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Michael Coppage. Black Box Series. -
The history of photography is a long and extensive one, but at its core lies human curiosity and connection, where people have sought to capture and reflect the world around them, as well as how they interact with it and with one another. In his seminal text, Camera Lucida, Roland Barthes explores the essence of photography, questioning what it means to be photographed. Who does photography belong to? Rather than solely analyzing the photographer's intentions or technical skills in a photograph, Barthes shifts the focus to the subject who creates the meaning of a photograph.
This shift in perspective raises questions about the history of photography and informs this exhibition. What stories and narratives do photographs tell about power, intimacy, and representation? When an image is created, whose story is told or constructed? Is it the one behind the camera, the one in front of it, or the one who will inevitably view the work?
The intimacy of a photograph is rooted in the relationships between the photographer and the subject, as well as between the viewer and the image. There is an unspoken dialogue that occurs through the act of photography, where both the photographer and the subject contribute to a shared story. It is intimate, vulnerable, and powerful. When a viewer encounters the photograph, the dialogue is once again opened up and made personal. This photograph serves as a vehicle for multiple meanings: one that the subject shares, one that the photographer seeks to convey, and one that the viewer constructs.
Where this tension between intimacy and exploitation permeates photography begins in 1850 with the Swiss anthropologist, Louis Agassiz, who traveled to the American South to photograph enslaved black Americans in order to promote ideas of eugenics. The photographs did not include names, the subjects were given no autonomy, and they were put on display to promote racist ideologies that encouraged their enslavement.
Throughout the various iterations of cameras throughout history, many have struggled to capture darker skin tones effectively. Kodak first popularized colored photography and is responsible for the creation of the "Shirley" card, on which photo lab technicians relied to balance skin tones and light during printing. The model behind the "Shirley" card was a white, brunette woman, resulting in photographs of people with darker skin not being accurately represented in the image. As recently as 2021, people of color have complained that smartphone camera technology struggles to accurately capture darker skin tones.
This exhibition explores the complex history of photography and its current state, examining what it means to reclaim a photograph and navigate these tensions and racial biases. The importance of acknowledging a history that has often been suppressed.
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Sage Cause
Black women are constantly questioned, criticized, and called “ghetto” for our unique styles. Websites and blogs regularly mock us—urging Black women to stop wearing elaborate nail designs or “unnecessarily” long acrylics. Employers often suggest that we avoid braids, labeling them unprofessional.
Yet despite this stigma, our style is consistently appropriated. From rock and roll to 3D glasses, Black innovation has long drifted into the mainstream—stripped of context, then celebrated. Today, celebrities like Billie Eilish, Dua Lipa, and the Kardashian-Jenner sisters flaunt long, dramatic acrylic nails and braided hairstyles—trends that Black women have championed for decades.
Dr. Mia Moody-Ramirez, a professor at Baylor University, puts it plainly:
"People have embraced some of the things Black people do throughout history. But when other people do it, they're praised for not being afraid to take a risk, and it's considered high fashion. The sad part is that when Black people do the same thing, it's 'ghetto.' There's a negative connotation."This double standard isn’t new. The disdain toward Black women and our culture is rooted in the racial caste system of slavery. In a journal entry from 1860, slaveholder Amelia Akehurst Lines wrote with open disgust:
"We have eaten our share of negro filth and I do despise the race. I wish the abolitionists had to eat, sleep and live with them until they had enough of their ‘colored brothers and sisters.’”
(Lines & Dyer, 1982, p. 192)That hatred didn’t end when slavery was abolished. Fast forward to Florence Griffith-Joyner, also known as Flo Jo. She shattered world records in the 100 meters at the U.S. Olympic trials—but the media obsessed over her nails more than her speed.
"Regardless of intention, French manicures and pastel colors signal white, middle-class, heteronormative beauty. Long, sculptured, airbrushed nails, on the other hand, are markers of Blackness, sexual deviancy, and marginalized femininity," wrote Professor Lindsay Pieper in a 2015 essay.
"Writers highlighted Flo Jo’s fingernails as both a source of intrigue and revulsion, subtly emphasizing racial differences. Because she preferred long, colorful nails, she was depicted as abnormal, deviant, and different."The Royal Painting is a response to that gaze. It reclaims the beauty of Black women—beauty that is so often mocked, policed, and then commodified by others. When Black femininity is always under the microscope, I believe it’s essential to place our aesthetics in a new context. One of reverence. One of legacy. One of power.
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Mike Gray
Black Kennedy's -
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Michael Coppage. Black Box Series.
Through Whose Eyes? : Uncovering Bias and Reclaiming the Image
Current viewing_room
