"Treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered…" The words haunted me for months - reverberating in my head over and over and over again; nine little words embodying a multiplicity of possible interpretations. But one meaning in particular resonated mercilessly. This single line of "Lift Every Voice and Sing" by James Weldon Johnson (known as the Negro National Anthem) gripped me at the deepest core of my being and left me with no refuge. I could not hide from it. I could not ignore it. I was left "without sanctuary" until I addressed it; until somehow through the medium of my art form I gave voice and recognition to thousands of lynch victims, all of whom died tragically, most of whom died so all alone, and most of whom no longer are remembered or known.
Lynching was long wielded as the weapon of choice for striking terror in the hearts, minds and psyche of African-Americans. It was effective because the perpetrators often included a town's most prominent and notable citizens who could act with impunity. It was effective because the viciousness and gruesomeness with which many lynchings were carried out were horrifying. It was effective because no one was immune - not man, not woman, not child; not rich man, not poor man, not beggar man, and certainly not thief. It was effective because the guilt or innocence of the intended victim(s) was of little or no consequence.
Initially when "Blood of the Slaughtered" was first conceptualized, my focus was centered on the illustration of a mob lynch scene. However, no matter how often I tried to begin (and there were many), it did not "feel" right, and certainly never looked right. I finally realized the problem for me was that this approach shifted the viewer's focus away from the victims and spotlighted instead the perpetrators of these atrocities, thereby relegating the victims primarily to serving as props for the perpetrators' sadistically obscene and perverted obsessions. It was at this point that clarity of vision emerged.
What I wanted "Blood of the Slaughtered" to communicate was threefold - 1) to memorialize the faceless, forgotten and sometimes nameless souls that were subjected to horrendous agony and fear; 2) to demonstrate that the victims were often tortured in ways that stripped any semblance of humanity from their killers; and 3) to let there be no doubt that throughout the United States, there was no sanctuary for African-Americans who were thought to have acted outside society's prescribed boundaries.
The names, dates and places of recorded lynchings between the 1850's and the 1940's were transferred to the cloth that would serve as background for "Blood of the Slaughtered" from a document created on my computer with word processing software. This became a very solemn and reverential process because I felt compelled to speak each and every name as I typed them. Most often I spoke the names out loud. Sometimes I spoke them only in my mind, but always with deep regard and in recognition, remembrance and celebration of that unique individual's existence and with profound sorrow for the way in which they died. This gesture was an essential part of my testament that their lives had meaning. Although this reverence was not observed by anyone else, I felt it was necessary because so many of these tormented individuals lived and died in virtual anonymity with their humanity desecrated and their families fearful and/or forbidden to openly mourn, memorialize or even to bury them.
There was no sanctuary for African-Americans in any area of the country as is evident by the roll call of states listed on the quilt. Newspaper accounts of lynchings were incorporated as well because the excruciatingly graphic details reported demonstrate with exquisite eloquence on which side of the rope (the accused or his tormentors) depraved savagery actually existed.
"Blood of the Slaughtered" left me drained emotionally and creatively. Although I was born and raised in the South and knew about lynchings since childhood, I found myself little prepared for the cold-blooded mercilessness and depravity with which it was engaged. The lie for me had been that these were spontaneous incidents - I still shiver at the thought that many lynchings were treated as picnics to which children were brought for a fun outing. It was several months following completion of "Blood of the Slaughtered" before I could move forward and create art again.
