Mfinanga: Are there any burning questions that you still have about your practice or the world in which your practice exists?
Fortune: Well, I’m intrigued by persistent observations, almost more than aesthetics. There are photographers who I can tell are curious, just for themselves. That’s where I like to see work made. The process [of making] is significant to how I ultimately read images, like a connection to the subject, and that end relationship when documenting a community.
I also think about non-Black photographers making stories about Black subjects. I think about the destructive nature of that and the lens placed on the subjects; how that affects people who view the work and see themselves represented in it. And also that, financially, it takes away an opportunity from a Black photographer who could have benefited from it. I think about that as somewhat destructive. I ask myself, as a straight male, am I taking up unnecessary space in a realm? So placing that criticality back on myself is also part of my practice. I try to keep myself in check so that the work does not function unconsciously. I am interested in having those conversations. It is not something from which I run. And that is when things get destructive, be it in a documentary context, but more in a workplace context and how that looks. Once you get to a place on the ladder, there are less and less Black and brown folks. It’s changing, but we have to dialogue about those dynamics because they are continuously shifting.
Mfinanga: Yeah, having a consistent, transparent and accessible dialogue gets us all collectively into a space of harmony because harmony is what we’re looking for, right?
Fortune: Yeah, but I’m also interested in how that standard only falls upon us. Something like white fine art photography does not have to assume that responsibility. Sometimes I have a problem with that. There should be space for Black artists to make work about leisure, or travel, you know what I mean? Until now, something I’ve been thinking about – not even so much in this book, but moving forward – is the idea of strength relating to my father’s declining health. And the experience of seeing your motif of strength dismantled in front of you; how weakness is not a bad thing, but a reality. But some of those strengths, and having to dismantle some of those things, do prepare you for the world. They give you the strength to go out on a limb and try the stuff necessary to break into these spaces.
Mfinanga: Speaking of strength, was that one of the characteristics your family embedded in you?
Fortune: Definitely. The big Southern Black family with uncles, grandmother cooking, and grandad, like, real sharp with the insults was, even visually, inspirational. My father was a black belt, so I had this kind of Black kung fu upbringing. My grandmother on my dad’s side is a painter, so that was also inspirational. And music – my family is big into music. The book’s title is I can’t stand to see you cry after a song performed by The Whatnauts. But J Dilla also sampled it. While my father was ill, I would go into his room and put on an oldies mix of The Delfonics, Earth, Wind & Fire, and all of that music. My dad was a drummer, and he played that type of music before he lost his dexterity. Sitting in the room with my dad and listening to the songs they had on CDs, there was a reflection that we didn’t have the language for. It was something you had to cherish at the moment because there was no promise of it replicating. This is my first conversation about the book. I had a lot of anxiety about talking about it because it is about my family.