SOULEYMANE
BACHIR
DIAW

Sutura, la voix silencieuse des hommes, 2021 - ongoing

series of 21 photographs, inkjet print, 13x18cm, 40x60cm and 60x90cm, © Souleymane Bachir Diaw

"Écoute plus souvent les choses que les êtres" - Birago Diop, « Souffles »

The masculine has always appeared to me as a contradiction, an impossible in-between between a rigid façade and a blurred heart, expressive perhaps but seemingly inaccessible.

It often boils down to an imposing attitude, a demonstration of strength at all costs, in all places, at all times. Relationships between men must first be intimidating if any sort of hierarchy, however temporary, is to be established. The "real" man, the one who respects himself, is the strong man. The relationship between "man" and "strong" is (very often) one of equivalence, almost tautological. Masculinity, then, feels like the injunction of a posture to be respected. It is expressed through speech, interactions, modes of expression and clothing.

On the other hand, the Wolof word sutura refers to a virtue of discretion, implying "keeping up appearances". Sutura helps maintain social peace by softening conflicts and preserving vulnerability within the group. Sutura applies to everyone, men and women, but for men, it's above all the wise attitude (kilifë in wolof) of someone who knows when to speak and especially when to keep quiet. In sutura, there's an in extremis rescue of what must neither be seen nor heard.

For me, there's also something hidden, occulted, even mystical about sutura. It remains to be seen what is hidden: ourselves? To others? Ourselves to others? 

Because, ironically, my elders, whom I've seen hard and impassive, who smile only in exceptional cases, are also, on communion days, feast days or days of mourning, the ones who dance the highest and who cry or fall into a trance by dint of incantations. On such days, the group gives new life to solitude.

I saw clothing as revealing this contradiction in masculinity. Where I grew up and elsewhere, clothing is a privileged means of announcing oneself, representing oneself and representing oneself. Yet I have the feeling that clothing doesn't mean to tell the nuances of a man's intimate life. This is in stark contrast to the women, whose clothes are more telling, reflecting their social roles and emotional lives.

By observing the tiniest vibrations, the tiniest manifestations, I seek out nuances of male intimacy and vulnerability, which I then attempt to recreate by staging male and female bodies, objects and clothing, slowly depicting myself in this intimacy. The clothes I use are chosen from my wardrobe of souvenirs, made up of pieces rooted in the West African geographical area but also coming from various parts of the world; a testament to the diverse influences with which I grew up. 

They are very often ample, tailor-made, made of lighter or lighter materials, more or less rigid, sometimes embroidered, primed, perhaps even bequeathed. They are ceremonial or everyday, depending on use.

It's the versatility of these garments that is the fabric of my work. They forget to remind us of strength and virility, freeing man from them, and leaving him the space and volume of just being. It's like a metaphor. Clothing takes up more and more space. It becomes emotionally charged. It becomes personified. It becomes the person who wears it, saying what is beyond words. This human garment speaks a language of humility, grace and possibility.

As for the objects, they are there as witnesses to a long time, lost in silence. They are moments of communion or solitude, punctuating days and perceptions, such as the remains of lingering meals or snatches of conversation. 

In sutura, other appearances, other forms, new and forgotten, real and dreamt, are found. Saved forms, indeed, rescued from loss. At first we think we're hiding, and sutura ends up revealing us. 

Text written with Frederic Lecloux.