Week 2

Free writing,, might as well make the most of it! to be honest I hate writing but find it is actually valuable in some instances,, for those who know you and know your work and even to those just intrigued, your writing can become a performance in its self!

Drawing from’s Daniel awkward introduction, yeah the awkward introduction, lol, this will seem pretty cool if you’ve read it,,, a lot of things stuck out to me, one is the fact Daniel himself has a particular writing style that when you read realise is pretty performative. The second is that similar to Daniel,, i’ve also had my own kind own writing style, a language if you will. although not aswell put together as Daniels,, Ive always liked to play with punctuation. “,,,” is definitely a signature and my facebook posts over the last decade, they have had them in abundance. (Dont try and do your reasearch, because i’ve recently deleted alot of my facebook post haha,, however there is still a few from 2008-10 where you can probably see what i’m talking about.. Twitter delete in the making. (My mum keeps telling me i’m gonna be famous so I thought I better act now)) But going back to Daniel, if awkward is in your being? then isnt that just normal,, awakward is normal in Daniel’s practice. So whats my awkward,, what is my thing?..

Going off everything, pre-masters I have to say my thing was Tumblr, tumblr after dark! pretty much like black twitter’s you had to be there,, mate,, white girl tumblr,, you HAD to have been there.. it was a moment! a moment that literally became embedded into my brain, brand, art and aesthetic. It was so naughty, highly inappropriate, x-rated but also still had a level of class! Just some of the many things I loved about it,, - the women taking control of their bodies, the overtly sexual suggestive images, it made tumblr into an artistic porn fantasy,

Another Thing I Used To Do Was Type Like This, hahaha!

But ill leave the sentence above as like a cool header, maybe ill even underline it like this…

Another Thing I Used To Do Was Type Like This, hahaha!

So my obsession with the Tumblr aesthetic, lets be more specific,, the borderline depressive sexy Tumblr white girl aesthetic! for me it was a lifestyle dream, like sex, graphics, sixpacks (male), skateboards, teenage angst, quotes, fluidity, love, all married into photography, id never seen something like it, plus i’d never seen everyone be so open to it. It was all the things I wish I could express, but as a black gay guy, one there where no images like that to repost.. and the images of black people on tumblr at that particular moment where extremely hard to find, nor as half as cool, sexy or artistic, Awkward. Early 20’s that was what filled my screen, never really been a TV person, i’m really into music, and OBSESSED with tumblr!

I just didn’t understand why I found tumblr generally arousing lol,, well I do, lol. (the pictures used in this blog are moderated for the sake of this assignment) I really feel like Tumblr days and vibes have really played a part in me as an artist. Nobody would get it anyway. But, however, they eventually did when I started messing around with Adobe. But this is where it kinda got interesting for me. Even with Tumblr, when you look back, you created your own vibe off of the vibes and images you like. So pretty much like Pintrest, i knew after a while my vibe was the one.. even tho not one single person followed me, or reblogged my post’s lol..

I knew I was on to something, in my early “practice” / promoter day’s,, I used a-lot of Tumblr sex appeal because I knew if I find this crazy sexy white girl Tumblr isht cool, i’m sure I can get my type of people,, (lesbians, gays, straight, black, white, gay, mixedrace, lighties (who think there mixed-race but there black), darkies (who think lighties are too nice), the Ibiza 30+’s i was hanging around with even though id never been haha, just the bag of people that was in my circle) would find this crazy sexy white girl Tumblr shit cool too.

What Do White Girls On Tumblr Have To Do With Black Boys?

I feel that what really connected with me is the Expression within these images. what really speaks and still speaks in these Images is this notion of expression and what you wanna express. Its marketing. What do you want people to see when they see/think of you as an artist!,, What are you trying to communicate?! Im saying Black is cool.. but not in the traditional sense of stereotypes,, in the sense that, Black can make white cool, and black can make white black actually. Its turning the world in on itself so then you can put out your notion.. building the moments you want to share and people to experience.. a scene, a subculture, a society, or meerly a piece of art. Yeah,, its Awkward! But thats my thing, even this website.. Stylistically,, Aesthetically,, a moment, A Tumblr Moment,, it’s kinda cool,, yeah its white but yet yeah still very black.. theres a thin line between where its sits hence why its deliberately in greyscale - J. My visual language therefore is bi-lingual.

Now. Thats kinda out the way, What i’m really trying to say, as I reach 31, yes, I owe alot of my artistic vision to the whole Tumblr thing,, and its always been a part of my practice / promoter day’s,, to use this Tumblr vibe to push my idea of culture,, Basically mixing White Girl Tumblr Aesthetic and Black Aesthetic to create my own Aesthetic / Culture. Thats my thing.

So Post-Old-Practice.. New Beginning.
So my thing! Now although its been pretty quite for me as an artist for a few years,, i’m here with a new vision thats the old vision, or more so re-invented,,! I’ve been doing my thing to long, so long it’s just embedded in everything I do,, although before my vision was about creating safe spaces,, now its about creating viable moments, pieces of ART, Architecture, Tangible Assest and Works that speak volumes. It’s taking my thing one step further to really push boundaries and hopefully get everybody speaking my language and if not speaking fluently at the very least understanding it.

So if I was to define my practice now,

Well thats just it,, its practice,, practicing performativity,, practicing developing my aesthetic thing,, practice of using other images to create a deeper meaning. Practice of creating my own imagery to support my culture. Click! Take a picture and do something with it,, (reframing) Snap Je?!

(round of applause)

Thanks for listening to my Awkward Ted Talk.

Levi x

Pictures below taken by myself (2015, Amsterdam) & The SK!NT flyer above also design by me!

Week 1

The present doesn’t always make sense, sometimes we have to go back to go forward,

Daniel asked us to think about a world,

my world is black and white.

In my world the currency is the moment.

In my world there has never been the need for the pronouns hype, nor will there ever be.

In my world identity holds no weight, therefore culture free flows and replaces the need for nationalities with the natural existence of experiences and belonging to those moments.

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Artist statement: —————> front page

What did we love about the Art World, What we hate about it,, me Panto -> reimagining stories how why do we have to wait to the end of the year,

___________

What effect does you performance have on the world!,, one statement that would change everything and summarise your work! ———>

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After my performance, were living in sin city, except no red! my art is the new form of criminality and its changing the way we socialise and create. the institutions want to call the police but they’ve some of them are on our side joined in the resistance and have been corrupted by this new wave of what there calling street-art. its a creative free for all and were trying to find the distance cohorts of like minded people join the movement.

___________

Be bold,,,! be creative,,!!

O-street-ised

O-street-ised

verb

past tense: ostracised; past participle: ostracised

excluded from a society or group.

"Rossington Street" is announced over the tannoy as the bus pulls to a halt. As the doors slowly open with the sound of the hydraulic hiss and the echoing steady beeps, a patter of Jewish kids scramble to be the first to disembark. They are followed closely by the college kid taking off his student card that is swinging from a bright yellow lanyard. He puts it in the front of his bag without looking, he does it with ease, like it is routine before bouncing onto the pavement. As both doors fully open, more people exit the bus, some gently holding the assistant rails as they alight on the right while others pour frantically out onto the pavement from the left, oblivious to their frail fellow travellers. Everybody seems to be in the same direction, crossing path, eager to get ahead of each other; they are all  are moving towards the direction of Clapton station, passing the two pharmacies that face each other on either side of the traffic lights, vying for trade. Perhaps the mass are heading to towards one of two barbers, the mobile phone shop, the Chinese takeaway, the newsagent or maybe the gentrified coffee shop that looks directly at the Tesco Metro partially hidden behind a large number of delivery crates carefully stored alongside the shop front. Everyone is walking back on themselves, away from Rossington street and the guy with unkempt clothes who is a permanent fixture smoking in the doorway of the Ladbrokes situated on the corner. Adjacent to the illuminating Ladbrokes sign sits an old and rusty signpost displaying the N.E postcode and ode to early Hackney. This antique sits proudly in line with the bus’s upper deck and with the backdrop of Clapton's Northword Estate.

As the main road curves to the right, the prominent structure of the concrete bricks and perfectly aligned double glazing bares its head, windows beautifully stacked on top of each other, identically side by side. The bus pulls away, as a woman with a crutch hobbles through the cigarette smoke into the Ladbrokes arched shopfront. She kindly greets the smoking character as she approaches the door . The man takes a pull from his cigarette and then scrambles to open the door for the woman, the nicotine hit seemingly reminding him of the gentlemanly thing to do. Holding it open with the back of his foot and leaning forward with his cigarette he blows more smoke as the woman skirts around him and into the shop. She raises her hand to the regulars as soon as she enters as if they are her welcome party. The guy throws his cigarette butt, steps into the shop and squeezes past the women and disappears out of view, while the women continues to navigate through the shop on her crutches. As the roar of the bus settles, Rossington street's noise amplifies; the clang of mechanic’s tools on metal emanating from the garage, merging with the muffled voices of street slang and swearing from a group of males gathering just past it. The group commandeer the pavement that leads to each of the four-floored council buildings. 

I turn and walk down the street. The black, white and greyscale apparel seen from the group seems to coordinate with the faded black and worn tarmac of the pavement. The matching grey kerb and the small sports branded logo embroidered into their jackets and tracksuits become more evident as I approach. It is impossible to pass the collective without having to walk on the road. The parked cars on the street make it even more difficult to navigate. The mechanic’s work spills onto the road and pavement. The vehicles, all severely damaged, raised on jacks, in need of new tyres and windscreen repairs, line both sides of the road. The mechanic shifts from roadside to pavement avoiding pedestrians and passing vehicles as the men joke around, roll spliffs and pass them about.

I start to veer right after passing the mechanic’s oil-covered cloths and the tools he has placed on the pavement to walk on the road. The group start to part on either side of the pavement with a burst of boisterous laughter; there’s now an opening in the circle for me to pass. My plan of action to avoid intruding the circle is soon destroyed; roaring announces that a car is approaching occupying my intended path. I relent and veer back onto the pavement.

As I approach, the laughter subsides. The large movements I witnessed beforehand have now transformed into subtle gazes exchanged between each other and back on to me. I continue to walk straight, deep into the group. The males now stand affirmed cautiously relinquishing their territory, motionless on either side of the pavement leaning against the cars and the wall as I walk through what feels likes a tunnel of judgment. The group is suddenly quiet. Each of the men seem intent on figuring out if they have seen me before, trying to place a name to a face, analysing my body, posture and clothes, from the shoes on my feet to the hair on my head. As the last two males disappear from my peripheral vision, another car breaks the awkward silence in the air, this time coming from behind me and pulling up just in front to make way for oncoming traffic. I continue to walk further down the road, slowly but fast enough to catch up to the car. As it pulls away, and the subtle noise from the main road returns, that's when I hear words, those words. Words echoing down down the road. They reach my ears and hit me: Batty Boy. It's a deep, elongated sound that vibrates off the walls resonating around each floor of the buildings in front of me. The reverberation seems to phonetically spell out their disgust. The sound encompasses me as I turn around to see where it came from. I'm frozen.

I’m frozen, yet everything carries on as usual, the mechanic in the background is too focused on his overhaul of the cars. The men glance back as only to acknowledge me for a millisecond before continuing to behave like adolescents just as they did when I was on the other side of them. The traffic continues to flow. I start to wonder if I was hearing things. I don't know what offended me more; the fact that nobody around seems to be alarmed, or the fact I've become a casualty of homophobia after living in this area for 15years? The flat I live in and love, bears witness and standing just as still as me. The tremor of the insult would have made its way to my mum's house situated 5mins away by now, I comprehend what's happening as my feet start to move from under me towards the group and I gear up for a confrontation. I used to see myself reflected in this community in Hackney, united by the varied saturations of skin tones . But as people continue their routines and act as if nothing has happened, I quickly realise that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. We are blatantly divided by diversity, Turkish, Indian, Polish, Brazilian. It's my problem. Nobody cares. As I stand solid and squared up to the group, the harsh reality hits. Today I stand alone. There is no such thing as a community on this side of Clapton, if so, where is it? Here communities stand separated and we just co-exist under this umbrella known as a borough. It is dead silent, the wild wild west standoff between all of us males, chest puffed, shoulders down and eyes engaged. "Who said it?" I posture slightly shrugging as if to inadvertently say "what the fuck?!" I’m met with silence and the diminishment of macho tendencies. They relax and look at each other as if to say a response is not even warranted. The silence cuts deep, subsequently disrespecting me again, the lack of engagement only adding insult to injury. Even though they were just words, I'm sure stabbing me might hurt a little less. Nothing feels worse than falling victim to a black-on-black crime on your doorstep.

I face them, coordinated in streetwear looking just like one of them and passing as one of the “man dem”.

As my hurt turns into rage, I question whether my stance was off today or my walk, perhaps, a little skippy? No, none of this! My mannerisms have nothing to do with it, I trade fine. As I throw my hands to either side of me, gesturing ‘well?!’, it becomes apparent none of the group are willing to stand up for their actions or take accountability for the words that just bellowed down the pavement. They appear sheepish as my ‘street credibility’ comes back to me, and I begin to turn and walk away. 

If you are gay, and don't want any trouble, you need to be in with the “man dem” chilling on street corners, smoking weed, and united; that way everybody knows who ‘your boys’ are. The "road" knows you've not got a girlfriend and it is kept "under wraps". Or, you need to know someone that eventually introduces you and keeps you hidden out of sight, thereby avoiding a billy goats gruff scenario. I still have never succumbed to this system. I find it similar to being the black “friend” in a group of racists who are blatantly and overtly disrespectful. It is not a tokenistic situation I want to be in and don not believe anyone should. I should be able to be left to my own devices and walk home in peace. These actions merely feed into the narrative of oppression and DL “down low” culture; it is okay to be gay if nobody knows about it.

I reach midway down the road, and the next stride feels the longest as I question if it will happen again or if I could finally make it home. I get a small sense of déjà vu as I retrace my steps, after the homophobic episode. My self-assurance is in abundance, and I feel like I've made a change and stood up for not only myself, but all fellow black gays, Nearly home.

When I was growing up, roaming alone Hackney as a black male was hard enough without somebody questioning where I was from. Deeply aware of this, I always navigated the neighbourhood staying out of trouble’s way. I was never into gang culture but had a cousin who was and knew of some far-removed female friends that dated them, so maybe that's why I was never afraid to walk down any road. Or, perhaps, it was just my quest for adventure and self-discovery that helped me defy spatial urban borders as I haven’t spoken to my cousin since the age of 10 and never thought of socialising with that circle. But this mocking group of males is not part of a gang, they are merely a group of friends.

As I turn the corner, I hear them repeat it, "batty boy" and burst into laughter, this time not nearly as loud or aggressive as the first time, as if it is more of a joke or a dare. It’s almost comical and I just roll my eyes. Regardless of how the tables have turned, I’m now the one it doesn't warrant a response from. Not one of them could take responsibility for their actions at the moment of confrontation. they cowardly waited until I was out of sight to hurl further insults. I felt I was on the winning side and that what initially started as a homophobic attack was now a sick game of cat and mouse.

Looking back at this encounter, leads me to reflect on homophobia in black communities, however white communities are no exception here.

To say black people are more homophobic than any other race is not only a disservice to black people, but also not true. Only recently, a story broke in the news that two white lesbians were physically beaten on a London night bus for not kissing when asked. It was one of many white- on-white homophobic attacks that gained publicity after initially being posted on social media. And, although black trans women are killed by black straight men frequently in America, I've never heard of black conversion therapy on the scale of our white counterparts. What I’m trying to say is homophobia is rife within all our communities. Nevertheless, in black culture, the use of homophobic language is apparent, especially within dancehall and hip-hop culture. 

With both becoming forever more popular throughout the decades, it’s not only the frequent use of homophobic slurs from black men to black audiences that has perpetuated this idea into the mentality of black communities that homosexuality is wrong. There is also a perception that its acceptable to name call when you suspect it. Hypersexualized masculinity in commercial urban media perpetuates this narrative of toughness where anything outside of these constraints is deemed weak. It doesn't excuse the behaviours of those men, nor do I want to downplay how much it hurt or enraged me. Nonetheless, I can't help to think why “we” do this and why we don’t step in when we bear witness to homophobia.

It is as if to say homophobic words such as batty boy, are the new "nigga"? popularised in music; used to offend, and now culturally acceptable for blacks to use against blacks? However even if I was called a faggot, I’m am sure the outcome of the situation would have been the same, everybody acting as if it’s a normal everyday occurrence within our community.

Stood there is a group of young black, British, men, little do onlooker know the inconsolable difference is sexuality. Identity hangs in the balance on street corners. As much as it hurts being attacked by your own, being able to stand up for yourself and show your whole neighbourhood you're not a ‘pussy hole’ is worth it.

& it goes a little something like this,

Up until this moment, I thought I had done enough to have somewhat of a positive change in the world.

However, sometimes you can’t choose the moment, the moment chooses you.

Now it’s my moment. My moment to try and do even more, to go above and beyond, to go and research, do more homework and make sure nobody has to go through the adversity I faced.

But if there was ever a moment to nearly destroy me this was it. I’d Overcame 3 years of relapses, a section, living in temporary accommodation and hostels, just got the keys to a new flat, engaged, and then bamb! Multiple occasions of homophobia.

Even after the breakdown of my engagement caused by the trauma of the events. I still held my head high and didn’t let it stop me or send me back to hospital, instead it motivated me, inspired, lit my fire. I decided that no one is gonna add to the drama I already was going through or tarnish the achievement of the shit show few years prior I’d overcome. No one was ever gonna be hurt like my now ex-fiancé, That No! I was not gonna move, and that I was gonna make a change!

So this is how it all started,

Welcome to my world, to understand where we are going, its important to understand where I’m coming from.

Second of April, Twenty-Nineteen

@ukblackpride.org.uk

@stonewall.org.uk

@hackney.gov.uk

Subject:

BLACK GAY & BEING HARASSED | ×^

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“To whom it may concern;

My name is Levi. I am a 28 Black Gay male who has just been harassed and heckled walking down the street in the neighbourhood I went to college in and have spent over half my life in. Unfortunately where this took place is two roads away from an estate im moving into, 6min away from my family home and a short bus ride away from my current residence.

In today's climate and culture, regardless of sexuality, black on black crime is something that needs to stop, Period! Regardless of race, this altercation could have ended up much worse and thankfully me and my also black fiancé were able to walk away from the altercation without violence or bloodshed. This is not to say that the situation is not to be urgently addressed.

Now the details of tonight's event are not important at this stage and anybody who cares to know more about this unprovoked attack can happily respond to this email and ask because I personally know why this incident has occurred and I know exactly what needs to be done as a solution.

As a Black Gay Man in HACKNEY, I feel me and the black gay urban community are extremely underrepresented! Regardless of what happens in mainstream pop culture, tv and social media it doesn't connect, entertain, inform or resonate with those who need it most…”

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So, with that said, this is me doing something about it. Whether that be continuing to bring people together through events, studying or creating new forms of artistic work, the destination is us, All Under One Roof Raving.

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