The Black Experience

Jacob Lawrence, The Migration of the Negro, 1940-41

What do I know? Growing up I never had a friend of another style. A small circle.

The stone thrown causes ripples, whether wide or shallow, depends on how far we dare look. –J

Are the stones I throw of ill-intent? Curiosity of how my art turns out. Always a circle, eternity. My landing point, anxious to know how i will be received. This wondering, a great reasoning, so i am not caught off guard. Will they recognize my blandness? my differences in the same way they are depicted?

do i wear the same cloak, many faces painted on material? my cloak wrapped tight, hiding my pain so i can see their eyes? do we all share this same face? Fate?

***this is a scene i would love to see in an image. how would it appear? should it appear a certain way, in many ways? busy or stark? even naked? the appearance of outside or inside or in between?

I wonder, is Jacob Lawrence’s depiction, such an image?

Honestly, i am caught off guard, my mind wandering to these questions, exploring the black experience. In the process I discovered a new artist, Jacob Lawrence

Perhaps i am led down this rabbit trail because of DeAnthony, my tutor partner this school year. We sat at lunch yesterday, he quietly eating, dancing to a song in his head, anxious to start art. We discussed symmetry…

he struggled, rebelled.
An assymetrical soul
in a world of lines and rows. Stretching his arms beyond
outside control. He hugged me,
twice. My heart cried
at his genuineness. He didnt
notice i was white,
only the inside,
i privileged to be part
of his world,
homeless, but still wrapped in hope.

Art Poetry Random Soul Journal travel

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