Resemblance (After Xavier Amiama & mon père)

Maybe it’s the tilt of his head or the pointy tips of his ears. Maybe it’s his eager eyes or delicate mouth. For whatever reason, the young boy in this drawing by Xavier Amiama reminds me of my father. Specifically, this drawing recalls the only photograph that exists of my father as a child. That photograph was taken 75 years ago in Pétionville, Haiti on the occasion of his communion solennelle. After proudly witnessing him take this rite of Catholic communion, his family took him to Marcel Isaac, the community photographer, to commemorate the day. Now my father stands forever, ten years old in a short pants suit, his hands folded solemnly in prayer.

This framed photograph stood on my father’s chest of drawers throughout my childhood where I saw it every day. Along with being proof that my father had been a child (imagine that!), the picture was a souvenir of Haiti, this distant country pulsing in my blood. Growing up in Detroit, I didn’t really know this world of my father. But I liked looking at it. I liked looking for it, and I wanted to see more.

The world is so saturated with photographs now. It’s hard to imagine only having your picture taken for a special occasion. Or only having one, precious picture of yourself for the early years of your life. What do we look like? How can we be imaged or imagined? We can glimpse ourselves in mirrors. But how else can we be seen? Aside from photographs, where can we find ourselves? The images on the Myriam Nader gallery website beckon me closer.

Long before photography, of course, there were drawings, paintings, sculptures, and more. Highlighting the vitality of our heritage, Haitian art represents and preserves our great cultural wealth. It is abundant and resplendent. While some Haitian artworks restage historical events like the ceremony at Bois Caïman or the Battle of Vertières or depict key figures like Toussaint L’Ouverture or Henri Christophe, much Haitian art also preserves vibrant images of everyday people. Those images especially delight me.

Who did Xavier Amiama see when he came to Haiti in 1936 from his homeland, the Dominican Republic? In one drawing from 1939, a young person in a jaunty hat slouches on a curb. In another from that year, a girl sits with her arms curled around her knees. The portrait I love of the young boy arrived in 1938, a year before my father was born. Amiama scrawled the dates on the drawings along with his signature.

I texted my mother a picture of the drawing from my computer screen.

“Doesn’t this look like Dad?”

“No,” she responds.

Three little dots on my phone show that she has more to say.

“We had a picture of him as a young man, but I’m not sure where it is.”

“I have it,” I say. And I do. But it’s not enough. I see three more dots.

“Dad looked at the picture,” she says. “He sees some resemblance.”

I do too. The kind of resemblance that comes from memory, from a lack of positive images from your homeland, about your homeland, from a recognition of likeness, and from an appreciation of care. Amiama’s drawing isn’t an exact reproduction of my father as a child. How could it be? Amiama never even met my father. But this drawing, with its expressive strokes of imagination, makes me feel like Amiama dreamed him up, like we dreamed up my father together.

For years, I’ve visited Amiama’s drawing online and have itched to hold it my hands. Writing this, I understand the time has come for the drawing to come home to me and join my father’s photograph. Together they will serve as portals for time travel and memory.

By Gabrielle Civil

May 28, 2024