Punch Piece 2014
“I wanted to create a space where it would be acceptable for an adult to throw a fit.”
Punch Piece is an obvious demonstration of anger, an exorcism of accumulated exasperation, but it is much more. It is a metaphoric upheaval and revolution. It is violent, aggressive, and exhausting. It is repentance. It is a castigation and a rebuke. It is a ritualistic corporal sacrifice. It is a summoning of suffered souls. It is futility.
Punch Piece Exhibition Documentation 2015
“My hands were wrapped in gauze tape for protection, echoing the preparation of a professional boxer”
The work involved me standing between two white doors affixed to two free-standing frames, punching holes through their facades at intervals until I reached exhaustion. The idea for Punch Piece came from a long-standing and ever-increasing sense of anger over state-sanctioned killings of black men by the police. There have been several high-profile murders of black men and women since I first conceived this work in 2014. Even as I revise this commentary, the nation, to use the words of a public radio reporter, “has been shaken” yet again by the brutal murder of a black man by the police, and we are only a month into 2023.
“I awoke and headed toward the bathroom as I usually do. On my way, for some unknown reason, I was compelled to punch a hole in my bedroom door.”
I performed Punch Piece three times. Initially, as a practice preparation in front of one of my advisory council professors and twice at the now-defunct Beef Haus in Dallas, Texas, once in front of a live audience and again as a private sacred encore.
Punch Piece Preparation & Practice Documentation 2015I sourced three doors from the apartment complex where I was staying. I painted them white and mounted them to triangle-based frames so they could stand alone. It was necessary to apply paint to the doors for a few reasons. I chose white because I wanted the work to adhere to that distinct gallery aesthetic: a sterilized white cube that calls to mind a surgical observatory, where my ink-stained black body would be; centered within a pristine white void. The doors would serve as the institution's walls, in this way, and my fist as sledgehammers tearing down their structures.
Another more practical reason for painting the doors was to reinforce their integrity. If memory serves me, I used two, possibly three coats for the rehearsal, but this was insufficient. The door slid backward with the impact of my first blow. After which, I braced the frame against the wall to prevent it from moving, and with a single punch, I was through the door. The exterior strength of the doors did not provide much resistance, but I put on a show as best I could.
“I considered acceptable alternatives to mitigate this aggression…”
I demolished that door. I bled and developed soreness, but it happened too quickly. I started taking shots at the frame to prolong the performance for the duration of the audio I had created. Learning a lesson, I was a little overeager and painted the remaining doors with 5–6 coats. I anchored the door frames more securely, screwing them into the gallery floors. I made sure they would not budge.
On the day of the performance, I recall not being as focused as I would have liked to have been. I was curating the audio up to; the last moment and was enamored with its completion. When I arrived at the gallery, it was full of people. My excitement conflicted with anxiety and nervousness, not the anger or rage that went into the development of this piece. I could not muster that simmering fire that lay dormant within me.
“I could not muster that simmering fire that lay dormant within me.”
Punch Piece Performance Documentation 2015Not that they served any purpose except for aesthetics, mind you, but that, combined with the number of individuals in attendance, was a real distraction that haunts me to this day.
At the onset of the first punch, I had an overpowering realization. My hands were far more swollen than I had acknowledged, and the doors, thanks to my overzealous effort to make them more fortified, were damn near impenetrable.
I was miles away, and my head was elsewhere. Ideally, I would have arrived much earlier and meditated beforehand. Instead, I was preoccupied with the fact that in my efforts to make sure the audio was perfect, I did not put the knobs on the doors.
“…my hope of breaking through or breaking down the doors, and in essence, the systems of white supremacy began to cease with each weakened or feinted blow.”
“No exclamation, no expletives, just an innate response, a sudden explosive reaction.”
That first strike hurt like hell more than I experienced during the rehearsal. I had barely made a dent, much less gone through. As I watched my blood smear across the door exteriors, it became clear how much my head was not in it. How I; was not in the moment.
I was hyper-aware, distracted even by the pain inflicted upon my body and my inability to break the outside of the door, and not consumed with that explosive rage that makes one disregard all else.
“I was both elated & deflated. The concept was coming together. I just needed better preparation”
The concept of this work evolved from my reaction after waking to the accounts and opinions of the public response to the Daren Wilson verdict. With my alarm set to the radio, I awoke to an NPR interview where a political pundit condemned the actions, rioting, and looting after the court ruling was made public. My response was not immediate, but it was reactionary. I headed toward the bathroom as I usually do. On my way, out of nowhere, I punched a hole in my bedroom door. Thats all. That was it. There was nothing more to it. No exclamation, no expletives, just an innate response, a sudden explosive reaction. After which, I proceeded to the bathroom and continued my daily routine.
“It is an unfocused feeling of anxiety or dread about the human condition or the state of the world in general.”
I sucked it up and persisted in battering my broken hands against the doors, my hope of breaking through or breaking down the doors, and in essence, the systems of white supremacy began to cease with each weakened or feinted blow.
Because of the ritualistic nature of this performance, to have an uninterrupted link to the floor grounds of the gallery. I intended to be barefoot for this performance, thinking this would help me to remain tethered to the real world in what I imagined to be a trance-like state and play into my portrayal of the poor proletariat.
I opted against taking off my boots for a few logistical reasons; however, I left my chest bare; to display a freshly inked tattoo of a hanged-mans noose I had done specifically for this performance and an additional piece in its own right. My hands were wrapped in gauze tape for protection, echoing the preparation of a professional boxer.
I composed a disembodied audio accompaniment, a juxtaposition derived from internal dialogue, vocalized and distorted excerpts from Claudia Rankine's; book, Citizen, and news media commentary over a loop of the chorus from DMX's "For My Dogs," a single from his debut album It's Dark And Hell Is Hot. The audio played while I punched, creating a cacophony of sounds that a shocked audience witnessed in silence.
Punch Piece Conjuring 2015
“I was, reminded of my mother's voice saying to me as a child: "Shut up, or I'll give you something to cry about,"…”
Punch Piece Alt 1 A conjuring 2015As a result of my actions, I had been confronted every day by the lingering existence of the hole. I concluded that the impetus or cause behind my acting out with violence was pent-up rage, and the news report was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, or at least caused it to buckle, if only for a moment. I am as aware now as I had been by that point of my internalized anger. It had been with me since I was a child; however, I work hard to repress it and have been reasonably successful, partially to growth and maturity but mainly because I realized the futility of acting with violence and aggression.
My anger runs deep and is rooted in personal discontent; stemming from when I was a child. It is an unfocused feeling of anxiety or dread about the human condition or the state of the world in general. To combat the feelings of angst, I opted for self-sedation. Primarily; through the exploitation and use of marijuana. In my early youth into my mid-twenties, I frequently acted out in violent fits of rage. I created chaos. I broke things, threw things, fought, and cussed out people. After which, I felt good. I felt fatigued.
“…for a while before embracing adulthood, I was nurtured by negative energy.”
“Racial inequalities and poor policing practices persist and have me wondering, "What was the point," or "Was it worth it?"…”
Punch Piece essay continued
I became aware early on of how my behavior appeared to everyone else. How ridiculous I came off and; for a while before embracing adulthood, I was nurtured by negative energy. I realized that I was not alone in my discontentment and that numerous adults suppress their anger to be civil and to live as harmoniously with one another as conceivable. Some are more successful than others. Often it is recommended; to remedy this affliction, one stays active and involved, pursues recreational fulfillment, engages in discourse, etc. Many shrink away through substance abuse.
I considered acceptable alternatives to mitigate this aggression: meditation, controlled breathing, and journaling. I tried many, but ultimately they were inefficient at providing the release I sought. Adolescents have the luxury of throwing tantrums. However, it is both; foolish and unacceptable for adults with sound minds and bodies to allow their tempers to get the best of them. This; I know from experience. But what recourse, I weighed, does one have to keep from going "postal," as the saying goes? How do you express the rage without also becoming a victim of it?
The idea for Punch Piece came from a long-standing and ever-increasing sense of anger over state-sanctioned killings of black men by the police. There have been several high-profile murders of black men and women since I first conceived this work in 2014. Even as I revise this commentary, the savage police killing of a black man has shocked the nation once more, and 2023 is still only one month old.
The murder of Mike Brown in Ferguson M.O. in 2014, or rather the reaction to the not guilty verdict of the then police officer Daren Wilson for the killing of Mike Brown, is the inspiration for Punch Piece, as predicted cities across the country erupted over the outcome of the case. Many took to the streets, just as previous generations had done, expressing outrage and discontent over explicit inequities and police brutality.
I remember sharing that grievance and wanting to be a part of the disorder and destruction that reflected that pervasive rage. I wanted to, but I did not. I immediately thought of the Rodney King verdict and the chaos that came with it. As a kid, I remember feeling pride and joy that my people, black people, had come together to express their discontent. I wished that I had been old enough. I wanted so badly to take part and revel in the looting.
Throughout; my childhood and for much of my young adult life, that was my perspective. I was full of rage and wanted to aim that rage directly at the machine. But I was no longer an ignorant adolescent. I was a 30-something 2nd-year graduate student. I had with me now a broader worldview that included accounts and narratives I had not previously known, direct personal experiences with police and government, and an understanding of the historical relationship of the past to the present and its impact on the future. To say that I was not gung-ho about running amok in the streets is an understatement.
By this time in my life, I had made it a point to visit some of America's most illustrious "chocolate (black) cities," including Chicago, Harlem, Washington, DC, Motown (Detroit), Atlanta, and Watts. There are quite a few more, but historically, these are some of the most widely celebrated. My college education afforded me the knowledge and historical context of previous "racial" riots, such as "The Long, Hot Summer of 76," where over 150 race riots broke out across the United States, and the 68 riots that were a response to the assassination of Dr. King Jr.
With tens of millions of dollars worth of property destroyed and entire neighborhoods burned, I considered the resulting long-lasting physical and economic damage to black communities. The damage done to those poor and disenfranchised communities is still largely unrepaired. Racial inequalities and poor policing practices persist and have me wondering, "What was the point," or "Was it worth it?"
I began to ask why. I started to delve further into the motivations behind those chaotic displays. Why am I punching holes in walls? What did the masses of people hope to accomplish? What would I have wanted to achieve; had I participated? My inquiries led me to conclude that we were/are looking for cathartic ventilation, a form of healing. Relief from pain, alleviated if only temporarily by an impulsive reaction.
Punch Piece essay continued
It is, in this sense, only a minor respite for the simple fact of being immediately vilified. Here we were, U.S. citizens expressing our long-standing resentment toward the system of injustice &; instead of listening to us or addressing the cause rather than the effect, we were ridiculed and chastised.
Talking-head pundits condemned the actions of black people as if they were acting without cause. That infuriated me more as if they were not regularly witnessing the injustices experienced by black people (men). I was, reminded of my mother's voice saying to me as a child: "Shut up, or I'll give you something to cry about," a phrase I and many others who share my socio-ethnic background heard crying after being physically reprimanded. The hypocrisy of the idea and tone incensed me then, as it does now.
The point and premise of Punch Piece; are found here. Some years back, I took a class titled "Black World Ritual Performance," where I became acquainted with an African tribal tradition where members of specific communities would engage in a spiritual cleanse. They went to the woods, conjured ancestors, allowed themselves to become possessed, and took part in things, deemed unacceptable to activate and alleviate inner turmoil and achieve release. These excursions allowed the community members to "get it out of their systems," so to speak. During these times, people would become frustrated and angry and feel the need to express themselves violently.
I wanted to create a space where it would be acceptable for an adult to throw a fit. More specifically, where; I, a black man, could let my furious indignation toward white power structures be seen, felt, and heard. To act out that violent anger freely and loudly. Organized chaos in a contained place. The gallery became a gladiator arena. Guest and attendees became spectators and witnesses as my confined black body moved between the two sturdily built white doors—my opponents. Two against one. Like the reality I was attempting to reflect odds; were stacked against me.
And what of the doors? Were they merely barriers on which I was to project figuratively the face of those who produce in me such umbrage? Was I punishing the doors as I would if I could punish particular individuals? Perhaps the doors symbolized confinement and limitation, the invisible walls that comprise our social institutions made tangible, power structures, and prevention. If this is so, then what was I really to gain? Was I merely evoking yet another Sisyphusian exercise in futility?
Much of this is still unresolved. These are simply speculations and presumptions of the motivations behind this performance. In other projects, I explored a history of erasure. I have criticized our institutions of government and commerce. I have attempted to resurrect practices of the past and ideologies of the indigenous. I have sought to bridge the old with the new by acknowledging, evoking, giving tribute, and showing reverence to customs and traditions that have fallen into the margins of perceptions.
Indeed I was in search of catharsis and needed healing. I see this work as a ritualistic exorcism, an act of ceremony. In this context, the goal is to achieve invigoration through exhaustion. To heal me metaphorically and become re-vitalized/ rejuvenated by embracing pain and enacting the force of violence against these symbolic barriers.