The Whitney: After Lorna

Querying for an agent is re-opening the nasty little box that Pandora presented to me when I went looking for a life partner. I’ve felt the weight of my blackness before, but nothing compared to the body blow of seeing woman after woman on dating sites actively “checking boxes” of ethnic possibilities where “black” remained the one unchecked; a possibility to be studiously rejected. We know that story had a happy ending; happier than I could have imagined. The scars heal, but they don’t fade. 

As I query agents, the statistical freight weighs heavily once again. I have writerly preoccupations that aren’t so neatly matched to market expectations of the story that I, Black, Lesbian, Woman, enjoying a certain socioeconomic privilege in a world might tell if I were conjured in the mind of a literary agent.

But, still I persist and as a result, I wasn’t feeling so sure-footed as we walked into the Whitney Gala. Maybe the heels were part of it, but even still there was a psychic shakiness that the semantics of the step-and-repeat did nothing to soothe. 

And then, an intervention. 

A conversation with one of the evening’s honorees, Lorna Simpson. She was one of the first artists I encountered who made art that gave me something tangible to hold onto; to be influenced by and to be unsure of. She taught me how to be a viewer and a maker; she helped me see the intersections of words and images and how I could marry those together as subtly as I wanted; she brought into focus some of the theory that Laura Mulvey and others lodged into my newly opened mind. 

In person, she was gracious and beautiful. Later in the evening, Elizabeth Alexander took her time untangling the (k)nots and can’ts that were still cutting off my creative oxygen and my lifeblood of belonging days after listening to Still Processing lamenting the lack of conscious geniusing of Black Women. By the time Cynthia Erivo came onto the stage to cover Mona Lisa, I was at church. Testifying to my trials and feeling a strength that comes after a moment with those who have come before and remembering my responsibility to those who will come after. I would be remiss not to also honor the collectors, I feel fortunate to consider friends, who made a seat for me at last night’s table and for Hilary in their collection. 

At the end of the evening, I made this offering of sorts - “The Whitney: After Lorna.”  (Mixed media including: a cookie, Gala Program, name plate, remains of dinner, my hand)

Lorna Simpson. Genius. No additional identifiers needed.