A Basketball Battleground Between the Male Gaze and the Female Stare Down

The main court of “Gaze” bears an unflinching eye around the center circle. With purple lines over an orange base, the eye exists within a rectangle, like a flag draped from sideline to sideline across mid-court. The eye is a recurring presence in Reindorf’s practice. In her Mawu Nyonu collection it’s affixed in the top left corner of every flag painting. As a Ghanaian artist living and working in the U.S., Reindorf’s paintings draw their inspiration from the Ghanaian folkloric tradition of Asafo flags made by the Fante people of the central and western regions. The Asafo flags depict colorful and graphic narratives, which Reindorf adapts for mythbuilding of a fictional female masquerade society. Her deities, shown as silhouettes with only eyes, possess powers that defy the patriarchal world at large. For instance, the deity in the “Up To No Good” collection is confident and adventurous, often exploring forbidden places or cooly lounging in exotic lairs.

“Everything is really based on creating these strong, fictional women characters who are badass and do what they want without being worried about societal pressures,” Reindorf says.

For Reindorf, who's been developing the masquerade society mythology for the past four years, the eyes shift a power imbalance. The masquerade societies in Western and Central Africa are mostly male, many of which forbid women from participation, but in Reindorf’s masquerade universe her female deities have that power of masked anonymity. As we look upon them and wonder about their identities, they look right back.

“Eyes became a very important motif because they represented this idea of power,” she says. “The eyes are the only features that they have. It’s something I want to bring attention to. It’s this idea of looking at, looking back. It’s the stare down.” 

The power of the stare down, and who is permitted to wield its power, has been under the lens with the growing attention around women’s basketball at large. And with that attention comes the male gaze to threaten its power. During the installation of “Gaze” by Project Backboard, signs posted on the temporary fencing presented an artwork rendering and description from Reindorf that asked for consideration as to how female bodies can be objectified in and outside of art. It called the eye an “opportunity to confront the audience as well as counteract the prevalent male gaze.” Those final two words struck a nerve with some of the men at the adjacent exercise gym. The recurring question: What does the male gaze have to do with a basketball court?

Much like Reindorf’s eye motif, the male gaze is not singular in its definition or representation. She noted the male gaze “exists in different forms.”

“The gaze exists in policies, and unsaid ways of moving through the world, which have this controlling effect on how women can be free to express themselves without feeling threatened.”

Reindorf’s court was made in partnership with Glossier and the WNBA, which brings to mind one of the league’s leaders in defiant stare downs, a young Black athlete who deserves her own badass flag: Angel Reese. The Chicago Sky rookie is both celebrated in youth culture and demonized by institutional media for her stare downs. When Reese escalated her stare down to a “you can’t see me” taunt toward Caitlin Clark in the 2023 NCAA Tournament, throwing Clark’s own past use back in her face, the male gaze of broadcast and print media framed Reese as a bully who lacked the etiquette of sportsmanship. They wanted to strip her eyes of their power.

Of course, this is how the male gaze, supported by a racist patriarchal system, operates; men police women for being competitive and expressive, in order to control what the women say and do. The control goes double for Black women. These calls for proper basketball etiquette—by men who are new to watching women’s basketball—also turn a blind eye to NBA players’ “too little” and “night night” taunts in a gendered double standard. Well, now WNBA players are in the public eye; Reese’s stare down is challenging the system that’s long been designed to marginalize women’s contribution to the evolution of basketball.

Reese’s stare down trickles through the collective culture. It inspires. The stare down is a necessary weapon for women. It finds its way to the basketball courts at Tompkins Square Park, a place where women have been creating community space for themselves for the past five years. Women like Janice Carter, who’s been in this struggle for decades. It’s a Sunday afternoon in mid-July. Day two of the JC Pro Classic, an all women’s basketball tournament run by Carter. From 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. both courts are alive with female athletes in custom uniforms playing four-quarter, running clock games with accredited officials. In the upper division a young Black forward finishes a tough lay-up through contact for a potential three-point play. She stares down her opponent before embracing her teammates. A hardcore festival at the center of Tompkins Square Park barely challenges the music of basketball as the two courts create a free flowing symphony of “and one” shouts, skidding sneakers, barking coaches, echoing whistles, rim clangs, and the sweet swish of a basketball net.

A 30-year veteran of West 4th, Carter grew tired of elbowing for space for a women’s division at the iconic streetball league in the West Village. In 2019 she self-funded the JC Pro Classic as an all-women’s summer tournament for middle school, high school, and college level athletes.

“The whole idea was to have a place to showcase the girls’ talent basically for college coaches, scouts from overseas,” Carter says. Girls are very talented and they need a place to be seen.” 

Carter sees more work ahead, a vision of more clinics and sponsorships to fund it. For now, it’s a well-organized community event with dozens of volunteers. The will of people who care keep the JC Pro Classic afloat. In that respect, Tompkins Square Park is the tournament’s proper home.  

When Robert Moses redesigned Tompkins Square Park in 1936 with his idea of spatial segregation, which included installing basketball courts, he overlooked its 100 years as an organizing nexus for public assembly. Pre-Civil War saw an Irish immigrant riot in protest of the draft, and in the late 1800s German immigrants used the park as the battleground for labor protests. The center bandshell, erected in 1966, drew protests against the Vietnam War in the ‘70s, gentrification in ‘80s, and protests of the bandshell’s demolition to stifle political organizing in 1991. To this day, activists are still squaring off with city officials and law enforcement who conduct violent sweeps of homeless encampments and loitering migrants hoping for a shelter bed at St. Brigid’s School on East 7th. On Sunday afternoons in the summer the energy of punk and hardcore mini-festivals fill the concrete center where the bandshell once stood. The people of the East Village have always been the deciders on the use of space.

The park nurtures a raw, but compassionate spirit that respects the right to exist, particularly when institutional violence comes for marginalized communities. While Reindorf says she was unaware of the history of the park, her artwork—and its aim to be a watchful eye toward gender power imbalances—aligns with its ethos. “Gaze” is now a homecourt for women’s basketball. Two hours after the JC Pro Classic packed up early due to a downpour that canceled their final game, the courts were dry and filled with hoopers who identify as “nyc dykes.”

Froot Hoops is a community meetup that presents a no-experience-necessary space for lesbians to hoop. Co-founder Selin Uzman says that while the group “primarily centers lesbians,” they welcome “all queer women, non-binary, and gender non-conforming individuals.” Founded in 2022, the run started humbly with fifteen at the first gathering. Two years later, on this particular Sunday night, over fifty lesbians and non-binary individuals filled the “Gaze” courts. It was a beautiful scene of basketball serenity as over thirty hoopers crowded the sidelines waiting their turn in one of two half-court games of five-on-five. Uzman says early on they confronted men who objected to sharing the court, but a NYC Parks permit and rolling fifty deep has shut that down. Overall, Froot Hoops has found the scene at Tompkins Square Park to be diverse, lively, and “mostly safe and welcoming.”

Even if the men of Tompkins Square Park don’t stare lecherously at the women playing, it doesn't mean the gaze is absent. The gaze can be the dismissive looks when women come to play and the men refuse to share the court. The gaze can be challenging women to play for the court, a coded threat of stripping rights. With Reindorf’s “Gaze” there is now a watchful eye, like a mascot, that sees all transgressions. Hopefully that permanent eye empowers women to look back and stare down. But, it needn’t be so contentious. Spatial segregation goes against the people’s code of the park. Hopefully in the years to come, Tompkins Square Park can codify its identity as a thriving homecourt for women’s basketball. Certainly the women pioneering that identity intend to build a haven whether the men like it or not.

When “Gaze” had its opening day celebration, Reindorf described a “pleasant, overwhelming feeling” from seeing her vision having a positive impact and direct benefit to women who hoop. She saw young girls from Griffin’s league running cone drills and being taught the game, while the WNBA commissioner Catherine Engelbert and Connecticut Sun star Brionna Jones looked on. Griffin reflected on the prior conditions of the court—the hairline cracks in the cement, bent rims, and taped up nets—and how this transformation was a blessing she’d been waiting for since coming to Tompkins Square Park in 2019.

“It really elevated the league,” Griffin says. “It just changed the whole vibe. It’s a new environment.”