Black Families Through Queer Eyes
Kevin Young, the American poet and editor, believed that "archives exist to keep things safe" but never "secret." After all, the purpose of preserving the past is to protect the truth, so it follows that there's no room for deception when it comes to archiving. Thomas Allen Harris, the critically acclaimed filmmaker, has always understood the value of keeping memories safe without hiding anything. Guided by this philosophy, he built a remarkable body of work that uses photography and archives to hold his community together. I had the privilege of speaking to Thomas over the phone nine days after my move to Portland, Oregon. Going into our conversation, I had more than a few reasons to be excited: the novelty of living in the Northwest, my new job, and having the privilege of celebrating the 25th anniversary of his debut film, Vintage: Families of Value (1995). Harris was also in the middle of a transitional process; Harlem would no longer be home for his workspace.
I found it funny how both of us were making some crucial adjustments in our lives amid the COVID-19 pandemic. "Lots of great projects on the horizon and just a lot of good things happening," he said. Despite the chaos, Harris's gentle voice communicated his optimism for the future and immediately reminded me that I was speaking to an artist whose creativity does not submit to turbulent times. A quarter-century ago, Harris released Vintage: Families of Value, a documentary film celebrating queer siblings and their experiences within the black family. Production of Vintage took place during the height of the HIV/AIDS pandemic, but despite those circumstances, Harris managed to create pioneering work. Vintage made the relationship between queer brothers and sisters who grew up in a predominantly heterosexual environment the focus of a major documentary film.
Harris opened up our discussion by describing how the sense of community that he shared with his younger brother, Lyle, was the foundation of Vintage. "Speaking about this whole idea of Queer Majority, it [the relationship with Lyle] helped with the film in the sense that I wasn't the only one in my family who was queer and coming out," Harris explained. The bond with his brother motivated him to explore their relationship on film alongside the ones shared by other non-hetero siblings. In the beautiful, funny, and heartbreaking documentary that grew from this project, Harris raises smiles and questions, effortlessly examining sensitive issues like family, race, gender, and sexuality. These topics would become common threads throughout his body of work, which has earned him several international awards and a nomination for both an Emmy and a Peabody.
"My work is at the intersection of photography and cinema," Harris told me. Anyone familiar with his films is fully aware of the importance of that link to his craft. His love for photography began the moment his grandfather gifted him a camera when he was a child. "I was able to make the work I'm making now, in part because I had this amazing archive that I inherited from my grandfather," he told me proudly. Whether you're examining Harris's relationship with Lyle, the blessings he received from his grandfather, or his experience of growing up with "a mother that was very accepting," you can see the community support that allowed him to create a timeless American film.
Vintage has become a staple in documentary film festivals and filmmaking courses because of its approach in showing queer siblings growing up together. Besides Harris and Lyle, the film profiles Paul and his sister Vanessa, as well as Adrian, Anita, and Anni, who are all sisters. Harris interweaves footage of these three vibrant relationships, switching back and forth between them to highlight their uplifting stories; at the same time, the film also illuminates the negative impact of repressive community factors such as hypermasculinity, internalized homophobia, and sexual violence. A notable element is Harris's decision to allow the other siblings to film themselves without him being present. This risky experiment gave the film an authentic touch because it allowed the siblings to be themselves and control their narratives. His reason for granting this creative control was simple: "I wanted to give them the same kind of respect I would give another kind of collaborator."
One of the many facets of Vintage that I appreciate is the way Harris connects homophobia and racism in addressing his relationship with his father. He is frank in discussing the violent tendencies with which he had to contend while he was growing up, yet he takes a moment in the film to acknowledge how racism amplifies his father's toxic expressions of masculinity (homophobia, abusive behavior, and lack of emotional intelligence). Summing up his father's inner turmoil, he expresses his belief that his father "had killed some parts of himself" in conforming to conventional manhood, and was unable to adequately address the pain that racism had inflicted upon him because "real men don't cry!" Alas, we have a tragic but recurrent American story.
Although Vintage continues to stand the test of time and ensure Harris's place as a premier interdisciplinary artist, its artistic merit has not always been enough to convince gatekeepers that it deserves attention, and it has been overlooked in some circles due to its subject matter. "The film has been blackballed for years, even decades, and hasn't had the benefit of serious criticism and engagement, particularly from [heterosexual] black men," he said.
Still, though he understands that discrimination based on sexual orientation is prevalent throughout the art world, he cannot forget the significant role queer art plays in society. He cites the work of Audre Lorde and James Baldwin, and says, “We're building upon that.” Baldwin, one of his role models, experienced queerphobia throughout his career. The late author and activist was told by his agent to "burn the manuscript" of Giovanni’s Room (1956), now widely considered one of the greatest novels of the 20th century, because it dared to depict same-sex desire. Harris sees Vintage as part of a lineage of canonical work that includes Lorde's Sister Outsider (1984) and Baldwin's Nobody Knows My Name (1961), in keeping with a vision of art as an act of both rebellion and celebration. "We can choose that we have the power to celebrate. We're alive," he said.
My discussion with Harris wasn't just about celebrating the 25th anniversary of his groundbreaking documentary; the dialogue was also an opportunity for me to learn about him as an artist and activist. Ever one to credit his community, Harris consistently celebrated his predecessors throughout. "I had the support of Marlon Riggs and Isaac Julien's works," he was quick to tell me.
I wasn’t surprised he mentioned Riggs, the late documentary filmmaker whose work explored historical and contemporary representations of race and sexuality in American culture, several times during our conversation.
“I'm a protégé,” he says proudly. I left our phone call with a new appreciation of Harris as an artist. I’d always been convinced of his talents, and his commitment to presenting authentic narratives is self-evident in his films. What I gained from talking to him was an appreciation of his place in a long line of black activist-artists that has inspired and informed him, and a recognition of the deep love for his community that manifests in his work. In the connections he feels there, both to the generations that have come before and to his contemporaries, it’s impossible not to see a parallel to the concept of “chosen family” that has been so vital for queer communities in finding the support — and the sense of belonging — needed to live free and authentic lives. As much as his talent, it’s perhaps this recognition of his place in a “black family” that extends throughout history that enabled him to deliver an experimental masterpiece that pushed the envelope in the arena of documentary films.
Published Mar 18, 2021
Updated Mar 6, 2024
