THE CURIOUS CASE OF TOUSSAINT'S BUTTONS

In the years preceding the Haitian War of Independence, conditions in Saint-Domingue (as Haiti was then called) were, to put it mildly, far from ideal. It was a true slave society. Contemporary records suggest that Europeans made up only about 7% of the population, while enslaved Africans accounted for roughly 90%, and freed Africans made up the remaining 3–5%. Given the brutal treatment that defined plantation life and the sheer numerical imbalance, a violent uprising seemed almost inevitable.

One could imagine alternate histories—perhaps if France had liberalized earlier, granting rights or even freedom to the enslaved, or if Spain had conquered the rest of the island and, as they had done before, offered liberation in exchange for allegiance. In fact, Toussaint Louverture himself would eventually align with the Spanish for precisely this reason. But such hypotheticals remain just that. The revolution came, and its outcome—though groundbreaking—left Haiti with a legacy that has often been defined by struggle and hardship.

In moments like our own, when Haiti again faces upheaval, it's worth looking back. Sometimes we do so through journals, ship logs, and official records. But occasionally, we are gifted with images—visual fragments that offer glimpses into lives otherwise forgotten. Paintings may deceive or distort; they can be romanticized, propagandized, or selective. And yet, even flawed, they can reveal truths we didn’t know to look for. At the very least, they can challenge us to entertain new possibilities.

Among such visual archives are the works of Agostino Brunias—paintings that portray life in the Caribbean before the Haitian Revolution. These are not mere decorations for drawing rooms. They are complicated documents that challenge the dominant narrative that life under European colonial rule was unrelentingly bleak. Make no mistake: the reality of slavery was cruel, dehumanizing, and violent. But the question remains—was that reality total? Was there space, however small, for moments of joy, dignity, or complexity within it?

Enter, then—Brunias.

One of Toussaint Louverture's buttons

Agostino Brunias was an Italian painter who moved to the Caribbean after being commissioned by a British patron. Clearly enamored with the region’s light, color, and humanity, Brunias filled his canvases with scenes of daily life: market women, street musicians, mixed-race families, laborers, and dancers. His subjects ranged from enslaved people to free blacks, from the poor to the well-to-do. The paintings have drawn criticism—some see them as whitewashed, sanitized visions of slavery meant to ease the conscience of European audiences. Others argue they cherry-pick the exceptions without showing the brutality that underpinned Caribbean society.

If one were to know the colonial Caribbean only through Brunias’ brush, one might come away thinking it a place of harmony, not horror. That idea is understandably revolting to many. And yet—what if someone deeply familiar with colonial brutality, someone who fought it directly, saw something of value in those images?

Here enters an intriguing historical detail: it’s been said that Toussaint Louverture, the famed leader of the Haitian Revolution, owned buttons decorated with miniature paintings attributed to Brunias.

Why would a general so committed to destroying the French colonial regime carry depictions of an idealized life under that very regime? Why choose images that show not misery, but vibrant culture and daily life?

The Smithsonian once posited:

“It is possible, too, that the button scenes represented Haitian life as Toussaint hoped it would become, free of slavery and perhaps even of discrimination by shadings of skin color — from white to mulatto to black — which were responsible for so much of the discord in the colonial world of the West Indies.”— Geracimos, 2000

This interpretation imagines the buttons not as reflections of reality, but as aspirations—visions of a post-racial, post-slavery Caribbean. And perhaps that’s true. But it’s important to note that even this remains speculation. No definitive explanation has been accepted, and other interpretations are not only possible but overdue.

Might the buttons have been nostalgic? A reminder of a gentler, more colorful life Toussaint once knew on the island—perhaps before the full descent into war and chaos? That suggestion might sound heretical to some: to propose that a slave society allowed for any joy feels, at best, like a dangerous romanticization.

And yet… nuance is not endorsement. After all, today we reassess medieval serfdom not to praise it, but to understand it more fully. Recent scholarship notes that, in some ways, medieval peasants had more leisure than modern workers—though, of course, their free time was often spent tending crops, not enjoying Disneyland.

In the same way, recognizing complexity within slavery’s framework isn’t about excusing it—it’s about seeing the full human experience. Haiti had more free blacks per capita than anywhere else in the Caribbean, and it’s not improbable that some like them were subjects in Brunias’ work. Another shade of nuance is highlighted when we consider that Toussaint himself reportedly maintained a respectful relationship with his former master, Bayon de Libertat, even protecting his family during the revolution when others were being killed.

It’s a paradox—but history is full of them.

"The Linen Market at St. Domingo" by Brunias (1780)

France, for all its hypocrisy, produced remarkable Afro-descended figures: Thomas-Alexandre Dumas and his son Alexandre, the Chevalier de Saint-Georges, Elisabeth "Zabeau" Bellanton, Vincent Ogé, Norbert Rillieux, and others. These people lived complex lives, proud of their achievements even as they navigated racial hierarchies. They were rare, yes—but real.

And perhaps Brunias painted some of them—or people like them.

Critics of Brunias’ art claim it legitimizes slavery through selective beauty. But consider this: according to church records, Brunias married a mixed-race Creole woman. Is it likely he was simply a propagandist for racial hierarchy? Maybe. Or maybe he, like Toussaint, was a man caught in the contradictions of his time—someone who saw possibility amid injustice.

We may never know for certain why Toussaint chose those buttons. But what is certain is this: both he and Brunias were, in their own ways, visionaries. Cosmopolitan heroes that challenged simple narratives. Both represented a world in flux—one where identity, loyalty, and meaning were always being rewritten.

In that sense, perhaps the buttons tell a deeper story:

Not of white or black.

Not of past or future.

But of something new—

a color we haven’t named yet.