Precarity and strife are the beating heart of this work, yet optimism shines through with an undeniable radiance.
Fi Dem, an exhibition by Zinzi Minott, is now on show at FACT Liverpool
The paving stones are murky and slick with rain, cold winds steal the warmth from my fingertips, the buildings fade into the dreariness of the sky. Knowing it was sunshine that once wrapped my ancestors in a daily embrace, England’s weather feels like an affliction. Yet, stepping into FACT Liverpool, I’m offered a glimpse at the summer that lies at the end of the endless winter.
A warm glow disrupts the grey brick of the entrance foyer. From behind a translucent pink curtain an exclamation is heard: “pull it up selecta!” The sound conjures an image of carnival; sunlight, dancing and celebration. This is the entrance to Zinzi Minott’s latest iteration of her annual series Fi Dem, a seventeen-minute long sound and video installation environment currently being shown as part of FACT’s Let The Song Hold Us exhibition.
“Sound adds to the patchwork of the experiences shown, the bouncy melody of reggae blending into the scream of sirens.”
The room has been transformed into a haven of tropical tranquility – the space gleams as though touched by the setting sun. Nine black screens are mounted on a wall, each separated from the next by a slim, black border. On the opposing wall, painted stripes of orange, yellow and pink fade into a lush green, evoking a coastal sunset. Vibrant, digitised waves undulate across the screen as I settle into one of the viewing seats, a wicker chair nestled amidst a hedge of verdant foliage which spools around the room.
A steady, optimistic beat pulses as the video begins to play, warm smiles and practiced two-steps at a house party bleed into a still image of a sugarcane field. Smooth brown toes plunged into a bustling stream melt into footage of the spark and fervour of the 1981 Toxteth uprisings. Sound adds to the patchwork of the experiences shown by Minott, the bouncy melody of reggae blending into the scream of sirens.
A young Scouse woman explains how Liverpool’s Caribbean community faces dispersion as they are priced out of their historical dwellings by the council. The whooshing sound of flooding water ebbs over her voice, carrying her cadence away with the tide. Images of the HMT Empire Windrush flash on screen throughout the video, a pulse reminding viewers of this story’s origin. The video ends with a historical newspaper splash on the screen, it reads ‘They came in search of hope’. The urgent music fades into the sound of a news reporter, the audio echoes and lingers on his words “We cannot deny them entry.” Considering the events of the previous years, the irony of this statement hangs heavy in the room.
“Minott’s imagery is grounding and the title of this iteration, A Redemptive Song, becomes more apt with each passing moment.”
Precarity and strife are the beating heart of this work, yet optimism shines through with an undeniable radiance. Through the patchwork of experience presented, Minott shows us how Liverpool’s Caribbean community thrives despite hardship. In typical Minott style, glitches periodically disrupt the images in the video. These interruptions echo the disruptive nature of racism. Behind the static the viewer can assume that the image continues, hips keep swaying, the sun keeps setting but there is no way to be sure.
Children of the diaspora may imagine what their lives would be if it weren’t for the tarnish of colonialism, the sounds which might form on our tongues, whether a different accent would colour our laughter but there is no way to be sure. So we keep going, rebuilding after displacement, creating community and preserving culture with the tools available to us.
Bodies and bodies of water are central to this series of Minott’s work. There is a moment on screen where an ocean ripples, twinkling in dimples and troughs where it catches and evades the light. The image gives way to a woman dancing on the beach as the sun sets around her. Her body moving in time to a lazy beat that the viewer can only imagine. Minott’s imagery is grounding and the title of this iteration, A Redemptive Song, becomes more apt with each passing moment. We carry trauma in the body and in turn, bodies of water carry our trauma.
“Two things may be true at once – Minott’s work asks us to sit inside this maxim.”
Though now a self professed water baby, I first came to the water reluctantly. Six years old and trembling, I stood poolside at the local swimming baths staring into the water’s mouth, sure that if I were to enter, I wouldn’t make it back out again. The fear of water had been passed down to me along with my curls and dimples and it froze me in place.
An ocean separates many from their ancestral homeland, the same ocean that once swallowed our ancestors as they escaped the middle passage, an ocean that thunders on, soaking up our sins as refugees continue to be left at its mercy. Yet as the installation continues and scenes are disrupted, focus returns to the water. Crashing waves bring us home. Under Minott’s gaze, water becomes a healer, redemption is found where sorrow once lay.
Two things may be true at once – Minott’s work asks us to sit inside this maxim. A familiar take would be to suggest that from sorrow and injustice, we may create joy. Minott side steps such reductive causality; hardship and beauty coexist within this work without the suggestion that one necessitates the other. Stepping back into the cold, I realise, in keeping with her theme, Minott’s exhibition was but a rupture in my day. However, the work stays with me, and I begin to feel a warmth beneath the rain.
This article is published as part of a series in collaboration with FACT. The exhibition, Let the Song Hold Us, is on show in Liverpool until 19th June, every Wednesday – Sunday between 11am – 6pm.
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