For photographer Lu Smith III, the camera is less of a recording device and more of a tool for reclamation. Through his ongoing series, O C H A S, which began in 2015, Smith engages in a sophisticated subversion of the Western gaze, stripping away the pejorative, sensationalized labels often slapped onto Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions like Santería and Lukumí.
In their place, he installs a visual vernacular rooted in regality, social intelligence, and what he calls “Black is-ness”.
“One thing I’m super-proud of is that there are more of us coming back into this tradition,” Smith says of the growing movement of Black Americans reconnecting with ancestral practices. “I’m super-excited about that. So I, like, I’m just lit for this,” the incredibly talented multihyphenate known professionally as “Lu Smith” says. He is primarily defined by the diaspora’s duality.
With an American father and a Trinidadian mother, he moves through the world with the seasoned perspective of a global citizen who remains deeply tethered to the soil of his ancestors. This bicultural fluidity allows him to navigate sacred spaces with a unique sensitivity—one that recognizes the “one foot in, one foot out” reality of the bicultural diasporan.
Smith’s connection to the past is not merely nostalgic; it is a reclamation of the concept of longevity that defies Western actuarial tables. Smith noted that the retention of these traditions in places like Cuba is inextricably linked to the strength of the elders.
This intergenerational understanding and knowledge enable a spiritual continuity that many in the U.S. were historically denied.
“They (Cubans) still could go talk to three generations back on a Sunday,” Smith observes. “You walk across the street and… that old lady is a Yaya, and her family they come from the kabi kabi the Congo… Oh, that’s some Congo sh*t.”
It is this living history that Smith seeks to document, moving beyond the “Catholic veil” that once served as a necessary shroud for survival.
In O C H A S, Smith intentionally obscures faces to center the Orisha rather than the individual, utilizing large-format cameras to reflect the patience mandated by the faith. He is also quick to correct the common misnomer that characterizes these practices solely as “Yoruba religion,” noting the complex blend of Dahomean, Fon, and Edo influences.
“They call it the religion of the Yorubas. It is not a Yoruba religion,” Smith asserts.
Lukumí, historically known by the colonial label Santería, is a sophisticated Afro-Caribbean religious system that crystallized in Cuba as a vital vessel for West African spiritual and cultural retentions. This faith is anchored in the veneration of Orishas—divine entities who serve as intermediaries between the supreme creator and the physical world, each personifying specific forces of nature and facets of human existence. Practitioners maintain a state of spiritual equilibrium by cultivating ashe, the primordial life force of the universe, which is activated through complex rituals involving rhythmic drumming, sacred dance, and divination.
Far from the sensationalized caricatures often found in Western media, the tradition is defined by a rigorous philosophical framework and a legacy of regality that provided a sovereign sanctuary for African identity throughout centuries of colonial suppression.
In his work, Smith also confronts the puritanical modesty that colonization forced upon Black bodies. He discusses the use of nudity in O C H A S as an allegorical return to the old school ways of the cabildo. “They saw me when
I was born. They chose me when I was born,” he says of the Orisha. “What they tell us now—‘Oh, you don’t be naked in front of your Orishas’—I came in the world naked. What are you talking about?”Ultimately, O C H A S is an exercise in high-level curation. Smith is not interested in pulling the curtain all the way back for a voyeuristic audience. Instead, he presents a version of Black life that is sophisticated, mysterious, and undeniably “regal.”
“If you don’t know anything, Black people are sophisticated and regal,” Smith concluded. “For people that have a bit more inquisitiveness… this could very easily be an introduction to everything that you think that you know about ‘Africa sh*t.’ Here is what’s really happening”.
Orisha Manifestations: Oya & Oshun
The Tempest: Oya No. 22
In the manifestation of Oya, Smith captures the Orisha of the winds, the marketplace, and the gates of the cemetery with an unyielding, silent dignity. The machete resting across the shoulder is a visceral allegory of the spirit’s sharpness and the warrior’s need for protection. The white headwrap, bound with structural precision, evokes a crown of ancestral authority. In contrast, the dusting of efun (white chalk) across the skin acts as a cooling balm—a ritualistic signature of clarity and “coolness” maintained even in the heat of battle. Her form, partially unveiled, rejects colonial shame, standing instead as a monument to a sacred vulnerability that is at once human and divine.
The River: Ochun No. 19
In the manifestation of Ochun, the Orisha of the river, sweetness and sensory beauty are rendered through a lens of honeyed rebellion. The cascade of cowrie shells draped across the back signifies not just wealth, but the very voice of the divine through divination. The presence of lace and fine textures mirrors the regality Smith seeks to restore to the Afro-diasporic narrative.
Here, the efun settles into the pores like stardust, cooling the “feisty head” to ensure that even a spirit as passionate as Ochun moves with a calculated, royal calm. It is an image that embodies the inward gaze presented outwardly, demanding respect through its sheer sophistication.
Smith’s entry into the Lukumí tradition wasn’t through an academic text, but through the visceral pull of the drum. A jazz musician in a previous life, he found himself captivated by the distinct energy of Cuban percussion. “The music is what got me,” he explains. “Playing Latin jazz… seeing this like, yo, why is it that when I see Cubans playing, it’s a different kind of, like, ‘oh’ to it?”
This curiosity led him to his godfather, an accomplished Matanzero musician, and eventually to Cuba’s sacred ceremonies for drummers. It was there that the “good luck” rituals of his childhood home gained their proper name.
“Ironically, I’m seeing these cats doing the same sh*t my grandmother and great-grandmother were doing,” Smith recalls. “Now I have context. Mom knows what I’m into, and she’s just like, ‘Have you ever had a broken bone? Have you ever been in the hospital?’ Exactly. Them old folks knew something that you know”.
Smith stands as a sentinel at the intersection of ancestral provenance and contemporary visual prose. His work is not merely a collection of images, but a rigorous intervention against the historical erasure and pejorative labeling of Afro-diasporic faith. By centering an ethos of regality and “Black is-ness,” Smith serves as a bridge for those seeking a way back to a tradition that was once hidden behind veils of survival.
He remains fiercely protective of
the “sauce,” rejecting the voyeuristic academic gaze that seeks to study Black power only to dilute it. As he navigates his own spiritual and artistic journey, Smith is less interested in providing a roadmap for the uninitiated and more committed to creating a sanctuary for the sovereign.“If you are interested, then my work is to cause you to start asking questions,” Smith concludes, remaining “lit” for a future where the crown of the diaspora is seen, honored, and finally understood on its own terms.
Keka Araújo is our Senior Editor and the sharp-witted voice behind Minding Our Own Business: A Spotlight On Diaspora Enterprise and Culture. She explores the connective tissue of the African diaspora through the lenses of entertainment, education, and economic equity.
With nearly a decade of industry influence, she chronicles the culture—from business to social justice to culture—through a relentless focus on Black collective power. Bicultural and unapologetic, she’s perpetually rooting for everybody Black, from the Motor City to the continent.