feature: the underground project – challenging the “hyper-masculine” standards that prevail in the hip-hop industry

My name is A. Retina Stewart. It just so happens that my grandmother named my mother Retina because she was born with a brown scar on her retina that my grandparents immediately fell in love with. Thirty-two years later my mother blessed me with that middle name as well. What once upon a time a flaw now empowers me to flourish as an artist, repeatedly reminding me of my unique vision. I’m from Houston, Texas originally, but I live and work in New York City where I am also receiving my Photography BFA at Parsons School of Design this month. Although the medium of my work fluctuates regularly, the driving force behind all of my work is to understand people and document hip hop culture. My current project is a combination of both.

By A. Retina Stewart, AFROPUNK Contributor

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The Underground Project documents the hip hop culture and addresses social themes within in. Coming from a commercial photography background within the hip-hop industry, I am well aware of what type of image of a rapper sells: the shot depicting raw aggression most efficiently. Hip-hop is a culture and music genre most notoriously known for the hard exterior and rebellious nature of those that emerge from it. However, in my project I unveil elements of each artist’s personality that are commonly isolated due to their involvement within the industry while constantly upholding its hyper-masculine standards. I am less interested in the facade and the music industry’s representation of masculinity. I depict the artist in a manner that is more dimensional and nuanced by addressing their passions, emotions, insecurities, and fears. Even as a “professional”, there are still many technical things I need to learn about cameras, but I have mastered the art of finding gold within people, and that’s a jewel that school can’t teach.  

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One of my classmates asked me last year “How does it feel to be the one percent?” Apprehensive to discover what she meant and furthermore to respond, I sat in silence as my mood transcended from bliss to anguish. It wasn’t until moments later that I mustered up the nerve to ask her what she intended to say. She confidently answered “You never notice that you’re like … the only black girl in practically all of your classes?” I had to pause, regroup, and look around for clarity in a room of uncertainty. Up until this very moment, race wasn’t something that I focused on in school. I saw creatives. I saw concepts. I saw vivid ideas, but those ideas and aspects were not compromised nor enhanced by the color of whom made the work. Contradictorily, it was also in this moment that it became clear to me how apparent the need for my work to exist in this environment was. I assume that people who don’t look like me are unaware of certain social injustices African Americans face regularly and are hesitant to ask blatantly. As a black woman, I feel making art allows me to give a piece of understanding to the world — educating people on race, values, and culture in the most honest and encouraging way.

If there was one thing that I would like for people to know about my culture, it would be that at the root of it all, every action we make is developed upon the idea of desiring or spreading love. Although sometimes the execution is questionable, the passion is undeniably present. In the past couple of years we’ve seen every act of crime from a black person be measured beside hip hop music. Contrarily, America consistently urges us to become leaders of the future while taunting and burdening us with the realities of our corrupt American structure — built to prevent us from evolving.

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I’ve watched black men in the hip hop industry be condemned for their intelligence. People tend to use words like “conscious” in a negative context when a man understands his worth. As if the world doesn’t present enough obstacles just to survive in society; sometimes without realizing it, people within our own culture undervalue us. In return, we slowly treat ourselves unlike the kings & queens that we are; adapting to practices that label us as “less than”. I love black men. I live for hip hop. Sometimes the only thing missing is a platform for the two to be showcased and understood in the highest regard. I feel it’s important for the culture to see my film because so many artists express to me that they feel they have to put on a certain facade as a black man, furthermore a black rapper — to be accepted. However, if authenticity was accepted as much as materiality and hyper-masculinity is encouraged, our culture would be good.

I don’t have all the answers, but I’m going to continue making art until the next generation no longer has reasons to ask the same questions.

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ARetinaStewart.com