When Essence Communications rebranded its flagship event as the Essence Festival of Culture, it may have seemed like a harmless update. But in a city like New Orleans, where culture is lived—not marketed—that change said more than they likely intended. It marked a shift—away from something rooted and spiritual, toward something packaged, curated, and increasingly corporate.
This year, social media was jammed with critiques of delayed Essence shows and low attendance.
Yes, the festival has grown. And yes, with that growth has come confusion: about who it serves, what it represents, and how it operates. But let’s be clear—the deeper issue isn’t logistics. It’s ideology.
For those of us who’ve attended Essence since its earliest days—or who’ve documented it with our cameras and our lives—the change in name mirrored a larger shift in values. What once felt like a homecoming has become a branded experience. What once honored the sacred spirit of Black womanhood and Black music now too often feels like a weekend of corporate marketing dressed in cultural language.
It’s bigger than organizational issues. Essence has an identity issue.
From movement to marketing
The original Essence Music Festival was more than just an event—it was a movement. It centered Black women in all their power. It brought families together. It echoed with sermons, soul, and social justice. Even in the midst of entertainment, it was about edification.
But the shift to “Festival of Culture” marked a turning point. Today, what’s celebrated is often a carefully curated version of Blackness that plays well on Instagram and in branded content—but doesn’t always reflect the lived experience of those who built this city or carried this culture.
That’s not just a missed opportunity. That’s a betrayal of purpose.
Culture can’t be curated from the top down
New Orleans isn’t a backdrop. It’s a living, breathing culture with deep ancestral roots. And yet, each year it feels more like locals are being pushed to the margins of the very festival that claims to celebrate them. From limited opportunities for local artists and vendors, to an increasing disconnect between festival leadership and the communities they’re supposed to represent, the message is clear: this space is no longer ours—it’s leased to us, if anything.
That reality came into sharp focus in 2023 when Essence filed a cease-and-desist against Baldwin & Co., a Black-owned bookstore in New Orleans, for hosting a book signing by a well-known Black author during festival weekend. The move sparked immediate backlash from the local Black literary and activist community, who saw the lawsuit not only as a tone-deaf overreach—but as a stunning contradiction of everything the festival claims to stand for.
The lawsuit was quietly dropped, but the damage was done. The message was unmistakable: even community-led cultural events by and for Black people could be seen as threats when they don’t fit the commercial script.
That wasn’t just a legal misstep. It was a revealing moment—a flashpoint that exposed the growing gap between Essence’s branding and its behavior. A festival built on the backs of Black women should never find itself in opposition to a Black-owned bookstore. Yet here we were.
What we lose when the essence is missing
We know how this city treats its culture. We’ve seen our traditions commodified and reshaped for tourist dollars. But we expected more from Essence. For decades, it was a space of integrity—a place where Black people could see themselves reflected not just in beauty and business, but in truth and struggle.
To see that unravel feels personal.
The experience now feels fractured—less intimate, less grounded, and less concerned with the everyday Black people who made it sacred in the first place. When you replace purpose with polish, you get a festival that’s glossy, but hollow. Big crowds, but fewer connections.
What now?
Essence has every right to grow and evolve. But growth without accountability becomes erasure. And right now, there’s a real danger that the festival will drift so far from its origin that it will no longer resemble what it once was—a cultural sanctuary, a spiritual reunion, a celebration of who we are and who we’re becoming.
If Essence wants to truly honor its name, it must reckon with its ideological drift. It must stop confusing culture with control. That means more than panels and performances. It means respecting the people, honoring the place, and refusing to commodify culture just because it’s profitable.
Culture isn’t something you create in a boardroom or enforce with a trademark lawyer. It’s something you live. Something you earn. And something you protect.
Because once the essence is gone, what’s left is just an empty brand with a familiar name.
Gus Bennett is the Lens photographer and writer with over 40 years of experience documenting Black life and resilience, he brings a firsthand perspective to conversations about cultural ownership and the meaning of legacy.