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The Strayhorn Legacy Remembered

The History of a Home

Some things remain.

“This mulberry tree is as old as this house,” Clark said, patting its swollen, leaning trunk. “I promised my mother I’d never cut it down, and no matter how sick it looks, it just keeps growin’.”

Clark bakes in the kitchen where her great-grandmother baked over a century ago and her grandchildren now play in the same yard she did as a little girl. Her two-story white house – originally a one-bedroom log cabin – was built by former slaves Tony and Nellie Strayhorn, Clark’s great-grandparents.

Clark’s home is the longstanding, physical proof of her family’s legacy. Unlike that of most slave families who lacked the resources to document their history, the Strayhorn’s rich heritage was written down.

In 1950, 95-year-old Nellie Strayhorn was interviewed about life before emancipation. Until she was 14, Nellie was the property of Wesley Atwater and his wife, Miss Julie, who lived about six miles from Chapel Hill on Hillsborough Road. Nellie’s future husband, Tony—who was separated from his mother

at age 7 after she was sold on the Hillsbor- ough auction block—belonged to the Stray- horns of University Station.

“We lived in a log house down in a field,” Nellie said in the interview. “Mother would get up early in the morning and go to the house to build a fire and get breakfast. I was the oldest, so I got the other children up and to the kitchen.

“I used to plough with a mule named Duck, side by side with Mr. Wilson Strowd. He owned my Daddy. And bind wheat – I can do everything in the field except split rails for a fence.”

Nellie and her sisters worked on Atwa- ter’s orchard during the warmer months. They were prohibited from eating any of the picked fruit, but, if given permission, could eat what was on the ground.

While Atwater was away fighting in the Civil War, Nellie and her mother and siblings stayed with Miss Julie and prepared barrels of food to send to the Confederate soldiers.

“When the Yankees come the first time, all the hands was in the field, just like master was there,” she said. “They asked Mother if she knew we was free. She said ‘No sir,’ and I was standin’ beside her when she said it. ‘We fought to free you,’ they told her. They was nice but we was afraid, ’cause we weren’t used to those blue suits and shiny buttons, and the guns at their sides.”

After gaining her freedom in 1865, Nellie found work in a law office for $5 a month. Shortly thereafter, she married Tony and began assembling the family that slavery had precluded.

The family flourishes

In the mid-1870s, Nellie and Tony purchased a small plot of land on what is now Jones Ferry Road, two doors down from the PTA Thrift Shop, and began constructing the home that has since been witness to the progress of civil rights in Orange County.

Freedom brought the family a prosperity very remote from the slaves’ reality. Though living in a racially volatile society, the Stray- horns flourished. The family succeeded in achieving one stamp of the American Dream: citizenship. Though appearing nowhere in the 1860 N.C. census, this listing appears 10 years later: “Strayhorn, Tony; farmworker, illiterate.” By 1880, Tony was learning brick masonry, had taught himself to read and write and had helped found the First Baptist Church of Chapel Hill.

In the late 1880s, the one-bedroom cabin expanded to two stories to accommodate the growing Strayhorn family. Tony and Nellie’s bedroom and living room remain intact today. The nucleus of the past and present structure, the parlor room, with its bloated wooden floor and bowing ceiling, also attest to the family’s past.

“My children and grandchildren under- stand the importance of this house and the memories that linger here,” Clark said, facing the ancient house from the road. “But I told my Mama I’d stay here until the end of my days, and I just hope I can.”

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Paris Photo Review

This post was originally published by the Kunstpedia Foundation on November 17, 2011.

This year, having moved to the regal turn-of-the-century Grand Palais, 135 exhibitors from 23 different countries showed their collections under high glass-domed ceilings, massive stone balconies and turquoise columns — an appropriately prestigious and ornate setting for the celebration.  As one might expect from a fair of its size and scope, the collections (which include classical and contemporary photography from the 18th century onward) are infinitely varying, which is why it can be pretty overwhelming. One moment you’re in front of a Diane Arbus classic, then one of Moriyami Daido, and finally you’re blind-sided by some obscure, quasi-grotesque nude scrawled all over with paint. That’s the beauty of Paris Photo, though: It’s a serious jolt of visual input and at times it’s hard to wade through, and maybe you only remember a few pieces that you loved, but, by its end, you feel accomplished and utterly happy with the new discoveries, those gems you were hard-pressed to find but you won’t forget.

Traditionally, the fair pays homage to photography scenes in different parts of the world by highlighting emerging artists and work from their respective regions, which supposedly resembles some sort of overarching theme. Having already done so to other prominent locales (last year it was Eastern Europe), Paris Photo turned the spotlight on Sub Sahara Africa, from Bamako to Cape Town. Approaching the labyrinthine and seemingly endless stretch of images, I decided to start here to begin absorbing the otherwise grab-bag mix of work. The photography from Sub Sahara Africa served as a valid (and necessary) counterpoint to most of the other work shown at Paris Photo — and most other art fairs in general. Here you observe the transition from a colonized to a decolonized society, the changing notion of identity and self, and scars from the past and anxieties of the future. You can see this in most of the exhibited portraiture: South Africans at the turn of the century posing in lace-frilled collars and white gloves, young Congolese boys dressed as cowboys, a woman in traditional garb from Dahomey and her bare, scarred chest - in short, you see the weight of a Western gaze. What’s most interesting, though, is photography’s perceived role in all of this: Photography (and art in and of itself) has taken on a new significance.  Along side of this type of photography is a new sort of portraiture, one that deals exclusively with the realization of a self despite the Western gaze — it’s a  reclamation of the lens. One need only peruse the sexually ambiguous work of Rotimi Fani-Kayode or Zanele Muhol to see this.

This sort of juxtaposition between traditional and new photography - and, by extension, traditional and contemporary views of identity - is what makes Paris Photo so intriguing. It’s always a rag-tag group of work, and it’s often exhausting to navigate. Nevertheless, it is exactly this aesthetic challenge that defines Paris Photo. The same deluge of work that overwhelmed me brought me back to the fair on three separate occasions. And, plus, isn’t it exactly this sense of challenge that we love so much about art?

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The Jade Masks of the Mayas: at La Pinacothèque of Paris

Funeral Mask in Jade Mosaic © Photo: Martirene Alcántara/INAH

Both the material itself and the form it was given share an important symbolism: Jade for the Mayas, like gold for the Incas, was the rarest and most precious of materials. Regarded as a primordial element, it paralleled the divine significance of the sky and water — sources of life in which the gods dwelled.  Fusing characteristics from vegetation, animals and sacred deities, the jade masks represent not only a face, but a three-tiered world of divine spirits and forms. In homage to the Maïs God, for example, the small, glossy green jade stones —forming an oblong and visibly asymmetrical face— were melded together to resemble an ear of corn. The eyes, generally askew, are open wide with large, dark pupils; the mouth is ajar, too — as if frozen in time mid-sentence— functioning like any ancient grotto, as a point of entry into the supernatural world.

Funeral Mask in Jade Mosaic and Chrysoprase

© Photo: Martirene Alcántara/INAH 

The jade masks are at once intriguing and haunting. Their intricate personification of the cosmos is strangely beautiful, but the fusion of human-like features and supernatural spirits is uncanny. Circling the glass cases that held the funeral masks, I couldn’t help but think of our own funeral traditions, which, next to this sort of custom, seem to be missing something. The Mayas’ masks were meant to protect those that wore them by giving them the strength to make it to the other side, and the power to attain eternal life. Modern western tradition, where there’s very little we do that is actually for the dead, seems almost grotesquely simple in comparison. The jade masks and tombs were reserved only for the elites, of course. At its roots, though, the ritual of eternalizing and blending a loved one’s memory with the divine, hammering it into the precious stone, and then giving it to the deceased, is deeply poetic.

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Afternoon getaway in Saint Denis

This post was originally published in France Magazine on September 19, 2012.

Heading north out of Paris on métro line 13 toward the end of the line and resurfacing at Basilica Saint Denis, there’s a distinct and refreshing shift of energy. You can sense it in the color palette—vibrant and bold oranges, deep reds, blinding greens and yellows — in the noisiness, the young faces, in its general liveliness.

Gastronomical Glory

The Marché de Saint Denis is reason alone to visit. The covered market, a massive steel and glass structure cradled between the Saint Denis Basilica and the Hotel de Ville, draws droves of shoppers from the surrounding commune, as well as Parisians hunting lower prices and exotica. On a Sunday morning, vendors tout everything from scarves and jewelry to insect repellant and house paint, but it’s inside the covered market where the real adventure begins. With rows of obscure fruit and meat — pig’s head, intestines, smoked feet — the market embellishes the typical array of French market produce with a host of North and West African fresh produce and fare. It is refreshing and markedly different than what you’ll find in most Parisian markets. It’s significantly cheaper, too.

While you're there, do yourself a favour and pick up one of the sticky, cinnamony pastries on sale at the big Jewish deli near the corner of Rue Vieille de Temple. You wont need it after the feast of your felafel, but just shove it in a coat pocket and you can thank yourself for it later.

Culture and Glam

For the ladies who’d prefer pampering to site seeing, there’s Hammam Pacha (147, rue Gabriel Péri) just down the road, which will satisfy both the need for cultural exploration and relaxation. The authentic North African bathhouse — like a palace with its ornately arched doorways, hand-painted, tiled ceilings and trimmings, bronze lanterns, plush floor cushions and all the mint tea you can stomach — is a hotspot for locals and Parisians alike. And for good reason. Pay 35 euros for entry into the hammam, and 20 euros for a gommage, or scrubbing, and you can (and likely will) spend most of the afternoon there.

Adjacent to the market is the Saint Denis Basilica — hailed as one of the first examples of Gothic architecture, and probably the most under-appreciated monument in the Greater Paris region. According to legend, Saint Denis, Paris’ first bishop, was martyred on the Hill of Montmartre by the Romans, and, beheaded, carried his severed head all the way to his burial place. The basilica, erected in the 7th century to commemorate his memory, was built over his tomb. Years later, it would become the royal necropolis, the final resting place of 43 kings, 32 queens and 63 princes and princesses. Quiet and often close to empty, the basilica’s interior is bathed in the soft glow of the 12th and 19th century stained glass windows. It’s an ideal place to reflect and admire Gothic expertise. Entry into the basilica is free, but you can visit the necropolis and the crypt, and see its collection of 70 sculpted recumbent statues — the only one of its kind in Europe — for 7,50 euros.

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Botany and Beyond: Lavande de Provence

This post was originally published in France Magazine on July 4, 2012.

The first time I encountered lavender was as a child: The spiky violet flowers of the English variety were always a focal point in my mother’s garden. It wasn’t until I’d seen the purple glow of the endless rows of lavender fields in Provence, though, and not long after when I tasted its honey — the sweetly divine, utterly unique miel de lavande — that the deep-seated affection for the plant blossomed in me.

I’m not the only one that’s been taken by the plant, though. Since antiquity it has been used for a variety of purposes and its soothing effects have been unanimously revered: The Romans used it as fragrance in baths and to treat and preserve clothing. It was one of the holy herbs used in the biblical Temple to prepare the holy essence, and it’s also mentioned in one of the Bible’s shortest, but oldest books, the Song of Solomon. Research shows that aromatherapy with lavender may slow the activity of the nervous system, improve sleep quality and promote relaxation. Today its dried flowers and essential oil are used in integrative medicine, as well as in sachets, gels, extracts, infusions, lotions, soaps, teas, tinctures and gastronomy.

A heavily-branched shrub, lavender grows delicate violet-blue flowers that stand in stark contrast to the silvery sheen of its leafy stems and narrow, tapered leaves. It is the tiny purplish flowers, though, that has given it its reputation. With its pastel purple petals and its heady, sweet aroma — which is particularly pungent during the harvest season in July and August — the flowers are what its cultivators have always been after.

Having arrived to the Mediterranean Basin with the Romans over 2000s years ago, lavender took to the fertile soil in Provence easily, spreading to its hillsides and plateaus and quickly becoming an essential element of the region. In the Medieval Ages farmers and peasants gathered its wild flowers to treat wounds, and at the turn of the 19th century, they had started to maintain the wild patches. By the 20th century, however, it was widely harvested.

Lavender, which now peppers this sunny, dry region of southeastern France, adorns the Sault’s high plateau at the base of Mont Ventoux, the Apt region, the Luberon and the Valréas Enclave. Nestled between fields of golden wheat and purple lavender, the Abbaye Notre-Dame de Sénanque — a stone-gray medieval abbey of Cistercian Monks who cultivate its honey and essential oil — is perhaps one of the most well-known lavender hotspots. The lavender fields, an important staple of Provençal culture, are just one more reason travelers feel such a magnetic attraction to the region.

It was the Roman Empire that introduced fragrance and soap making to France, but it wasn’t until the Middle Ages that Grasse, the historical capital of perfume, rose to fame. A crucial part of the process, of course, is the rendering of essential oil, so the lavender fields that stretch along its perimeter were, to say the least, largely responsible for its success.

According to the Musée International de la Parfumerie de Grasse, cold enfleurage, extraction of essential oils by absorption in animal fat, was the traditional way to manufacture essential oils at the time. Used in antiquity and later adopted and popularized by Grasse in the 19th and 20th centuries, it consisted of laying out the fresh, delicate flowers on a plate of glass set in a wooden frame coated with fat. The fat gradually pulled the essential oils from the flowers, which were changed regularly over a period of 60 days, until the fat was totally saturated with the lavender essence. A repetitive and laborious process, cold enfleurage was abandoned when solvents came onto the scene and revolutionized essential oil production in the 20th century.

Lavender essential oil production, having increased dramatically starting in 1920 mainly for medicinal purposes during the war, has since become a vital resource and symbol of Provence. The post-war climate slowed production, but it still greatly contributed to the prosperity of the dry mountain region in southeastern France, according to the Association des Producteurs d’Huiles Essentielles de Lavande (APAL).

Today, lavender essential oil from Provence carries the Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée (AOC) label, which guarantees its origins, use of the traditional process of production, as well as a particular savoir-faire.