i can’t tell you how. . . .how. . . .i don’t even know, but archiving, to me, is the final frontier. it’s what gives me hope. it’s also what we hold closest to us, as blacks. i’ve seen it in my family, my friends family, my colleagues families, it’s literally the only thing we do that isn’t pushed on us. and we hold these memories, experiences, moments so close to us, nit because we want to remember it happened, but because it happened, we need an artifact from that moment to validate it actually happening. and i feel that in this moment in time(history), that it’s most prevalent. with talk of fake news and misinformed people and click bait headlines and clout and trolling it’s imperative that those of us who call ourselves artist to be diligent in receipt keeping. because, as we’ve learned(or at least should have learned by now) that morhafuckas love to leave shit out of stories. it’s our responsibility as historians(that’s what an artist is) to fill in the gaps that are ever present when “information” is being revealed to the public sphere.
this act of receipt keeping is literally what keeps me alive. been keeping receipts since 94’ and now i realize the importance of it. i remember growing up wondering what was the other side of the story. i’ve recently been obsessed with archiving real nigga shit. and to break that into terms that you greens would understand, is that in my treading of the very fabric of life i’m most attracted to moments where i feel i tug in my soul. sometimes it feels like 20 pounds hey added to my sternum. sometimes it feels like an erection. sometimes it feels like getting punched in the gut.
moments where people don’t give a fuck about who the audience is, where they are, who the company(the mothafuckas in the vicinity) is, nor whatever the fuck may be at steak and get they rocks off. but in keeping these type of receipts, i noticed a need for moments of radical love, revolutionary empathy, earth shattering joy, and painful laughter. i look for myself. and archive what speaks to me. whether it be something i need in that moment, needed in the past, and/or will need in the future. real nigga shit to help a real nigga.
there are also times where i feel there isn’t anything that truly speaks to me and in that case, i lean into my ancestral juju and conjure up beings that speak to me on a deeper level than the relics that exist in this reality. this is something that has been a commonality amongst black artists. what is this innate connection to possibilities of new realities given the reality we’re faced with. and acknowledgement of this fact demands us to archive those moments as diligently as what we keep from this reality.
i’ve been thinking a lot about legacy and how the things we leave behind, tangible and intangible, effect those around us and those to come.