wants to inform his Western audience of the Caribbean’s exploited, by tapping into the tradition of exotifying landscape paintings that reveal the dark colonial past across the Caribbean (and beyond). These two artists reference Hispaniola and Louisiana to express some of the issues that colonial repression has had. Although they may not be directly addressing issues that show the disparity between the two halves of their shared island, they are creating visuals that refer to episodes that the island as a whole has endured.

To migrate away from one’s country is not just the act of an individual. It involves the histories, culture, and religion, as well as the stories and memories that go forth with this person.

Many diasporan migrants retain connections to each other and their homelands. Migrant artists, in particular, often feel the need to express and inform their audiences, of the rich history migrants inherently possess, since they are part of a larger global worldview. Coming from a

Caribbean diasporan background myself, I personally appreciate that Báez and Duval-Carrié are creating art to raise awareness of Caribbean cultures. While researching these artists, I discovered a pronounced lack of emphasis in the art world of diasporan artists originating from this region. It is time for Caribbean diasporan artists to be included in the contemporary art world. Peripheral modernism is the lens I have conceptualized to look at the migrant connection of these artists and the different perspectives they have on the global world experience. Báez and

Duval-Carrié are two artists who can be understood through the lens of peripheral modernism in order to better understand their complex worldviews. 57

While the art world is becoming progressively less provincial in mindset and moving to a more unified planetary view, the act of looking back into history is essential to move foreword in an informed and empowered fashion. Having knowledge of the movements and acts of defiance against oppressive rulers throughout history can serve to make the past relevant to inspire people experiencing oppression today.

Báez and Duval-Carrié are not only trying to share their histories, stories, memories, and worlds while lifting themselves and other diasporans up, but they are also trying to show to the

Western art world that problems of segregation, subjugation, and exploitation are still happening and need to be addressed. Although the Dominican Republic and Haiti share an island and have fought side-by-side to help one another escape the chains of slavery, a consequence of their common yet complicated history, will not, unfortunately, overcome such hurdles until the hate that exists between the two countries ends. Báez and Duval-Carrié are using their artwork to expose problems that have come out of subjugation in Hispaniola. Báez and Duval-Carrié are trying to create opportunities with their artwork and through gallery talks to address issues of colonization and subjugation in order to inform and educate Western art consumers on the importance of Caribbean issues in general and those of Hispaniola147 in particular. Courage, strength, and understanding are the vital tools that are being provided by Báez’s and Duval-

Carrié’s art. It is up to the people of their two birth nations to recognize this precious gift that lies before them, the opportunity to open a path towards peace through art.

147 Although throughout this thesis I reference the island using its historical name of Hispaniola, there are other contemporary terms for the island, such as Quisqueya (or Kiskeya). 58

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APPENDIX A: FIGURES

Figure 1: (1492) French map of Hispaniola by Nicolas de Fer

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Figure 2: (1758) Historical Map of French and Spanish territories of Hispaniola, University of Wisconsin

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Figure 3: vegetation between Haiti (left) Dominican Republic (right), Photo taken by James P. Blair, in Cobb (1987).

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Figure 4: Firelei Báez, Sans-Souci (2015). Acrylic and ink on linen 108 x 74 inches The Andy Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, PA

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Figure 4: Victorian Onyx Gold Figa

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Figure 6: Firelei Báez, Bloodlines (2015). Acrylic and ink on linen 108 x 74 inches The Andy Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, PA 67

Figure 7: Edouard Duval-Carrié, Crystal Explorer, (2013). Mixed media on aluminum 96 x 144 inches, Pérez Art Museum, Miami, Florida

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Figure 8: Edouard Duval-Carrié, La Traversée (2016). 68 x 68 inches, Mixed media, Lyle O Reitzel Gallery, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic

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Figure 9: Darren Almond, Series: Fullmoon @ Huangshan (2008). C-Print 180 x 180 cm Tate Modern Museum U.K

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Figure 10: Tacita Dean, Series: The Russian Ending, The Wrecking of Ngahere (2002). Photo-etching on paper. 450 x 685 mm Tate Modern Museum U.K.

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Figure 11: Firelei Báez, Can I Pass? Introducing the Paper Bag to the Fan Test for the Month of 1 June, 2011. Gouache, ink, and graphite on panel. 96 /8 x 107 (244.2 x 271.8 cm) The Andy Warhol Museum Pittsburgh, PA

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Figure 12: Edouard Duval-Carrié, My Life as a Tree (2010). Mixed media on aluminum. 96 x 144 inches Well Meaning Properties LLC Collection, Miami, FL