On the occasion of Edges of Ailey at the Whitney Museum of American Art, Shaquille Heath speaks to Rashid Johnson, Kevin Beasley, Mickalene Thomas, Karon Davis and Kya Lou about Alvin Ailey’s legacy and how it has shaped their own practices. Photographed by Clifford Prince King.
This past September the Whitney Museum of American Art opened Edges of Ailey, the first large-scale museum exhibition to celebrate the life, dances, and enduring legacy of visionary artist and choreographer Alvin Ailey. Within the exhibition’s galleries the crimson red walls pulse with the lifeblood of the artist–and that which has trickled into the veins of the hundreds of artists, dancers, writers, and creators that have been brought alive by his oeuvre.
It is a dazzling and inspiring exhibition curated by Adrienne Edwards, Engell Speyer Family Senior Curator and Associate Director of Curatorial Programs, with Joshua Lubin-Levy, Curatorial Research Associate, and CJ Salapare, Curatorial Assistant. It is hard to call out any specific object or moment within the exhibition–and that is likely why it is so monumental in nature. How do you begin to outline, define, and articulate the life of a person like Alvin Ailey? How do you fit the breadth of such a prolific career, impactful art, and influential vision into even an 18,000 square-foot gallery space? It’s a daunting task to take on relegating a figure that is larger than life. And yet somehow, Edwards curation is a graceful endeavor.
What Edges of Ailey does so well is showcase how proper that title is. For even the most dedicated and studied Ailey fans will find something new to learn about the artist. Not only within the various archives materials on display–such as performance footage, short stories, choreographic notes, drawings, posters–but also within how the 80 artists on view have been activated by his creations. Isn’t that the best part of art anyway? Seeing how it is interpreted between individual persons? How those interpretations inspire creations of their own? The innumerable universes ideated and developed from one single provoking thought. Edges of Ailey brings these all together, and side-by-side, we get to see how each piece, though existing independently, beams most bright when in community with one another–a reminder that both in art and in life, we are always better together.
One of my favourite parts about the exhibition are the notebooks of Ailey’s placed covertly around the gallery space. The one that caught my breath had scrawled in Ailey’s all cap text, “We teach people to feel–To own their own feelings,” scribed in an ink as red as the walls. That in itself inspired our story to ask some of the artists whose work is featured in the exhibition about how Ailey’s legacy impacted their own artistic practice. What was learned was that while they all work in different mediums, some through dance, some through paint, some through the moving image, and have found inspiration from different projects and venues, Ailey left an indelible mark that taught them the essence of how to feel. Starting at the edge, Ailey’s work directs the way to the center.
Rashid Johnson
Johnson’s work Untitled Anxious Men, 2016 is featured in the section “Black Liberation.” Alvin Ailey envisioned his dances as an embodiment of the fortitude of Black art and his choreography tested the very notion of freedom. What is freedom is times of homophobia, lynchings, apartheid, and an AIDS crisis? How do artists look upon these dark realities and make light? Or, when is it important to look upon the darkness and reach out a hand to let others know you’re right there in the thick of it, too?
“I was quite young when I became aware of Ailey’s work, but the first performance that I really remember seeing was the Ailey troupe coming to Chicago,” shared Johnson. “I remember being blown away by the talent and the grace and skill of so many of the dancers. I remember from that moment my recognizing of seeing something that must have been quite special. It’s continued to be something that I think about to this day.
Obviously there’s so many gifted folks who perform within the Ailey universe. But the thing about Ailey’s work that’s most interesting to me is, as much as it’s about athleticism and grace, I think that there’s also this space for melancholy in the project. I think there’s a space for anxiety in the project. I think that it’s desperate in its movements, and we oftentimes mistake those things for beauty and the hybridity of what is beautiful, what is challenged, what is challenging, what is anxious, what is frustrating. And how you connect those things to grace and the other reference points is what continues to challenge me around Ailey’s work and continues to inform how I think about my projects.”
Kevin Beasley
Ailey once said “I’m Alvin Ailey. I’m a choreographer. I’m a Black man whose roots are in the sun and the dirt of the South.” His childhood experiences living and being raised by his mother, Lula Cooper, in rural Texas, would become the foundation of his choreography. He saw an enduring spirit, a source of pride and creativity, and a profound sense of humanity in the people and places of the South. Beasley’s work Haze, 2023 in the the “Southern Imaginary” section of the exhibtionfeatures raw Virginia cotton, a visceral reminders of enslavement, sharecropping, and Jim Crow–era legislation.
“Alvin Ailey was almost like a mystical figure for me because his work always lived just outside of the performance art world that I was more familiar with through my education,” shared Beasley. “And to be honest, this perspective, focusing on the 60s and 70s, always centered white practitioners so I didn’t really have a present moment with Ailey Company and dancers until I came to New York. There is a work by Ralph Lemon called Chorus where I’m a part of the cast and there was one version of it where one of the cast members was an Ailey Alumni and his entire approach was filled with such grace and discipline – it gave me a deeper insight to the caliber of dancer the company creates by not just watching them on stage but working within the same space them.
I think Ailey, like so many Black artists, conceptualists, writers and musicians, paves another path of possibility in our imagination. The influence of Ailey on my work isn’t really a direct takeaway but more about affecting the audiences I encounter when I am presenting my work, his legacy and company further informs the general consensus that black artists create some of the most compelling work of the 20th and 21st century and I feel like this cannot be understated. Whether you know it or not, the world is a more inquisitive, generous and explorative place because of Alvin Ailey.”
Mickalene Thomas
Edges of Ailey features a variety of new works commissioned by the museum, giving artists the distinct opportunity to look upon Ailey’s legacy. One of such works entitled, Katherine Dunham: Revelation, 2024, by Mickalane Thomas looks upon one of the influential Black women who were a constant presence and source of inspiration for Ailey. Ailey, similarly to Thomas, sought to render Black women—as dancers, icons, and emblems of beauty and determination—as individual and multifaceted, rectifying the stereotypes and caricatures that sought to limit them.
“I remember, I was an undergrad at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, and I went with a friend to see a (Ailey) production. What stayed with me was the Revelations,” shared Thomas. “I believe Judith Jamison was the head of the creative production during that time. I’ve always liked dance, and always was really interested in it as an art form. Seeing and experiencing on that level and platform a production of that magnitude, and sort of just like all those Black bodies on the stage that were just very powerful. It stayed with me and allowed me to think more about just the power of dance as a form of movement and space and time and storytelling and creating energy and gathering of community and people. It allows me to understand and think about my body and how I move through space. Even how I stand and how I’m perceived as I walk through the room.
I really approached the work thinking about a specific, iconic person that sort of resonated with me, and because I use the Dunham technique as a form of exercise of thought. I go to that before I do yoga. And so when Adrienne approached me it was very serendipitous. I’m like, this is weird, you know? For the past couple of years, I’ve been really looking into Katherine Dunham’s technique as a way of understanding my physical body, and so it just made sense to use her as my muse for this show.
When I received some of the photos that they wanted me to consider, what kept coming to mind was the idea of “revelation.” The idea of flight, the idea of sort of transformation and moving through space. And I wanted to capture that, not just as a physical thing, but as a metaphor in energy and relationship, through Ailey’s experience through Katherine Dunham. Like maybe the revelation is that–that sort of mentor disciple relationship. And how you can manifest it into this art form. The pictures I kept seeing her in, there was just this freedom and sense of movement of flight and elevation. I love thinking about Revelation in that sense, because it brought it back to my first experience with Alvin Ailey.”
Karon Davis
Karon Davis’s Dear Mama, 2024 is another new artwork commissioned for the exhibition–and dare I say, one of the most striking in the entire gallery. Featuring Judith Jamison dancing in Cry (1971) the piece reflects Ailey’s ode to “all Black women everywhere— especially our mothers.” Davis, known for sculpting Black dancers mid-pose in white plaster, was a child of performers and a former dancer who once aspired to join the Ailey company. Through her dynamic figures, the artist reframes the whiteness of her chosen material—a nod to classical statuary—in light of Black vigor and virtuosity.
“I remember being on my couch flipping through the stations, because back then you had to actually go up to the television and flip through stations. I came across PBS, and it was his (Ailey’s) funeral,” shared Davis. “They were doing Revelations, and then Donna Wood hit the stage doing Cry. At that moment, I knew I wanted to do that one day. I wanted to perform Cry. And so that summer I auditioned for the intensive summer program at Ailey and everything in my world was Ailey. I went to see the shows. I know Revelation, I know the dance Cry. It was all about Ailey all the time.
I remember Judith Jamison coming into class, creeping in the back, gracefully leaning back on the bars. We’d all just sit up, pull our stomachs in! Do our best performance. Because, you know, we all thought if she notices us, maybe one day we can follow in her footsteps. Maybe one day we can be in the company. Anytime she graced us with her presence, it was a moment. She was Queen Mother.
I really wanted to do a tribute to Judith Jamison and to all the mothers out there. Me being a mother, I think the piece really shows that with the stone. It looks like stone on the outside, but if you look inside the skirt there’s this torn world going on. This broken world going on. And I think that a lot of women can relate to that. You always have to be strong for your cubs and push through.”
Kya Lou
One of the most transformative pieces in the exhibition can’t be missed above your head. Filmmaker Kya Lou, along with Josh Begley and Adrienne Edwards, developed an 18-channel video installation that features a dynamic montage of Ailey’s life and dances. Playing on loop around the gallery, it’s a perfect addition of movement to the fixed works of art. Through squinted eyes, the paintings, textiles and sculptures almost dance.
“(Ailey’s) just always been ever present,” shared Lou. “I grew up with a family that were purveyors of the arts, dance and music, and I would always see Alvin Ailey posters on the walls of various family members. Myself, having practiced praise dance and church, Alvin’s legacy has just always touched everything that I’ve ever seen and been a part of.
I think a lot about spiritual metadata, which is the term I developed to think about the spiritual and haptic components that can be embedded in the data that defines the making of images. Like, how do we bond and relate to the archive? And so in the process of sitting with Alvin’s work, immersing myself in well over 1000 hours worth of tapes, I thought a lot about my own emotive responses that weren’t always a reaction to what I was seeing, but what I felt like I was missing.
Because of my background in post production, I’m aware of the unseen labor that is embedded in films, videos and the installations that we watch, and so I’m always searching for the unseen labor that is embedded in an artist’s work and process. Although we had a lot of material to work through, I couldn’t help but think of the things that did not make their way into the archive. And there are only a couple of tapes that existed of Alvin dancing independent of the choreography and other bodies. I often dream of how Alvin would have moved on the dance floor, away from the stage and his audiences. All of this together just really pushes me to spend more time thinking about the fragility of archives and what is left off the record, but also in this void, there’s just so much room to be playful and imagine. Which is kind of what drove the Studio 54 sequence in the film. A lot of that was extremely creative, because we combined footage from previous rehearsals during that time in which Studio 54 was ever present, but then also mixed in footage from Studio 54 itself to kind of create and imagine what Alvin’s experience might have been, personally, beyond the choreography. And so Alvin Ailey, his archives are just actively supporting how I think through my own relationships and archives and the spiritual metadata that they carry.”
Words by Shaquille Heath
