I often straddle this tightrope of wanting to be invisible and also wanting to be seen.
As a Black person in Britain, you stand out. I stand out. People rarely identify me by the type or colour of clothes I’m wearing, or by my hair colour, like they often do with white folk, but by my skin colour. When you are racialised you are seen. You are seen as “that black person over there” but, ironically, despite how much you are seen, you are rarely seen in your full humanity.
I recently got to spend some time at Yard Arthouse and took part in a mask making workshop with artisan Amaru Chatawa. Amaru was teaching us about some of the meanings behind the traditions of Caribbean mas (masquerade) rooted in resistance and liberation.
In my head, I was going to be painting masks for the day. Little did I know the workshop would entail me having a resin mask moulded on my face. (Think plaster cast if you’ve broken a limb)
When I first shared this Timelapse video with hubby the first thing he said was “Were you anxious? I can tell by your breathing you were anxious”
I was.
And I hadn’t realised quite how anxious I was, until I watched this Timelapse.
I was under this cast for about 30 minutes and whilst my lips and eyes were the last to be covered, there is something very vulnerable in someone else having the ability to control and temporarily remove your ability to see, smile and speak.
Metaphorically being silenced, being in the dark.
There is something very disconcerting about being covered, in whiteness.
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