True Places
It is not down in any map; true places never are.
Herman Melville, Moby-Dick
True Places
A Lowcountry Preacher,
His Church, and His People
STANLEY F. LANZANO
The University of South Carolina Press
2009 Stanley F. Lanzano
Cloth edition published by the University of South Carolina Press, 2009
Ebook edition published in Columbia, South Carolina,
by the University of South Carolina Press, 2013
www.sc.edu/uscpress
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the cloth edition as follows:
Lanzano, Stanley F.
True places : a lowcountry preacher, his church, and his people / Stanley F. Lanzano.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-57003-851-8 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Portrait photography. 2. ChristiansSouth CarolinaGeorgetownPortraits. 3. Knowlin, FloydPortraits. 4. African American churchesSouth CarolinaGeorgetownPictorial works. 5. African AmericansReligion. I. Title.
TR680.L343 2009
770.9757'89dc22
2009021901
ISBN 978-1-61117-266-9 (ebook)
To my sons: Stanley Jr., Ted, and Francis, the driving forces of my life
Contents
Acknowledgments
This book would never have been possible without the sincerity, enthusiasm, wisdom, and friendship of the Reverend Floyd Knowlin. He believed in this project from the start and encouraged his community and his family to accept my presence. They did so with all their hearts, and I am grateful to all of them.
After the first photographs were taken in November of 1994, I took the film to my friend Ken Sanville, a gifted printer. He affectionately complained about the depth of the negatives and this and that, but he produced one print in particular that stopped my heart and ensured that this project would ultimately become a book. The photograph to which I am referring is the one of Pastor Sharon Epps and her daughter, Josie Epps, that I took at Hickory Grove Chapel in Cades, South Carolina. The clarity and beauty of the polka dots on Pastor Eppss dress somehow motivated me to continue this project. After all, these were my very first contact sheets. Ken has been my printer and faithful friend throughout this long photographic journey.
Alexander Moore, my acquisitions editor at the University of South Carolina Press, provided unforgettable patience, wisdom, and guidance. I would like to thank Jane Fudge, former photography curator at the Denver Art Museum; the Foothills Art Center and its former executive directors Carol Dickenson and Jennifer Cook Ito; Jay Williams, former curator at the McKissick Museum, University of South Carolina; Karen Ripley, former curator at the Boulder Public Library; and the staff of the Misel Museum in Denver. I would also like to thank Robert Benjamin, Mike Flanagan, Mrs. Floyd Knowlin, Candy Sanville, Barbara Jo Revelle, Carolyn Bartels, Richard F. Bertrand Jr., Maureen Burkhardt, Beverly Lyne, Karen Rood, Pat Callahan, Brandi Lariscy Avant, Tranea Kinloch, Jackie McCarty, Edgar J. Roberts Jr., Laura Lyon, and Waylon Carter. Joy Lanzano provided endless encouragement and patience and an uncanny photograph selection ability. Rivvy Neshama brilliantly organized the discombobulated original text and also helped compose and edit a great deal of the remainder. Carolyn S. Tate provided her graphic design experience. Finally I would like to thank my parents, Helen and Frank Lanzano, now deceased, and my sister, Ellen Lanzano, who supported, taught, and loved me throughout my life; I am eternally grateful. I would be remiss not to mention the countless words of encouragement Ive received over the years from my family, my friends, and strangers I have met along the way.
Introduction
Swamp across from St. Judes Church, 2000 (detail)
IN THE SUMMER OF 1994, I was vacationing with my family at a historic inn on Pawleys Island, not far from Georgetown, South Carolina. The inn was as intimate and restful as we had been told. The veranda was wide, the living room filled with books, and the ocean right at the door.
It was a place of old-fashioned comforts, including cocktail hour on the porch, where the waitstaff served us each evening before dinner. Everything reflected a southern graciousness, almost exotic to someone who grew up in New York City. But what intrigued me most was the silent black staff. They moved slowly, their eyes kept low; they seldom smiled or changed expression. Wearing starched white uniforms, they did their jobs in a quiet, efficient, and accommodating way. I wondered about their lives and dreams, their homes and families. One morning at 6:00 A.M., as they came to work, I heard giggling and talking under my window. I felt a little jealousI wished that I went to work gigglingand it made me wonder even more. I thought about what I could not see from the protected veranda of this elegant old inn and what I could not hear in the silence beneath the clinking cocktail glasses and banter of the guests.
One Friday night, after serving dinner, the kitchen staff put on a brief gospel show. It was a happy, energizing event filled with singing, dancing, and laughter. There was spirit all around, and it flowed into our small group of watchers. Other guests, mostly southerners, seemed less interested; perhaps they were used to African American celebrations. But I was elated. I had seldom seen human beings who had seemed so spiritually connected to God and to each other. Theres something going on here, I told my wife, Joy. And I wanted to be part of it. After the show, I asked a member of the kitchen staff if we could visit her church on Sunday, and she said, Yes, of course.
The next day Joy and I went driving to find the church so we could be sure not to be late on Sunday. The directions we received were helpful, but less than clear: Go past Miss Halleys blue house just over that white bridge. We were soon lost and had to stop at a gas station to ask the way. The teenage counter clerk, whose name badge said Tranea, asked, What do you want to go to that church for? I said, Because Im a photographer. Well you dont want to go to that church you want to go to my church, she responded. Then she called her pastor, told him about us, and gave us directions to her church. It was a cinder-block building south of Georgetown, on the edge of a field and in the middle of nowhere. The Reverend Floyd Knowlin drove over that day to meet us, and we became friends for life.
That meeting with Reverend Knowlin in the grass next to the unfinished walls of Shiloh Church inspired me to pursue this project. I asked if it would be possible for me to take photographs inside the church of him preaching and of his congregation in prayer. Yes, that would be fine, he said.
The next morning, when we entered the church, everything looked fresh and yellow and pink. There were pink and white flowers on the altar; little girls had pink ribbons in their braided hair; and yellow sunlight streamed through the broken stained glass of an arched window. People were quietly greeting and hugging each other. Mothers held babies in the back pews. We shyly sat down in the last row. But then Tranea, the girl from the gas station, came over and beckoned us forward. You dont have to sit in the back of