Views of Greenwood: Interviews with the Artists

By Susan Green

The Greenwood District was all but destroyed during the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre. Despite overwhelming devastation, Greenwood residents and business owners remained and rebuilt. In the decades that followed, the neighborhood thrived again—but continued to face blows from urban renewal and other forms of systemic racism.

Oklahoma photographers Don Thompson, Gaylord Oscar Herron, and Eyakem Gulilat documented the neighborhood from the late 1960s to the present day. The resulting images explore moments and landscapes of the community: 1970s sedans beside brick storefronts, empty railroad tracks stretching to the downtown skyline, and the faces of entrepreneurs whose businesses would be reduced to rubble the following day.

Greenwood is a place of resilience, one that survives today thanks to the impassioned—and ongoing—work of community residents. The important images in Views of Greenwood by these three photographers show the physical makeup of the neighborhood and surroundings, as well as the people who live and work in Greenwood—a barber, a newlywed couple, and a new generation of children playing, making the neighborhood their own.

Don Thompson, Roller Skater, 1991. Gelatin silver print, 13.5” x 9.25”, Courtesy of the artist. © Don Thompson

DON THOMPSON As you were developing your practice as a photographer, what did you hope to explore with your images?

As a young photographer, I looked to artists like Gordon Parks who used his camera as a weapon against discrimination. I wanted to show the injustices that I felt and that I saw in our society. Through my photographs, I hoped to change others’ perceptions about people of color and dispel the notion that people of color had no value. I took up the camera to show the goodness and grace of people.

Your photographs in Views of Greenwood are powerful images of a community. What drew you to focus on Greenwood?

In taking these photographs, I discovered that we all have mutual beliefs and desires. I also wanted to change people’s perceptions of Greenwood and North Tulsa. I noticed that the Tulsa news media

never highlighted local Black life and accomplishments—instead they branded North Tulsa as a place of crime. I wanted to change this and show the community in general as well as people, including Black pioneers, doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, and educators, who were accomplishing great things.

Your images show intimate moments in people’s lives, but they also reveal larger issues, including urban renewal. How does your work speak to these larger issues?

Baltimore Barbershop (1970) captures the essence of why I had to take these photographs. When I approached the barber in his shop, he was smiling and jovial, and we talked about how long his business had been on Greenwood. As he posed looking out the window, his body began to slump and sadness washed over him. Across the street, bulldozers were tearing down buildings. When I asked what he thought about the destruction from the urban renewal project, he said “Looks like I’m going to be next. I don’t know what I’m going to do. This has been my business all my life.” After I took several photographs, I told him I would be back. But when I returned the next day, his building had been razed. I was never able to find him again.

My one regret is that the bulldozers were faster than I was. I was not able to capture all of the people, the businesses, and the buildings. I couldn’t believe the wanton destruction of urban renewal—taking the lives and livelihoods of people. This was a community of people living, working, and contributing back to the community. They were viewed as having no value. What the Massacre could not do, urban renewal and the bulldozers accomplished.

Eyakem Gulilat, Untitled, 2013. Archival pigment print, 22 x 24”, Courtesy of the artist © Eyakem Gulilat

GAYLORD OSCAR HERRON You began photographing Greenwood District in the mid-1960s, and your images are both compelling and evocative. What drew you to recording images specifically of Greenwood?

I felt that we needed to show the evidence of what our community had been through and show where our community stood right then. I was trying to illustrate as much as I could, knowing that it would be important to look back and consider. That’s what photography is for. It brings the past up to the present and lets you predict the future. Artists express what society is working through—the challenges that we face and the questions that we have.

Your photographs convey not just a scene, but a mood, and perhaps the perspective of the sitter. How did you convey that inner perspective?

I would talk to the person—I wanted to know what they were interested in, what they were doing, how they felt, and how they got to this place. I was honest and interested, and I tried to truly engage with them.

On my first visit to Greenwood, the first person I met was the woman in Woman at Archer & Greenwood (1964). She is facing north, and the railroad spur from downtown is behind the building. Greenwood Rising is being built where she is sitting. Her mood encompasses the photograph. She’s there, perhaps welcoming, but there’s uncertainty there as well. Photographs help in understanding people. The look on faces reveal the deeper reason for the photograph. You can tell a lot about what came before, what came after, and what’s going on now. That’s what I love about photography. It’s like reading a script rather than something that’s flat and one-dimensional.

There is a lot that we must face in our past, as well as today; change needs to happen. What do you hope for the future?

I hope that everyone could see the (continued to page 14)

dead-end roads that we’ve gone down that are completely counterproductive to what God wants and what we should want. We have a responsibility for each other. We have to change our mindset and stop being at odds with one another. When you observe someone, you go into action—you engage with them. We should truly see each other, love one another, and actively practice that love.

Gaylord Oscar Herron, Greenwood at Brady – Tulsa, OK, 1972. Print on Hahnemühle paper, 20 x 15.5”. Courtesy of the artist. © Gaylord Oscar Herron

EYAKEM GULILAT In your work, you explore intersections of place and memory. What intersections did you find while working in Greenwood?

In 2013, I was the first artist-in-residence at ahha Tulsa. I was keenly aware that Greenwood was a place of trauma, and I wanted to acknowledge that. Before there can be reconciliation, acknowledgement has to occur.

As I explored, I couldn’t understand why there were open stretches of land [now commonly called “The Steps to Nowhere”] so close to downtown and the Arts District. I soon learned the history of the land and its connection to Greenwood.

I photographed every empty set of stairs in this neighborhood. With the repetition of seeing the multiple steps and grassy lots, I hope viewers will imagine the Black placemakers in Tulsa, the conversations that would have happened on the porches of these homes, and the games that children—whether White or Black—would have played here. I want the audience to imagine the lives, the stories, and celebrations that would have taken place.

Black placemaking is the realization and ability of Black communities to create a space that meets their social and economic needs. Learning about Tulsa and wanting to support Black placemakers is what has propelled me to pursue a Ph.D. in city planning.

Your large-scale photograph of Standpipe Hill is incredibly immersive. Tell us about your intent for the work.

We use skylines as a reference point to understand a place. But in this immersive 360-degree view of Tulsa from Standpipe Hill, the downtown skyline is dwarfed by the stark realities of other parts of Tulsa. We see the energy of Tulsa focused at the downtown skyline and the vacant, raw land to the north. The highway cuts through the space, dividing the two.

Photography doesn’t differentiate between an empty lot or a building—it democratizes what is reproduced in the image. In this way, this photograph gives equal weight to all parts of Tulsa. North Tulsa is just as important as downtown or South Tulsa. But we can’t help but notice the stark visual and economic differences between North and South Tulsa.

I hope that viewers will scan the photograph—find landmarks and then become restless and examine more than just downtown. I hope visitors question why the land that can be seen to the north is vacant, without significant investment.

You were able to meet and talk with Tulsa Race Massacre survivor Wess Young and his wife Cathryn as part of your residency. Would you share more about your photograph of their home?

Wess and Cathryn Young were amazing human beings, and being able to meet them was an extraordinary privilege. While visiting with them, I was taken by the history on this wall. The wall shows that despite traumatic experiences and systemic exclusions, life still happens in Black communities.

It shows the beauty of their family and is a testament to their dreams and desires. All families, whether Black or White, have dreams—for their lives to flourish, for the education and success of their children, and to be a part of a place called Tulsa.

Views of Greenwood is on view at Philbrook Museum of Art from March 14 – September 5, 2021. For more information, visit philbrook.org. n

Susan Green serves as the Marcia Manhart Endowed Associate Curator for Contemporary Art & Design at the Philbrook Museum of Art in Tulsa, Oklahoma, where she works with artists and the public and oversees the decorative arts and design collection, the historic Villa Philbrook, and the Museum’s special collections and archive.