The Desert Sea
2015 - 2018 (expected)
Cyanotype project, currently in progress, Mojave Desert, Nevada. Expected Publish/Show date, Summer 2018.
My Father's War
Light Chamber, Type II
Re-purposing the last few undamaged Kodachrome slides from Paul-Jude father's tour in the Vietnam War, he revisits the drama his father has been unable retell since his time as a solider. Through the documentation of his father's own camera lens, Paul-Jude re-imagines the contextual hue of his father's war-torn and suppressed memory, in search of whatever may have been left behind.
After The Storm
MFA Thesis Show
Video/ Wall Projection
It is difficult to understand the impact of loss. Eight years after Hurricane Katrina, fragments of the past still persist. The echoes of the affected land, of those thousands who lost their lives, and the displaced families still resonate in the memory of those who have survived. The flooding of Pontchartrain Park is one such memory. Built in 1955, Pontchartrain Park was a post World War II suburban community developed by, and for, middle class African Americans during racial segregation in New Orleans, Louisiana. Yet, from 1959 to 2005 Pontchartrain Park was more than a national symbol of the Jim Crow segregated South, it was the home of Paul-Jude's family and the place of his most beloved childhood memories; memories that still live in his thoughts and through the recovered family albums found after the storm.
This series, then, argues the importance of memory; not only his own, but rather for everyone that has experienced loss. Evoking his own family archive found in weathered ruin after the hurricane -juxtaposed with the phone interview of his surviving Grandmother - , “After the Storm” poses questions that transpose the effects of loss. Paul-Jude understands loss effects individuals differently, yet “After the Storm” humbly poses a common inquiry: “What is the significance of our past?” and, “What does it mean to remember?”
Never Let Me Go: Memory, Loss, and the Archive
New England School of Photography
Light Chamber, Type I
2005 - 2013
Throughout this series Paul-Jude questions how loss encourages polarization. On one hand, he believes we are encouraged to forget, meaning: to ignore, to disregard, and, ultimately, to evolve, seemingly apathetic toward potential outcomes. Yet, Paul-Jude also believes the converse: every individual who has experienced loss in some way is also subject to ‘mourning’; meaning, simply, we are challenged to reflect, and to grow, in our own way.
A New Orleans native, Guillaume has had first hand experience with this polarization. In 2005, shortly after Guillaume transferred from Xavier University at Louisiana to Indiana University as a young undergraduate student, the devastating effects of Hurricane Katrina forever changed the lives of his relatives - most lost their homes, and tragically, a few did not survive. Over the years material items that were damaged overwhelmingly were replaced - most things, except irreplaceable items like his grandmother's family albums. He began to wonder of their significance beyond just photographs. He wondered how these 'damaged' photos - their blurred contours, erased faces, and water logged backing - represented something more.
Never Let Me Go: Memory, Loss, and the Archive, highlights this communal experience, attempting to represent narratives of the familial archetype. Simply, using photographic materials from his, and other found family albums, Guillaume re-appropriates the family memento, attempting to find blended commonalities among loss, and methods of memory permanence.
South Bend Indiana Civil Rights Heritage Center
Gelatin Silver Print
Influenced by Eric Etheridge’s documentary Beach of Peace, the South Bend Civil Rights Heritage Center Oral History Project and its’ sponsored photographic series by Paul-Jude Guillaume, highlight the local Civil Rights activists of South Bend’s Engman Natatorium. Built in 1921, the Engman Natatorium was initially intended to house swimming classes and for general community recreation. However, as African American residents began to relocate to this area, in the mist of segregation they found themselves unwelcome, denied by oppressive Jim Crow laws. In this heated historical moment of 1931, the Natatorium was a silent communal force, driving forward local civil rights ideology and legislation, and has since become one of the few remaining land-markers which retell its' historical importance so vividly. Simply, like “Beach of Peace”, at its core the South Bend Civil Rights Heritage Center Oral History Project and Guillaume’s photographs exist not only to document the importance of these remaining historical locations, but also to acknowledge the values, the struggles, and the courage of those who fought for basic human equality.