Subjectivity, Anonymity, and Representation in the Art of Lorna Simpson
Artistic rendering of Lorna Simpson. Photo credit/source: George Pitts.
By Karla Méndez
Reflecting on the work of photographer and multimedia artist Lorna Simpson.
Though society has been historically and to this day incessantly tried to assign demeaning stereotypes to Black women insinuating that their experience is not only identical but also interchangeable. Many have pushed back against this idea, utilizing creative methods to highlight the multitudes that exist within Black women. Among these artists is Lorna Simpson, a photographer and multimedia artist who employs photography, film, painting, drawing, and audio to examine identity, race, gender, and history. Incorporating text into her photographs of Black women, she investigates the relationship between race, ethnicity, and sex and society. She challenges the conventional gaze projected onto Black photographic subjects by turning their backs to the camera or concentrating the lens on a specific body part, like the collarbone.
As the ICA Boston states, Simpson’s practice of portraying subjects faceless or in fractured images “calls our attention to the unconscious ways in which people are classified based on physical and cultural attributes.” Following this thinking, the question “Who are we when we eliminate physical traits meant to segregate and separate us?” is salient. Furthermore, who are we and how do we function as a society when we take away our differences? Engaging with her work forces viewers to question who they are and what their identity is. For Simpson, much of her work, particularly her earlier pieces, focuses on identity politics. It is not just an avenue through which we can navigate and confront our lived experience. For the artist, it is an opportunity to meditate on her place in our society and her marginalization.
“Through [Simpson’s] use of found images, she traces the history of visual representation, challenging the ways Black women view themselves and the way society perceives and categorizes them.”
Meditations on Being Black in America
Born on August 13th, 1960, Lorna Simpson grew up during the tail end of the Civil Rights Movement, a period in the U.S. that marked the fight against legalized racial segregation, discrimination, and disenfranchisement. Though her work isn’t explicitly dealing with the movement, her focus on identity and race intersects with the struggle for equality and extrication from archaic stereotypes that work to marginalize Black Americans. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to argue that through her work, Simpson is examining and negotiating with her identity and lived experience as Black women take center stage in her images. Growing up, she would flip through the pages of Ebony magazine, which as she told Vogue, informed her sense of thinking about being Black in America. The images provide an opportunity to engage with the various and distinct facets of being Black in America.
Through her use of found images, she traces the history of visual representation, challenging the ways Black women view themselves and the way society perceives and categorizes them. Her work is often said to question memory and representation, both of which can be capricious. How do we remember ourselves and our experiences? In what ways does our memory conflict with the way[s] we are represented? How do we avoid our memory being colored by our forced representation? How do we put forth representations of ourselves that remain loyal to who we are?
Moreover, Simpson’s work is a provocation of the dehumanization and objectification of Black women in American society. In pieces like Flipside (1991), she puts forth questions of how Black women are perceived, particularly regarding their hair. The piece features a text panel at the bottom that reads “the neighbors were suspicious of her hairstyle.” The relationship between the United States, and Black women and their hair has historically been and continues to be fraught with racism and sexism. As expressed by Treye Green for NPR, Black women’s hair is political and a symbol of agency and how they want to be seen in the world. Cheryl Thompson writes that for young Black girls, hair is not just something to play with as it is laden with messages. She quotes Noliwe Rooks recalling childhood memories of her grandmother taking her to the local beauty parlor every summer she visited to have her hair straightened because as she argued, having straightened hair would give her an advantage. The unfortunate truth about being a Black woman in the United States is that there is a direct correlation between hair and how we are treated and viewed. To straighten one’s hair is to abide by the societal beauty standards that place a Eurocentric look as the ideal. It can be argued that to straighten one’s hair is an erasure of culture and history.
Exploring Identity Through Anonymity
“How does your hair reflect or shape your identity? Do you think people sometimes assume things about you based on your hairstyle?” These are questions posed by the Toledo Museum of Art in reference to Simpson’s lithograph on felt piece, Wigs (1994), which highlights how Black hair and hairstyles are varied across the diaspora and the different identities that our hair can take on. The artist examines the history and intricacies of Black hair by maintaining her commitment to exploring identity through a lens of anonymity. She eliminates any distinguishing features of the individual, particularly facial. Simpson instead displays solely the back of the figure’s head, that is their hair. In omitting the identity, Simpson allows the viewer to step into the work and see themselves as the individual being watched. This opportunity to connect to the piece in this way is a defining aspect of her work, bringing forth questions of self-identification. Yale University Art Gallery writes that the wigs become the sole marker by which the viewer can hypothesize the physical, racial, and sexual identity of the anonymous body. As viewers, we don’t know who the hair belongs to, whether it is a man or woman, Black or white, yet due to societal beliefs of cultural identity, many of us would assign the hair to a Black woman.
In engaging with this piece, I was reminded of the concept of ‘pelo malo.’In Spanish, it translates to bad hair and has historically been used to refer to hair within the diaspora that is kinky, curly, or textured. That these traits are traditionally associated with African heritage is not a coincidence. In Latinx cultures, this phrase has lingered for generations, originating in postcolonial Latin America. As Kelsey Castañon writes for Refinery 29, the societal pressure to fit a straight-haired norm points to a pervasive, global influence of Western beauty standards and deep-seated racism. Citing Dr. Mako Fitts-Ward, “To manipulate one’s texture was about access to freedom about slavery, the homogenization of Latinidad through African erasure.” The panels display a variety of hairstyles, from braids to waves and twists that challenge the ‘pelo malo’ concept. The piece can be viewed as a celebration of the variation in hair. By utilizing wigs she purchased from a mall, Simpson is making a statement on the ways possessors of kinky or textured hair attempt to conceal or disguise their natural hair in an effort to conform to our society’s idea of beauty.
“[Simpson’s] work is often said to question memory and representation, both of which can be capricious. How do we remember ourselves and our experiences? In what ways does our memory conflict with the way[s] we are represented? How do we avoid our memory being colored by our forced representation? How do we put forth representations of ourselves that remain loyal to who we are? ”
The Female Body as Producer
Simpson frequently employed the use of cropped photography in the 1980s and 1990s. In another piece from that era, Counting (1991), she brought together three images, a close up of a woman’s collarbone, a building, and a coil of braided hair as viewed from up above. The focus on and coalescence of images is intentional, as it foregrounds some of the roles and positions that Black women have been located in throughout history. Though the image prominently features a collarbone, the white of the clothing garment is what captured my attention, particularly as it stands in stark contrast to the dark of the skin. From the little that is seen of the garment, it is reminiscent of the clothing commonly worn by enslaved individuals. The numbers listed to the right further suggest that Simpson is citing women labor workers as she incorporates a list of what can be presumed to be a work schedule. She is highlighting the physical labor and toll experienced by and placed on workers. They are forced to work as if they’re machines, which brings to mind the deeply entrenched racist ideology that Black individuals, especially women, have a higher tolerance for pain and physical strain.
This physical overburden is magnified by the second image in the piece. As is described by the Whitney Museum of American Art, the central features a smokehouse, similar to those that were used to house slaves. To the left is a panel that reads 310 years and to the right is one that reads 1575 bricks. The order of images shows a progression. The relation between the first two highlights the necessity of the Black American body in our society, particular women. The female body is needed to repopulate and maintain the conveyor belt that powers labor. The third and final image shows a coil of braided hair, with three plates below that read ‘25 twists,’ ‘70 braids,’ and ‘50 locks.’ From afar, that image resembles the skin of a snake, which calls to mind the act of shedding skin. As I thought through this analysis, I wondered whether this piece is meant to be a commentary on Black Americans shedding the archaic and derogatory identity associated with labor and enslavement. Looking at the image, it’s difficult to decipher not only the identity of the figure but their race. As Elissa Weichbrodt writes for Kemper Art Museum. Simpson’s work invites viewers, regardless of identity, into a highly ambiguous matrix of history, memory, and subjectivity. Because of the other two images and the text panel that reads ‘twists, braids, and locks’ there’s a belief that the hair belongs to a Black American woman.
Necklines, Neckless, Neck
Further engaging with the use of cropped imagery, Simpson’s 1989 photographic triptych Necklines became one of the artist’s most recognizable pieces. The three panels display an image of a woman’s neck, with each piece showing a closer look. The presentation of the neck allows for a microscopic look at the beauty marks, scars, and shadows that reside on the body. Like other work by Simpson that utilizes the cropping technique, the photographs do not show a face, which gestures to a sense of anonymity that allows the viewer to see themselves in the piece. The figure could be any Black individual and to step into the work means to negotiate with the intentional framing of the images and the accompanying text. Underneath the photographs are two panels that list words and phrases featuring ‘neck,’ like necktie, neckless, breakneck, and neckline. Most of the words have violent connotations, which when read in partnership with and paired with the close-up shots of a neck make me think of the violence Black women are and have historically been subjected to.
As Jewels Dodson writes for Artsy, there is a subtle reference to danger and vulnerability in relation to Black women via the zigzag collar of the garment the figure is wearing, which is reminiscent of a serrated edge. While this could perhaps gesture to the edge of a weapon wielded against Black women, the images also display a vulnerability. There is a softness to the part of the body that Simpson has chosen to feature, as well as a sensuality to them. It is almost as if we’re being afforded an intimate look into a private moment. This once again calls to mind the voyeuristic facet of Simpson’s work. In an interview with the artist for BOMB Magazine, Coco Fusco states that there is a barrier expressed through the limited access Simpson offers us through the framing, stating that we’re never really on the inside. Looking at Necklines (1989), this is an apt. description because while the photographs show us a close view of the figure, it is so close that we are not privy to what is happening behind the veil–or the lens–of the image. It conjures both feelings of fascination that makes one unable to look away and of needing to look away.
“Simpson continues to provoke/investigate/thread the line between interiority and exteriority, or what we see and what we don’t. By intentionally displaying the body in fragments, Simpson forces us as viewers to consider what it is that we deem important to witness in photographs. More specifically, she calls to question what we expect to see in photographs and how crucial it is we see, for example, someone’s face.”
The Spaces We Occupy
Simpson’s use of cropping can be viewed as an observation on how we as observers can only see fragments of the lives of Black women. We only have a small window through which we are able to bear witness to the lives of Black women. The artist blurs the line between the public and private sphere, perhaps a commentary on Black women not having the privilege of a private sphere. This voyeuristic view is again employed in Simpson’s 2-channel video installation Momentum (2011). In the video, viewers are granted a look into a moment that, while public when it first occurred, has now been rescripted to present a view into the interiority of the artist. As a former dancer, watching Momentum (2011) brought back memories of days spent in a studio, going over the same 30-second piece of choreography. The video sees a group of dancers picked by the artist to reenact her own stage debut at the age of eleven. The performance features the dancers bathed in gold paint with an afro, also in gold, adorning their head. Much of the footage are shots of them executing pirouette after pirouette, alternating between spins and moments of inactivity. It is in these moments of stillness that we find reflections of the artist. They mimic the memories Simpson has of performing at Lincoln Center. The artist is never seen in the actual video, instead taking on the role of spectator, filming the dancers. There is a peculiar sentiment and experience that occurs when witnessing others replicate a pivotal moment in your life. It can be argued that this is similar to the ways that Black women lack complete control of their lives and instead at times, as a form of self-preservation, have to compartmentalize experiences.
As Diana Taylor writes in “Performance,” “Spectatorship can be understood as functioning within systems and relationships of power.” For Simpson, Momentum (2021) offers a role reversal. An opportunity to occupy a position of power. Within our society, Black Americans, particularly women, do not possess power, at least not in the same way other racial and gender groups do. Whereas her other work, like Wigs, allows the viewer to step into the work, Momentum allows Simpson to become part of the piece in the role she would have preferred to occupy, that of audience member. Millie Walton writes for Port Magazine, that in displaying choreography that is “unspectacular”, Simpson humanizes the performers by showing the mundane. In showing these in-between moments, she is highlighting the prosaic moments that occur in the lives of Black Americans. She also showcases the beauty of the Black body, what it can do and the spaces it can and should be in despite its historical exclusion. There’s a contrast between the messaging of Counting, which suggests that Black women are only able to use their bodies to labor for others, and the argument that the bodies of Black women can exist without having to produce for the state.
Simpson’s Work as An Archive
Simpson continues to provoke/investigate/thread the line between interiority and exteriority, or what we see and what we don’t. By intentionally displaying the body in fragments, Simpson forces us as viewers to consider what it is that we deem important to witness in photographs. More specifically, she calls to question what we expect to see in photographs and how crucial it is we see, for example, someone’s face. Thinking within this framework, individuals cast in her images, there are also questions of who we deem important enough to consecrate in photographs. Who’s stories get to be told and archived for future generations to encounter?
About the Author
Karla Méndez is an arts and culture writer whose work examines the histories of Black and Latin American women and their representations within visual art, literature, poetry, and performance. She is interested in how women put forth representations of themselves that are accurately representative of their expansiveness and how they use these avenues to engage with topics of identity, gender, race, and the female body. Ultimately, her work seeks to explore and reinstate forgotten and ignored histories as a site of care for ourselves and our communities.
She is the lead columnist of Black Feminist Histories and Social Movements, a column for the advocacy organization Black Women Radicals. She is a contributor for the Boston Art Review and Elephant Magazine and her work has appeared in the Brown Art Review and Ampersand: An American Studies Journal.