Photograh by Ira Atkins
Born in Chicago in 1937, Valeria “Mikki” Ferrill pursued her education in graphic design and illustration at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. It was during her studies that she first encountered photography as a transformative art form, sparked by images created by Ted Williams, a fellow South Side photojournalist known for his evocative photographs of jazz musicians. This pivotal moment led Ferrill to apprentice with Williams, shaping her path as a photographer.
As a protégé in Williams's studio, Ferrill immersed herself in the craft alongside notable photographers such as Tom Jackson and Jim Taylor and studying the work of photographers such as Gordon Parks. Through technical classes and hands-on experience, Ferrill developed her skills and artistic vision, realizing, “Photography is not just a documentary tool; it is a great art form.” From 1967 to 1970, Ferrill accompanied Williams on assignments in Mexico, where they covered events like the 1968 Olympics. Upon returning to Chicago in 1970, she became a freelance photographer, contributing her work to several notable publications, including Ebony, Downbeat, Chicago Defender, Chicago Tribune, Final Call, and Muhammad Speaks.
One of her most significant projects was a decade-long commitment to photographing The Garage, an improvised music club that popped up every Sunday in a car garage located at 610 East 50th Street in Chicago. Known affectionately as "The Picture-Taking Lady," Ferrill captured the spirit of the venue, which hosted a mix of jazz and R&B music. She noted, " The people, the music, and just the atmosphere became my spiritual inspiration." Her work from The Garage was featured in the first and second volumes of The Black Photographers Annual, where she noted, "Whether it be Maxwell Street Market or a market in San Luis Potosi, I believe ‘every man his own candle, and sees by his own flame.’"
Ferrill's photography extended beyond The Garage, encompassing a wide range of subjects from community events to notable figures in Chicago's artistic landscape. She participated in influential exhibitions, including Two Schools: New York and Chicago Contemporary African-American Photography of the 60s and 70s in 1986. That same year, Ferrill’s work was included alongside Gordon Parks’s in the group exhibition curated by Deborah Willis, On Freedom: The Art of Photojournalism at the Studio Museum in Harlem. Throughout her career, Ferrill embraced her role as a woman in a male-dominated field, often being the only female photographer in various settings. Her experiences, ranging from her involvement with the press at significant events to her candid interactions with her subjects, underscored her belief in forming genuine connections. "I always did things on my own terms," she reflected, highlighting her commitment to authenticity in her work.
TEXT BY MIKKI FERRILL BELOW
Mikki Ferrill, Untitled from The Shine Boys series, 1973
The following text by Mikki Ferrill is drawn from a conversation between Ferrill and Michal Raz-Russo (programs director at The Gordon Parks Foundation) that took place on January 20, 2025 in Oakland, California. The transcript has been edited for length and clarity.
I was born in Chicago, and I left when I was two years old. My mother moved to Philadelphia with me, my brother, and my grandmother. I lived in Philadelphia until I was 14, and then I went to Chicago to live with my father and my aunt at the family homestead. Those were important and influential years. Chicago was a fast town, and starkly different from Philadelphia.
By living with each parent individually, it was like having two upbringings. My mother was extremely smart, ahead of her time, and a big academic. She went to college at age 16, took her last class at 75 years old. She chose to be a single parent, even though they were married. Her emphasis was education, religion, and music. She never spoke above a whisper, never heard her say a curse word. She had no boyfriends. Every moment was a teachable one for her. We did not have a lot of money but she managed to expose us to violin lessons, Afro-Cuban dance. On Saturdays, when all the kids were at the playground, we were attending classical musical concerts. we also went square dancing which I loved. This was a very interesting period of my upbringing. she provided my moral compass and a love for music, and how to be self-reliant. She taught the neighborhood children piano lessons. She was a great role model when I lived with my father at age 15 in Chicago, it was a completely different environment. I got a weekly allowance, went to the beauty shop every two weeks, went fishing, learned how to drive a car. We would go to Michigan and pick apples. My dad was not an academic but he was more of a see it do it person. We went on long road trips in the 1955 Buick special which was thrilling since my mother never drove. I learned a lot of handyman skills from my dad. These were two different experiences—all very wholesome, honest, and wonderful. I am so grateful for the experience. My dad played the clarinet so music was ever present in my life. Music and dance is what my mother and father had in common. They met at a dance and they both loved to dance.
Mikki Ferrill, Untitled from The Maxwell Street series, 1965
In 1963, after high school, I studied design at the Art Institute of Chicago. I discovered photography around that time thanks to Ted Williams, who was a photographer. I was friends with his wife, Carol Williams; I went to their house often, and we used to listen to jazz. That’s how I met Ted and got to know his work, and found photography. That year, I finished my semester at the Art Institute and withdrew from the school— I started hanging out at Ted's Studio at 441 North Clark, which hosted many great photographers, like Tom Jackson. Everyone there was just so helpful, and I was full of questions. I took classes with Ted, and it was a remarkable experience: He would, for example, send us down to Marina City to photograph the building for the week, and what he was trying to show us was that everyone sees the same thing differently.
Learning about the photographic process at Ted’s studio was fascinating. When I decided that I wanted to pursue it, I knew I had to halfway double-step because everyone there knew how to develop, they knew how to print, and I knew nothing. I loved to make prints, and eventually I got very good at printing. When James Taylor, the filmmaker, had his exhibit at Shepherd's Gallery, he asked me make the prints for him. Around that time, Ted, Carol, and I went on vacation in Mexico, and I absolutely loved it. We made a pact that we were going to move back to Mexico in two years, so I started saving my money. I was also working at Temple Sholom; I ran the mail room, which was nothing artistic.
Ted and I returned to Mexico in 1967 as foreign correspondents for Sigma, the news agency. We all had different assignments, but Ted was also doing advertising in Mexico. I worked for him as his assistant, and made $26 every six days I worked. It wasn't a rich job, but it was wealthy on knowledge: I was loading his large format camera and printing his prints. It was an enriching, really wonderful experience. Ted would also give me assignments he couldn’t do, so I made a little extra money. That went on for about three years. We covered events like the Olympics, but after a while there wasn’t as much work, so I left Mexico and returned to Chicago in 1970. But those three years in Mexico was what we call “woodshedding”—they really shaped me as a photographer.
Mikki Ferrilll, Untitled, 1974
While I was living in Mexico, I didn't speak the language fluently, just enough to get by. If you don't speak the language, you have to heighten your intuitiveness so that you can figure out what's going on before it happens. That's how photography came together for me while I was in Mexico: my intuition was heightened because I couldn't speak the language. I always get asked how I assimilate into an environment so well, and I have Ted to thank for that. We would go to different places to photograph events—Veracruz for Mardi Gras, and so on—we wouldn't just jump up and photograph. We'd have breakfast, put our camera on the table; every once in a while, I'd take a shot. And that taught me how to really mesh into the environment.
Back in 1965, Ted and I went to Newport Jazz Festival in Rhode Island. When the performers came on the bandstand, everyone jumped to the front of the stage, and Ted would just be laid back. I asked him one day, “how come you don't get to the stage when the musicians first come on?” And he said, “well, the thing is they're not even warmed up yet.” I noticed about halfway through a session or so, he would get to the front of the stage. That’s how I learned to mesh into the environment. You won't get an intimate picture unless you mesh with your subject. You have to make them feel at ease with you, because if they don't, they'll give you a false picture. You have to try to identify with your subject—it could be a compliment, it could be a smile, just something to mesh. You don't want to be an outsider looking in. I learned that from Ted by hanging out with him, taking pictures. I learned so much from that experience in Mexico, and I really didn't realize how much I was learning until I came back to the United States.
Mikki Ferrill, Untitled from The Shine Boys series, 1973
When I came back to Chicago in 1970, a lot had changed. I felt as though I was entering a new country. I wasn’t there when Dr. King got assassinated. I had participated when he came to Chicago in 1966 for the demonstration against segregation in schools, housing, and employment organized by Chicago activist Albert Raby, and now everything had changed. It felt like so many people in America were betrayed, and everything was new to me.
When I returned, I lived at my father’s house at 6712 South Eberhart Avenue in Chicago’s South Side. Ted sent me back to Chicago with a letter of introduction to the people that ran Astra Photo Lab at 6 East Lake Street. The letter said, “this girl can print,” and they hired me. I worked nights, 5:00 p.m. until 1:00 a.m., with two guys, Michael and Richard. We used to listen to talk radio and talk about politics, and I brought my own photographs to print.
I was also friends with the photographer Robert “Bobby” Sengstacke at the time, and he liked my work. Bobby was an editor at the weekly newspaper the Chicago Defender, which was founded by Robert’s great-uncle Robert Sengstacke Abbott in 1905, and Robert’s father, John Sengstacke, ran the paper for nearly 60 years. Bobby asked me to do a feature photo story for the Defender once a week, on any subject I wanted to shoot. That was pretty phenomenal. I started with the people that I knew, like Michelle Madison and her dance studio. (Michelle’s sister was married to Terrell Mason, who was a photographer we used to call the Wizard, because he would calibrate everything down to the last inch.) Another story I did was on the shoeshine boys—my friend Darryl took me there. He was getting a shine, and I just started taking photographs; we were only there about 20 minutes. I photographed just ordinary people, and I always carried my camera everywhere.
Mikki Ferrill, Untitled from The Garage series, 1975
Then a friend of mine introduced me to the Garage—an improvised, Sunday music venue at a car garage located at 610 East 50th Street in Chicago’s South Side. He was one of the DJs there, and he knew I liked jazz. So he invited me, I went, and I was hooked. The Garage was a place where you go and make yourself at home, and everyone there accepts you. The common denominator was the music. Everybody loved the jazz, and they played it so loud. You're listening to music that you love, and people are buzzing around you dancing. There was Slim—I didn’t know his real name, but that’s what I called him, and he was great on the dance floor. There was also this woman who was a great dancer, and she didn't shy away from dancing with someone in a wheelchair. That was to me, very special, she had to be a special person.
The regulars there started calling me the Picture-Taking Lady. With my 20 mm Vivitar wide-angle lens, I could get right up to everyone. They would come and get me and ask me to take their picture, and I would give them a copy later. It was important for them to see themselves. I always try to give back—if you're taking someone's picture and you have an opportunity to give them a copy, do it. I gave Arthur “Pops” Simpson, the proprietor of the Garage, some of my photographs. I would go home, develop my film and print, and then the next Sunday or whenever I went, I would take them to Pops and he started putting them on the walls of the Garage.
The Garage was a great escape from life, from your troubles. I used to call it my church, because it was on a Sunday. For me it was kind of spiritual, a relief from all the stress of the week. Just to go there and spend a couple of hours. It was a wonderful place to be, a wonderful feeling to have.
Mikki Ferrill, Untitled from The Dark Riders series
The Defender ran a story about the Garage. In 1975, also as a part of the series for the newspaper, I photographed a rodeo that came to Chicago. There were Black cowboys there—Bill Pickett may have been there too. I've always been fascinated with wanting to understand what made African Americans choose that part of the culture. I became aware of the Bill Pickett rodeo circuit after that, and I started photographing those events in places like Boley, Oklahoma. Every place I traveled, I photographed the Black cowboys. Ted Williams helped me name the series the Dark Riders.
Through all my years photographing, I never belonged to any formal groups, in Chicago or in Oakland. I was often the only woman photographer, especially in Chicago. In 1986 I was in a group exhibition, On Freedom: The Art of Photojournalism, at the Studio Museum in Harlem with Peter Magubane, Ozier Muhammad, Gordon Parks, and Bobby Sengstacke, curated by Deborah Willis. It was really thrilling to be in an exhibition with Gordon Parks, because he was a big deal. I still have the exhibition poster. It's always been shocking and thrilling at the same time for people to embrace my work.
I think photography is the vastest art form that I know of, and there’s still room for things that have yet to be conceived. You could be a photojournalist, you could be a fashion photographer, you could be in advertising. If I lived to be 200 years old, I would never tire of it because it’s so vast. And I guess the rest is history.
