For all its good intentions, “Harlem On My Mind” is so predictable and perfect a statement of the white-liberal attitude as to be a grotesquely funny self-parody. […]
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The Waters of Our Time’s imitation of its source positions it as a wannabe companion piece, an aspiring equal, intended to stand beside The Sweet Flypaper of Life and get compared to it. Arrogant, to say the least, and an unwise wager to boot, because it simply doesn’t resonate (for me, in any case) in the way that the DeCarava-Hughes classic did and still does. […] Roy DeCarava’s work itself — and what I might call the situation of that work in the field of photography when I came to it in the late 1960s — presented me with some important challenges as a writer about photography, and a chance to define in public some fundamental principles of my own project as a critic and historian. Few people understand what such an opportunity means to a critic, and how rarely it comes along. […] |
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