I moved this information today, so that the blog would start here.
When I first seriously took up painting—about 8 years ago, I began with a portrait of Patrick, a friend dying of AIDS. I followed with portraits of literary and historical heroes—namely, William Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Collette, and Maud Gonne.
As I struggled with something I was writing one day, I gazed up at the paintings around my desk. I became conscious of how my colors and lines resembled the stained-glass windows from my Irish-Catholic childhood. I’ve surrounded myself with saints, I thought. Inspired, I finished an essay that would culminate in a National Endowment for the Humanities award to study Irish mythology at Harvard University.
I don’t consider myself a writer or an artist as much as a senachie (SHAW– nah-kee)—Irish for “Storyteller.” There are several in every Irish or Irish-American family. We’re always looking for an audience; we can’t help it. Everything I paint comes from a significant experience. Each painting has a long story behind it.
This story began as an article for the Regional Governors’ Schools’ annual newsletter. Our students had renovated a playground in Whitcomb Court, an area of the city with historically high crime rates. Uncomfortable with exploring on foot, I looked for a church as a segue into the community. Pilgrim Baptist Church stands at the corner of Whitcomb and Mecklenberg Streets, across the street from Magnolia Gardens, a public housing community. Three years ago, a woman was murdered there, within hours of Sunday school and practically in front of the church. I saw Pastor Moore’s name on the sign outside and wrote it down. When he returned my call, he said he did not think he could help me with the story. Pilgrim, founded in 1909, used to be a neighborhood church, the one at the top of one of Richmond’s seven hills, this one called Chelsea Hill.
Many of Pilgrim’s members no longer live in the adjacent neighborhood because many of the homes on Chelsea Hill were torn down in the late 1950s in order to make room for Whitcomb Court, Mosby Court, Magnolia Gardens, and the now defunct juvenile-justice facility that stands where the church used to stand.
Some of the older members of Pilgrim remain in what was probably the city’s first African-American--then referred to as “Negro”-- subdivision, Eastview, erected in 1954. Many of these residents either went to college or sent their children through college. Postal workers (many of them veterans of World War II and Korea) and teachers predominated. Many members live in other areas of the city or even the counties, scattered by the winds of “progress,” which was a nice word city officials used back then to cover up their racist intentions, intentions that were fueled by the impending reality of the Brown vs. the Board of Education decision.
Among the actions taken was the building of multiple public housing communities (segregated—whites were sent to the south side) and the juvenile justice facility. Erected in 1960, the courthouse and its housing units have been closed for 8 or 9 years. Pastor Moore, who is also a prison chaplain, and therefore has a lot of credibility, told me that the church had purchased the property with the intention of turning it into a community outreach center, one that would address the great needs of this area—for members and non-members alike. That sparked my interest.
“ I don’t know why,” I said, “but I still want to come to services on Sunday.” Pastor Moore called back the day before I was to come and I feared that he had changed his mind. Instead, he asked about the spelling of my last name. As it turned out, Pastor Moore had been a student of Dr. Carl Losen, my father-in-law, who taught for years at Virginia Union University. Carl had also been his academic advisor.
Besides Pastor Moore, the first person I spoke to at length was Mary Charles. She started talking about what the area used to be like, telling me about the house where she grew up and the church that used to stand where the defunct juvenile center now stands.
Then I met McCommodore (Mac) Charles, Mary’s older brother. As it turned out, Mac and Mary are related to a colleague, Irvin Charles, head of security at my school.
I started coming to church every week, and usually took pictures of various events. I even attended meetings of the Elizabeth Project, a program for pregnant teens.
The more I got to know people, the more I came to love them, and the more I learned about a history that has been largely ignored. Formal research has led to some amazing discoveries—confirmed in the stories I have begun digitally audio-recording and transcribing. I’m not sure when I will find the time, but I plan to write a book about this place.
The paintings just kind of happened, as they always do. I have taken well over 7,000 digital photos, and only 10 have translated into paintings—so far.
Because of the storytelling element, the titles are nearly as important as the subjects themselves. I tried to explain the reason behind some of those names here. Some titles are inspired by a subject’s name; others are inspired by the action. Several have Biblical allusions; one, “Covenant,” was inspired by a Sunday School lesson.
All but three paintings that have been entered into a show has won a prize—from honorable mentions to first place. As I have been transformed, so has my work.
This community has an amazing story to tell—one of strength, endurance, love, and forgiveness. Like Irish-American families, African-American families have plenty of storytellers and the stories are great—full of pathos but also full of humor.
And now some of these stories can be told by images. Committed Baptists refer to themselves as saints, and saints deserve an audience. Look at the images, look for the stories, and let them transform you as they have transformed me.
When I first seriously took up painting—about 8 years ago, I began with a portrait of Patrick, a friend dying of AIDS. I followed with portraits of literary and historical heroes—namely, William Shakespeare, Virginia Woolf, Collette, and Maud Gonne.
As I struggled with something I was writing one day, I gazed up at the paintings around my desk. I became conscious of how my colors and lines resembled the stained-glass windows from my Irish-Catholic childhood. I’ve surrounded myself with saints, I thought. Inspired, I finished an essay that would culminate in a National Endowment for the Humanities award to study Irish mythology at Harvard University.
I don’t consider myself a writer or an artist as much as a senachie (SHAW– nah-kee)—Irish for “Storyteller.” There are several in every Irish or Irish-American family. We’re always looking for an audience; we can’t help it. Everything I paint comes from a significant experience. Each painting has a long story behind it.
This story began as an article for the Regional Governors’ Schools’ annual newsletter. Our students had renovated a playground in Whitcomb Court, an area of the city with historically high crime rates. Uncomfortable with exploring on foot, I looked for a church as a segue into the community. Pilgrim Baptist Church stands at the corner of Whitcomb and Mecklenberg Streets, across the street from Magnolia Gardens, a public housing community. Three years ago, a woman was murdered there, within hours of Sunday school and practically in front of the church. I saw Pastor Moore’s name on the sign outside and wrote it down. When he returned my call, he said he did not think he could help me with the story. Pilgrim, founded in 1909, used to be a neighborhood church, the one at the top of one of Richmond’s seven hills, this one called Chelsea Hill.
Many of Pilgrim’s members no longer live in the adjacent neighborhood because many of the homes on Chelsea Hill were torn down in the late 1950s in order to make room for Whitcomb Court, Mosby Court, Magnolia Gardens, and the now defunct juvenile-justice facility that stands where the church used to stand.
Some of the older members of Pilgrim remain in what was probably the city’s first African-American--then referred to as “Negro”-- subdivision, Eastview, erected in 1954. Many of these residents either went to college or sent their children through college. Postal workers (many of them veterans of World War II and Korea) and teachers predominated. Many members live in other areas of the city or even the counties, scattered by the winds of “progress,” which was a nice word city officials used back then to cover up their racist intentions, intentions that were fueled by the impending reality of the Brown vs. the Board of Education decision.
Among the actions taken was the building of multiple public housing communities (segregated—whites were sent to the south side) and the juvenile justice facility. Erected in 1960, the courthouse and its housing units have been closed for 8 or 9 years. Pastor Moore, who is also a prison chaplain, and therefore has a lot of credibility, told me that the church had purchased the property with the intention of turning it into a community outreach center, one that would address the great needs of this area—for members and non-members alike. That sparked my interest.
“ I don’t know why,” I said, “but I still want to come to services on Sunday.” Pastor Moore called back the day before I was to come and I feared that he had changed his mind. Instead, he asked about the spelling of my last name. As it turned out, Pastor Moore had been a student of Dr. Carl Losen, my father-in-law, who taught for years at Virginia Union University. Carl had also been his academic advisor.
Besides Pastor Moore, the first person I spoke to at length was Mary Charles. She started talking about what the area used to be like, telling me about the house where she grew up and the church that used to stand where the defunct juvenile center now stands.
Then I met McCommodore (Mac) Charles, Mary’s older brother. As it turned out, Mac and Mary are related to a colleague, Irvin Charles, head of security at my school.
I started coming to church every week, and usually took pictures of various events. I even attended meetings of the Elizabeth Project, a program for pregnant teens.
The more I got to know people, the more I came to love them, and the more I learned about a history that has been largely ignored. Formal research has led to some amazing discoveries—confirmed in the stories I have begun digitally audio-recording and transcribing. I’m not sure when I will find the time, but I plan to write a book about this place.
The paintings just kind of happened, as they always do. I have taken well over 7,000 digital photos, and only 10 have translated into paintings—so far.
Because of the storytelling element, the titles are nearly as important as the subjects themselves. I tried to explain the reason behind some of those names here. Some titles are inspired by a subject’s name; others are inspired by the action. Several have Biblical allusions; one, “Covenant,” was inspired by a Sunday School lesson.
All but three paintings that have been entered into a show has won a prize—from honorable mentions to first place. As I have been transformed, so has my work.
This community has an amazing story to tell—one of strength, endurance, love, and forgiveness. Like Irish-American families, African-American families have plenty of storytellers and the stories are great—full of pathos but also full of humor.
And now some of these stories can be told by images. Committed Baptists refer to themselves as saints, and saints deserve an audience. Look at the images, look for the stories, and let them transform you as they have transformed me.
