Growing Up Black

Above image: Car Boot Conversation

Hackney, London, 1976

Previous page: Brother Can You Spare Some Change?

Sandringham Road, London, 1977

“The houses were being pulled down and were replaced with flats. A community was lost. It was a new era. Within a few years of this photo being taken, a ‘front line’ appeared not far from this scene.”

Dignity in Poverty

Hackney, London, 1973

“No matter how bad the living conditions, we always dressed with pride. We washed and hung our clothes in the room, divided it with a curtain, but we still had our dignity and pride.”

Move On Up Hackney, London, 1975

“Word had got round about me taking pictures so she asked me to take some. She’s got an electric kettle, that’s like moving up!”

Living the Dream

Hackney, London, 1975

Anti-apartheid Demonstration

Trafalgar Square, London, 1969

Young Gun

Dalston, London, 1974

This page: The Brothers Black House, London, 1969

Opposite page: The Infamous Michael X Black House, London, 1969

It was never going to be easy; how could it be? The moment you put your hand up at school to say that you know—black or white—is when the battle begins. This is when you start saying, I exist. I want to be somebody. In my case, it was the camera that made me dare to say, I want to be somebody! From the moment I discovered photography, I found myself; I became confident, I was good. I knew I was good and so did Mr. Paterson, who created the photo club for the St. Marks Church choir boys, of which I was a member.

He guided me, taught me, encouraged me. When it was time to leave school, my career master tried to dissuade me from pursuing my dream. There’s no such thing as a black photographer, he told me. But I knew different. There was James Van Der Zee and Gordon Parks, to name a few. . . . I remember going for a job interview at the Courtauld Institute on Portman Square W1. “Young assistant required in the photography department. Applicant must be smartly dressed,” read the ad. I applied, got an interview, and set out in my best suit. As I was walking along Baker Street, I heard a shout above me from a window: “You flash nigger.” I was then showered with coffee. I looked up, looked around. No one was to be seen. I carried on to the interview. the interviewer looked at me. “You know we are looking for a smartly dressed person,” he said. I looked at him. What could I say? I didn’t say a word. Needless to say, I didn’t get the job. Looking back that person did me a favor. It was never to be. It was not really part of my plan. Another memory from my early days: I would go and see magazines with my portfolio. They would look at my work and then ask for my number. I was still living at my parents’ then and they couldn’t afford a phone. But across the road from the house was a telephone box. This was the number I would give the magazines. I would sit in my room with the window open, day and night, and when the phone rang I would run out the front door, grab the phone, and answer, “Dennis Morris’s studio.”

When the breaks came, it was because of sheer determination. It also took individuals who themselves were on the outside. For instance, the day I walked...