about “Beaucoup Shive / Madam C.J. Walker ain’t got nothin’ on me”
Juneteenth in Dallas, Texas. 2021.
Festivals and events and cookouts and everything else was going up in celebration, this day has been celebrated in all years past, but this year was special. Recently signed in to become a federal holiday, now Juneteenth is nationally recognized as a day to celebrate the end of slavery in the United States. This is amazing considering the bill that Gov. Greg Abbott just signed that bans teaching critical race theory in Texas.
These thoughts swirling around in my mind made for an interesting lense to view this soft sculpture by Jer’Lisa Devezin.
“Beaucoup Shive / Madam C.J. Walker ain’t got nothin’ on me” soft sculpture by Jer’Lisa Devezin
I’m not sure when was the last time I was this excited to see a thing in person. Seeing pictures and videos that others posted online only increased my curiosity.
Because, is that a random braid? How was this even made? It looks so big. Like SO big. Messy, but controlled? Fuck, it looks so cool and different and neat. Really, really neat.
I zoomed in and out and tried to dive in as much as Instagram’s pixels would let me. I knew I had to view it in person. And I knew I had to watch the artist’s performance in person. Two Thursday’s in a row I missed the performance of the hair being maintained, because I was braiding hair.
The last opportunity to view the performance fell on Juneteenth.
My first painting professor saw the same and suggested that we meet there to view it together.
This was only my second time going to the Nasher Sculpture Center, and in Dallas this place is one of those art places, a true museum. Sterile and serious and white and for the inside exhibitions, you have to pay to get in.
This was kind of a big deal.
I walked inside and saw my old teacher, I tapped her on the shoulder for a hug. I felt the steady sound of my shoes on the wooden floor. Soft thuds stood out to me, contrasted against the heavy feeling of static silence.
The performance held the gazes of people holding up the walls. Watching and watching the artist softly sweep up bits of synthetic braid hair into the round sculpture.
It feels so silent, I almost wish to hold my breath.
I realized I should have made it here earlier to pick a good spot, now I’m stuck behind others to peek through and witness the art.
Two little old ladies sit comfortably on the ground, one has on a pink cowboy hat with her cloud of hair tied back while the other’s hair is bleached blonde. They watch with understanding and comfort and maybe slight amusement. Others stand and watch or sit, and hold frigid posture.
The artist attaches hair to the sculpture using tools I use to braid hair at home. I can name every color in the structure by number, and the tags swept up in the bottom of the mass are ones I know well.
The artist attaches hair and braids, attaches hair of another color and braids. The hair tangles and they stop to work it out. They then continue to attach it and braid again.
Finally, people shift and move and some leave, I whisper to my teacher, “Do you wanna get closer, we can sit there.” She shakes her head and says for me to go on.
I inch closer and sit, keeping in mind the space between me and the other viewers. Space for personal thoughts to breathe and take form, for possible tears and sighs, not only for me but them as well.
A minute and a half passes and the space is filled by a lady who points to it with raised eyebrows and excited eyes, she came from across the room, seemingly following the artist’s movements.
I gesture towards it, ah yeah, sure, sit.
She squeezes in and plops down.
Refocusing my thoughts to immerse in the performance, the last piece of hair on the last braid is being pulled through and finished. I see the structure bouncing back and forth, almost as if alive, while the artist continues to braid.
Jer’Lisa Devezin with “Beaucoup Shive / Madam C.J. Walker ain’t got nothin’ on me”
A gentle giant, this massive ball of hair feels like nature existing in this space. It contrasts with the hard lines of the room. This organic shape covered with loops and loops and tuffs of hair feels like a mossy boulder, or as it moves, a mythical creature hibernating.
These synthetic fibers made to mimic blow dried black hair come together to create this structure that is reminiscent of so many things. And while the sculpture is mostly synthetic, human hair exists among it as well. The artist is very conscious of this intimate element, speaking with DMagazine she says, “I let people know, ‘yo, the hair I’m sweeping back into the sculpture, the hair that’s on the ground that people can step on, is not human hair.’”
With a sculpture that is within arm’s reach, the artist was aware of people’s possible attitude towards it, in the same article mentioned above she details her witnessing others view the work, “I’ve watched Black people stand on the outskirts of the sculpture, they get close and lean in. I’ve watched White people walk in and step in the hair. Within two seconds, the guards say, ‘you’re stepping on the work.’ It’s that sense of entitlement. It’s like, how close can I get to this thing?”
Still sitting on the ground, I’m hearing bits and pieces of audio that drifts from inside of the structure. The one that sticks out the most is Chris Rock asking, “So my nappy hair is not worth anything?” followed by a confident “No.”
Processing that question and statement while watching Jer’Lisa carefully braid the braid and realizing what this moment means.
This nappy ball of hair being worth something, the attention and focus the crowd in the room is giving it. The attention and care the artist is giving it. While it also receives the complete understanding from some and the endless stream of quiet questions from others.
This nappy ball of hair is worth becoming fine art, because of course it is.
Engaging in this speechless dialogue with myself and the structure and the energy present in the room, I start to hear a hushed bundle of conversation. Bits and pieces of the little old ladies conversation interlock with the bits and pieces of conversation that comes from the hair. I recognize the voice of the New Orleans native artist, Jer’Lisa speaking, a recording of collected interviews had with people about hair. The women present seem to be talking about braiding, and hair, and beauty shop and all other relevant things. True archives of knowledge and understanding present and witnessing the art performance.
Finally, I think, it feels complete. The thing I was unknowingly waiting for, a stream of conversation that is present in every beauty shop, while a movie plays and replays in the background adding to the texture of sound, while you watch someone braid hair or spray Spritz patiently awaiting your turn.
I understood, this is for me and this is for us. Yes, it is for everyone to enjoy and witness, but really, truly, this is for us to engage in and to understand without written words.
“Psst, hey, hey. I really wish those ladies would shut uppp. Like they’re talking and I can barelyyy even hear the audio from the thing. Amiright???” In a faux whispered tone, this is said from the lady who points with raised eyebrows. I feel the irritation with the fidgets and readjusting and the scoffs that start to come from her.
I glance her way with acknowledgement and then sudden realization.
She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand. And she could never comprehend the weight of this moment. I felt a twinge of sadness, how could you not see what is so plain before your eyes? How could you hear this bundle of conversation and not feel comfort. To see this tangled mess of hair and not feel impacted and proud and protective.
I refocus as Jer’Lisa finishes the braid, and then start to comes toward us. She goes into her bag and grabs rollers that come with the rubberband. I feel the water in my eyes start to build and I try to mentally record the words in my mind to save for later, I’m too deep in now to write or text them down.
“Oh my goddddd, that lady is getting in every picture. She’s definitely ruining every picture, do you see that??” The faux whisper returns. I take a breathe and refocus.
The braids are rolled with rubberband rollers and carefully placed on the ground, I can’t see the next step, but I hear it and understand. Water bubbling up and boiling and then poured into a grey pot. The rolled hair is dipped and set to dry. The rollers are removed and the curl is done, the braids are done and the artist packs up and leaves.
Applause fills the room and I get up for a closer look. People start to leave and the room clears out. I take pictures with my phone, pacing around the structure for the best light. I lean in to catch all the details, making sure not to step on or disturb any hair on the ground.
“Hey, don’t touch that! That’s art you’re touching.” This is said in a firm voice.
I turn and look, as everyone else still present does. Who would touch the art in a room with people to witness it?
“What? I mean…” This is said with an eyeroll. The person has the braid that was carefully crafted in her hand.
“No, that is art and you’re touching art” This is said, and I’m confused on why the person is still holding the hair.
“Well, I mean…it’s just hair… Like it’s just the curl. I don’t see-” This is said and I am in complete disbelief.
“No, you’re touching art and you’re touching black people’s hair. So you are wrong in two ways.”
“It’s a beautiful curl…but just a curl…” The hair is dropped and as it falls to the ground the person leaves.
I’m stunned and baffled, because isn’t this the Nasher?
No apology is given. And I’m left with the final impact of this piece. The vulnerability and intimacy that took place in the last 60 minutes was met with complete disrespect and the crossing of boundaries. The hunger and hunt for more, because witnessing black intimacy isn’t enough. The vulnerability that was given in showing black pain, in sharing the words that nappy hair is not worth anything, wasn’t enough.
Touching and groping and then dismissing was the lasting touch. And it completely encapsulates the entirety of the piece.
The complexity of “Beaucoup Shive / Madam C.J. Walker ain’t got nothin’ on me” was only intensified with the addition of the performance. Feeling the impact and then the disbelief it was a bit of the world.