Christa Pike and the Absurdity of Humane Execution

Doctors in Tennessee are attempting to save the life of a woman whom the state just tried to kill. “Kafkaesque” is a term so overused that it has become a banality, but how else can one characterize the chain of events that occurred on September 30th?

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Christa Pike was eighteen years old when she murdered her classmate, Colleen Slemmer, in 1995. A year later, she became the youngest woman to receive a death sentence in the modern era. This past Wednesday, at 8:17 A.M., an hour or so before the now fifty-year-old Pike was scheduled to be executed, an appeals court granted her legal team’s request for a stay of execution “to properly analyze the parties’ fully briefed arguments and resolve the issues on the merits.” By late afternoon, the Supreme Court, which had denied her a stay earlier in the week, vacated it. At Riverbend—a maximum-security prison in Nashville where Pike, the only woman on Tennessee’s death row, has long been held—there were media witnesses, prison personnel, lawyers, Slemmer’s mother, and a spiritual adviser gathered. Pike said her last words, an offering of love to those who loved her and those who hated her, and prepared. An execution team sent a rivulet of pentobarbital through her left arm. Pike remained conscious, though, and spoke, asking whether it was normal that her arm felt like it might burst. A second syringe was administered. Pike appeared to lose consciousness, but was observed to be snoring, indicating that she was still breathing. An hour crept by. She did not die. Lawyers made emergency calls, and a decision was made to halt the proceedings, which had lost the veneer of sobriety and had tipped into a scene of government depravity, the vague zone of punishment deemed by the provisions of the Eighth Amendment as “cruel and unusual.”

Gerald Cyrus’s Magnificent Images of Black Life

hen I look at Gerald Cyrus’s jazz photographs, I can hear the music. I can smell the stale-moldy-acid-floral scent of beer, of cigarettes on breath, of the air strained by sweat and White Diamonds perfume. I can hear the old man shouting with his arms raised, the blue-black night of a missing front tooth amplified by the shiny gold one next to it. I can feel the heat in the room, the human humidity dewing the windows in a thick fog, daring you to trace something on their misty sheets of protection. I can sense the vibration underfoot, the feet tapping and the glasses hitting countertops and the asses hitting barstools. I recognize the finger waves shaking loose, the relaxers napping up, the cigarettes dangling between cackling gapped teeth while “How Can I Ease the Pain” sizzles out from the jukebox.

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Starting in 1990, Cyrus, then a thirty-three-year-old M.F.A. student at the School of Visual Arts, began consistently documenting New York City. This month, TBW Books will publish a long-awaited collection of his images from that decade, “Uptown Odyssey.” The book gathers the photographs he took of the vibrant street corners of Harlem; of the dank, boisterous subways as he went to and from class; of Harlem’s legendary jazz clubs; and of dark, soulful night scenes, pocked with buzzing street lamps and gleaming cars. In one of my favorite images in the book, taken in 1994, two girls vamp for Cyrus’s camera beside an open fire hydrant, water spewing out onto the street and wetting their legs.

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In another photograph, from 1991, a mysterious figure clad in white skulks her way from the flat, flickering light of a train station into the seemingly endless night of the city. In an image from 1997, five men stand in front of a dazzling neon sign that reads “Lounge.” The picture is so vivid in its inky perfection that looking at it suggests the gravelly voice of the man standing on the far right, beneath the hair-braiding sign, as he explains how he picked up a girl thirty years ago who lived just beyond the frame. How she looked just like Sade; how he smooth-talked her inside a bodega and walked her home. These photographs are alive, electric, and damp with prosody, preserving moments of Black life that can never truly be duplicated.