C2 EZ RE THE WASHINGTON POST.FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 6 , 2019
when my father dies, you
understand why that matters so
much, because he was real for
you. I was really trying to
humanize these people in a way
that they aren’t humanized in the
typically told story of New
Orleans.Q: One last question. You and
your partner live in New York; do
you own a home there?
A: I don’t think I want to talk
about that. We’ve got to have
something for ourselves.Q: I hear that. So you don’t think
I’m a total busybody, that was my
lead-up to ask how you feel about
homeownership.
A: I have a little place in New
Orleans, too, which is tiny, but I
own it. But yes, we’re New York
people. I’ve thought a lot about
this: If you don’t own something,
can you still feel tethered to it? I
think the answer’s yes. You might
feel more tethered especially
when you don’t own. I think a lot,
obviously, of land loss and land
being taken from people
historically in America.
Home is even more a
metaphor for me now than a real
thing. It is the thing I’m
interrogating and trying to
understand. What my work tries
to explore is this: What is home,
and how do you know when
you’re there?
[email protected]Nneka McGuire is a multiplatform
editor at The Lily, The Washington
Post’s website that focuses on the
stories of women.person I thought most about was
Deborah, because she told me the
story. I asked her for permission.
There could be no story of the
kind that I’ve written without my
family’s permission to tell it.
They’re brave, courageous
people. Also, they understand
that, in a way, this story is bigger
than them. In a way, I’m
discussing the complication of
being, ancestrally speaking, from
a group of people who couldn’t
write their stories, couldn’t keep
their stories, couldn’t tell their
stories, and the incredible
importance of saying what
exactly happened and not
necessarily feeling shame.
As for Deborah, I don’t think
she is at all embarrassed by that
story.Q: I don’t think it’s embarrassing,
just vividly rendered. In 10 years,
if someone asks me about “The
Yellow House,” that moment will
be one I remember.
A: That was the goal. I was trying
to write something where people
were alive on the page, wherepeople.Q: There’s a moment in the book
I won’t soon forget. Your sister
Deborah wanted to go to college,
but your father wanted her to
work and help support the
family. When she refused, you
write, “she was beat by Simon Sr.
with a sugarcane.” Later, when
Deborah is about to get married
at the family home, Simon Sr.
wakes up early to cut the lawn
before the ceremony, you write,
he “fixed his sadness outside.” It’s
a nuanced, specific portrayal.
Was it difficult to walk the line
between protecting and exposing
your father, since he died when
you were an infant?
A: In the case of my father, my
goal was not to protect him. Thefor my family, for my 50 nieces
and nephews, and for the little
girl growing up on the street
where I grew up, I sat down and
wrote.
But it still was hard. There are
ways in which I wanted to
protect family, but then I realized
that the thing I wanted to protect
them from would make the story
hagiography. My quest in this
book was to present a world as
full, as nuanced, as layered, as
textured as I possibly could — it
was crucial that this not be a
praise song to these flawlessfamily and “tell on” the city of
New Orleans, which also has its
secrets and its stories. Also, as a
black woman writer, I was
shoring myself up to write
knowing that often black women
are not actually listened to.
The thing that kept me going
was that I was writing this story
essentially for my family. I
wanted there to be something
that lasted. I wanted there to be a
kind of narrative history that a
child in New Orleans East could
pull off the shelf. When I
remembered that I was writingtook this project, the necessity of
writing frankly about family and
her ongoing examination of what
home means.
This interview has been edited
for length and clarity.
Q: The scope of your book is
large. You tell the story of your
family and New Orleans over
several decades. You’re not even
born until about 100 pages in.
Logistically, how did you
approach this project?
A: I had to map it out. Imagine an
overlay: The bottom page is the
Yellow House, the street I lived
on and New Orleans East. Then
on top of that I put New Orleans
history. And then on top of that I
put American history, and then I
had hundreds of hours of
interviews.
The first thing I wrote was my
grandmother as a character. She
was immensely hard to write. I
always had the feeling that my
grandmother was the beginning
of the story of myself. I don’t
believe when you’re born the
story starts; the story already
started, all the chaos we have
going on now our children will
inherit.
This is an American story. My
mother bought a house; she had
a dream. Houses are supposed to
pay off, earn you dividends,
right? They’re an investment in
the American concept. So, what
happens when your investment
doesn’t pay off?
Q: You are the youngest of 12 in a
family that, like all others, has its
secrets and wounds. How did you
give yourself permission to write
this story?
A: That was the chunk of the
work actually, figuring out how
to give myself permission to tell a
history that in a lot of ways
preceded me. I was also giving
myself permission to “tell on” my
BOOK WORLD FROM C1
who was very hungry to help by
any means necessary,” French says.M
iller recalls how dogged he
had to be to find his footing
in fashion. He also knows
that not everyone has the luxury
to be so single-minded.
As a freshman at Seattle Pacific
University, Miller thought he’d
eventually go to medical school
but quickly realized he wanted to
pursue a more creative path. Skip-
ping classes one day — as one does
when in the throes of a career
crisis — he was watching “The
Rachel Zoe Project,” a now de-
funct reality show about a stylist,
her assistants and their celebrity
clients. “I watched [stylist] Brad
Goresky and thought, ‘I could do
that.’ ”
A lot of people might have those
thoughts about fashion, but Mil-
ler followed through. He didn’t
pursue styling because there
wasn’t much opportunity for that
in Seattle. Instead, he turned up at
a local model agency and an-
nounced that he would work as an
unpaid gopher.
The company said thank you,
but no. So did the next agency. The
third time, he got a yes, and with
that, he had stepped across the
threshold and into an industry
that often seems like it’s bricked
up tight.
He eventually moved to New
York, the center of the industry he
loved. And once again, he began
knocking on doors offering to
work for next to nothing.
“I was not one of those kids who
had the [family] infrastructure to
subsidize a life in New York,” he
says. He worked multiple jobs; he
got by. “People should be paid,” he
says now. “And paid fairly.”
Miller is engaged in an elabo-
rate form of truth-telling about
the fashion industry, whether it’s
encouraging a photographer to
ask for an itemized budget for a
shoot or helping a young designer
learn the financial risks of selling
wares to a retailer on consign-
ment.
Jewelry designer Jameel Mo-
hammed, 24, has been energized
by the validation that comes with
IMG recognition — even though
he is quick to acknowledge that
such validation really shouldn’t
be necessary at all.
But Mohammed, who studied
political science at the University
of Pennsylvania, also understands
how fashion is a “war of images,”
and that’s a fight more easily tack-
led from the inside.
He is grateful that Miller is
propping open the door.
“You’re not going to see some-
one like Ethan splashed around
New York Fashion Week recaps,”
Mohammed says. “I love folks
who are focused on ‘How can I
make an impact?’ and not just
‘How can I make a splash?’ ”
[email protected][Ethan]. Sometimes I don’t know
the protocol. There’s been times
when I was supposed to have been
paid for something and I had no
clue,” says French, the photogra-
pher. “I’m not comfortable asking
for something. Sometimes, I’m
not even sure what to ask for.”
The 31-year-old Chicago native
has been photographing profes-
sionally for three years. Before
that, he worked on Hillary Clin-
ton’s presidential campaign in
data analysis. He booked his first
big job, shooting John David
Washington for Vogue, thanks to
his presence on Instagram and in
a Brooklyn art gallery group show.
French was suddenly in the fash-
ion world, but without a road
map.
Other industry veterans have
tried to offer guidance. The CFDA
has mentored students and young
designers. Noire Management
was created to represent social
media influencers of color. Panels,
talks and conferences focused on
designers or models abound. The
Fabric stands out for the breadth
of creative talent it’s bringing into
conversations, along with its re-
sources.
“It’s really good to see someone
with a significant position in IMGfind it challenging to assert influ-
ence and create change.”
In an industry full of independ-
ent contractors, Miller wants to
highlight their collective power
and educate them on their worth
— in dollars and cents.
“No matter what I do, I run it bytry and the findings zeroed in on
the insidiousness of an insider-
outsider dynamic: “Insiders pos-
sess more systemic power but
they have less awareness of the
dynamic and their impact as in-
siders. Outsiders have more
awareness of the dynamic but cancause the name of the fragrance,
which translates as “wild,” calls to
mind an abiding racist character-
ization of Native Americans.
The Dior incident underscores
this obvious but often disregard-
ed fact: No one voice can speak for
the multitudes. Everything is
made, if not plainer, then at least
more thoughtful when a variety of
voices are amplified.
Fashion is “dictating what pop-
ular culture thinks about itself
with the images we put out. It’s
not just who’s in front of the
cameras [that’s important] but
also who’s behind it,” Miller says.
“The Fabric lets these brands
know there are a plethora of
[black] creatives to tap into and
help avoid these problems.”
Miller isn’t so much focused on
diversity as he is on inclusiveness
— which is more about being
heard rather than simply being
present. Fashion is not yet at a
place where diverse voices have
proportionate clout and impact,
where they are shaping brand
identities and dictating who will
appear in a magazine.
The Council of Fashion Design-
ers of America, along with PVH
Corp., recently sponsored an
analysis of diversity in the indus-eye contact. He wanted to ac-
knowledge a certain solidarity but
not fall into the cliche of group-
think; he wanted to connect but
not self-segregate. Ultimately, he
wanted to know who else was
working in the industry who
looked like him but that he
couldn’t see. And he wanted to do
it in a way that felt easy and
informal.
“It’s not a new conversation
about how homogenous fashion
is. I’d thought about it a long time.
I thought, ‘I’d like to do some-
thing. Something,’ ” says Miller,
30.
Miller launched the Fabric,
with the financial support of IMG,
a little more than a year ago with a
handful of mixers in New York
and London. Guests — photogra-
phers, makeup artists, stylists, de-
signers, lighting technicians, all
the folks who keep the fashion
industry spinning — were invited
by word of mouth, social media
and direct invitations.
“The vibe was very casual,
which was perfect,” recalls pho-
tographer Justin French. “It
forced people to socialize rather
than start networking.”
The Fabric connects black pho-
tographers with black lighting di-
rectors. It introduces black styl-
ists to black makeup artists. It
collaborated with Harlem’s Fash-
ion Row, which supports design-
ers of color, in toasting Oscar-
winning costume designer Ruth
E. Carter. All those voices have the
potential to be a sounding board
for a fashion industry that’s in
constant damage control over cul-
tural missteps.
Recent flash fires have been
sparked by Gucci’s “black face”
balaclava sweater, Prada’s
Golliwog-like charm and Burber-
ry’s hoodie with a noose-like
drawstring. Outrage echoed
across China in response to a
Dolce & Gabbana marketing video
riddled with insulting stereo-
types. And most recently, Dior was
criticized for using Native Ameri-
can imagery to market a fragrance
called Sauvage. The advertising
campaign starred a sun-baked
and brooding Johnny Depp play-
ing guitar and Canku One Star, a
graceful Sioux dancer, leaping and
spinning against a fiery land-
scape.
The Paris-based company col-
laborated with Americans for In-
dian Opportunity, which de-
scribes itself as a 50-year-old non-
profit that “advocates for the
rights of indigenous peoples.” “We
are proud to have successfully
achieved our goals of education
and inclusion for this project with
Parfums Christian Dior,” wrote
AIO Executive Director Laura
Harris in an email.
Critics found the campaign of-
fensive, in no small measure be-
ETHAN MILLER FROM C1
The
Reliable
SourceHelena Andrews-Dyer and Emily Heil
are away. Their column will resume
when they return.Ethan Miller’s Fabric creates a tapestry of inclusiveness
Sweeping memoir ‘The Yellow House’ pays homage to New Orleans, family
MIKE COPPOLA/GETTY IMAGES FOR NYFW: THE SHOWS
Tara Duncan, left, Dapper Dan and Michaela Angela Davis attend an event honoring Oscar-winning costume designer Ruth E. Carter
during New York Fashion Week in February. The gathering was organized by the Fabric and Harlem’s Fashion Row.COURTESY OF SARAH M. BROOMADAM SHEMPERJAMEEL MOHAMMED
A Khartoum ring by Khiry, founded by Jameel Mohammed, who
says he’s grateful for Ethan Miller’s work to “make an impact.”In her memoir, Sarah M.
Broom, left and above,
remembers the Yellow House,
her family’s home, which was
lost during Hurricane Katrina.
“When it fell, something in me
burst,” she writes.