At last…context
Camera in hand, I leisurely strolled through the campus at Oberlin College, taking in the sights and sounds of my surroundings. Behind Fairchild Chapel, I discovered these shoes, battered, tired, and worn. So often, one shoots a subject, and the answer to its significance is readily apparent, laid bare in the image itself. This particular shot, however, gave me pause for thought and contemplation. I found myself yearning to know who had worn them, why they had been left behind, and ultimately, what is their story? Over the years, I have imagined numerous scenarios about their previous owner, but today, I stumbled upon Claude McKay’s evocative poem “The Harlem Dancer.” In that moment, I felt an undeniable connection, as if this pairing of these weary slippers with McKay’s graceful, yet lost dancer was truly meant to be.
Gone
“But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.”
The Harlem Dancer
1917
Claude McKay
Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.
