Though the written words of escaped slave, Abolitionist,
orator, and statesman Frederick Douglass continue to resonate into the present,
and though he was photographed more than any other American of his time, he now
exists within our collective imagination. And with time, he becomes more and
more like a mythological figure. But a new film installation currently on view
at the Memorial Art Gallery presents Douglass as a living, breathing man in
various public and private moments of his life.
Filmmaker
Isaac Julien’s newest installation, “Lessons of the Hour — Frederick Douglass,”
is the second commission by the MAG for its Rochester-focused “Reflections on
Place” series, curated by John G. Hanhardt, and this
exhibition is the world premiere of the piece.
Julien’s
work is non-linear cinema, unfolding in episodes as an A/V collage across 10 large
and small screens. Yet each richly-constructed scene reads as an immersive
film, bringing Douglass to life. The vignettes bring viewers into the rooms
where he gave renowned speeches, into quiet moments alone with his pen, and
into the present political times when his — and our — work remains unfinished.
“The work is about looking at Frederick
Douglass through the present to the past and then back again,” Hanhardt says.
For this
presentation, the MAG’s Docent Gallery is entirely transformed into a many-sectioned
viewing room, each space painted black and with sparse, carefully positioned lighting.
An outer chamber holds a crescent of large tintype photos of three of the
actors from the film, and the innermost chamber has a row of cushioned seats
facing the arc of screens. The space’s deep crimson carpet matches one of the
bright coats worn by Douglass (played in the film by Ray Fearon)
and picks up on colors in each lush scene.
“Lessons of the Hour” was filmed in both 35mm
and digital technology, and shot on location in Baltimore — some scenes were
shot inside Douglass’s home — and in Scotland, where Douglass traveled to
lecture and meet with Quaker Abolitionists. Julien worked with a large team of
artists to produce the work; beyond the cast of actors, he credits multiple
exhibition designers and a crew that rivals any short-length feature in scale.
Douglass
recognized that photography could be used as a powerful tool to represent the
self to the masses. Julien’s work is an extension of this; it envisions and
attempts to recreate the power of his presence. And hammering that point home:
in one scene Fearon gives Douglass’s “Lecture on
Pictures,” while on other screens he and various actors sit to be photographed.
A good
portion of the work emphasizes the fullness of solitude. Any peace found in
those moments is heavy with both memories of lived experience and the burden of
work yet to be done. In some scenes Douglass sits alone composing letters and
speeches, or he roams in the woods. The contemplative serenity of that autumnal
scene is disrupted by cracks of a whip, and by visions of a lynching.
In another
scene he leads a horse through the Scottish landscape, and each different
screen focuses on Douglass’s blue-coated figure. He’s dwarfed by great sweeping
views of the land he travels. There’s minute details as well: the camera follows the
horse’s hooves in tall grass, and on other screens it focuses on his face
taking in the gentle melancholy of the sights. All the while, a dramatic
composition of stringed instruments floods the room. The romanticism of this
scene peaks when a larger screen focuses on Douglass, having crested a cluster
of rocks, turned away from the viewer and staring off into the distance ahead
of him. It’s an unmistakable allusion to German Romantic painter Caspar David
Friedrich’s “Wanderer above the Sea of Fog,” from his stance to his overcoat and walking stick.
Douglass often
travels by train in this work, and in one episode the steel wheels spin in time
with the rotating mechanisms of the sewing machine where Anna Murray Douglass,
on another screen, is at work constructing her husband’s clothing. She looks up
and stares into space, matching his meditative expression.
In one of
the most complex scenes, the installation combines overlapping images and
sounds that leap back and forth through history. Some screens show views of
Douglass addressing a mixed contemporary and historic crowd with his “Fourth of
July” speech. On other screens, aerial footage sweeps over Baltimore at night,
showing modern-day views of the city which pointedly include the Domino Sugar
refinery and a Transamerica Corporation high-rise.
“These shouts of liberty and equality: hollow
mockery,” Fearon-as-Douglass booms over images of
slave ships sailing on dark waters. And subtly, on a small side screen,
proud fireworks shrink as they explode in reverse.
Also
appearing on some screens during this speech scene is drone footage from the
Baltimore Police Department, tracking the movements of people during the 2015
Uprising after Freddie Gray was killed. The vibrant colors and rapt attention
of the audience as it watches Douglass speak contrast sharply with the infrared,
robotic views of the drone coldly surveilling, but far removed from the
community’s despair and resistance.
This article appears in Mar 6-12, 2019.
