One day Frank Harris told me he had been thinking about doing a book of contemporary portraits of Negroes only, and he could not think of any Negroes but Josephine Baker, Paul Robeson and myself. At that time Paul Robeson was aspiring, but had not achieved his greater fame. And without being unduly modest, but with my mind on the bull's-eye of achievement, I said I thought I would have to do another book first.
Truth to tell, I have always been a little dubious about anthologies of Negro poets and all that kind of stuff. Because there is a tendency to mix up so much bad with the good, that the good is hard to pick out. Of that kind of thing, some critics will say: "Good enough for a Negro," and there is a feeling among some Negro writers and artists that they should be contented with that sort of criticism. It gives us prestige in Negro society. We have been praised by critics and the critics are all white. If I resent that kind of patronizing criticism, and the fact that Negro artists are satisfied with it, it is because I am inspired with a great hope for the Negro group. And I am certain that it cannot find artistic self-reliance in second-hand achievement. Though because of lack of common facilities and broad cultural contacts a Negro's work may lack the technical perfection of a white person's, intrinsically it must be compared with the white man's achievement and judged by the same standards. I think that that is the only standard of criticism that Negro artists can aim at.
Frank Harris and I went to the Taverne Alsacienne to talk over his project. He said that if he wrote a book of contemporary portraits of Negroes, he would expect it to sell. I said that I hoped it would. I wrote down some names: Marcus Garvey, Florence Mills, Madam Walker of Black Beauty Culture fame, W.C. Handy, composer of the St. Louis Blues. W.E.B. DuBois was the only Negro intellectual who appeared outstanding for that sort of thing. There were quite a few, but none of them glamorous enough for Frank Harris's style. I mentioned Professor Carver, the Luther Burbank type of scientist who had been my beloved teacher at Tuskegee, but Frank Harris objected. He said that he wanted a Negro scientist of the caliber of Thomas Huxley. He said that Booker Washington was inflated as a philosopher, and he hadn't found any system of philosophy in his books. He thought it would be interesting if American Negroes could throw up a full-sized philosopher special to their needs and times—a kind of Aframerican Herbert Spencer. Herbert Spencer, he said, didn't mean anything to him, but meant a lot to the smug English bourgeoisie, and so he had to be reckoned with as an intellectual.
Not long after my conversation with Frank Harris I left Nice for Marseilles. And suddenly bloomed the exotic flower of the Negro renaissance. I never heard what became of Frank Harris's idea. Perhaps Paul Robeson could tell. Frank Harris said he had talked or was going to talk to Paul Robeson, as he intended him to be the big personality of the book.
Cinema Studio
I had visited Rex Ingram's cinema studio in Nice to dance with a group for one of his pictures. Max Eastman introduced my poems to Rex Ingram. Rex Ingram liked my poems. He had written some poetry himself and a few of some that he showed me were good poems. Rex Ingram has a sympathetic mind and an insatiable curiosity about all kinds of people and their culture. He is especially interested in North Africa, has friends among the natives, and has even learned to read Arabic.
Rex Ingram gave me a job. It was a nice, congenial and easy job. I read a lot of fiction and made a summary of any interesting plots. Not only did Mr. Ingram give me a job, but he had the temerity to invite me to dinner at his private table, before the resentful eyes of his American employees. And there were some hard-boiled eggs among the technical staff who were as mean as Satan. A French friend said he heard them muttering threats and that the general manager of the studio had said that perhaps Mr. Ingram was intent upon precipitating a riot.