In his 1794 essay “On Picturesque Beauty,” the English artist William Gilpin held that the aesthetics of the picturesque excluded “the appendages of tillage, and in general the works of men.” By this definition, colonial scenes in this modality were compelled to avoid direct depictions of enslaved labor in favor of idyllic plenitude. Yet, enslavement in the Jamaican picturesque comes to the fore through an uneasy relation between figure and landscape in this early engraved version of George Robertson’s painting The Spring Head of Roaring River (c.  1778). In the center background, an enslaved Black male figure guides cattle down a muddy path and through winding waters flanked by jagged rocks.

In the foreground, a man of African descent prostrates himself before a mixed-race woman, conveying sympathy and docility. However, this amorous visual pleasure is rather tenuous. If the reference to the pigmentocracy of the British Caribbean (that is, the hierarchy visualized here between mixed-race and African Blackness) does not compromise the appearance of love in the composition, the resonance between cattle and human chattel behind them certainly does. Art historian Krista Thompson described the colonial picturesque as “a landscape that seemed like the dream of tropical nature.”

However, it is the work of enslaved peoples who cultivate the land—and who were cultivated themselves as racial and gendered subjects—that produces the “dream” of the Caribbean landscape. In this sense, the image could be thought of as the “spring head” of colonial enslavement.

Despite West Indian emancipation in 1834, the formerly enslaved continued to be bound to the estates during a transition period known as apprenticeship. The ambiguously idealized view of colonial slavery—the conjunction between enslaved laborers and land—present in the engraving of Robertson’s image also persisted in the visual culture of the post-emancipation period through its picturesque idioms. Plantain Trees (c. 1840), by the Scottish artist Joseph Bartholomew Kidd, is but one example.

Here two women of African descent appear to be at rest, contented with their lot. However, the scale and condition of the plantain trees—stretching high towards the edges of the frame and punctuated by dry leaves—are unsettling. The figures appear to be “natural” parts, integral elements, of the fertile land they inhabit, while the overripe plantains echo the association between fruit and the sexuality of women of African descent throughout Caribbean discourse.

Yet this plantation landscape conveys a sense of potential and imminent danger as well, all the more disturbing for the naive style in which its paradise-like qualities are rendered. At a moment of seeming relaxation, a threat looms over the scene: a bunch of plantains hang over the head of one of the figures as if about to fall. This feeling of a “hanging” threat is further intensified by the cliff, upon whose promontory the figure sits. Rather than a sheltering or comforting vision, the picturesque landscape seems to question idleness since its implied temporality heralds a potentially perilous aftermath—the conscription of Black bodies to labor and reproduction, or else.

In Death of a Soundboy (2020), contemporary Jamaican mixed-media artist Leasho Johnson directly intervenes in Kidd’s Plantain Trees, remixing its picturesque plantation landscape with references to dancehall—a countercultural musical genre dating to late-twentieth-century Kingston and characterized by heavy bass lines, DJs, explicit lyrics, and sensual, at times acrobatic dance. The plantain trees maintain their size and shadow, yet the figures of Johnson’s print are not to be cowed.

One woman directs her attention to her companion, who performs “pon head top,” balancing on her head and gyrating her backside and legs. This figure chooses self-possession and the Jamaican Creole notion of “slackness,” or vulgarity, over either self-restraint or harmony with the landscape. The precariousness that structures Kidd’s perilous post-emancipation landscape is literally inverted here, transformed into a mischievous act.

The neon orange soundboy or DJ—drawn in an anime style—takes the place of the “master of all I survey.” Johnson’s work points to how the British West Indian picturesque can bend under the weight of its own conventions, challenged by Black creativity. ■

In his 1794 essay “On Picturesque Beauty,” the English artist William Gilpin held that the aesthetics of the picturesque excluded “the appendages of tillage, and in general the works of men.” By this definition, colonial scenes in this modality were compelled to avoid direct depictions of enslaved labor in favor of idyllic plenitude. Yet, enslavement in the Jamaican picturesque comes to the fore through an uneasy relation between figure and landscape in this early engraved version of George Robertson’s painting The Spring Head of Roaring River (c.  1778). In the center background, an enslaved Black male figure guides cattle down a muddy path and through winding waters flanked by jagged rocks.

In the foreground, a man of African descent prostrates himself before a mixed-race woman, conveying sympathy and docility. However, this amorous visual pleasure is rather tenuous. If the reference to the pigmentocracy of the British Caribbean (that is, the hierarchy visualized here between mixed-race and African Blackness) does not compromise the appearance of love in the composition, the resonance between cattle and human chattel behind them certainly does. Art historian Krista Thompson described the colonial picturesque as “a landscape that seemed like the dream of tropical nature.”

However, it is the work of enslaved peoples who cultivate the land—and who were cultivated themselves as racial and gendered subjects—that produces the “dream” of the Caribbean landscape. In this sense, the image could be thought of as the “spring head” of colonial enslavement.

Despite West Indian emancipation in 1834, the formerly enslaved continued to be bound to the estates during a transition period known as apprenticeship. The ambiguously idealized view of colonial slavery—the conjunction between enslaved laborers and land—present in the engraving of Robertson’s image also persisted in the visual culture of the post-emancipation period through its picturesque idioms. Plantain Trees (c. 1840), by the Scottish artist Joseph Bartholomew Kidd, is but one example.

Here two women of African descent appear to be at rest, contented with their lot. However, the scale and condition of the plantain trees—stretching high towards the edges of the frame and punctuated by dry leaves—are unsettling. The figures appear to be “natural” parts, integral elements, of the fertile land they inhabit, while the overripe plantains echo the association between fruit and the sexuality of women of African descent throughout Caribbean discourse.

Yet this plantation landscape conveys a sense of potential and imminent danger as well, all the more disturbing for the naive style in which its paradise-like qualities are rendered. At a moment of seeming relaxation, a threat looms over the scene: a bunch of plantains hang over the head of one of the figures as if about to fall. This feeling of a “hanging” threat is further intensified by the cliff, upon whose promontory the figure sits. Rather than a sheltering or comforting vision, the picturesque landscape seems to question idleness since its implied temporality heralds a potentially perilous aftermath—the conscription of Black bodies to labor and reproduction, or else.

In Death of a Soundboy (2020), contemporary Jamaican mixed-media artist Leasho Johnson directly intervenes in Kidd’s Plantain Trees, remixing its picturesque plantation landscape with references to dancehall—a countercultural musical genre dating to late-twentieth-century Kingston and characterized by heavy bass lines, DJs, explicit lyrics, and sensual, at times acrobatic dance. The plantain trees maintain their size and shadow, yet the figures of Johnson’s print are not to be cowed.

One woman directs her attention to her companion, who performs “pon head top,” balancing on her head and gyrating her backside and legs. This figure chooses self-possession and the Jamaican Creole notion of “slackness,” or vulgarity, over either self-restraint or harmony with the landscape. The precariousness that structures Kidd’s perilous post-emancipation landscape is literally inverted here, transformed into a mischievous act.

The neon orange soundboy or DJ—drawn in an anime style—takes the place of the “master of all I survey.” Johnson’s work points to how the British West Indian picturesque can bend under the weight of its own conventions, challenged by Black creativity. ■