Danielle Scruggs | Photography: Journal

One of my photos was chosen for the Los Angeles Center for Digital Art 2010 International "Top 40" Juried Exhibition. An artist reception will be held at LACDA on May 13 as part of the city's Downtown Art Walk and  the show will be on view until June 5 (which, incidentally, is my birthday). I'm thrilled to be a part of this exhibit!

An answer regarding musings from nearly two weeks ago. Replace "writer" with "photographer" and what Ms. Morrison has to say in this short clip applies quite nicely. I do wonder, however, if I have been limited in my thinking. When I say I've struggled with how I want to define myself, was I unconsciously thinking, "Being black isn't enough"? "Being a woman isn't enough"? Because there is a deep well of experiences and history to draw from in being who I am. Why view that as some kind of limitation?

Nice. An answer that leads to several more questions, none of which I can answer right now. But maybe that's all right.

So. While I was taking a break from some other projects (photography and non-photography related), I came across this essay from photographer Lou Noble, who's based in Los Angeles and takes beautiful portraits. (Seriously. Beautiful, no?) The whole idea of being a black photographer (as opposed to a photographer) is something I struggle with a lot, and have written about here and elsewhere. Here's an excerpt of what Noble has to say:

I’m a black photographer. THAT IS SO WEIRD. I’m a black writer. CRAZY.

Owning those labels, wearing those hats, if for only a second, makes me wonder about responsibility.

Do I have a responsibility to speak about a particular experience? Should I, somewhere in my writing, speak up for black folk?

Should my photography talk about the Black Experience? Should I only take photos of women like Janette?

And as soon as I start asking those questions, I realize how limited the idea of a single Black Experience is.

A person looks at me, thinks black.

But my dad’s from Panama. My mom’s from Minneapolis. I was raised and educated in Beverly Hills.

My skin lies to you.

And I’m rather glad of that. I look at the hands typing this, and they bear no relation to a shared experience, to a racial identity.

As it should be. My skin has not determined my fate. Raised in the blender of cultures like I was, my skin means my chances of getting skin cancer are low.
Because that is what it is for.