No need to go inside to see Titi de Baccarat’s “1968,” on view through a window at Space on Congress Street in Portland. Photo by Carolyn Wachnicki/courtesy of Space
Last spring, COVID-19 restrictions turned downtown Portland into a ghost town. As infection rates climb anew, déjà vu unfortunately may be plausible. So, if viewing art outside – albeit bundled up and masked – seems a safer bet than entering a gallery, your first stop should be the installation in the window of Space on Congress Street. On display through Jan. 3, you will find “1968: L’historique d’une histoire faite de symboles/1968: The Timeline of a History of Symbols,” by Gabon-born Portland artist Titi de Baccarat.
“1968” tackles a weighty subject: Black activism in sports from the title year to now. De Baccarat’s conclusion is not encouraging: little has changed since track-and-field star Tommie C. Smith won the gold medal at the 1968 Summer Olympics and, with silver medalist John Carlos, gave the Black Power salute during the medal ceremony to protest racism and injustice against Black Americans. They attended the event shoeless, a symbolic gesture decrying Black poverty in this country.
De Baccarat is self-taught and cites among his influences Maine artists Daniel Minter and Ashley Bryan. Certainly, his work, like Minter’s, is rich in symbolism. And similar to Bryan, de Baccarat plies multiple media: jewelry, writing, painting, installation. But consciously or not, his oeuvre also embraces elements of African diaspora art (a broad term encompassing work by people of African descent) and Black protest art.
From diaspora art comes de Baccarat’s predilection for found or repurposed materials. This belongs to a lineage that can be traced to folk art traditions of Africa and the American South. It has been used to powerful effect by many African and African-American artists. Betye Saar created assemblages of washboards, old photographs, dishes, rusty tools and more. Minter has employed brooms, spools and tin cans in his pieces. Basil Kincaid recycles technological waste and discarded fabric. Buttons, bugle beads, human hair, sock monkeys and pipe cleaners are among the found objects Nick Cave has assimilated into his Soundsuits. And Jamaican-born Nari Ward has created poignant works from baby carriages, fire hoses, metal fencing and gasoline cans, to name just some materials in his palette.
These objects, redolent with private histories, are used to convey a potent sense of memory. So is luggage, another recurring motif with associations relating to migrations – from the Middle Passage and the Underground Railroad to immigration and mass movements of refugees. But de Baccarat deploys a suitcase in “1968” as a tool for remembering, emphasizing the importance of always carrying with us the legacy of our past, our identity and our struggles.
“1968: L’historique d’une histoire faite de symboles/1968: The Timeline of a History of Symbols,” by Gabon-born Portland artist Titi de Baccarat. Photo by Carolyn Wachnicki/courtesy of Space
In “1968,” a suitcase emblazoned with the numeral “7” takes center stage. This is a reference to Colin Kaepernick, the San Francisco 49ers quarterback who knelt on one knee during the national anthem to protest police brutality and systemic oppression against African Americans. Above it, a TV monitor loops a video of Civil Rights scenes. To the left is a figure raising the Black Power salute. The numeral “307” on his jacket identifies him as Smith. On the right is Kaepernick’s leather-jacketed stand-in, crouching on bended knee and also raising a fist.
To construct these figures, de Baccarat stuffs old clothes with newspaper, then covers them in sticky sizing that stiffens them enough to stand. In front of the socks-only wearing Smith are a pair of running shoes that sprout leaves. They are indicators of status, aspiration and wealth denied most Black and brown people. Before Kaepernick is a football, reminding us of what became, since his protest, a “former” career.
Behind the diorama is an American flag made of, significantly in this election year, 46 shirts. Their collars create gaping holes in the flag. It’s hard not to correlate these to all sorts of gaps African Americans experience in education, healthcare, opportunity, participation in “mainstream” culture, personal wealth and on and on. Pinned to the flag are the various POTUSes. Suspended closer to the window are photos of Black athletes: Jackie Robinson, Muhammad Ali, Arthur Ashe, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Serena Williams.
Gloved fists that rise out of the ground around the figures. Photo by Carolyn Wachnicki/courtesy of Space
The use of the flag echoes Black protest art, specifically the work of David Hammons, another artist who loved messing with symbols; among them, the Stars & Stripes, which he tweaked memorably. This emblem appeared ripped and tattered in his work, or provocatively appropriating the black, red and green colors of Marcus Garvey’s pan-African flag. So do the leather jackets, preferred garb of the Black Panthers (though de Baccarat sews perforated black rubber mats over them), and many gloved fists that rise out of the ground around the figures. Almost unnoticeable to one side is a “No Trespassing” sign that evokes Black exclusion from certain seats on the bus, soda counters, municipal pools, private clubs, etcetera.
The installation might appear a bit scrappy and makeshift, lacking the exquisite craftsmanship of, for instance, Nick Cave’s Soundsuits. Yet a more refined presentation might have diluted its power. The speed with which the video images whiz by also disturbs the installation’s solemnity, blurring them all into one indistinguishable nonstop commentary. But that may also be de Baccarat’s purpose: Dishearteningly, it’s the same old same old for athletes of color. The persistence of racism and discrimination is inescapable, even in this era of Black Lives Matter. This installation raises questions America still needs to ask itself.
Jorge S. Arango has written about art, design and architecture for over 35 years. He lives in Portland. He can be reached at: jorge@jsarango.com
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