Monday, November 18, 1996
Photographer Roy DeCarava brings the magic and music of his
hometown to Los Angeles through the lens.By Kristin Fiore
Daily Bruin Senior Staff
nyone who has picked up a 35 millimeter camera and hit the
streets in search of life has walked a mile in Roy DeCarava’s
shoes.
This long-time Harlem denizen is Everyman’s photographer, though
his insights into shadow, subject and city life are anything but
common. In celebration of one of the most prominent photographers
of the post-World War II era, The Los Angeles County Museum of Art
is showing nearly half a century of his work through Jan. 26,
‘1997.
While many of his peers focus on the effects one can create with
high-tech lenses and abstract scenes, DeCarava concentrates on what
he knows and loves best  the streets of his own back yard and
the people that make them come to life. He is most known for his
smoky portraits of jazz greats like John Coltrane, Miles Davis,
Mahalia Jackson and UCLA’s Jazz Director, Kenny Burrell, as well as
his photographs of the march on Washington D.C. in ’63.
However, DeCarava and his lens have also immortalized countless
elements of the African American experience in the big city Â
tender moments of family life, the harsh realities of poverty and
the joy of friendship, youth and art.
Many of his portraits offer not the whole scene, but its most
telling piece  a stocky, aging hand resting authoritatively
out the open window of a cab, the sun glimmering on a thick gold
ring. The man they belong to takes a back seat, literally and
figuratively, made anonymous by a thick, diagonal strip of shade
and sunglasses.
This photograph hangs near its feminine counterpart, a slender
woman with a white dress and purse poised with a cigarette at the
end of a long, white glove. Capturing just the back of her arm, a
bit of hip and leg and the dangling cigarette, DeCarava recreates
the playful elegance and indulgence of Audrey Hepburn in "Breakfast
at Tiffany’s," made only a year earlier (’61). DeCarava often uses
hands and torsos to embody the whole, as their shape and position
are usually the most dramatic element of the human form.
Another common technique is his hiding of figures in deep
shadow. Many faces would remain forever lost in the background if
it weren’t for titles like "Five Men" that prompt viewer to peer
into the recesses. In this photo the fifth man’s presence is only a
crescent moon of an afro that creeps into the bottom right corner,
almost as if by accident.
DeCarava also experiments with texture, shooting a lacy canopy
of treetops, the wrinkled grey leather of an elephant’s eye and the
futuristic silver glints of a crushed tin can. They are an anomaly,
though, among the majority of works that center around people.
His most varied and seemingly best understood subjects are the
musicians of the Harlem Renaissance, a scene which grew up around
him in the ’40s, when he was forming his artistic style. The
lighting, sharpness and angle of each photograph is exquisitely
matched to heighten the mood of the moment  whether the
artist is famous or anonymous, alone or in a jam session, casually
hanging out or lost in his own intense performance.
Many of the portraits seem to be the visual equivalent of music
itself. It is as though the blast of saxophonist John Coltrane
 his eyes pinched shut, his lips pursed in an explosion of
breath  vibrates the outline of his image, though the effect
is really the soft-focus lens and slow shutter speed of DeCarava.
While Coltrane is bathed in light, other musicians are rendered in
silhouette, their lanky, suited bodies contrasting the sensual
curves of their basses and brasses.
The warmth and passion that emanates from the musicians is
present in many of DeCarava’s photographs, which highlight the
positive, personal side of African American life rather than the
negative, political side that is so prevalent with other
artists.
However, those elements do occasionally arise; there is a
snapshot of a man sleeping in a cardboard box barely big enough for
him to turn over in. Nearby is a photo titled "White Line," in
which a chalk line divides a sidewalk in half. Though it is
impossible to tell who is being separated by the white line Â
no faces are seen  it is reminiscent of segregation, which
was alive and well at the time the photo was taken. Though the
images are jarring, the references are subtle and do not overpower
the human aspect of the scenes.
Other shots mix negative and positive elements. Poverty,
intimacy and strength mingle in the shadows of a run-down family
kitchen. The hope of a young girl’s graduation is dwarfed by her
limitations in the real world  dressed in a long, white,
bride-like gown and gloves, she stands alone in an empty lot,
surrounded by graffitied walls, crumbling buildings and piling
garbage.
DeCarava’s capturing of the girl’s ambiguous emotions of hope
and futility amidst the shambles of her city is more powerful than
any overt statement about the conditions in Harlem and its lack of
opportunity. By connecting with her, the viewer automatically feels
the cage she has been forced into, just as he can feel the pressure
of the air from Coltrane’s cheeks and hear the soprano’s shrill
cry.
DeCarava’s attention to detail  the pearl of sweat on a
bassist’s brow or the flutter of a woman’s coat as she shuffles
down a brick sidewalk  is what breathes life into his
portraits, while his mastery of deep shadow and unusual angles adds
drama and mystery. He has powerfully, yet intimately, captured
everyday life and its unsuspecting characters as a spider catches
its next meal  using a lens instead of a web.
ART: "Roy DeCarava: A Retrospective" is at the L.A. County
Museum through Jan. 26. Tickets $6 for adults, $4 for students and
seniors. Second Wednesday of every month is free. Closed Mondays.
For more information and hours call (213) 857- 6000.
The fierce dedication of millions is personified in the
determined face of a Mississippi freedom marcher in Washington
D.C., 1963.