New York, New York
February 23, 1935
“Are you sure this is the right address? This doesn’t look like an art gallery.”
Earl peers over the passenger seat and replies with a rascal’s smile. “Now, I may lead you astray from time to time, but have I ever been guilty of delivering you to the wrong destination, ma’am?”
“No,” I concede, thinking of all the times he’s shepherded me to events and rallies and meetings all around the country in all kinds of weather using all sorts of transportation, from cars to trains to planes and—in one strange instance—a horse and buggy.
“This is indeed the Arthur U. Newton Gallery, an address that I personally triple-checked. Because the art exhibit had to be relocated at the last minute to this gallery—due to the death threats—I inspected the premises earlier today to ensure we could protect you here.”
“Thank you for going above and beyond, Earl.”
“Ma’am, there is no such thing as above and beyond when it comes to you.”
He leaps out of the car to open my door, and I enter the frigid, velvety blue night. As I step up to the landing of the elegant six-story building, I hear footsteps behind me. On edge from my conversation with Walter White, who detailed the threats of violence the NAACP received for organizing the show, I pivot, only to see Earl.
“What are you doing?” I ask, astonished—and admittedly a bit relieved—to see him. Earl never accompanies me to my appointments. He only lurks in the shadows.
“I’ll be at your side every step of the way tonight,” he says.
“That really isn’t necessary, Earl. I’m sure you can manage my safety from the periphery.”
“I am acting on the order of President Roosevelt, ma’am.”
Earl’s insistence on a procession of vehicles now makes sense. Franklin and I had an enormous battle over my desire to come to this exhibit; he railed at the “unnecessary risks” of attendance, given the threats sent to the NAACP and the protests staged outside the prestigious Jacques Seligmann gallery, where the anti-lynching exhibit had originally been scheduled. Only after heated exchanges and two more lynchings of young men, Jerome Wilson and Claude Neal, did he finally relent.
Arm in arm, Earl and I step into the foyer of the gallery, where we are greeted by marble floors, creamy walls, and the hint of brass, gilt, and wooden frames peeking out from adjoining rooms. And Mary and Mr. White, of course.
“Mrs. Roosevelt, it is such an honor to host you at An Art Commentary on Lynching,” Mr. White says.
I reach out my hand to shake Mr. White’s hand and then Mary’s. In my peripheral vision, I see both white and colored guests at the gallery gawk at this gesture.
After I introduce Earl, I say, “I would not have missed this exhibit for the world. You certainly took Franklin at his word when he suggested that we find another way to stop lynching.”
The sadness and anger I felt on that day nine months ago when my husband declared he would not support the anti-lynching bill is still with me. I haven’t given up, but Mary and I have decided to focus more widely—and look for innovative ways to raise awareness, like Mr. White’s exhibit.
“We cried enough tears, didn’t we?” Mary says. “But now we move forward, and this ingenious idea of Walter’s will raise national awareness about lynching in all sorts of communities.”
Turning to Mr. White, I say, “Well, I am proud to be here tonight to support your brainchild.”
“I can’t tell you how much your words move me, Mrs. Roosevelt. Please call me Walter, if you are comfortable with that. Shall we enter the first gallery room?”
Guests mill about, studying the pieces of art. Mary nods hello to two young colored women in professional attire who call out “Mrs. Bethune” in greeting, and several people stare at me as I pass. As we walk toward a specific painting, Mary says, “Walter, you have to be pleased with the many white and colored folks in the crowd. How far your message will spread.”
Walter’s smile is wide and his blue eyes twinkle, but it doesn’t last. His expression quickly turns somber. I understand. He needs to maintain a grave countenance, given the theme of the exhibit. “I am pleased. I hope this will bring lynching into the mainstream news and not only the colored papers. My greatest desire is that people will be moved to act against lynching.” He lowers his voice and adds, “Let us allow the images of renowned artists like Isamu Noguchi, Thomas Hart Benton, and José Clemente Orozco to speak to us rather than words.”
A black-and-white picture hangs on the wall before us. The smallness of its scale—possibly two feet by one and a half feet—prompts us to lean toward it for a closer look.
Walter then presents a fair-skinned colored man in his thirties to us. “Mrs. Roosevelt. Mrs. Bethune. Will you do me the honor of allowing me to introduce you to Mr. Hale Woodruff? He is the artist of this painting, called By Parties Unknown, and he also teaches at Atlanta University, where he’s founded an art department.”
Dapper in a striped suit, the mustachioed young artist bows toward us. I say, “It is a pleasure, Mr. Woodruff.”
“The pl-pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Roosevelt,” he replies. I don’t imagine he expected to see the First Lady here.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Woodruff,” Mary adds. “I’m a fan of what you’re doing at Atlanta University for our young colored boys and girls, giving them opportunities in a field not known for welcoming them.”
“Thank you, ma’am. It’s an honor to meet the Mrs. Bethune.”
Niceties aside, Walter launches into his purpose. As always. “Mrs. Roosevelt and Mrs. Bethune, when I invited the artists to participate in this exhibit, I asked each to focus on the brutality of lynching without concern for how violent or disturbing the images might be.” Turning to the young man, Walter says, “Mr. Woodruff, would you mind telling us about your picture?”
As Mr. Woodruff takes a big breath, I lean in to examine the black-and-white piece. At first, all I can make out is the image of a somewhat run-down church, complete with stained glass windows. Then I realize there is a body laid out on the church’s front steps, a man with his hands bound behind his back and a noose around his neck.
“As you can probably see, my subject is the victim of a lynching. I used black to render the image of a lifeless young Negro who’s been cut down from a tree where he was hung and deposited by the mob on the church steps.”
“It’s very moving,” I say, unable to take my eyes off the sad, striking composition.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “That was my intention.”
“Do you mind if I ask about the title, By Parties Unknown? Why did you choose that?”
Mary, Walter, and Mr. Woodruff give each other a curious look. Did I say something wrong? I’m not an art aficionado, but I would have guessed that a query about the title was acceptable.
“The phrase ‘By Parties Unknown’ is often used in sheriff or governmental reports or in the press as a way to evade naming the lynchers, even if their identity is well-known,” he says almost apologetically.
I see why they exchanged glances. The phrase is familiar to those in the colored community because lynching and the efforts by lynchers to avoid punishment, often aided by local law enforcement, are common. How little I know.
“Why is the poor man on the church steps?” Mary asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing.”
“I hoped to highlight the hypocrisy of the lynchers and the mob—that dichotomy between their actions and the beliefs they profess to hold,” Mr. Woodruff says.
“How powerful,” I say. “We tell people that all the time, but it’s quite a different experience to see it. It allows you to feel the terror and inhumanity of lynching in a visceral way.” Earl makes a small noise, and I realize this exhibit is affecting him as well.
Walter practically jumps up and down with excitement. “Mrs. Roosevelt, that is it exactly—the entire purpose of this exhibit. To have viewers experience what it’s like to be a colored person in the South and ask how we can consider ourselves a civilized country if torture and murder routinely happen without regard or punishment.”
We move through the pictures in the gallery. Mr. Woodruff gets pulled away at one point, and it is just us four as we stand before the final image. It appears to be a charcoal sketch of a white crowd standing before a farmhouse, all wearing the sorts of hats and bonnets that might be worn by farm folk, as an older woman holds a young girl on her shoulders. The mood is merry and therefore incongruous in the context of this exhibit.
“You look a little confused, Mrs. Roosevelt?” Walter asks.
“Well, for the life of me, I cannot image what this scene has to do with the anti-lynching theme.”
“This sketch is by the New Yorker magazine illustrator Reginald Marsh,” Walter says as Mary leans close to see the caption at the bottom of the drawing.
“This is her first lynching,” she reads to us.
Suddenly the entire picture changes. No longer is this a jolly farm crowd gathered together to watch something out of sight in the sketch, such as an auction or a traveling performer. Instead, this group turns into an ugly mob, witnessing a man being lynched for entertainment. They are so evil, they deem a lynching pleasant enough to bring a child.
I reach for Mary’s hand, clasping it as I stare at this horrible sight, this induction of a young child into ritualized, accepted racial bloodshed. “This may well be the most disturbing piece in the entire exhibit.”
As Mary murmurs her agreement, Walter probes further. “Why is that, Mrs. Roosevelt?” His tone does not bear any surprise, and I’m guessing my reaction is the whole point.
“Because it evokes a terrible truth that Mary revealed to me not long ago. Inaction in the face of racism is acquiescence to it.”