Background: I have translated artists’ works on war, migration, desolation and isolation, in particular with reference to works featuring pierrot, harlequin, clown or acrobat figures, precursor to our present day ShortKnee. ShortKnee can be traced back to the spoken word traditions of the West African Chantuelle, oral libraries whose recollections made bearable the suffering of slaves on the plantations of Grenada, fused with French Pierrot elements, and wrapped in six and a half yards of vulgar fabric that is breathtaking in sunlight masquerade. Once a disguise and way to compromise, the ShortKnee is today, in this artist’s opinion, the most compelling icon of Grenada. These are part of my Chantuelle Translations series, articulating my response to the socially sanctioned slow and painful death of the ShortKnee, our indigenous artform.
April 27th, 1937.Frightened, screaming people under the evil eye of a bare bulb representing the sun. A severed soldier’s arm, a broken sword, a flower. A chaos of animals, buildings, a jumble of women and children, bodies trampled on the ground. The spanish town of Guernica burns for three days. A tragedy captured by Picasso in gray, black and white with dramatic effect.
This is part of my Chantuelle series, based on the Grenada ShortKnee which I began in 2007, in response to, in my opinion, the socially sanctioned slow and painful death of the ShortKnee masquerade, a fusion of French and West African elements, which in my opinion, is the most compelling icon of Grenada.
Using the Chantuelle asalter-ego, this translation of Guernica speaks to the restrictions placed upon Grenada’s artists, creating in a space without institutional support, nor appreciation for the importance of visual artists as documenters of our history and culture.
In my eight-part translation of Guernica there is no wanton abandon in the noonday sun, there is just broken bodies, screaming masks, talismans scattered on sunburned earth. The ShortKnee is injured, not by village incursions but by society reducing him to a carnival clown, kept silent and apart, and only brought out to play for 2 days a year.
These works are done in acrylics, liquid tempera and oil pastels on crumpled kraft paper. The crumpled paper came as packing in a box that I found on the side of the road, outside a place of business in downtown Saint George’s, after business hours. Presumably it was to be collected by the garbage truck later that day.
I had been on the hunt for a sturdy box to store some art supplies I had collected for a future work. As a bonus, I got this delicious canvas to work with, and I knew that I had found my surface for my Guernica translation. I sketched it out over two moths ago, but put it away, because my spirit was not into it. Over the last couple of nights, I worked the torn ragged sheets, and I am happy with what I have achieved.
It would seem that in our rush to progress, to not be left behind, to be second and a half, rather than third world, to be part of an expanding all inclusive continent, we trash what is original to us and adopt others’ stories and history as our own. Soon too the ShortKnee will be gone. In the background thin figures in top hat, quietly watch and wait.
