Susan Washington

Sometimes the most important art stories don’t begin with a museum wall, but with a decision.

When Amy Sherald announced that American Sublime would open in Baltimore, it felt like more than a relocation. It felt like clarity. At a moment when so many institutions hesitate, the Baltimore Museum of Art made space, fully, and without conditions.

I live in Baltimore by choice, and I felt proud. Proud in the way that comes when a city shows you who it is. In a year when companies, institutions, and cultural platforms have quietly folded or hedged, the BMA didn’t. Neither did Sherald. Together, they chose to let the work speak for itself.
There was frustration in the air before the show opened. The suggestion that Trans Forming Liberty needed additional “context” felt painfully familiar, another attempt to soften a work that was already clear, another reminder of how often artists are asked to explain themselves into something more palatable.

Then Sherald posted a video on Instagram.

“Hey Baltimore. You asked for it. We listened. We’re pulling up. We’re bringing American Sublime to Charm City.”


They call me Redbone but I’d rather be Strawberry Shortcake .jpg

That moment mattered. Not because it was loud, but because it was direct. There was no hedging, no qualifying language, no attempt to soften what the work already said. The decision had been made. The work would be shown as it was.

Until this show, I had only ever seen one of Amy Sherald’s works in person. I’ve followed her for years. I’ve studied the images online. I’ve admired her career from afar. But when tickets opened, I bought one immediately, knowing this was something I needed to experience firsthand.
Walking into American Sublime was overwhelming in the best possible way. The paintings are larger than life, but they don’t shout. They hold the space quietly, confidently. You become aware of your own pace almost immediately, how quickly you’re moving, how long you’re willing to stay. The work doesn’t reward rushing. It insists that you slow down.

I haven’t felt that kind of calibrated awe in a long time. The last time I remember it so clearly was seeing Robert Rauschenberg: Among Friends at MoMA in 2017. That particular feeling of encountering work whose significance is already established, and still feeling it land all at once.


A Golden Afternoon and As Soft As She is....jpg

What became clear as I moved through the exhibition is that nothing in Sherald’s work is accidental. Her choice to paint skin in grayscale isn’t about erasure. It’s a refusal. A refusal to let skin tone be the first and loudest thing we read. By removing literal color, she shifts attention elsewhere, posture, expression, gesture, interior life. The figures register first as individuals, not as symbols or stand-ins. That choice doesn’t neutralize race; it refuses to let it flatten everything else.

Her subjects aren’t placed in moments of spectacle or struggle. They’re standing, sitting, loving, resting. Living. There’s no performance here, no explanation offered up for approval. Standing in front of the paintings, I didn’t feel like I was observing them. I felt like I was meeting them.
Up close, the precision of the work becomes undeniable. The palette is controlled and consistent, restrained but confident. Every detail,  fabric, skin, background, is handled with intention. I found myself leaning in more than once, close enough to catch myself and step back before alarms went off.


For Love, and for Country.jpg

One painting stopped me completely: For Love, and for Country. Two Black sailors kissing. Nothing about it is overstated. The intimacy isn’t framed as a statement or a provocation. It’s simply present. The tenderness, the humanity, the attention to detail, veins, fabric, posture,  all sit within Sherald’s restrained palette. The painting doesn’t explain itself, and it doesn’t ask permission to exist.


As American As Apple Pie.jpg

By the time I left the museum, the anger that had initially surrounded the story of this exhibition had softened into gratitude. Gratitude that the work wasn’t diluted. That it wasn’t explained away. That it was trusted to stand on its own and meet viewers where they are.

Seeing American Sublime in Baltimore felt like a reminder of what’s possible when artists are supported rather than managed, when institutions listen instead of hedge, and when work is allowed to speak in its own voice. I left quieter than I arrived. Slower. More aware. And deeply grateful that these paintings found a home where they could be seen fully, and simply, as they are.


Amy Sherald’s American Sublime & the Power of Letting the Work Speak

They call me Redbone but I’d rather be Strawberry Shortcake

A Golden Afternoon | As Soft As She is...

For Love, and for Country

As American As Apple Pie

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