The Red Bulletin April 2020 (US)

SMITH ISN’T PRECIOUS WITH THE
MATERIAL BECAUSE HE DOESN’T
HAVE TO BE; HE’S LIVED IT.
intersection governed in part by the legacies of
colonialism, imperialism, capital and extractive
globalization. One unfortunate result: The nuanced
experiences of the real people creating the culture
are flattened to suit external narratives, beholden to
exploitative gazes and power-mitigated portrayals.
This intuitive understanding has long informed
Smith’s work as a stylist and creative director. But it
coalesces more obviously in a new creative endeavor
he is diligently embarking on: a major entry into the
formal art world, where sculpture, video and
installation offer new avenues to explore the layered
ideas and experiences that have shaped his worldview.
This spring, he’ll open his first solo gallery show in
collaboration with Red Bull Arts. The exhibition,
a multidisciplinary exploration of dancehall fashion
and culture called Akeem Smith: No Gyal Can Test, is
a bold step in manifesting his life’s work.
Photo of the Ouch Crew at the dance. Photographer and date unknown.
On a frigid afternoon in January, Smith has
commandeered a darkened corner in the
rear of Red Bull Arts’ West Chelsea location.
He’s wearing a tofu-colored T-shirt, a blue velour
Fubu zip-up with patriotic red and white accents
and slim navy pants that evoke something between
school uniform and contemporary athleisure.
Triangulated in a plush love seat, he dangles his feet
a few inches off the floor. A pair of brown snakeskin
square-toe mules from Martine Rose, adorned with
a gold chain, fits snugly over white athletic socks.
What would, frankly, register as a bizarre outfit on
anyone else looks perfectly chic on Smith.
In a few months, this space will be transformed
to host No Gyal Can Test. But for now, there’s much
work to complete. A collaborator is sloped over a
computer screen nearby, logging hundreds—maybe
even thousands, says Smith—of hours of ’90s
dancehall-party footage that will anchor the show’s
thematic, multichannel videos. He intermittently
drops out of this interview to call out directions to
his editor: This clip, of a woman in a transcendent
red leather outfit, should be filed under “Memory”;
that one, of a zebra-print-clad dancer writhing in
shallow water, belongs under “Reconstruction.”
Smith speaks slowly and deliberately, almost
Obama-like, as the proverbial wheels in his head
turn. And then he picks up where he left off, midsentence,
laser-focused on the thread of our
conversation long after I’ve lost it. On a back wall, a
generously sized whiteboard keeps track of his ideas
and progress. He’s only about a third of the way
through, he admits. But if he’s expressing little of
the panic you’d expect of a first-time artist pushing
up against a deadline, he says coolly, that’s because
he’s uniquely positioned to pull this show off.
“I know I have a certain eye. I know no one’s ever
going to see it [the same] way, so I’m not precious
with the material. There’s a bunch of dancehall
videos on YouTube. A bunch of people have tried
to do [similar] shit,” he says, a glint in his eye
suggesting he’s enjoying being shady. “But it’s just
not going to land because it feels like the intention
is, ‘Look what I’ve rediscovered!’ I’ve seen people
try to act like they’re some insiders or something
because they got a couple of clips.”
Smith, on the other hand, identifies squarely as
an insider. He grew up under the shadow of Ouch,
a custom tailoring shop owned and run by his
godmother. Ouch was home to designers who
shaped the look of ’90s Jamaican dancehall,
dressing both civilians and icons like Beenie Man,
Patra and Lady Saw, whose music and personal style
established them as some of the genre’s most visible
artists. Smith has since been passed the baton of its
legacy. Meanwhile, his grandmother co-owned a
club that incubated some of the fashion, culture and
music that defines dancehall. He’s not precious with
the material because he’s lived it. “The dancehall
community is not that big for it to have had [such
a significant] cultural impact on the world. And it’s
kind of even shunned upon in Jamaica,” Smith says.
The scene’s influence, which spread globally
through informal networks of party videos, is
indelible. Aesthetics like gravity-defying hairstyles,
42 THE RED BULLETIN