SOMETHING OUT OF NOTHING

My first trip to Haiti in 1978 was on a four day assignment for TIME Magazine to photograph a voodoo ceremony in a remote area only accessible by donkey. The "service de boeuf" (cow sacrifice ceremony) took place at Fond-des-Nègres, a three-hour drive from Port-au-Prince. A taxi deposited me on the side of the road where a donkey and five boys were waiting. In absolute darkness we made our way across a river, climbing up and down steep ravines until we reached a village in a forest clearing.

A visiting anthropologist, who had originally persuaded me to come, greeted me with his Haitian wife and six month old baby. I was introduced to some of the villagers, including a beautiful young woman in a flowered dress, who, later on, as the rituals began, stood next to me stroking my hair and gently running her fingers over my face. I was surprised because at first she had seemed aloof and suddenly she was so intimate.

Hours later, I was again standing next to her when her whole body jerked convulsively and she fell to the ground in trance.

Soon after, a screaming pig was sacrificed, and as it lay bleeding on the ground, she plunged her arms into the carcass and began licking the blood from her hands. Finally, with her bloody arms extended, she formally shook everyone's outstretched hands, including mine. A few minutes later she was calmly suckling her child. I made thirteen more trips to Haiti, and this sort of volatile episode was representative.

In Haiti I have seen extraordinary instances of poverty, infernal deprivation, and desperation. But here monumental hardships are responded to in a unique and unusual manner. I have continually been astounded by the ways in which the industrious Haitian people, who have so little, use ingenious devices to survive. A woman buys a box of detergent and divides it into thirty neatly tied packets to sell for a penny each in the market. A sculptor hews the shape of a mermaid from an oil drum and then makes a toy truck from the leftover scraps. I have been to Miragoâne, the place considered by the United Nations to be the poorest area in the western hemisphere and was astounded to see a girl emerge from her house in a starched white dress, smiling radiantly, even though her pink shack was visibly sinking in a swamp.

This is the paradox of Haiti, a country of magic and art, a mixture of atrocity and beauty, a land that for nearly two centuries has been obscured by Western prejudice, and misunderstanding, especially the notion that voodoo, the principal spiritual practice in Haiti, that co-exists with Catholicism, is black magic used only for malevolent purposes. In fact, voodoo is not a religion at all in the Western sense of the word but a way of life. More than spiritual observance, voodoo is a collection of animist beliefs loosely institutionalized into rituals and litanies for the faithful. From my personal observations, voodoo is a mixture of group therapy, herbal healing, psycho-drama, celebration, and catharsis.

Several of my journeys to Haiti were on assignment for Stern and GEO, to photograph Haitian painters and their work. I began to see the correspondence between Haitian painting and the actual circumstances that inspired each painting. After photographing Castera Bazile’s Jacmel Market and then visiting the site, I was astounded to discover the same market women — their faces, their dresses, and even their expressions — that Bazile had captured in the market women twenty-five years earlier. This insight revealed an intriguing timelessness in the Haitian scene and I set out to find more correspondences.

Art and life on this island are part of a passionate explosive whole. Despite monumental hardships, or perhaps because of them, the Haitian people are full of a flair that often fires into flamboyance, a continuous parading of bright color, throbbing sound, and dynamic, sensual movement. Both Haitian so-called “primitive” art as well as academic art, with its varying degrees of sophistication, speak directly to the sources of artistic inspiration. The subject matter, with an ancient resonance that goes back to the first cave paintings, is dominated by religion – voodoo mythology and Catholic ritual.

Haitian art is engagé – it is not only for bankers or bishops but for the man or woman in the street. Many of the most internationally acclaimed artists come from humble backgrounds: Hector Hyppolite, the one acknowledged genius of painting, was an itinerant house painter and voodoo priest; Philome Obin, the patriarch of Haitian art, was a bookkeeper; Castera Bazile was a houseboy, Regaud Benoit, a chauffeur, Gerard Valcin, a tile setter, and Louverture Poisson, an airplane mechanic.

Haitian art is living art, a mirror of life, made by the people, reflecting the mysterious dream quality that so fascinated surrealists like André Breton and at the same time documenting what André Malraux recognized as the vitality of the everyday. Just as the blues in black America were born out of an antiphony of a culture crying real sorrow, or singing of a place where they would like to be, the Haitians cry their sorrow in a different way by painting their blues.

Haitian painting, metal sculpture made from discarded oil drums and papier mache objects are the best examples of the attitude that I call making something out of nothing. Instead of documenting scenes of poverty and oppression, my work on Haiti focuses on its beauty, potential, and resourcefulness of this culture that has all too often been overlooked by decades of political turmoil.

A PERSONAL LETTER TO ALICE GEORGE DESCRIBING MY EXPERIENCE AT A RARE VOODOO CEREMONY

Dear Pie (Alice Rose George, Photo Editor at Time magazine)

Here are some sketchy notes on the religious service—

The ceremony was fascinating but not really photographic. It was almost impossible to do photography because everything took place under a pitch black sky with only four Coleman lamps to illuminate the action. Using the flash was difficult & horribly imposing on the participants.

The voodoo ceremony or service de Boeuf (cow) took place at Fond des Nègres, a three hour drive from Port au Prince. The taxi dropped me off on the road where a donkey and man were waiting to bring me to the site of the ceremony. It was pitch black and we had to walk through a river and up and down steep ravines.

Ira Lowenthal, the anthropologist, was there to meet me with his Haitian wife and 6 month old child. There was also an American anthropologist, Karen Kramer.

…

We were greeted by a great crowd of young girls, who touched my hair and skin and let me feel the texture of their fluffy locks. I felt blessed to be welcomed by these people and I knew I could have never experienced it if not for Ira. This is the real thing that few white people have experienced, especially because it’s only been 6 years since the road along here has been built into the interior.

The ceremony began with one young woman falling into trance — in a strong, commanding voice she called the people to begin. At first her trance seemed very theatrical, but then I realized how effective it was in drawing the villagers into the ritual.

As the nite progressed, the intensity increased. All around me I hear screams as if of great agony and protest. I turn and see a woman violently swinging back and forth, her eyes wide with terror, the pupils dilated, the scream starting from her very belly, Two others are trying to still her violence but she breaks away and ricochets with violence to the other of the circle which has formed to give her room. At times she spins on one leg as if it were rooted to the earth, then she frees the leg and shuffles backwards, rapidly …

I feel that being possessed and falling into trance states is a kin to therapy much better than going to a shrink! What an incredible outlet to express emotions - to be with your relatives in a situation you can transcend yourself, release repressions, in absolute purity. Screaming and rolling on the ground and exhorting demons that are in us all. The individual under pressure or disturbed can release all their anger in a healthy & enjoyable way.

Thursday night: we are going to stay at the site of the service. It takes a long time to begin and people are sleeping in groups around the trees. Karen & I sleep on a straw mat on the dirt floor of the house that contains the ceremonial offerings. Chickens, hens, and rats are sleeping with us as well as four other adults & assorted children in a 6’ x 8’ room. It’s impossible to sleep but somehow I find myself falling into an exhausted reverie. I have had about 4 hrs in 3 days but am not tired & feeling very alive. My disappointment & frustration is the difficulty I have in taking photos—the impossibility in capturing the essence of the service. I cannot use a flash , I desire to photograph the dances but how to isolate the movements. Maybe the gods will be with me and I will get something magical. Pray.

The service de Couchon (pig). The offering are arranged next to a sacred tree—the pig screaming aware of its impending death.The pig is dragged around the tree, it’s head is lowered in grief. Libations are poured over its body. The pig is becoming a god - a sacred vessel of sacrifice. Flour is sprinkled over the pig’s back. A girl gravels on the ground & crawls under the animal—Couchon is laid on it’s back out the machete is caressing its neck— its legs are spread apart the girls. The priest goes back & forth a few times before actually cutting into the flesh— The pig screams briefly but the knife is very sharp and he quickly dies—then the head is hacked off, 4 gulps in frantic dance around it, a very heavy scene. The severed head is lifted up and then down again, placed near the body as if it could be sewn on again. I think this is the end of the sacrifice but then i feel the intensity increasing again as a little girl plunges both hands machete into the pig’s corpse and starts licking the blood. The two girls folloe her and soon there is a whirling circle of blood and guts oozing from the body. Finally with blood soaked hands she shakes hands with her people including me. The most amazing, incredible thing that rite ago when I first arrived & thought these girls were too whirly to be into that stuff. Boy, was I wrong. Then the priest cuts off the balls & penis & promptly pops it into the boiling stew. The sun is coming up and beginning to burn through the trees. A few minutes later, the young woman who was just in trance whose hands were plunged into the carcass appeared calm and happy.

The most fascinating thing is the mixture of singing, dancing, and ritual offerings. It is like an opera. The dancing & singing are not separate forms of expression. They dance as if they were marionettes tied to drums by invisible strings of sound. Their movements are around sound made visible and their voices are in turn the transfiguration of their movements back into human sounds.

Tonight I am going to photograph a Voodoo Ceremony in town. Maybe something interesting will happen with that and we can juxtapose the two events. The voodoo ceremony is canceled because of A blackout & lightning. Besides this one is more of a tourist trip.

Pie. Bon Dieu Bon!

Call me if you can squeeze a story out—Thank you.

I’ll call you as soon as I get back—

Love,

Mellon