Category: Biography

Description

Madam C. J. Walker—reputed to be America’s first self-made woman millionaire—has long been celebrated for her rags-to-riches story. Born to former enslaved parents in the Louisiana Delta in the aftermath of the Civil War, married at fourteen, and widowed at twenty, Walker spent the first decades of her life as a laundress, laboring in conditions that paralleled the lives of countless poor and working-class African American women. By the time of her death in 1919, however, Walker had refashioned herself into one of the most famous African American figures in the nation: the owner and president of a hair-care empire and a philanthropist wealthy enough to own a country estate near the Rockefellers. In this biography, Erica Ball places this remarkable and largely forgotten life story in the context of Walker’s times.

I recently saw an episode of Antiques Roadshow where a Black stylist brought in a first edition of Madame CJ Walker’s Beauty Book published in 1920 and valued at $7500. The stylist commented that she still uses some of instructions found in the book. I thought that was interesting and reminded me that I have wanted to know more about Madame Walker. This book satisfied my curiosity.

Author Erica L. Ball is a professor of History and Black Studies at Occidental College and she has produced a scholarly and very readable biography of this multi-talented, complicated woman. Part of the Library of African-American Biography series, this offers a deep look into Walker’s life from her beginnings as Sarah Breedlove right through to her becoming the first Black millionaire in the United States.

Ball addresses the good and bad aspects of Walker’s life and ends up presenting a well-written, well-researched, fascinating look at an American icon. Recommended.

As a child, I adored Ripley’s “Believe It or Not” publications – comic books, paperbacks, a wax museum in Niagara Falls NY…anything that had the Ripley name on it, I was there. For me, Ripley’s cartoons began a lifelong fascination with and respect for the odd and unusual. When I stumbled upon A Curious Man, I was intrigued as I’d never really given much thought to the man behind the myth. Unfortunately, as is usually the case, the man fails to live up to the myth.

Neal Thompson has produced a detailed if unimaginative biography of LeRoy Robert Ripley – cartoonist, world-traveler, athlete, and all around dog who made his fortune and reputation by collecting and drawing oddities from around the world. We first meet Roy Ripley, the awkward child traumatized by a pronounced overbite and a mouth too small for all his teeth. Despite Thompson’s constant reminders about Ripleys’ teeth, an early photo of Ripley depicts a mischievous, impish urchin sporting a wide grin. This picture made me think of Tom Sawyer and the type of mischief-making boys so well-described in Twain’s work. Thompson, however, was working with a real boy rather than a fictional one, and described the young Ripley warts and all.

As Thompson follows Ripley through his life, I began to really dislike the man. What came through was a picture of a selfish, chauvinistic, narcissistic, but extremely insecure, man who held women in very low esteem, and who, despite his love for travel and exploration, was the definition of, if not the inspiration for, the phrase “Ugly American.” His lack of respect for other cultures was startling, as evidenced in this passage:

“He considered it too much work to learn even a few phrases of his host country’s language, unabashedly speaking English at all times. As he’d done in Europe years earlier, when someone didn’t understand him, he spoke louder.”

However, despite my own dislike of Ripley, Thompson has done a decent job of describing the man and his life, including almost too much detail, which adds to the length of the book. At times, the writing was juvenile and nondescript; the author’s use of modern colloquialism was also distracting – for example, describing Ripley’s soon-to-be-divorced wife as “pissed off.”

Despite Ripley’s hound-dog lifestyle, Thompson does manage to convey Ripley’s concern for the people he met during his world travels. The hunger and poverty he witnessed in Asia “haunted” him. In his own way, Ripley used his cartooning as a way to bring awareness of other cultures and countries to Americans. Ripley was a complicated man, and writing about his crazy life was surely a monumental task. I really wanted to like this biography of a man whose work has played such a role in my life as a reader, but I found my attention wandering constantly, and getting through the book was a chore. The author could have easily edited out several chapters and had a better, more compact biography; however, shortening the content probably wouldn’t make me like Ripley any better.

Queen of Vaudeville: The Story of Eva Tanguay by Andrew Erdman

Before Madonna, Katy Perry, and Lady GaGa, there was Eva Tanguay. Never heard of her? Neither had I, but by the time I finished this entertaining biography, I knew more about the First Lady of Vaudeville than I ever needed to know.

Tanguay began performing at the tender age of 8, and went on to become the most celebrated performer of her time, despite regular reports that she could neither sing nor dance. She made up for her lack of talent with her outrageous performances, which she undertook with enthusiasm and joyful abandonment. She became known for songs such as “It’s All Been Done Before, But Not the Way I Do It,” “Go As Far As You Like,” “That’s Why They Call me Tabasco,” and her most famous ditty, “I Don’t Care.”

At one point in her career, she was the highest paid performer in Vaudeville, earning as much as $3500 a week, unheard of at that time, especially for a woman. Erdman does a fine job of recounting Tanguay’s life and rise to stardom. The photos sprinkled throughout the text show a vivacious woman, usually grinning or winking at the camera, who obviously loved what she did for a living.

Anyone with a taste for pop culture should find this biography highly entertaining, just like Eva Tanguay.

April 17, 1976. The first time I ever saw Patti Smith was during her memorable appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was 13 and just getting turned on to punk rock — The Ramones, Blondie, Boomtown Rats…and Patti Smith. I remember being fascinated by what I saw but also more than a little puzzled. There was something more there than just music. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was art with a capital A.

As I grew older, I also grew fairly tired of the harsh, dissonant sound of punk. It seemed to me it became an affectation rather than a belief, an excuse rather than a stand. But I never grew tired of Patti Smith and her raspy, atonal vocals and raw, poetic lyrics. After awhile though, she disappeared and I forgot about her and her music/art.

Until I read a review of Just Kids, which I knew I had to get my hands on.

Just Kids is the story of Smith and her lover/friend/soulmate Robert Mapplethorpe, a trailblazer in his own right. Smith’s elegant, lyrical prose begins with her own childhood and eventually blends into her early life in NYC, where she wandered the streets alone, until she met Mapplethorpe.

She describes their early life together as one full of discovery and expression — both creating art as they felt it and experienced it in their daily lives. Objects held great importance for Smith and Mapplethorpe — how objects are made, used, treasured, seen. Smith used words and music to describe, while Mapplethorpe used the camera and both succeeded in making us see things differently.

Smith opens a window into the NYS art scene of the 70s and 80s, populated by such people as Andy Warhol and his entourage. While she writes about living and interacting with people now considered icons, Smith makes them all seem like regular human beings living out their purpose. None of the woke up one day and said “I’m going to create an icon today.” Instead they simply lived their lives and created as they went.

Art was as natural to them as breathing.

Throughout it all, Smith gives a human voice to Mapplethorpe, who continues to be considered one of the most controversial artists ever. He was just a beautiful boy trying to help people look at the ordinary and see the extraordinary.

Smith handles Mapplethorpe’s death from AIDS with gentleness and authentic remorse. She uses a number of his photos of her throughout the book which reveal a stark but elegant beauty. Her account of Mapplethorpe’s last days and the aftermath of his death is heartbreaking.

Just Kids is a beautiful book and well worth the reading.

Mapplethorpe asks Smith at the end, “Did Art get us, Patti?” Maybe it did.