On a day that only held three degrees, my research associate
and I braved snow-induced traffic to get from the suburbs down to the Field
Museum for their exhibition on Vodou. I simultaneously wondered and griped at
the cultural wealth of Chicago, being that there were three permanent
institutions and the auto show happening. Fortunately, today was a free day for
Illinois residents, so I gladly plunked down all my forms of identification –
drivers license, U of C card – and got myself and the high schooler in for $18.
This made the hellacious car ride well worth it.
The exhibition is set up in two
large halls, the first smaller than the second. It’s almost as if the creators
mean to baby-step attendees into this thing. The first room is very well lit,
bathed in proper art-museum light. Two projectors at the far side of the room
show images of rural Vodouizan doing their thing, which is sometimes looking at
the camera while carrying a goat, and other times falling out in a trance. To
the immediate left of the door is the introductory script, in English and in
the only Kreyòl that appears throughout the entire exhibition, save some names
on placards. Throughout the room are platforms with statues and explanations.
To the far right is a timeline that notes some important moments in the history
of the western half of Hispaniola (NB: the chronology pretty much skips from
Independence in 1804 to folks remaining in the struggle in the present). In the
far corner of the room are some more figures coupled with listening stations.
These screens feature Vodouizan speaking about the practice of their faith and
obstacles to it in French, with English subtitles.
The next hall is much more
dramatic, with lower “cultural-artifact” light. The entrance is decorated with
a sequence of drapo vodou (Vodou
flags), and their sequins catch the light and bounce it off the mirrors
throughout the room. Veves (representative
lwa patterns) are projected onto the
floor. The density of physical objects increases, and the volume goes up on the
pockets of drumming and singing placed throughout the exhibition. In this room,
a few video screens are set up that demonstrate rituals in progress. Warnings
are attached to a couple, one for partial nudity and another for graphic scenes
that some might find disturbing. Inside this hall is a small, closed off room
with randomly shaped windows by which the contents can be observed. The far
wall holds a family tree of sorts, explaining the nasyon (nation) relations. This hall lets out into a small museum
shop featuring handicrafts from Haiti, educational materials, and jewelry.
Although the mediations of this
material are far too numerous to fully enumerate here, a couple of points drew my
close attention to the curatorial hand. A wall map in the first room tied
familiar locations as “Haïti/Haiti,” “Republic Dominicaine/Dominican Republic,”
“Boston,” “Chicago,” “New York,” and “Montréal/Montreal” to “Kongo” and other
sites of cultural significance in “Ginen” (west Africa). I could explain this
away using French historian Pierre Nora’s concept of lieux de memoire (is this passé yet?), but that would not separate
the very real dissonance that I experienced while looking at this map. I lingered,
in hopes that other museum-goers would stop within earshot and comment, but to
no avail. My concern is that the curators participated in the construction of
an imaginary Africa, and juxtaposed that with a semi-real Haiti and an
obviously real Chicago, without expressing that the nasyon were and continue to be a technique for understanding the
course of history and establishing a genealogy in the course of traumatic
rupture. Perhaps I underestimate my fellow museum-goers, and they all read Nora
and other philosophers, but seeing as I overheard “broken French” queries, I am
much more comfortable positing that there were significant gaps in the
educational material presented.
Also, most of the footage assembled
was of rural practitioners in black and white, but the representatives on the
listening stations signified on tropes of diasporic urbanity (French language,
natural hair, “folkloric” attire made from expensive materials). The only
footage that portrayed urban residents was on the largest screen in the far
corner of the exhibit. Mostly female Vodouizans in Montreal sang in a unison
that was aesthetically cleaner than the possession reels elsewhere in the hall,
and the drumming was tighter. I’m not sure what kind of work this particular
cross-representation of social class position performs, but my instinct is that
it is significant.
Vodou:
Sacred Powers of Haiti is at the Field Museum until Sunday, April 26, 2015.
It is certainly worth a visit, according to both my research associate and I.
We only spent an hour in the exhibit, because, well, teenagers, but this was an
adequate amount of time to get through the material presented. In her words, “it
was cool.” In my opinion, that’s an enviable review.
