Chez Marieme Soda Diop

by Katarina Radović, photographer

Published in the catalogue of Katarina Radović's exhibition When You've Stopped Combing Me, I'll Stop Hating You in the Museum of African Art in Belgrade, June 2016

Saint-John Perse’s famous verse in Eloges XVII (Praises) “Quand vous aurez fini de me coiffer, j’aurai fini de vous haïr,” (When you’ve stopped combing me, I’ll stop hating you) could probably best describe what all black girls feel towards their mothers, older sisters or cousins during the several-hour long rituals of hairstyling, a dramatic event in the life of every African woman.

The initial idea for this photographic project was born in Paris in 2006, while walking through Château Rouge. It’s the 'Little Africa' of the French capital: markets with exotic fruits and spices, shop windows dressed with objects made of brush-wood, percussion instruments and pumpkins, the shop selling live chickens (confidential sources say that they are sold exclusively for magic rituals) and numerous hair salons and tailor shops. The hair salons attract attention in an unusual way, with contrasting faces of the clients: from those smiling and delightful, to those shrivelled and worn-out. The shy yet confidential smile of a young woman, leaves me with the firm impression that the woman answered affirmatively to the passing comment: “Are you preparing for your future husband?”. The thorough weaving of small braids and decoration of the hair with various plugins – that uncompromising sacrifice for beauty, a work that demands that hours and hours be spent at the hair salon, combing, snipping and braiding, with the inevitable discussions about the day’s events – seemed to me to be a very interesting topic for my camera. However, during one of those nights, talking with my friend Diaga from Senegal who so graciously welcomed me to her home in Paris that autumn, I discovered the other side of the story. While she was combing her hair, and preparing to go to a hairstylist the following day, she kept saying: “This is what I have had to put up with for more than thirty years... This mindless, incessant hair-pulling! And all this with the goal that I should look beautiful and feminine - but at what cost!? Maybe you could make a series of photographs about that - with your crisp sense of humour and your poetic eye, you could work on this subject very well.”

Several years later, the opportunity presented itself – in Africa. I applied for a residency programme at the Centre for Art and Design – WAAW, in the old colonial town of Saint-Louis, Senegal, that lasted for a month and a half; and during the summer of 2013, I managed to produce this photographic work. The main focus of WAAW is on artistic projects that are relevant for the local creative community, while the centre is led by a group of Finns, admirers and experts on the subject of West African life. My story took place at one of the most frequented hair salons in Saint-Louis – Madame Marieme Soda Diop’s – an almost exclusively women’s world, the zone of intimacy and gossip, where with the use of the traditional accessories and techniques, the entire spectre of women’s hairstyles emerged: from the completely ordinary to the incredibly lavish, depending on the occasion. Each of these hairstyles demanded time and patience, but also, indubitably, a certain dose of agony and pain.

Hair has always had a special significance in the majority of African cultures, especially as a medium of power and communication in traditional societies. It was not only seen as a decoration of the head (which is the source of wisdom). Many African traditions believe that hair contains the life force, erotic potential and fertility, and that it also signifies the person’s identity. In addition to that, African hair is very specific, and demands thorough and time-consuming treatment, as well as the frequent application of various additional materials. My interest was not primarily focused on the end product – hairstyles. I tried to record the beauty in the coiffeuring of these hairstyles – the interaction between satisfaction and pain in the process of creating hairstyles in this African culture, as well as the personal emotions invested in this ‘sacrifice’ for the higher good, i.e. as the initiation into society and identification with certain ethnic, cultural and age groups, as well as the symbolising of social and economic status, religion, etc. I was intrigued by what I had seen and read so far, but also by the things Diaga told me. I had tried to decipher, first hand, how pride and glory have their price, and how the stories about the desires and ambitions, and the stories of the shudders of pain, intertwined with the stories about hair. Today I firmly believe that there is something in the relationship between hairdressers and their customers which comes before the final product: the mixed feelings of tenderness, pain, obsession, seduction, trust, rivalry, love and hate; and that this ritual, to a certain extent, represents the model of the 'sado-masochistic' relationship. Those feelings were exactly what I wanted to capture in my photographs – by using the example of African hair.

The photographs from the series When You’ve Stopped Combing Me... also reflect the feeling that, hand-in-hand with the glamourous and the exotic, there is also the sombre reality of the African origin itself. In Senegal, beauty is an important subject of debate. Despite the ever-growing influence of global fashion magazines and television programmes, as well as the advances in new technologies, the appearance of women to this day largely evokes the concept of the raw, native beauty and the elegance of the so-called signares[1]. Even though the streets they walk on are sand and stones, and the soles of their feet are as thick as leather, the women in this part of Africa dress up not only for special occasions, but they even go to collect water looking like queens. I wanted to document the states, which point to the 'before' and 'after' moments in this process of dressing-up; which evoke the feeling that there is a goal in the process of the transformation of the hair, and with that the entire head, into a special art form and cultural entity, with all the symbolic implications: the desire to be liked and admired. It is the observer who should imagine for which occasion each and every one of these women is preparing, and what each of them is feeling.

This entire subject is rich in various meanings; but it is also interesting, not only for the local communities, but for the wider public, since it belongs to the history of colonialism and migrations and to the positioning of the women’s role in societies where the economic and social discrimination of women still takes place, where women still tirelessly do all the housework, while men are mostly responsible for taking all the big decisions as regards the family, and in cultures where (less so in the large cities) clitoridectomy is still practised. Under such circumstances, women have needed to find a sort of relief, to satisfy the desire to be different and to be liked and to find some ways to entertain themselves, socialise and to fill their free time. Apart from all of this, what is also interesting is the opportunity to meet women from faraway cultures, women from the Third World – the chance to hear their voice and their personal vision, by seeing it through the prism of a patriarchal society partly similar to the one I come from, which still has unidentified and tangled views on what is ‘marginal’.

It was not easy to photograph people in Africa, especially women. There is a certain burden with ancient beliefs in the magical power of photography, and then there are the various religious barriers of the Islamised ethnic groups of Sub-Saharan Africa; but also, to no less an extent, the realisation that someone might, in practical terms, abuse the photographs, display them in an inappropriate manner, make money out of them, etc. Thus, the photographs that are part of this project were made in agreement with the models. Friendships were established, and in the majority of cases, the models were compensated. None of this would have happened if I had not had a guide, i.e. the middleman. Doudou appeared completely by chance at the WAAW and recommended the hair salon of his elder sister Mrs. Soda Diop, with whom I made an agreement that allowed me to take photographs of the models and hairstyles, while covering the expenses for materials used and the work. Going through magazines and choosing hairstyles, we agreed in advance about the things we would be doing on a specific day, with Mrs. Soda suggesting aspects of the activities to which I should pay special attention, and without hiding from me the secrets of her mastery. During all this, Doudou, with a lot of effort and cold beer, was translating from French into English and vice-versa. Mrs. Soda explained the meaning of each hairstyle and pointed out on which occasions one would wear it. I was slowly and surely accepted as an inevitability by both the workers in the salon and the customers. Doudou and I came to the salon almost every day at exactly the same time. As we would slowly start to work, in the meantime, ataya – green tea with mint leaves, made in the Senegalese way – would be served... The first round... the second... and then the third. Then at a certain point, the work would stop and lunch would be served – most often thieboudienne[2] or yassa[3] with chicken or fish – sometimes on a low table and sometimes on a cloth on the floor in the middle of the salon. At that point, hidden members of the extended family from the living quarters would emerge from the shadows. We would all eat together, while they would offer me, as a special guest, the best pieces of meat, fish or vegetables and place them on my side of our large shared plate. I was observing the everyday life of this faraway culture in all its finesse and trying to decipher what they were talking about in their local language. Later, I found out that the topics ranged from how to get the sheep or goat to the sacrifice for the Tabaski holiday (known to us as Eid al-Adha) to who had won the traditional laamb wrestling competition[4], or what had happened in the current telenovellas they were watching on TV. From time to time, they would ask me about where I came from, and what it was like in that eastern part of Europe. One of the younger male members of the household knew that there had been wars in the former Yugoslavia, but it was not important where exactly that place was. While the fan wrestled unsuccessfully with the heat, and the music jingled from the small transistor radio, the faces of the local marabout and models from the torn pages of the fashion magazines looked down on us from the walls. After lunch, with the new round of ataya, mothers would breastfeed their babies, and from her corner, a silent old woman, the eldest member of the household, would look at us with approval. Indeed, I managed to elicit an occasional smile from her ancient face. In time, I felt completely accepted: I was even given a name – Awa, which could be translated as Eve and which meant that I was completely welcome.

When the relatives finally returned to their quarters, a women’s circle would form again, and continue to work until late into the evening. While somewhere in the distance, in the men’s world, the songs of the Mouride[5] or some other religious fraternity could be heard, hands were busy in this salon, as were scissors, combs, needles, even the candlelight and the razors, and artificial locks of hair, nets, pearls and cowry shells were used as hairstyle extensions. Following the often painstaking process of hairstyling, incredible creations would emerge from the salon, with satisfied smiles and expressions of gratitude on the women’s faces. Often, local passers-by and neighbours curious to see what was happening and why it was being photographed would pop into the salon. I was satisfied with my photographic material – and grateful as well, even though it took a lot of time in the beginning for some customers to handle their shyness and restraint in front of the camera. When finally – in an improvised studio made from the fabrics found at the salon – I photographed the end product, i.e. the hairstyle of each model, lacking the verbal means of communication, I would sometimes have to use my body language to inspire them to pose, move their heads to the left or to the right, smile... It is true that the younger women were more willing to cooperate than the older. But, we did not always manage to understand one another well, so they would often shyly and comically imitate my hand and head gestures, instead of understanding my movements as suggestions on how they should pose. Then Doudou would return to the rescue and help with the translation, while Mrs. Soda would jokingly encourage them to relax. I believe that intuitively Mrs. Soda and I understood each other perfectly well - except over one thing: at a certain point, she tried to get me to become an additional member of her family!

Nevertheless, in the end, we kept to the practical and business part of the plan: Mrs. Soda’s salon received its well-deserved advertising and I got a new series of photographs, while these lovely women and girls got their new hairstyles and – in many cases – their first printed photographs.

Perhaps what charmed me most was that, in this little hairdresser’s salon in Senegal, the desire for beauty and the need to be liked and admired proved far stronger than the pain!