“What has become of the Harlem of the 1920s, the place that was all jazz clubs, nightlife and soul? People say it’s been going to ruin for thirty years. They say the Harlem of today is dirty, loud and dangerous; full of gangs, murderers, drug dealers and drug users. Harlem is New York’s dark underbelly, a world away from Manhattan, where the streets are paved with gold while Harlem drowns in filth. The apartment blocks on the Upper East Side reach up to the sky, while Harlem’s houses crumble into ruin. Central Park is the city’s purgatory — heaven on one side and hell on the other,” began Robert Wise’s article in the Post.
Today, Wise had woken up early and made his way to Harlem to take photos of the mythical neighbourhood that both inspired and terrified the popular imagination. Outside a corner store, blasting music out over the street, two little girls were splashing about beside a fire hydrant. Their little brother was sitting in a puddle, sailing a paper boat. A little further on, a police officer was interviewing an old lady who’d had her bag stolen. She gesticulated wildly in the cop’s face, and he seemed to be taking her statement. Behind them, a posse of youths were swapping Ray Charles and Sam Cook records. Robert Wise was eager to capture these little moments of everyday life. But his subjects gave him curious, accusing looks. Who are you, and why are you photographing us? Looking for a little misery for your paper? The reporter tried not to overdo it, but he had to get his pictures. The Washington Post had sent him here; they wanted to show the ghetto and how black people lived here in the enclave of Harlem. But taking people’s pictures without asking wasn’t something they took kindly to, and he knew it.
A child came up to him. A boy, maybe seven or eight, wearing a white vest. He looked Wise up and down for a moment, impressed by the camera and its huge lens. It was something he’d never seen before. The kid asked him how you take photos. “You just press this button.” Just like that? The kid didn’t seem convinced, so the reporter offered to let him try.
“What do you want to shoot?”
“I don’t know. What do you take photos of?”
“I shoot just everyday scenes. Like a painting.”
“What about people?”
“Sure, all the time. But not portraits. Just people in the street, living their lives.”
“You take pictures of life.”
“Yeah, life in Harlem, for example.”
“What’s life in Harlem?”
“I dunno...people like you, say.”
“I want to try.”
The reporter knelt down beside the boy and showed him how to hold the camera. “What’s say we take a picture of your mom?” The kid pressed on the button, then jumped up and down with excitement. “Again, again, let’s take more pictures!” The reporter asked him where he lived, and the boy’s mother invited him inside. The place was poor but tidy and carefully decorated with a few ornaments and doilies.
“So you’re taking pictures of Harlem?” the mother asked the reporter.
“Yes, I’m a photographer,” he answered.
“What magazine you work for?”
“I don’t work for magazines, I work for the paper. The Washington Post.”
“So you’re from the North?”
“Not exactly...my parents live in the South. I came north to find work.”
“Must be dangerous down there.”
“These days, it’s best not to set foot there,” the reporter mused.
John Wise spotted a harmonica on the sideboard. He picked it up as the boy looked on, curious. He brought it to his lips, took a breath and played a blues riff. The mother clapped her hands to the rhythm. The reporter let his lips slide back and forth over the instrument. “You play any blues?” he asked the kid. The boy didn’t answer. It had been his grandfather’s harmonica, and no-one ever used it. The reporter looked at him and told him to try it. The boy blew into the instrument. He had talent, no doubt about it. Maybe one day he’d play the Savoy Ballroom. It wouldn’t be the last Harlem heard of him, that much was for sure.
Alan Alfredo Geday