A Haitian baptism: From one form to another

On a beach shortly after dawn in the Dominican Republic, a group of Haitians wait to enter the sea where they will be lowered into the water and re-emerge, born again as Christians. For some Christians, baptism is a rite-of-passage that can mark a rupture with the past. In social theory, baptism is more akin to Berger’s characterization of a photograph, “a moment taken from a continuum” (2001:217). For converts, this could be the baptism classes that led up to this moment and the many life changes that may follow it. This image—snapped right before the first convert is submerged—invites us to reflect on how one moment from a continuum can also be profoundly transformative.
Conversion, literally the process of changing from one form to another, not only transforms religious identity, but also radically restructures social experience (Howell 2008). This holds particularly true for members of minority groups, for whom conversion can be a means to cope with discrimination and other forms of oppression (Louis 2014). The history of Haitians’ incorporation into the Dominican Republic is encumbered by violence, including forced labor and the Parsley Massacre that killed thousands. Present-day Haitians face a political climate that has brought statelessness, deportation, and heightened racial profiling. This image is a visual representation of the ways religion can provide hope from one’s surroundings. The sea is expansive, yet the water is tranquil, with washed, pastel colors. While clouds have formed overhead, brightness seeps through them and pours across the scene. The light transcends everything else, like the way a Christian identity can supersede one’s stigmatization as Haitian. Illuminated by the morning sun, the converts are almost glowing as they embark on a new day, a new identity, and a new life.
When I took this shot, the normally crowded beach was empty except for a few fishermen heading out in their boats. I had been following other converts to the water that day. When the two groups realized that the same purpose had brought them there, they joined voices in song. They were not from the same church, yet the baptism symbols, like those of any shared ritual, were recognized as meaningful. Take the prospective converts, adorned in white, a symbol of the purity they seek in rebirth through baptism. They line up single file, signifying that this is a step that they must take alone. The horizontal lines of the image create a stillness. Yet, there is also anticipation as the man in yellow begins the motions to immerse the other into the water, cleansing him of the sins of his past.
Rituals work by effecting contact between the present state and the cosmos (Rappaport 1999). For converts, the most important component of this image lies in “what is not seen”—and cannot be seen—the relationship with an invisible God (Berger 2001:217). However, shot at a distance with a wide focus, the small figures in the image are calmly engulfed by empty space to emphasize the grandiosity of nature. The bright celestial sky almost blends into the sea as if a divine force is reaching down to them. Parallel to the horizon, the converts stand along the center line of the image. Like the ritual, they are balanced between the heavens and the Earth.
Waiting on the sand, the hooded figure stares straight ahead, suggesting confidence. With hands raised to their faces, two women display slight trepidation, perhaps anticipating this important decision or maybe just the brisk water. At the back, a woman raises her phone to document the day. Photographers employ their own rituals to capture and convert the material present into a two-dimensional representation. Yet when used in retelling conversion to negotiate marginalized identity, the photograph recreates the experience and becomes a ritual itself (Stromberg 1993). In a flash, changing from one form to the next, conversion and the production of images like this one can powerfully transform lives.

Commentary on Rachel Tanur's Works: Gondola Newlyweds 01

I do. Or, do I? Alone—perhaps for the first time as a married couple—the newlyweds in Rachel Tanur’s “Gondola Newlyweds 01,” sit with their faces turned away from each other and the viewer. A photograph always has an unseen context and an inherent ambiguity (Berger 1982), but the ambiguity in Tanur’s image seems almost intentional. We cannot see the couple’s expressions or what they are looking at, so our interpretations are left to the photograph’s content and composition, as well as our own experiences. While Tanur’s representation of a just-married couple captures the same themes of rite-of-passage and transformation present in my image of a baptism, the effects are visually and emotionally quite different. Just as snapshots of a baptism become rituals in conversion narratives, wedding photos allow couples to relive the day. According to Susan Sontag, photography is an addicting aesthetic consumerism because it confirms reality and enhances experience (1977). As part of a billion-dollar industry, professional wedding photographers often adhere to a culturally-set repertoire of staged shots that become a ritual of their own and powerfully shape the couple’s memories of their union. As a visual sociologist and likely a passerby, Tanur disrupts these conventions. From her removed position, Tanur’s lens captures a private moment away from the public expectations of the ritual. As rituals, weddings are cultural traditions expressed through shared symbols. The groom’s dark suit indicates a formal occasion. The bride’s white dress is symbolic of purity. The flower in her hair signifies new life and fertility, their expected next life course as a couple. Like the converts, the newlyweds are transformed. The Venetian gondola suggests a Roman Catholic ceremony that joins them as one. While converting was an individual decision, my image was filled with other figures and a sense of the divine. In contrast, the wedding ceremony asks for the consent of the church and their families. Yet in the image, the couple is alone. After the revelry, the newlyweds leave their loved ones behind. Although they will likely depend on their families, they are also embarking on this journey on their own. Here, Tanur invites us to reflect not on the cultural traditions, but on the universality of marriage. Berger’s observation is key: “[the] choice is not between photographing x and y: but between photographing at x moment or at y moment” (2001:217). The moment captured here is not a wedding photo. It is of the start of a marriage. My image of the converts catches them on the cusp, eagerly awaiting to be immersed and reborn. However, we encounter this couple after their transformation. Not as they recite “I do”, but as they are asking themselves, “now what do we do?”. In choosing a close crop of the couple, with their faces turned from both the viewer and each other, Tanur’s answer conveys unease. The brightness and wide space of my image captures the converts’ relationship with an invisible divine being. Here, apart from the radiant white dress, the saturated colors and tight composition indicate a less certain relationship with the person seated next to them. With backs toward their former lives, the couple dominates the frame. We cannot see where they are going, just like they cannot see what lies in their future. Nor can we see the gondolier, but with his iconic hat in the back of the vessel, we assume someone is guiding their passage. As Catholics, they may have faith in a higher power to set them on the right course. But for now, they seem adrift on dark waters. Facing the light with the future ahead, and setting sail together suggests a new beginning. And yet, the two stare in opposite directions, indicating that although the ritual is over, the transformation has only begun. Like any couple, they will retain their identities, and may ultimately—like their gaze indicates—choose different directions, or they may steer down the same course together.