Davis Family Project - Mart, Tx
by Paula Gerstenblatt-Daviscontinued from Home page
Like many small towns that once thrived, Mart had experienced a decline in population and economic prosperity. The main commercial street housed more vacant storefronts than occupied ones. Homes were abandoned and literally falling apart. You could still decipher the past glory in the architectural details of gingerbread Victorians with lattice peeling but hanging on, a metaphor for the town itself. Many people lamented the decline, spoke of how beautiful the town once was, and described with pride manicured lawns and well kept homes. It was difficult to see through the overgrown lots, abandoned homes and empty storefronts; however, if one listened closely to the longing in the voices telling late night stories, it was possible to visualize another time, and the swell of activity that once filled these streets and the lives of those who resided along them.
As a visual artist who has used my art-making to tap into memory, I was inspired to employ artistic and architectural methods to create a collaborative family project with memory as the theme. It was conceivable to me that the Davis family could create a sculptural structure together on the overgrown land where the family home once stood. I proposed this vague vision to the elder family members as an activity during the annual family reunion in June. To my delight, the response was one of enthusiasm and support, regardless of my ability to be specific. As my sister in law Ruby Bridgewater said, “We’ll do what we can this year and continue next year. We need to bring the family to the land again.” I was bursting with excitement while paused by trepidation at the responsibility I assigned myself, and concerned about the expectations I might have raised.
Two weeks before the reunion, I drove to Texas from my home in the San Francisco Bay area via southern Utah, awed by the dramatic beauty of Coral Reef National Park, Monument Valley and the many scenic vistas along the way. I traveled the back roads of Texas through small towns, many bearing a strong resemblance to Mart. In each and every town I saw a glimmer of the past in the architectural details of the buildings on Main Street, the long closed art deco theaters, and generous town squares. Relics of the past littered the roadside: old rusted trucks and cars, boarded up cafes and hotels, and service stations with lawns of weeds protruding through the cracked cement. The whispers of ghosts ran along side me as I drove, and although I was riding solo, I felt the haunting presence of others.
When I arrived in Mart my first order of business was to visit to the family land and see what we were up against, particularly to clear the overgrowth. As I stood on the street I wondered, “How am I going to pull this one off?” The vegetation was so tangled and deep it was impossible to walk onto the property. I had been visualizing some type of entry, an archway perhaps with a short fence on each side that we could attach artifacts, laminated photos, and other found objects leading to a cement pond of memories. Other than an entryway and the cement pond that I hoped to tint blue, my plans were not specific. I had no answers to questions posed about the details of the construction. My nieces Cindy Hurth, Janet Bridgewater and Rhonda Carpenter, and my sister in law Syleta Davis, were satisfied enough with my abstract vision to offer themselves up with a great enthusiasm. We planned excitedly each day to rummage through the abandoned homes and visit elders who could speak to the past we were chasing after, and if lucky, offer us photos or other artifacts. We called out dares, then doubled over in laughter as we climbed through abandoned homes filled with debris, broken windows, floor boards that snapped apart with the application of slight pressure, old doors falling off the hinges and furniture mildewed from the damp interior that suffered from a lack of sunlight and ventilation. Despite the fun we were having, a prevailing sadness resonated from these homes. Some still had old cans of food in the cupboards, torn clothes strewn across the floor, broken dolls and toys stuck in the floorboards, as if departure had taken place on a moment's notice. Others had clearly been unoccupied for many years. My nieces and sister in law spoke of the families who once lived there and recounted their visits and relationships with the former residents.
We were able to salvage some doors and windows before they fell into complete decay. Family and friends dug into their treasure troves of old objects. My vision of an archway was realized with an old iron arch choked by vines in my nephew Buck Hurth’s backyard. Our neighbor Bonnie Garret succumbed to our pleas to use the iron fencing, perfectly poised for our project, that stood to the side of her house. I blasted music outside my brother in law Rob Davis’ house as I painted the old door and windows in the afternoon heat. Rob, blinded by glaucoma several years ago, sat on the porch under a shade tree smiling as we joked and chatted. My niece Cindy dropped by and stood silent as I painted. After a while, she expressed awe at the transformation from discarded junk to a work of art. A few wrought iron pieces leaned against a tree waiting to be spray-painted. Cindy offered to go to the store and buy the paint. When she returned, her son Gavin was waiting. Without any instruction from me, Gavin and Cindy began to spray paint the iron pieces, including an old mailbox. The momentum was building.
The land had been cleared by a tractor once, and mowed two additional times. We spent hours cleaning debris and garbage tossed onto the land over the years. Bags and bags were hauled to the dump. My nephew John Michael Hurth availed himself to our constant requests everyday; navigating his pick up in every direction, working the land when needed, lifting the “too heavy” and never a complaint, just a slow easy smile. Folks drove by and slowed to a crawl, trying to figure out what we were up to. We planned a ceremony on Saturday morning, and at Syleta’s suggestion, we would save the Fallen Leaves Door to be painted with the family present. Friday afternoon we gathered on the land to place the arch, fence and dig the pond in preparation of the cement pour. We worked well into the night, using headlights when darkness fell.
Early Saturday morning I arrived on the property to prepare for the ceremony. I began to spray paint the fence and shortly after my arrival family began to appear, eager to work. It was a frantic time as folks dashed in different directions. It was also a magical time with everyone centered around the project and once again on the land that for so long had been vacant of our presence. Grandchildren and great grandchildren worked and played. A collection of old pictures were passed around and good natured disputes about who was who ensued, along with roars of laughter, and perhaps a hidden tear now and then. My nephew Abehjah, a professional film editor who has been collecting footage of the family for years, filmed in between digging the pond. I laminated photos to hang on the fence and place in the pond of memories. Young children strung beads to hang on the fence, and later tossed handfuls of glass and plastic beads in the pond when the blue paint was mixed into concrete. My sister in law Ruby suggested that family representatives write the names of those who have passed onto the Fallen Leaves Door, a truly brilliant idea. By the time the ceremony began, we had accumulated a crowd of family and friends, not to mention the steady stream of the curious passing by, no doubt fueled by the small town grapevine.
The inscription of each name on the door established their rightful presence on the land. Clearing the land and removing the debris had become a metaphor, making way for our presence as well as the spirit of those who occupied the land in days past. We conjured up images and memories of the house, and all of us, those who relied on memories and those who leaned on fantasy, had joined the past to the present. After our dinner in Waco, an unplanned gathering occurred on the land. This happened repeatedly in the days to come. We decided to hold the reunion on the land the following year. It was as if we could not tear ourselves away. On Sunday morning, my daughter Rena and niece Cindy, along with our neighbor Bonnie Garret, planted flowers in the old bathtub, now spray-painted blue and reborn as a planter. Several times that day we found ourselves on the land, and lo and behold, others gravitated there as well. We pulled out chairs and chatted for hours. My nieces and I grinned ear to ear as our doubters fessed up and congratulated us for a job well done. We had created a stir, and as a result of the project, began to interview elders in search of photos and other mementos, recording stories in danger of disappearing.
In the local library I carefully perused the fifteen or so display cases looking for any documentation of the black history in Mart. Not a black face was visible. It was sobering and infuriating to imagine black children whose parents pay taxes to support the library unable to find evidence of their place in history among the collection. We vowed to change that fact by documenting the history ourselves, using oral tradition, photos, documents and any other evidence we could find and properly archive. What began as a family project had blossomed into a community movement. People stopped my family at the local grocery store, expressing their admiration for the project. To this day, the land remains untouched, not a stone out of place. It is recognized as a sacred site, and to desecrate it, remove objects or toss trash would be an act of disrespect, not only to those who created the structure and those honored by it, but to those who would commit such an act themselves.
The Davis family is planning to continue the work. We have plans to expand the structure and further cultivate the land, and eventually rebuild the family home. Next year we will gather there for our reunion and share memories, those from the distant past as well as those newly created. Our intention is to document the history of the black community of Mart, Texas. We also imagine taking over more vacant lots for a community garden and sculptural projects, and establishing markers to indicate where the black stores, Laundromat, schools, hotel and barbershop once stood.