So I had a nice afternoon with an area blogger who went with me and a friend to see the Josephine Baker exhibit at the Smithsonian. I had a couple of thoughts while there.

Inky Oceans have been spilled on the woman, and I’m no expert by any stretch of the imagination. But I came away from the experience feeling very much “la plus ca change…” First off: so did she enjoy some gay sex or not? You wouldn’t really be too clear on that from the exhibit, which made little sense to me in this very gay town and with all the gay people who were there (like, 70%). They mentioned how she was a “groundbreaker” in terms of race, gender and sexuality, but left out the details for the last part. Um, why?

I also was struck by the way in which clips from her early films in the 20s reminded me of corporate Hip Hop videos today. Booty shakin, big old lip closeups, monochromatic emphasis making black look blacker and white look whiter. Is there really that much difference between the “exotic” desire for a naked brown woman in a banana skirt and BlingBling Beyonce-lust today? You tell me.

The white folks there wouldn’t look me in the eye. It was an odd vibe. I kept wondering if the smiling white couples there were doing essentially the same thing as nightclubbers of the past were doing: getting some easy titillation by looking at a naked brown woman. Kudos to the curators for keeping the naked, banana skirt shots to a minimum, but clearly, some people were there for that.

And finally, I was reminded of just how far we’ve still got to go when it comes to better understanding race, and I mean you, Euroreader. It never fails to amaze me to think upon how the French revere this rather plain, only marginally talented woman (who did great stuff with the Resistance and civil rights in the US), but can’t understand why impoverished former colonials from the Middle East and North Africa aren’t happy in the slums around Paris. Race-disparate birth rates: you better get used to them, my Euro friends. Brown and Black are your future.

Still, it was better than being in a mall fighting with other patriotic consumers over the newest in plastic Chinese junk. This season, give the gift of a donation to a museum in your gift receipient’s name. Or, buy a reproduction lithograph from the museum store. Sigh, what I wouldn’t give to live in an era in which corporate art was actually…art.