‘Mind our own business…’ A spotlight on business and culture in the diaspora: Lu Smith

For photographer Lu Smith III, the camera is less a recording device and more a tool for reclamation. Because of his continued series, OCHASBeginning in 2015, Smith engages in a sophisticated subversion of the Western gaze, stripping away the pejorative, sensational labels often placed on Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions like Santería and Lukumí.

Instead, he installs a visual language rooted in regality, social intelligence, and what he calls “Black is-ness.”

“One thing I’m super proud of is that more and more of us are returning to this tradition,” Smith says of the growing movement of Black Americans reconnecting with ancestral practices. “I’m super excited about that. So I’m just ready for this,” says the incredibly talented multihyphenate known professionally as “Lu Smith.” He is mainly determined by the duality of the diaspora.

With an American father and a Trinidadian mother, he travels the world with the seasoned perspective of a global citizen who remains deeply connected 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 diaspora.

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 preservation of these traditions in places like Cuba is inextricably linked to the strength of the elders.

This intergenerational understanding and knowledge allows for a spiritual continuity that has historically been denied to many in the US.

“They (Cubans) could still talk to three generations back on Sundays,” Smith notes. “You walk across the street and… that old lady is a Yaya, and her family is from kabi kabi, Congo… Oh, that’s some Congo shit.”

It is this living history that Smith seeks to document, going beyond the “Catholic veil” that once served as a necessary veil for survival.

In OCHASSmith deliberately conceals faces to center the Orisha rather than the individual, using large format cameras to reflect the patience dictated by faith. He also quickly corrects the common misnomer that characterizes these practices solely as “Yoruba religion,” noting the complex mix of Dahomean, Fon, and Edo influences.

“They call it the religion of the Yorubas. It is not a Yoruba religion,” Smith claims.

Lukumí, traditionally known by the colonial label Santería, is a sophisticated Afro-Caribbean religious system that crystallized Cuba as an essential vessel for the spiritual and cultural retention of West Africa. This belief is anchored in the worship of Orishas – divine entities that 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 balance through cultivation ashthe primordial life force of the universe, which is activated through complex rituals involving rhythmic drumming, sacred dance and divination.

Far from the sensational caricatures often found in Western media, the tradition is defined by a rigorous philosophical framework and a legacy of regality that provided a sovereign refuge for African identity throughout centuries of colonial oppression.

In his work, Smith also confronts the puritanical modesty that colonization imposes on black bodies. He discusses the use of nudity in OCHAS as an allegorical return to the old-fashioned customs of the cabildo. “They saw me when I was born. They chose me when I was born,” he says of the Orisha. “What they’re telling us now – ‘Oh, you’re not naked in front of your Orishas’ – I was born naked. What are you talking about?”

Ultimately, OCHAS is an exercise in high-level curation. Smith isn’t interested in pulling back the curtain completely on a voyeuristic audience. Instead, he presents a version of black life that is sophisticated, mysterious, and undeniably “royal.”

“If you don’t know anything, black people are refined and regal,” Smith concluded. “For people who are a little more curious… this could easily be an introduction to everything you think you know about ‘Africa sh*t.’ This is what really happens.”

Orisha Manifestations: Oya & Oshun
The Storm: Oya no. 22
In Oya’s manifestation, Smith captures the Orisha of the wind, the marketplace, and the cemetery gates with an unyielding, quiet dignity. The machete resting on the shoulder is a deep allegory of the sharpness of the mind and the warrior’s need for protection. The white headscarf, tied with structural precision, evokes a crown of ancestral authority. In contrast, applying efun (white chalk) over the skin acts as a cooling balm – a ritual attribute of clarity and ‘coolness’ that is retained even in the heat of battle. Her form, partially revealed, rejects colonial shame and stands 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 depicted through a lens of honeyed rebellion. The cascade of cowrie shells draped over the back signifies not only wealth but also the voice of the divine through divination. The presence of lace and fine textures reflects the regal aura that Smith seeks to restore to the story of the Afro-diaspora.

Here the pleasure settles like stardust in the pores and cools the ‘spicy head’ to ensure that even a mind as passionate as Ochun moves with a calculated, regal calm. It is an image that embodies the inner gaze presented outwardly and commands respect through its sheer refinement.

Smith’s entry into the Lukumí tradition occurred not through an academic text, but through the deep-rooted appeal of the drum. As a jazz musician in a previous life, he became fascinated by the distinct energy of Cuban percussion. “It’s the music that drove me,” he explains. “Playing Latin jazz… when I see this like, why is it that when I see Cubans playing, it’s a different kind of ‘oh’?”

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 ‘happiness rituals’ of his parental home received their proper name.

“Ironically, I see these cats doing the same thing my grandmother and great-grandmother did,” Smith recalls. “Now I have context. My mom knows what I’m doing, and she says, ‘Have you ever had a broken bone? Have you ever been to the hospital?’ Exactly. Those old people knew something you know.”

Smith serves as a sentinel at the intersection of ancestral origins 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 faith in the Afro-diaspora. Centering an ethos of regality and “black is-ness,” Smith serves as a bridge for those seeking a path back to a tradition once hidden behind veils of survival.

He remains fiercely protective of the “sauce” and rejects 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 road map for the uninitiated and more committed to creating a sanctuary for the sovereign.

“If you’re interested, my job is to get you asking questions,” Smith concludes, remaining “enlightened” for a future where the crown of diaspora is seen, honored, and ultimately understood on its own terms.

YOU ARE is our Senior Editor and the astute voice behind it Minding Our Own Business: A Spotlight on Diaspora Enterprises and Culture. She examines the connective tissue of the African diaspora through the lenses of entertainment, education, and economic equality.

With nearly a decade of influence in the industry, she chronicles culture—from business to social justice to culture—through a relentless focus on collective Black power. Bicultural and unapologetic, she consistently supports everyone who is black, from the Motor City to the continent.