I almost didn’t make it to the James Baldwin exhibit at Harlem’s Interchurch Center during July and August.
Not that I didn’t try. A few weeks after settling into Harlem, where I had moved to start my job as a gun violence reporter for the AmNews, I decided I would check it out. I hadn’t heard of the artist who created the exhibit, Sabrina Nelson—nor did I know exactly what her project entailed. But the exhibition’s title, “Frontline Prophet: James Baldwin,” seemed promising enough, since I have long admired Baldwin for both his social activism and visionary writing about racism in America.
In truth, I should have done a little more research. When my friend and I arrived at the imposing gray Interchurch building on a sunny Saturday afternoon, we discovered that the exhibit was not open on the weekends. If not for the man working at the building’s front desk letting us in anyway, my quest would have ended there.
As it happens, only part of the exhibit—a series of display cases running around two parallel corridors on either side of the building’s main entrance—was accessible. This section opens and ends with a set of portraits of Baldwin, each made unique by Nelson’s choices of material, colors, and style.
Many of these portraits featured bold and bright colors that framed Baldwin’s face. His expression alternated between joyous, serious, and meditative, depending on the size of his smile or the direction of his gaze. Some portraits were accompanied by drawings or objects to denote certain themes. For example, one painting of Baldwin standing at a pulpit hung above a Bible, a nod to his early years in the church.
The two portraits that most captivated me both featured Baldwin in a pea-green suit and sunglasses, looking relaxed and self-assured. These depictions, based on real outfits Baldwin wore, made me regard him in a new light. When I pictured Baldwin in my head, it was always with the same measure of intensity that I associated with his writings. It was intriguing to consider him on a more personal level, through his flamboyant mode of self-expression.
The display cases between these portraits aligned more with what I had been expecting. Here, Nelson interspersed her black-and-white notebook sketches of Baldwin with copies of his books and other related items, like jazz records or typewriters. Some of the notebooks also featured Baldwin’s characteristically incisive quotes: “Color is not a human or personal reality; it is a political reality,” one read.
As I walked past these displays, I wondered what had compelled Nelson to devote so much time to these drawings. When I went back about a week later to see the rest of the exhibition, in a separate room on the same floor, I discovered yet more portraits and sketches of Baldwin—many on a larger scale, but similar in style to those outside.
The exhibit itself didn’t provide many clues to Nelson’s inspiration, just that she had started these drawings in 2016. But it seemed that through these different portrayals of Baldwin, she was trying to capture his complex and multifaceted life, and the spirit and beliefs that animated it.
Reading an interview with Nelson later confirmed this hunch. It turns out that she attended a conference on James Baldwin in the summer of 2016 and encountering Baldwin there was a spiritual experience.
“I drew my first image of Baldwin while scholar Rich Blint spoke and I felt Baldwin’s presence in that room physically and spiritually,” Nelson told Rolling Out. “The drawings became a way to baptize myself in the essence of Baldwin, as his words and expressions connected deeply with how I felt the world was treating its dwellers who are Black and brown.”
After reading this interview, it struck me that I, too, had discovered the power of Baldwin’s words in 2016. I was a sophomore in high school when I first read Baldwin, for a project in my English class. I still recall the first time I opened “The Fire Next Time.” I became immediately enthralled by how Baldwin analyzed America’s racial plight in a fierce, clear-eyed, and imaginative way, highlighting the impacts of racism on both a personal and political level.
Understanding race on both these levels was a growing interest for me. I grew up in a mostly white suburb, and I was becoming more consciously aware of how race informed my identity and my relationship to my peers—and more generally, how racism structured the society around all of us.
Looking back, I’d say my experience in reading Baldwin sparked my interest and passion for writing about racial injustice, which led me to the AmNews.
A few weeks after my first visit to Nelson’s exhibit, I happened upon Baldwin’s words again when I came across his 1962 New Yorker essay, “Letter from a Region in My Mind,” on Twitter. This essay was published the following year in “The Fire Next Time.” As I revisited the essay, I found myself once again grateful for Baldwin’s wisdom, which helped give me perspective on my new role of reporting on gun violence for the Harlem paper.
Baldwin begins by reflecting on how racism and poverty structured his childhood in Harlem. The force with which he illuminates and criticizes these structures reminded me of the power of writing to expose the workings of injustice in society.
While on some level it is discouraging that contemporary racism keeps Baldwin’s words relevant, I am encouraged that his writing continues to resonate with so many, because this shows that the desire still exists to bring about “the most radical and far-reaching changes in the American political and social structure,” which Baldwin called for.
Nelson’s exhibit is a testament to Baldwin’s continued relevance. It was a happy coincidence that I came across Baldwin’s essay shortly after visiting this exhibit. But a more striking coincidence was my first encounter with Baldwin in Harlem, which came a few weeks before I went to the exhibit.
This first encounter occurred on my second day in the city, as I was moving into my new Harlem apartment. The weather was gloomy and I was walking with my head down to shield my eyes from the rain. Suddenly, I came across a plaque set into the sidewalk with the name “James Baldwin” engraved upon it. I later learned that this plaque was part of the 135th Street Walk of Fame.
I remember feeling immediately comforted by seeing this familiar name in an unfamiliar place. It was also a timely reminder of why I had come to Harlem. Baldwin was the first person who made me understand that writing can change how we see the world. Although the nature of my reporting sometimes makes it difficult to keep believing that writing can make a difference, my encounters with Baldwin in Harlem have reminded me of its power to help imagine and create a more just world.
Shannon Chaffers is a Report for America corps member and writes about gun violence for the Amsterdam News. Your donation to match our RFA grant helps keep her writing stories like this one; please consider making a tax-deductible gift of any amount today by visiting https://bit.ly/amnews1.