Artist and curator Jean-François Manicom’s work is rooted in his personal connection to the legacies of slavery and colonialism, stemming from his mixed heritage of Indian, West African, and slave-owner ancestry in Guadeloupe. This conversation touches upon his work on slavery museums in Guadeloupe, Liverpool, and London.
Adeena Mey
Could you share some insights about your background and how you became involved in museum curation that addresses the legacies of transatlantic slavery?
Jean-François Manicom
I come from Guadeloupe. I am interested in the history of slavery because this history is the story of my family. In my own blood, I have all the protagonists of the story. A large part of my ancestry comes from India. When slavery was abolished, Indian workers were the engine that kept the fields running. Another part of my ancestry comes from West Africa and the enslaved themselves. And finally, I have lineage tied to slave owners and particularly a family from the southeast of the island. Unfortunately, it’s well recorded in Guadeloupe that this family of slave owners was one of the worst offenders of brutal terror. So, I was born into a paradox. In my family, for example, our white lineage remained a closely guarded secret. We pretended that we were only of Indian and Black descent. It was an elephant in the room because my complexion is not that dark. My granddad was even lighter than me. The complexities, challenges, the heavy silence, and fabrications that have shrouded this family history are, in essence, the narrative that defines my family and, ultimately, my own story.
Growing up in the Caribbean, virtually every aspect of life, whether it’s your interactions with your boss, your partner, your exploration of your own sexuality, your relationship with your neighbours, or even your connection with music and food – essentially, everything that shapes a person – inevitably leads you back to the topic of slavery. In essence, there isn’t a facet of humanity in the Caribbean, whether it’s the Spanish Caribbean, the British Caribbean, or the French Caribbean, that doesn’t bear the imprint of this foundational story of slavery. Consider something as intimate as your relationship with your parents and the way children are raised. Here too, when you start examining why children are raised in a specific way in Guadaloupe, you’ll eventually find connections to slavery.
To illustrate, there is a tradition in Guadeloupe where young children are regarded as the treasure of the family until around the age of six. Until this time, they are shielded from reprimand and showered with affection. However, once they reach the age of six or so, a shift occurs. Suddenly, even their own parents start addressing them by their last name. For instance, as a child, I was addressed affectionately as ‘Jean-Françoise, my love’, but as soon as I approached six or seven, my mother abruptly switched to calling me ‘Manicom’, my family name. Discipline takes centre stage, and the era of childhood comes to an end, along with public displays of affection like kisses – it all suddenly fades away. And do you know why? Six was the age, during the time of slavery, when you would be sent to the fields to work for the plantation. So, when you’re speaking about the Caribbean, you’re speaking about slavery.
AM
How has your journey, working across various locations and roles, at the intersection of curation and the history of slavery, evolved over time? What has your experience been transitioning between different institutional contexts, from growing up in the French Caribbean to Liverpool, and now London, and how has this chronological navigation influenced your perspective?
JFM
During an earlier chapter of my life, I was a captain on large sailing vessels. It was through this experience that I gained a profound understanding of the Caribbean and the geographical connections among its islands. In my teenage years, I participated in sailing boat races, which led me to explore various corners of the Caribbean as these competitions took us across the sea. I later obtained my captain certification, and my livelihood revolved around navigating the Caribbean waters. This experience allowed me to become acquainted with the proximity and distances between islands. I know, for example, that there are approximately eight hours of travel between Guadeloupe and Martinique, with Dominica located roughly four hours in between. The sea became the initial lens through which I comprehended the essence of the Caribbean.
In the next phase of my life, I became a visual artist. Through my artistic practice, I began to uncover the profound interconnections between artistic creation in the Caribbean and the legacy of slavery. It was against this backdrop that I was initially approached in 2007 to develop a project called ‘Memorial ACTe’. In collaboration with a small team of three curators, we embarked on a project to establish the first-ever museum in Guadeloupe dedicated to the history of slavery. It was technically not a museum, but rather a centre of research and centre of interpretation. We began to build from nothing, absolutely nothing – no collection, no venue. Remarkably, we got a lot of support from the public. In 2015, we had our official opening with all the major political leaders of the Caribbean in attendance, as well as the French prime minister. It was a massive event. What we accomplished – and when I say ‘we’, I refer not only to the team I was part of but also to the people of Guadeloupe –was the establishment of the first significant institution dedicated to the history of slavery in our country, our homeland.
At the end of 2016, I started a job as curator of international slavery at the International Slavery Museum in Liverpool. I stayed there for six years. At the end of 2022, I arrived as the senior curator of the Museum of London Docklands. It has been a lengthy journey, but it is vital to understand the vantage point from which I speak. My understanding of slavery primarily stems from the perspective of the Caribbean plantation, as this is the context in which I originate. As you might expect, the European viewpoint of slavery was a relatively novel experience for me. As you know, Liverpool historically served as the epicentre of the global slave trade. But it was London at the epicentre of the system which created the trade. London is the birthplace of global capitalism. What makes London particularly interesting, however, is that it is perhaps the sole European capital that actively addresses the topic of slavery. In stark contrast, other major European capitals like Paris, Amsterdam, Madrid, Berlin, and even Portugal, have done very little, if anything, to acknowledge this crucial facet of their history.
Camille Crichlow
Broadly speaking, can you share your experiences working at the intersection of curation and the history of slavery, with a focus on projects that engage with both historical aspects and their connections to contemporary art? What role do you believe contemporary art and visual culture can play in raising awareness and stimulating discussions about this historical legacy?
JFM
There is a deep and profound connection between the history of slavery and contemporary art. This connection seems to arise organically, likely due to the subject matter itself – slavery represents a traumatic narrative that is inherently difficult to address without the medium of contemporary art – words cannot fully comprehend or explain slavery in its entirety. We’re exploring a topic that is intensely personal, deeply painful, and firmly embedded not only in the individual experiences of people but also in the very fabric of Creole society.
Nevertheless, incorporating contemporary art into a museum context sometimes presents a challenge. Part of this challenge stems from the fact that museums are often not viewed as spaces for contemporary art. People tend to assign labels, and within my professional role as a museum curator, it is not necessarily expected that I work within the realm of the contemporary. As a result, I find myself constantly battling to establish legitimacy when it comes to exhibiting living artists in my curatorial projects.
Another facet of this struggle is the external resistance. Artists themselves often regard museums with caution. This apprehension arises in part from the historical reputation of British museums, rooted in a long tradition of colonialism, and their status as official representatives of the empire. It’s also important to consider as a museum, the perception often revolves around presenting objects and artworks rooted in the past. This can sometimes deter contemporary artists from feeling that we can offer something fresh and relevant to them. Additionally, we must grapple with the fact that our own audience occasionally finds what we choose to exhibit surprising. Part of my role is to elucidate why we have made such choices and why these works provide a platform to address subjects that often remain unspoken.
AM
It’s intriguing that your initial project, ‘Memorial ACTe’, chose to address Caribbean slavery through contemporary art. Could you talk more about the reasons behind this choice?
JFM
A collection about slavery – whether at the International Slavery Museum or the Museum of London Docklands, is unique in that it isn’t built upon the accumulation of physical objects; rather, it’s founded on the notion of emptiness, absence, and missing elements. This approach reflects the fact that the true central figures of slavery are conspicuously absent from the gallery – lacking voices, physical presence, and even emotional representation. While objects like chains, irons, machetes, and sugar may convey aspects of the technical side of slavery or items related to it, they do not encapsulate the essence of the enslaved individuals themselves – their fear, terror, resistance, rebellion, and their profound connection to life. These are conceptual rather than physical aspects. Consequently, curating a historical exhibition about slavery within a museum of this nature differs significantly from curating any other kind of historical collection – it demands more conceptual engagement, and this could only be accomplished through contemporary art.
CC
Considering the concept of the Black Atlantic in your project, how do you connect your experiences from the Caribbean to your current situation in the UK, including the French Caribbean and British Caribbean contexts? How do these connections relate to sea territories and histories?
JF
In Liverpool during the Transatlantic slave trade, money was strategically invested directly in the pier, serving as a physical representation of power and wealth. It was a deliberate effort to showcase England’s economic might, and this concentration of wealth can still be seen in the grandiose buildings from this period lining Liverpool’s streets. One often overlooked aspect of Liverpool’s cityscape in connection to its history of slavery, however, is the wind. When approaching the International Slavery Museum in Liverpool, you cannot help but notice the strong presence of wind, particularly during the winter months. While Liverpool experiences a significant amount of wind, it’s not often acknowledged that this invisible force played a pivotal role in history. The wind was the driving force behind maritime trade, including the transatlantic slave trade. Without the wind, there would be no boats, no ships, no trade, and no economic prosperity. The wind served as the unseen engine that powered these ships, and the entire maritime economy. Reflecting on this, I think we need to draw more attention to this invisible yet historically significant element and the way it has connected the Atlantic.
Here, at The Museum of London Docklands, the wind is somewhat less noticeable due to the imposing presence of surrounding towers in Canary Wharf. These skyscrapers themselves are representations of power. As you leave this venue, take a moment to observe the surrounding landscape. This location was originally designed as a private, profit-driven space, a highly efficient warehouse dedicated to wealth creation. During its time, it stood as the pinnacle of efficiency in handling goods from the Caribbean to generate profits. In more recent times, the banking and capitalist systems followed a similar pattern in this area, erecting towering skyscrapers as new symbols of economic power. These modern skyscrapers serve as contemporary affirmations of authority. Remarkably, if you look just a few metres around, you’ll notice a consistent theme – a timeless pursuit of wealth, albeit with different materials and structures.
AM
On a more practical note, could you provide some insights into your ongoing projects and what visitors can anticipate upon visiting the Museum of London Docklands?
JFM
For the first time, I am overseeing a museum that is not only dedicated to the history of slavery, so I have multiple focuses and projects. In the upcoming months and years, I want to enhance the offerings and art collections of our galleries. It’s worth mentioning that there are many talented artists in the country, not necessarily from the Black community, who can effectively address the themes related to the legacy of slavery and historical trauma. By compensating artists fairly and providing the resources they need, we can become genuine partners and nurture a trusting relationship within the artistic community. I also want to establish a dedicated exhibition space on the second floor of the museum. This space won’t be limited to showcasing the history of slavery but will also explore themes like the heritage of Docklands. I know there are items not currently on display in our archives, which I intend to bring to light here. I also plan to run a dynamic, experimental art centre inside the museum. If I’m lucky, this is what I hope to accomplish in the upcoming years.
CC & AM
Sounds amazing, and we really can’t wait to follow.