By Raynard Churchwell
In a conversation with Georgia State University School of Film, Media and Theatre Distinguished University Professor Alessandra Raengo, her journey from a small Italian town to a distinguished scholar in the realm of Black cinema unfolds. From her early love for film nurtured by her father’s screening series to her immersion in New York’s academic milieu, Raengo’s trajectory was marked by linguistic challenges that ultimately led to enduring friendships. Her fascination with race’s pivotal role in American society inspired a deep dive into influential literature and the sophistication of black visual arts. This culminated in the creation of liquid blackness, a groundbreaking concept now central to scholarship and pedagogy. Raengo’s pride lies in the collective effort of the liquid blackness community, and she emphasizes the need for sustained support, recognizing it as a labor of love with a need for financial backing. Institutions and individuals alike are invited to participate in securing the future of this vital endeavor.
Q: Where were you born and raised?
A: I grew up in Italy, about one hour north of Venice. It was a small middle-class town, with no diversity whatsoever. The only diversity came from the U. S. Air Base, just outside of town. And so, the American military were the only ones bringing some diversity to the place. I went to a private school. You know, everybody knew each other, so very kind of quiet. Quiet, small town.
Q: Did you develop your passion for cinema as a kid or did it come later?
A: I was already passionate about film in high school. We had some screening series. My father, when he was in high school, was organizing a screening series. So, I guess it was in the family. But it started when I went to college in Milan, to Catholic University. Then I took a minor in film studies. It was called communication, but it was mostly film studies.
Q: To elaborate, can you please tell us more about your academic journey?
A: Yeah, so, my degree in Italy was in philosophy with a minor in film studies. We were writing theses, almost dissertations, as undergraduates. So, for my thesis, let’s say, research, I went to New York. I wanted to be in the U.S. My sister was living there. And so, I figured out a way to select a topic that would allow me to go to the U.S. and practice English, and, you know, learn a little bit better, read academic stuff in English. When I was there, I met and interviewed a few faculty members from the Cinema Studies department at NYU. And I said to myself, I’m coming back. I mean, this is great.
So, I received my master’s and Ph.D. from NYU. There I developed my interest in black cinema. I should say that Spike Lee was all the rage while I was still in Milan in college.
All the cool college kids were awaiting every single Spike Lee film to come out. He was the only one who had such a reach, in Italy, at least in Europe, mostly, but in Italy as well. So that was my way in. And then I became interested in African American literature.
Q: What was that like for you, just making that transition to the U.S.?
A: Oh my God, it was terrifying. I mean, I knew New York. I’d been to New York and visited many times, and I knew my way around. I could read and write academic language, but the everyday language was what was missing. My classmates used to tease me, and say, “Oh, Alessandra, she can talk about metaphysics any minute, but she can’t tell a refrigerator from a dishwasher.” Meaning, I did not have an ordinary language, because I didn’t grow up there, and even my formal education in English was very minimal. So, I had to pick it up, but you know, it’s the most exciting thing, you pick it up as you make friends, so it’s part of your friendships: you want to communicate, you want to crack a joke, you know, you don’t want to be the stiff one who doesn’t laugh. Once I got it down, I was able to make a lot of lifelong friends.
Q: What was it about Black cinema and Culture that made you draw to it?
A: Being a foreigner, you come to New York, and you realize that the question of race is, how can I say, really at the heart of American society and history. I didn’t have that at home, so I wanted to figure out the way it worked. For me, reading the works of James Baldwin, Toni Morrison, and Chester Himes was a pleasure. I thought it was the best literature.
When it came to cinema and black visual arts, I felt the same way. Nothing beats the sophistication of it. It conveys thinking and understanding of one’s environment, a thinking that some races don’t even have to bother with. As an immigrant from Europe, I recognized that I had certain privileges that others didn’t have, and I wanted to truly understand why.
Q: What led you to come to Georgia State University?
A: I landed a job at Ohio University, a role spanning three departments: Interdisciplinary Arts Ph.D. program, School of Film, and African American Studies. This opportunity came through a friend, Keith Harris, who had the position but moved to UC Riverside. He recommended me as his replacement, though it was a late-stage process, with interviews in May.
Initially, it was a one-year position. While I didn’t feel entirely ready for the African American Studies department, I caught up quickly. Teaching undergraduate classes on African-American art and culture, I earned the approval of my colleagues. The next year, a tenure track position opened, and they offered it to me.
Simultaneously, I received an offer from Georgia State. Ultimately, I chose Georgia State due to its research focus and the convenience of an international airport. Although I cherished my time in Ohio and made lifelong friends, living there wasn’t feasible for me.
Q: How did liquid blackness begin?
A: liquid blackness began as a classroom prompt I gave to my students, marking the first use of the term in class analysis. Their insights into contemporary culture and its connection to figures like Kanye West and Jay Z sparked my interest. This led to the realization that there was a need for research focused on contemporary black culture intersecting with music.
Then my chair at the time, David Cheshire, who’s now at CMII, told me, “Now that you’re tenured, you have to imagine and build your intellectual community.” That stuck with me. Looking around, I realized my intellectual community was my students.
In late summer 2013, Matthew Bernstein, chair of the film department at Emory, reached out. He asked if I’d help host a film series featuring works from the LA Rebellion. I barely knew him. We’d only met once, but I said, “Yes, I need to be doing this.”
That’s when it became official. I bought a domain name for the website. I declared, “Our contribution is called Liquid Blackness. This is who we are.” I reached out to students, including those who had already graduated, and said, “Hey, I have to host this film series. Do you want to help?”
The response was amazing. About 20 people showed up at the first meeting. It was stunning. Everyone volunteered, and we divided up the tasks. We watched films for four consecutive weekends, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.
Hosting events in a variety of places–from law firms to art galleries and community organizations–liquid blackness expanded. The effort is all-consuming, akin to a full-time job. The recent 10th-anniversary event took 12 months of intensive work, with some weeks stretching to 30-40 hours of work just on this.
Being a single mom, my 19-year-old daughter has been by my side, attending events and sharing in the journey. Despite financial challenges and moments of uncertainty, liquid blackness has become an integral part of our lives.
Q: How did it feel to celebrate the Tenth Anniversary of liquid blackness?
A: Well, it was incredible. It felt like a dream come true because I aspired to gather all those people in the same room. Some were familiar artists we had worked with before, while others were new, and we wanted to invite them into our community. What we’ve built truly feels like a community, and they embraced it.
Michele Prettyman, who was my first advisee, responded to the concept of liquid blackness even after graduating. She’s always been ahead of me and alongside me. We collaborated on this in many ways, and she set the tone for a personal conversation to occur in a public setting. That was remarkable.
Despite the hurricane looming in New York and Baltimore, which took some of the artists away too soon, everything else was fantastic. The last night, we gathered at my house, and I prepared dinner, making pizzas for everybody. It was a wonderful time.
New friendships sprouted, bridging artists with scholars who hadn’t known each other before. Now, they’re texting and exchanging links and resources. It’s like a community forming, and to me, that’s the true measure of success.
Of course, I do hope for engaged audiences because I believe what we’re doing is quite special and the artists are undeniably extraordinary. Yet, the real success lies in the new connections it sparks. When it’s generative like this, you know it’s been a success.
Q: When you look over your journey, what’s something that makes you the proudest?
A: The way people work together when it’s needed, I mean, I am overwhelmed by the amount of care, attention, and sensibility that was exercised by everyone involved with the group. Even those who used to be involved and returned knew exactly how we operated. We always stay attuned to what our guests need.
Our capacity to improvise and pivot when things don’t go well when there are logistical obstacles shows how close-knit, smart, and caring we are with each other. This may include a scholar, an invited scholar, a former student, you know, just everyone. It has been remarkable.
The video recording team was completely on point. People not only take care of their jobs, but they also take care of each other. For me, that’s crucial because scholarship without community is just, I don’t know, a lot of people do it. They publish for themselves, for their numbers, for their likes, for whatever.
To me, that’s not enough. I don’t care about that. Publishing my scholarly work, my traditional work, is just a way to share. But what I care for is the communities. So, to see that this energy is contagious is the most beautiful thing.
Q: Any final comments?
A: Well, that we face, yet again, a challenge with sustainability. Our journal needs funding moving forward. There is a straightforward mechanism that Duke University Press has put in place. Institutions can contribute as little as $500 for five years. If people believe in what we do, they should support us materially.
Because this is a labor of love, but everybody’s got to eat. And publishing a journal, an open-access journal, costs money. So, when people come to our events, and read our publications, and they find this very exciting, I welcome that, but it does not come from thin air.
And so, yeah. That’s what I want people to know. We need help keeping this going. As grateful as I am for the measure of support I have received over the years, long-term sustainability cannot always rely on personal resources or, you know, institutional benevolence which comes randomly and for reasons that are out of our hands.