HOME FEATURES COLUMNS FILM LIT MUSIC BLOG CONTACT		Lit Back in the Days by Jamel Shabazz with introduction by Fab 5 Freddy powerHouse Books ISBN 1-57687-106-1 (Originally published in the Wire) It's true what they say: good pictures are indeed worth a thousand words. Since this collection of talented Brooklyn photographer Jamel Shabazz's impressions on 1980s New York street culture has little accompanying explanation, that's just as well. Though there are essays from consummate old schooler Fab 5 Freddy and noted hip-hop photojournalist Ernie Paniccioli, Back in the Days is largely devoid of narration or text. Subjects go unnamed, leaving incidental street signs or familiar subway signs as the only temporal or spatial markers. The temptation is to read sociology where no such intentions exist: the only thing Shabazz attempts to report are "the best years" of a generation before the incursions of AIDS and crack, before hip-hop became the only style. He explains in a brief author's note: "The camera enabled me to tell a person how special and valuable they were and I had hoped that I could encourage people to look toward their own futures and believe in themselves." Shabazz's photos imply the vibrant hip-hop culture that flourished as 1980s New York floundered, but other than the occasional 12-inch sleeve or Whodini belt, it's a connection that is left open-ended. The portraits are as much about the personal poses, styles and profiles as they are about the backgrounds and juxtaposition-concurrent story arcs that are left open, unsaid. Kids smile like everything's fair while standing in front of dilapidated storefronts that suggest otherwise, and it's no coincidence that a related film project Shabazz has been working on has the title, Back in the Days: A Time Before Crack. But for all the aging brownstones, encroaching cops and corner hustles slightly outside each frame, there's a genuine feeling of pride, joy and even optimism in Shabazz's portraits. Like a self-restrained, small-ball analog to Hype Williams' flossy, ghetto-fab rap video fantasies today, Shabazz's subjects inhabit that tenuous moment of possibility, the idea that we make the most of what we can given limited resources and an uncertain future. The kids aren't necessarily escapists, but there's something to be said about losing oneself in the micromanaged details of the present; it gives them freedom, if only for a blink of time. They champion their T-shirts as though theirs alone were the slickest in the world. Caps are meticulously tipped ever-so-slightly, the tiny, slivery degrees of rotation delineating cool from fool. Everyone wears the same Cazal shades, but not everyone wears them well. Most of all, his subjects actually smile. If the totality of images were to converge in the telling of a single story, it would be one about love. It is made explicit in the book's only candid shot-a young couple kissing in a doorway, his hands cupping her denim rear-but it's an ethic of believing, loving and taking pride in oneself that outlines each smile and grin. It's tempting to see how the minor league materialism here as an antecedent to today's hip-hop fascination with platinum and luxury, but it seems to be a different dynamic of love for self against love of stuff. Like the music which would captivate these neighborhoods in years to come, the flash Shabazz shines is improvisational and quick-witted; it's about making a mesh cap or a wifebeater undershirt into the truest thing on the block. Shabazz's visions bear distinct resemblance to the work of Malian studio photographers Malick Sidibe and Seydou Keita. The pair captured the hopes and possibilities of their young nation's independence by way of portraiture; locals would pay a nominal fee and pose with whatever they wanted, however they wanted. The results-captured in a recent volume with the delightfully appropriate title, You Look Beautiful That Way--find everyday Malians posing for the camera with more sass and charisma than filmstars. Whether draping themselves awkwardly over prop motorcycles (as some of Shabazz's subjects also do) or bringing their favorite goat, Sidibe and Keita's portraits don't just capture how their subjects see themselves now, they also allow for the hope of something more or, in the case of the cycle, something modern. It's the same thing for Shabazz. A woman with a studded Whodini belt hops on a park table and stands proudly with arms akimbo, as though the entire park is her dominion and the table her pedestal. Three writers show off their stunning, newly-styled denim jackets, conviction in their eyes suggesting that their bubble letters, characters and painting will only get better. Every now and then, a gap-toothed kid shows off a fistful of dollars, and you can only guess where they came from. The eerie part is that most of the images from this book could easily double as fashion spreads showcasing today's throwback tastes, but instead of hard, disaffected looks, you get deeply personal styles and smiles. Smiles that, when cast against their contexts, become defiant. Smiles that seem alien today, transported from a strangely familiar past, but true and hopeful to the end.