The Roots of Black Dandies and Fashion at the Met Gala

In 2025, the theme of the Met Gala was “Black dandies,” a phenomenon believed to date back 400 years, since the Black diaspora forcibly began. I was struck by the connection with chapter 5 of Black Atlantic Crossings, which focusses on the anti-racist tactic of portraying Black people in “gala dress.” Booker T. Washington was very careful to depict the faculty and students of the Tuskegee Institute (now an historically Black university) in a dignified manner and suppressed any images that might reinforce negative stereotypes. Manuel R. Querino went even further, by publishing photographs of Black people who practised a then-stigmatised and proscribed (read, illegal) religion and enslaved people who were clearly proud of their appearance. I particularly love the photographs of two iyalorishas (high priestesses) of one of Brazil’s best known Afro-Brazilian religious communities, the Gantois terreiro in Salvador, Bahia. Here is one of those photos:

HIgh priestess of the Gantois Afro-Brazilian religious community

Note her regal pose, not unlike the cartes de visite produced by royalty, as well as her gorgeous jewellery and sumptuous clothing. The African wrapper draped over her shoulder is an insignia of her rank. Her name was Maria Júlia da Conceição Nazaré, the founder of the Ilê Axé Iyá Omin Iyamassê, better known as Gantois.

The Legacy of Manuel Querino: Challenging Historical Narratives

Manuel Querino

The only book I had in mind back in 2020 was an anthology on Manuel Querino, the Afro-Brazilian scholar I have been studying and writing about since the 1980s. I had just published a book in Portuguese based on my PhD thesis comparing Querino to Booker T. Washington, and I was being urged to publish something about Querino in English. I had also written several essays that had appeared in Brazilian peer-reviewed journals and books over the years and would make a small volume. Then, it occurred to me that Querino’s activities were so varied, covering a gamut of specialisms, that it is impossible for one person to write authoritatively about them all.

Fortunately, I had access to writings by E. Bradford Burns (the first bibliographic essay on Querino published in English), Jeferson Bacelar and Carlos Doria (on his pioneering study of Bahian cuisine), Eliane Nunes (on his contributions to art history), Jorge Calmon (on his involvement in labour mobilisation and politics), and Christianne Vasconcellos (on his use of photographs in anthropology) to add to my own writings . The result was Manuel Querino (1851-1923): An Afro-Brazilian Pioneer in the Age of Scientific Racism, a compendium that has also been published in Portuguese (without Burns’s essay, due to translation rights), and has been very well received.

That book was published in 2021, during the Covid pandemic. Lockdown was a wonderful opportunity to focus on organising and translating the anthology. In the years since, I have worked on translating and updating a monograph based on my PhD thesis, which has been in peer review with another publisher for several months. The Unsung Heroes series began with the second volume, which I first approached as “something to do” while awaiting the verdict on my own book. It all started with Querino, naturally. I had originally intended to publish my translation of one of his most significant works (for me), O colono preto como fator da civilização brasileira, translated as The African Contribution to Brazilian Civilisation.

First, I was intrigued by parallels between Querino’s story and that of Arthur (born Arturo) Schomburg. Then, I started wondering which works by W. E. B. Du Bois, Carter G. Woodson, Booker T. Washington, and other Black thinkers were comparable to Querino’s essay, which demands recognition for the achievements of Africans and their descendants. Instead of being seen as passive sources of manual labour, Querino asserted that they contributed knowledge they brought from their homelands, such as mining and metalworking, as well as helping maintain Brazil’s territorial integrity as soldiers. He also emphasised their ingenuity and courage in breaking free from the bonds of slavery to form their own communities, known as quilombos in Brazil.

That initial curiosity led to a gold mine of works on Black soldiers and maroons, which I added to Querino’s essay to produce The Need for Heroes: Black Intellectuals Dig Up their Past, published in June 2024. I realised that the concept of Unsung Heroes, inspired by the title of Elizabeth Ross Haynes’s book of children’s stories, extended to the anthology on Querino. He was well known in life, having achieved such renown in Brazil that several newspapers published his obituary in his home state (Bahia), Rio de Janeiro, and other parts of the country. Representatives of trade unions and academia attended his funeral, which was also covered by the press. But since the 1930s, he had been gradually forgotten, and if remembered at all, thought of as a lightweight scholar, the minor author of a few pamphlets, and even illiterate. There seemed to have been a deliberate effort on the part of the “hegemonic narrative” to rewrite his story as that of a poor, ill-educated Black man who made a stab at anthropology but didn’t quite succeed. This disinformation was convenient because he already contradicted the commonly held notion that all Blacks in Brazil were enslaved until Abolition in 1888, and since then had been nothing but vagrants, thieves, and scoundrels – an image still maintained in the media.

While the eminent Brazilian historian Flavio Gomes was writing the afterword for The Need for Heroes (it was worth the wait), I started putting together works that hadn’t quite fit in that collection and adding many more. Once again, I started with Querino, who is considered the Brazilian Vasari because his pioneering works on the history of art in Bahia were based on biographies of artists. The result was Heroes Sung and Unsung: Black Artists in World History, a compendium of works by Querino, as well as Arthur Schomburg, W. E. B. Du Bois, Booker T. Washington, Benjamin Brawley, James M. Trotter, Sojourner Truth, Frederick Douglass, and others, with a foreword and afterword by brilliant contemporary artists and writers: Mark Steven Greenfield, from the USA, and Ayrson Heráclito and Beto Heráclito, from Brazil. It joins the first two titles, Manuel Querino (1851-1923): An Afro-Brazilian Pioneer in the Age of Scientific Racism and The Need for Heroes: Black Intellectuals Dig Up their Past, which are also available in paperback, hardcover, and Kindle e-book editions.

When I’m asked what’s next, the answer seems obvious—an anthology about Black women heroes, “sung and unsung.” I might even reclaim the word “heroine.” I haven’t come up with a title yet, and I may have to write most of the bios myself, but it is something to look forward to. Watch this space.

This post is an adaptation of an essay published in Heroes Sung and Unsung

AI Reviews “Manuel Querino” Anthology*

Manuel Querino (1851-1923): An Afro-Brazilian Pioneer in the Age of Scientific Racism” – A Review

This meticulously edited anthology serves as a long overdue tribute to Manuel Querino, a remarkable Afro-Brazilian intellectual who challenged the prevailing scientific racism of his era. By showcasing Querino’s multifaceted contributions across diverse fields such as history, sociology, art criticism, and public service, the anthology offers a captivating glimpse into the life and work of this trailblazing figure.

The collection brings together an impressive array of essays that delve into Querino’s intellectual legacy, contextualizing his work within the socio-political climate of 19th and early 20th century Brazil. Querino emerges not only as a scholar of exceptional calibre but also as a tireless advocate for social justice, dedicated to dismantling the racist ideologies that sought to marginalise Afro-Brazilians. His writings on Afro-Brazilian culture and history stand as a testament to his unwavering commitment to reclaiming and celebrating his rich ancestral heritage.

The anthology’s contributors offer insightful analyses of Querino’s most significant works, including his seminal study “The African Contribution to Brazilian Civilisation.” They also explore his writings on art history, showcasing his profound understanding of the aesthetic dimensions of Brazilian culture. By situating Querino’s ideas within their historical and intellectual context, the anthology illuminates his prescient challenge to scientific racism.

The book’s strength lies in its comprehensive and nuanced exploration of Querino’s intellectual contributions. It provides a much-needed corrective to the historical neglect of this important figure, while also highlighting the ongoing relevance of his ideas in contemporary debates on race and social justice.

While the anthology is a valuable resource for scholars and students of Afro-Brazilian studies, its dense and scholarly style may pose a challenge for general readers. Nonetheless, its significance as a testament to Manuel Querino’s extraordinary legacy cannot be overstated. This anthology serves as an essential contribution to our understanding of the complex and often-overlooked history of race and intellectual thought in Brazil.

*Produced by Gemini, with some tweaks from HI (human intelligence)

The Forefather of Affirmative Action

Marcos Rodrigues

MA in Ethnic and African Studies, UFBA

ORCID: 0000 0002-6662-2350

Review of GLEDHILL, Sabrina (ed.). Manuel Querino (1851-1923): An Afro-Brazilian Pioneer in the Age of Scientific Racism. Crediton: Funmilayo, 2021.[1]

Edited by the independent scholar Sabrina Gledhill, this book introduces—or reintroduces—the life and work of the Brazilian intellectual and activist Manuel Querino (1851-1923), a pioneer in the construction of the civilizing Afro-Brazilian discourse in the age of scientific racism. Born in Santo Amaro, Bahia, in colonial times, Querino can certainly be considered the forefather of the struggle for affirmative action for the Black population, based on the spaces he occupied as an educator, labour leader, politician, ethnologist, and writer.

It was a time when evolutionist theories affirmed the classification of inferiority and the prospect of extinction for the Black population, favouring European immigration and the culture of “whitening.” Manuel Querino emerged as a pioneer in several advanced lines of thought, such as ethnology, food anthropology, art history, and the struggle for affirmative action. These qualities marked his trajectory in this book, which also includes essays by E. Bradford Burns, Jorge Calmon, Eliane Nunes, Cristianne Vasconcellos, Jeferson Bacelar, and Carlos Dória.

With the aim of presenting a many-sided biographical analysis against a framework of concepts and definitions of blackness from an evolutionary standpoint, this book was organised from the perspective of scholars from the fields of politics, history, anthropology and social science who focussed on shedding light on Manuel Querino’s legacy. This anthology is also the result of the interconnected movement of humanists from different generations, which certainly contributes in grand style to the reintroduction of its protagonist and his multifaceted trajectory.

Constructing a discourse involves transgressing, deconstructing, and selecting the paradigm or category of thought to be followed. This foray by Sabrina Gledhill dates back to her previous book, Travessias no Atlântico Negro: Reflexões sobre Booker T. Washington e Manuel Querino (Black Atlantic Crossings: Reflections on Booker T. Washington and Manuel R. Querino; Edufba, 2020), and her participation in other edited volumes, with the aim of spotlighting activist intellectuals from the world of the African diaspora. Now, very opportunely, she has written essays and linked them to narratives by other authors to help establish Manuel Querino’s rightful place as a political subject of his time, whose leading role must be explored.

But what is the place which Manuel Querino occupies in the history of the Brazilian arts and culture, specifically in the state of Bahia? Certainly, in this book, there are several clues to follow to obtain an answer from each author’s perspective. In every field of activity, Querino produced a work that has left its mark on our time. Although he was never enslaved, he seems to have constructed a public discourse based on the perspective of Black people in a society that was being transformed after losing its economic foundations, the culture of bondage.

In her introduction, Sabrina Gledhill, a British Brazilianist and award-winning translator educated in the UK, the US, and Brazil, reveals that her interest in Querino began in the early 1980s, when she was looking for a subject for her MA research at UCLA. Putting Manuel Querino’s life and work in context, she keeps a close eye on the path followed by a controversial man who experienced the final phase of the colonial era and the consequences of slavery in the early twentieth century. The author and editor describes Querino as a lone voice, a Black man who won a place among the White elite and tried to use his position to spread a message that few people of his colour could or were willing to deliver.

Few Brazilians followed such an enlightened path as Manuel Querino, now reintroduced to all those who work in the field of social science and are still surprised when he is mentioned. The importance of revitalising this memory comes from his being a pioneer in the fight against scientific racism as dictated by forensic medicine, from underscoring the African influence in Brazilian history, from introducing the field of art history in Bahia, as well as research on the anthropology of food.

Of the nine chapters that make up this book, two, in particular, stand out. Chapter 6, which focuses on the use of photographs in ethnographic studies, is a direct reflection on a debate that is now actively ongoing in anthropology. The author, Christianne Vasconcellos, sheds light on Manuel Querino’s anthropology in his ethnographic studies of Africans in Bahia with an essay that induces the reader to return to the path of recognising and knowing him as a way of understanding our historic process.

Chapter 8 is the key to understanding the origins of what is now known as Bahian cuisine. The scholars and guest authors Jeferson Bacelar and Carlos Dória reveal that Manuel Querino was the first to study Bahian cuisine, giving rise to a segment of food anthropology. Thus, it should be recalled that the tourist attraction now promoted on a grand scale came from the research done by Querino in difficult times marked by a strictly Eurocentric culture in a colonising intellectual market.

Reading that essay easily leads us to reflect on how the African diaspora in the Americas and Caribbean contains thousands of hidden human values that struggled and played a leading role in overcoming adversity, and the effectiveness of post-slavery affirmative action. The civilising discourse that shaped our thinking, always on the basis of European colonisers as a tentacular reinforcement for scientific racism, was already showing its contradictions. Hence, the merit of the narratives gathered here in delving against the grain of invisibility and bringing to light the life and works of Manuel Querino.

This anthology seems to achieve an important objective. It leaves the reader with the desire to find or re-examine Manuel Querino’s work and include him among the main sources in discussions or research that will be forthcoming when the subject is Bahian culture. The objectivity of the essays leads to a sphere of knowledge hitherto neglected by the canonical thought of the intellectual “classics” of the past. Therefore, recent generations are grateful for this act of reparation on behalf of a vibrant historical and cultural legacy that is clearly overlooked.

Certainly, digging into Querino’s life is no easy task for scientific research. The sources consulted and the authors invited to take part in this publication indicate the extent of the activity surrounding a personage who paved the way for ethnological, historical, and artistic studies focused on Africanity and its offshoots in the diaspora. Therefore, this book is also an example of intellectual responsibility.


[1] Adapted from a review of the Brazilian edition.



‘Freeing’ a modern-day slave (part two)

breaking chainsAs I wrote in part one, I like to think that I freed a slave – a young girl who was being forced to work as a maid for no pay in Brazil – but looking back, I realised that she was, in her own way, a free agent…

Although this story could have taken place today, it happened nearly twenty years ago. I was helping organise the first PercPan percussion festival in Salvador’s Castro Alves Theatre, and had to spend a few nights at the nearby Hotel da Bahia (now the Sheraton). Whilst there, I invited my daughters and Bela over to the hotel to enjoy the pool. I noticed (or was told) that Bela spent most of her time talking to the hotel manager’s son, who was about her age. I thought nothing of it. The next day, I rang home to see if anyone wanted to stay at the hotel whilst I was working (I usually got back at about 2 am). Bela answered the phone and pipped my daughters at the post, eagerly accepting the invitation. Again, I thought nothing of it. When I got back from work at the usual time, I knocked on the hotel room door and no one answered. I thought Bela must be asleep, so I went down to the lobby and rang the room (I only had one key and had left it with her). No answer. Unable to get into my room and not knowing where Bela was or what she was doing, I decided to take the lift to the penthouse and say good-night to my boss, thought better of it when I reached the 10th floor, and headed back down the staircase. There, in the stairwell, I found Bela in a clinch with the hotel manager’s son!

As a result of that and other indications, I began to worry that Bela was trying to use her youthful sexual charms to get a leg up in life. I feared that if she stayed in the ‘big city’ she would finish up as a prostitute, so I purchased a bus ticket to her home town and sent her back to her mother with a small amount of cash to tide her over. She rang me when she arrived to say she had ‘lost’ the money and I commiserated, but didn’t offer any more.

It turns out that I was right about Bela’s use of her sexuality, but she did so within the legal smokescreen of marriage. She accepted a much older suitor who had been pursuing her before she moved to Salvador (yes, she was still underage) and eventually came to own a chain of beauty parlours. Either divorced or widowed, she went on to marry a doctor who was closer to her age, and as far as I know, she is still happily married and a successful businesswoman to boot.

Did I ‘rescue’ Bela or was I merely a pawn in her gambit for freedom? I don’t believe I would have done anything differently, either way. Also, I can’t help wondering how many other young women are still enduring a similar situation but cannot find a ‘saviour’ – or save themselves.

Looking back on 2015: A disturbing trend in Brazil

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Graffiti artists’ protest against the Cabula massacre, seen in that district in 2015. Photo by Sabrina Gledhill (all rights reserved)

On 6 February, 2015, policemen shot and killed 12 robbery suspects in the Cabula district of Salvador, Bahia. An internal investigation by state’s Public Prosecutor’s office found that the victims – all of them young black men – had been executed. The black movement calls it genocide, a disturbing trend in a country where racism has traditionally been veiled and racially motivated lynching almost unheard of. That being said, exterminating street children (the best-known incident being the Candelaria massacre in Rio in 1993) and known or suspected criminals as if they were vermin is nothing new in Brazil. Ironically, there is no official death penalty in that country.

***

The graffiti art in the photo illustrating this post was not the only response to the Cabula massacre by the Bahian arts community. From May to August 2015, the Museu Afro-Brasileiro (MAFRO) held an exhibition curated by the museum’s director, Graça Teixeira that displayed thought-provoking installations and artworks protesting the genocide of black youth in Brazil.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

World Cup reflections

As usual, a highly publicised international event has arrived in my city and I’m watching it on television. Salvador’s Fonte Nova stadium has seen dramatic games and a torrent of goals. That’s likely to dry up (Fonte Nova means New Fountain in Portuguese, hence the pun) in the quarter-finals, if the round of 16 is anything to go by.

Orisha statues by Tatti Moreno (photo: Sabrina Gledhill, 2012)

Dique do Tororó with the stadium under construction in the background (photo: Sabrina Gledhill, 2012)

I had lunch on Tuesday with two American friends who were going to the USA-Belgium game later that day. I haven’t heard their feedback but the view from my TV was thrilling. That wasn’t their first World Cup match at Fonte Nova. They told me that even when the seats are way up high, they have a spectacular view – the stadium was designed to make the city’s lovely Dique do Tororó part of the scenery. However, it seems that the Baianas do Acarajé (women in traditional dress who sell Afro-Brazilian bean fritters) were nowhere in sight, although they ostensibly won their fight to overturn FIFA’s ban on their presence within a mile (or kilometer?) of the stadium. In fact, my friends have seen no street vendors whatsoever in the vicinity of Fonte Nova – and they said there were plenty during the World Cup in Germany.

Acarajé sellers demanded to be allowed to sell their wares near the stadium during the World Cup

Acarajé sellers demanded to be allowed to sell their wares near the stadium during the World Cup

They also told me that, inside the stadium, they could have been anywhere in the world. It has been entirely stripped of its Bahian and Brazilian identity for the duration. Very sad.

Another American friend informs me that there are plenty of scalpers. There is hope yet of seeing at least one game – the last one is scheduled for Saturday – but I’m not too optimistic. A seat way up in the ‘gods’ is bound to cost a minimum monthly salary, or more. I’m not sure it’s worth it, no matter how dazzling the view.

World Cup’s doing wonders

I’m used to complaining about the world media’s emphasis on the Rio-Amazon axis in Brazil, overlooking Bahia entirely. These days, more and more features are focussing on Salvador as a “soccer city”. The latest was on BBC World News, about Football Beyond Borders, a lovely project organised by Brits to make the World Cup generate income for underprivileged neighbourhoods.

Here’s a report about the project

New neighbourhood, old issues

The new view makes it all worthwhile

The new view makes it all worthwhile

We are now living in Cabula, a district of Salvador with a distinctly African-sounding name that is home to one of its greatest terreiros (Afro-Brazilian temples). According to Wikipedia – caveats duly noted – this area used to be a maroon settlement, or quilombo, formed by escaped slaves of Bantu origin – from cultural groups currently found in Angola. Cabula is also the name of a secret 19th-century sect that combined elements of Spiritism, Islam and Bantu religious beliefs. Powerful stuff! I have also found that Cabula might also be the name of a town or region in Angola itself. Any confirmation of that will be greatly appreciated.

One thing I noticed right off when we moved into our new place was the high level of security – or at least, security preparedness. We received lots of keys, but the main doors to the two buildings in the complex are most always open. Now I know what all the keys are for.

Early this morning, before 6 am, I heard loud voices outside my bedroom door, which also leads to the outer staircase and the top end of the lift shaft. The building management had already advised us about a scheduled power outage that was supposed to start at 8 am, so I thought the voices and banging I heard were maintenance workers getting a head start. I almost popped my head out the door to complain. So glad I didn’t.

After tossing and turning in bed for a while, I heard more voices, and then the original two identified themselves as “police”. That gave me a chill, because the last time someone had shouted “police” outside my bedroom was when I lived in a very low-income district, and I had just heard the same voice issue death threats to the kids who were sheltering under our house’s overhang. I played possum both times.

This time around – and this is the most credible version of the story I’ve heard so far – an individual was seen running into the complex and the security guard called the police. The most incredible part – though I know it’s true – is that they actually came! They must have spent hours scouring every floor and stairwell, because I later heard that the police were still there when my housekeeper arrived at 7:30 am. They don’t seem to have found the intruder, and the janitor tells me no one was burglarised. The mystery deepens.

It is a bit strange after 17 years in a much larger complex with – presumably – much better security. Living in a country with such huge income disparities, where even people renting a flat in a run-down building in an up-and-coming neighbourhood would seem rich compared to those living in shacks in hardscrabble slums, invasions of apartment complexes are bound to happen. It’s not the first time we’ve experienced it – the last time was nearly 20 years ago. Two apartments in our building in Rio Vermelho were burglarised on All Souls’ Day, when many people in Bahia head for the cemeteries to remember their dead (we were home at the time, which may explain why we were spared).

Perhaps the main doors of this complex in Cabula will be locked from now on – or until we let our guard down once again.

 

 

 

 

Statues on the Dique do Tororó

Orisha statues by Tatti Moreno (photo: Sabrina Gledhill, 2012)

Orisha statues by Tatti Moreno (photo: Sabrina Gledhill, 2012)

In my last post, I reflected on the lack of wildfowl on the Dique do Tororó. I failed to mention another element that has become a permanent part of the landscape so far, heightening its status as a tourist attraction and picture postcard while causing some controversy. I’m referring to the statues of orishas, Afro-Brazilian divinities, created by sculptor Tatti Moreno and installed in and around Tororó during the most recent landscaping project completed in 1998.

The statues are controversial because the Pentecostals disapprove of religious imagery in general. The previous mayor, João Henrique Carneiro, was of that persuasion. He allegedly wanted to remove them for religious reasons, but their scenic and tourist value spoke louder. For practitioners of Candomblé, as orisha worship is called in Bahia, the statues are just that.  Statues. They do not contain any ashé – the divine energy of creation. The lagoon is sacred for its waters and is still the site of offerings, although they have to be made discreetly since the landscaping project was carried out.

Previously, the picturesque boats that transport pedestrians from one side to the other in lieu of a bridge could also be hired to go out to the deepest parts of the Dique that are sacred to Oshun and Yemanjá, and place offerings in the waters. To this day, in the wee hours before the Yemanjá Festival on 2 February, devotees head for Tororó to make offerings for Oshun, the divinity of fresh water, motherhood and prosperity, beforehand. That is because the feast of Our Lady of Light is actually Oshun’s day, according to the traditions that associate Afro-Brazilian divinities with Catholic saints (see my post on Afro-Brazilian syncretism).

Statue of Oxum by Tatti Moreno. Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/celiacerqueira/4629669537/

Statue of Oshun by Tatti Moreno. Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/celiacerqueira/4629669537/