ELIZABETH CATLETT’S POLITICAL PRISONER, 1971
A GLOSSY WOOD FIGURE stands strong, looking up to the sky. Her flowing, knee-length dress is painted in red, black, and green, representing the Pan-African flag. The nearly six-foot-tall woman appears calm, but her hands are cuffed behind her back by metal chains—a startling contrast against the warm cedar. One hand is open, while the other is closed into the iconic Black Power fist. This work is Elizabeth Catlett’s 1971 sculpture Political Prisoner, on view through January 19 in “A Black Revolutionary Artist and All That It Implies,” a retrospective at the Brooklyn Museum presenting more than two hundred pieces of Catlett’s art.
Political Prisoner was inspired by the wrongful arrest and subsequent acquittal of human rights activist Angela Davis; the sculpture is surrounded by images of her. On one wall is a black-and-white photograph showing Davis in handcuffs, being escorted by a group of male law enforcement officials. There’s not a trace of fear on her face—she appears confident and ready to prove her innocence. On another wall is Catlett’s lithograph Angela Libre, 1972, a multicolored portrait of Davis in which her face is repeated six times. The artist emphasized that her image represents all political prisoners worldwide.
October 21, 1970. Photo: Keystone-France/Gamma-Keystone/Getty Images.
Catlett’s civil rights activism stood at the forefront of her diverse practice, which incorporated printmaking, sculpture, collage, and painting, among other media. She was the embodiment of the “don’t ask for permission, ask for forgiveness” mindset, platforming the voices of the neglected and oppressed. Crucially, she focused on her own life as an African American woman in her work. She also addressed the racism and exploitation other groups faced in the United States by creating art that highlighted the plights of sharecroppers, domestic laborers, and Mexican migrant workers. In 1946, Catlett moved to Mexico, where she taught at the Escuela Nacional de Artes Plásticas in the nation’s capital, eventually helming the sculpture department. She also developed ties to the Communist Party during this period. The US government found out about these connections, which led to the Washington, DC–born artist being banned from reentering her own country in 1962 (she was, however, able to secure a special visa back into the US to attend the opening of her solo show at New York’s Studio Museum in Harlem in 1971). Despite all the backlash she endured for her politics, Catlett was given immense support from America’s Historically Black Colleges and Universities; in fact, many of the pieces in the Brooklyn Museum presentation are on loan from their collections. Catherine Morris, who curated the show, made a point of emphasizing the museum’s pushback against the idea of the “discovery model”: While many institutions try to claim credit for “discovering” certain artists, it’s important to note that Catlett received backing from her own community at the very outset of her career.
Catlett was the embodiment of the “don’t ask for permission, ask for forgiveness” mindset, platforming the voices of the neglected and oppressed.
I myself understand all too well the sacrifices Catlett had to make as a politically engaged artist. I’m a queer woman who was born and raised in Uganda. I used my art as a call to liberate LGBTQ+ people there; because of this, I had to leave my home country, and I do not know when I will be able to return. In 2015, I arrived in New York—Fire Island, specifically—where I encountered a kind of Queer Utopia. Since then, my art has taken me everywhere: I’ve found so many muses in drag, trans, and gender-nonconforming networks across the globe. Catlett addressed the overlapping concerns between African American and Mexican communities; I try to do the same for my various queer kin. I embrace our interconnectedness by celebrating our differences.
As I reflect on the totality of “A Black Revolutionary Artist and All That It Implies,”I can’t help but recognize how much I have in common with Catlett. Political Prisoner reminds me of my early years as an activist protesting the passing of the 2013 Anti-Homosexual Act in Uganda, where I’d march the streets in handmade masks that I created with my fellow demonstrators to speak out against the imprisonment of queer people for simply being who they are. When I think of Catlett’s interdisciplinary approach, I see my own explorations in ceramics, printmaking, drawing, painting, and woodcarving. Catlett’s strong academic background reflects the rigor of my own studies at Kampala’s Makerere University, where I was introduced to female professors who unabashedly made larger-than-life-size sculptures. And when I consider Catlett’s long life—she was born in 1915 and died in 2012—I am in awe of how she never stopped fighting for justice. Her legacy is one we should all aspire to.
Leilah Babirye is a multidisciplinary artist from Uganda currently based in Brooklyn.
