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During my time in graduate studies, one of my instructors, a well-regarded dissenter in his area, enjoyed presenting the “Negro sunset” issue. As best as I remember, it originated from a celebrated piece by Langston Hughes titled “The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain,” which came out in 1926. Within that essay, Hughes voices his disappointment “for the colored artist who runs from the painting of Negro faces to the painting of sunsets.” Hughes believed that a Black artist who didn’t see value in finding beauty inside their own community was shying away from their community. Even though Hughes was composing a case tailored for his day, the core views about what “Negro art” should contain and aim for still reverberate in our era. Consider the Black artist who, like many before them, has unique motivations for depicting landscapes? Can such a creation exist as a Negro—or Black, using current terms—sunset? Assuming it can, what qualities would establish it, aside from the artist’s heritage? Moreover, if the artist’s identity is sufficient to characterize the piece, what aspects might be overlooked? Furthermore, what can we say about creating “the painting of Negro faces”? We should assume such an artist also operates with their own set of rationales, concerns that risk being misconstrued because they are Black.
“Minor Black Figures,” the latest novel by Brandon Taylor, introduces these inquiries into the psyche of a budding painter named Wyeth. The tale unfolds in the recent past, absorbing the impacts of what has been called the 2020 racial reckoning and its lingering aftermath. Wyeth notices that his past works—small-scale renderings of Black individuals in scenes borrowed from European art films—mean either too little or too much when examined through the limiting scope of what he reluctantly calls “the moment.” (“What does that even mean?” another artist character wonders.) The novel starts with Wyeth residing in New York and “trying to evolve into a different kind of artist,” one whose output resonates with the current climate, however vaguely defined that becomes for a Black artist whose creations seemingly arrive pre-loaded with interpretation. He lacks interest in capitalizing on his identity and feels annoyed with contemporaries who do so effortlessly, yet he is acutely aware that his resistance might appear overly defensive. In the meantime, creating art in New York means having a way to survive, which leads Wyeth to take on art-related jobs in commercial settings that dull his creative instincts. In these gaps, during a warm evening at a bar, Wyeth encounters Keating, a seminarian on a break of some kind whose spiritual challenges start to entwine with Wyeth’s own.
“Minor Black Figures” carries a latent, historical perspective that suggests a change in Taylor’s writing. His earlier works—including the novels “Real Life” (2020) and “The Late Americans” (2023), and the collection of short stories “Filthy Animals” (2021)—unfold among campus environments inhabited by their characters. They are rooted in Midwestern towns and lean toward intimate scenarios that soften the wider world. In contrast, “Minor Black Figures” begins with society displayed vividly as a minor figure, Wyeth, navigates it. This approach feels traditional, an aspect the writer is conscious of and welcomes. He mentioned the Marxist literary theorist György Lukács as a key influence in a recent discussion. “I’m under the impression that the contemporary novel has given up a lot of its more advanced, better techniques,” Taylor shared. “I’m really aiming to craft a novel that can capture at least a glimpse of societal wholeness and employ one character to voice some of the urgent concerns of his era.”
Taylor and I also discussed illogical race analyses, our dislike for judging art through the life of the artist, and the enduring fascination with Catholic figures. Our exchange has undergone editing and condensation.
I was curious to know your thinking on the question of what constitutes Black art as “Black art.” Do you feel that the novel offered a means to explore this issue further?
It’s akin to Schrödinger’s Black artist, in a way. Let me try and clarify. A portion of me agrees and resonates with the argument that a specific Blackness exists in art when people express that thought. However, I’m also wondering, if a white individual had been the artist, would you respond similarly? Does it suggest we’re assigning an exterior attribute onto creations by Black individuals? If that’s accurate, might there be an element that’s slightly unnerving, perhaps irrational? Wouldn’t there be grounds for different claims lying outside the scope of Western comprehension, experiences, or experiences of white or non-Black groups?
And then I enter a spiral of thoughts like, what if there is a component that defies logic? Black people, particularly in America, have withstood horrific events in history. Couldn’t that create a space for irrational responses? Couldn’t that make space for different assertions that reside beyond Western knowledge, Western experience, white experience, or experiences removed from being Black? The novel is somewhat of an effort to explore “What is Black art?” What does creating art about a Black subject or from a Black artist’s viewpoint signify? It tries to examine the reality of Black subjectivity in a manner that embraces both its logical and illogical elements, as that’s how I personally feel, constantly shifting between both.
Even as a reviewer, I sense that being a Black woman gives a unique viewpoint when critiquing the work of Black women artists. Yet—and this is where this novel finds its setting inside a specific moment in history, in “the discourse”—when we become upset with a review authored by someone white when it involves a Black artist, and our response hinges on highlighting the critic’s race, it places us on different footing when it comes to the irrational. It no longer seems as clear cut.
How do we approach racially influenced and biased readings? I would label it as “complicated.” It’s extremely touchy within the realm of Black art because, historically, various incentives were present for white observers to minimize, degrade, and unfairly analyze or dismiss Black art. Given that context, caution from Black artists and Black critics has worked as a necessary form of defense.
That voice inside your head might ask, “Was that comment meant as an insult, or is racism at play?” Or “Did that white critic simply fail to grasp my work because of their whiteness?” However, does the critique have value? That’s where the racial suspicion becomes a hindrance, disrupting meaningful dialogue about art and being utilized to invalidate legitimate criticism. A motivation for writing the book was to address that situation and encourage a more critical view of some controversies surrounding Black art.
Or art from any “marginalized” individual. Wyeth, your main character, attends an exhibition of Southeast Asian artists fully anticipating disapproval, only to find himself somewhat taken aback by the profound sense of skepticism he feels while there. This serves as a possible reminder that, even if you believe you won’t enjoy something, it may still benefit you to see, observe, or experience it.
You know what, I learned that recently. A friend of mine is also a novelist, Garth Greenwell.
I think Garth is brilliant.
Without a doubt. There were occasions when I casually dismissed an artist, film, or something. I’d react with, “No, it’s outdated,” or “I dislike it; it’s not visually appealing.” Garth would respond, “But did you experience it for yourself?” A line in my novel includes Wyeth questioning someone about actually seeing something “in person.” There have been instances where I went to view something I’d dismissed. My views didn’t necessarily evolve. There have also been times when I didn’t change my viewpoint entirely but could then say, “I comprehend what individuals value here.” In the case of Wyeth, that brief event was a great means to show that sometimes, the encounter might not change how you feel, but you still gain something, if nothing else a more precise perception of how you react to it.
I wouldn’t be performing my job well if I didn’t ask you to offer an instance of either scenario you described.
An artist whose work I was not especially fond of was Salman Toor. I perceived his art as overly green, specifically due to the prominent use of green hues. While at the Frick, an exhibit featured . . . What was it? Essentially, present-day queer portraiture. Juxtaposed were a Holbein painting and one by Salman Toor, which seemed unique. That was my first encounter with his work physically, and I nearly saw it without realizing it was Toor’s. I was impressed by how unique it was. Drawing closer, I realized his distinctive stylistic flourishes. “Oh,” I said, “this is a Salman Toor.”
I sensed my preconceived dislike lessen. Ultimately, I don’t believe I grew to appreciate that work greatly; it’s difficult to admire something when adjacent to a Holbein, particularly the Holbein of Cromwell. It’s astounding what is on display in New York. Nevertheless, observing it up close enabled me to grasp more of what others recognize and connect with in his work.
This brings to mind the distinct value inherent in painting. You made mention of Garth. I attended a book event he hosted for “Small Rain,” during which someone asked him about opting for a poet as a narrator. They were curious what that artistic choice permitted that portraying a novelist wouldn’t have. Your work features characters who are poets. You’ve explored dancers. Could you discuss how portraying a painter, one who produces original works and works with conservators and occasionally takes part in restoration, has influenced your thinking, especially compared with writing about a writer?
Garth and I share similar views on Henry Jamesian consciousness. The character’s thought processes are what shape the overall environment of a story. Wyeth is a painter, a decision I took early on in writing the book. Before this, I’d completed “The Late Americans” as well as two compilations of short stories in different phases of completion, along with a novel that wasn’t as short. Their settings were all generally in the Midwest. While writing those stories, I placed a lot of limitations on myself, as I was attempting to portray a character who wasn’t an academic, a writer, or in any comparable position. He’s a deli employee. It was an unusual frame of mind I was in for those two years.
Following that, I had the urge to just describe elements again. I longed to discuss John Singer Sargent, other painters, and artwork overall. And what sort of character would afford me that opportunity? It occurred to me that by creating a painter, I could delve into the materiality of painting and explore light. The objective was essentially to find a good pretext to share details with a focus on color and dimension. By portraying Wyeth as a painter, I found a loophole of sorts to infuse discussions about art, notions of beauty, and examinations of Black subjectivity into the same book.
There’s a remarkably trans-historical element to the project. Mentioning “Black portraiture” brings a substantial amount of baggage, something explored in the novel. The discipline necessitates having some awareness of its progression throughout the Renaissance, and so on, regardless of the painter’s specific style.
Also its interaction with society and the course of history itself. Portraiture and painting served as historical records. Genre paintings are informative regarding how an era perceives itself in relation to customs, established figures, and many aspects. A Black artist’s participation in established canons and the annals of history comes with even more obstacles. Painting is unique because of its connection with the realistic novel, and thus the novel overall. As the novel was shifting away from romance to become a form that can be recognizable, realism was concurrently emerging.
The message a painter conveys through their art is very similar to that of an author attempting to say something regarding their societal environment, time period, and the people involved in their story. Painting and novels are interwoven in my eyes. They can’t be taken apart.
It seems that the word we’re skirting around here is “representation.”
You’re correct, “representation” has been significantly affected over the past ten or so years. It’s a word that might never regain its standing.
That concept includes a great deal, yet it forms the central idea for artwork: What elements do you select from the surroundings to form a piece? I wonder how your thinking about representation, even in its broadest form, has shifted over the past decade. How does the novel allow you to address this complex issue without requiring you to voice a specific perspective?
Representation used to occupy my thoughts, particularly in my creative pursuits. I wanted to write Black characters in conventional formats and circumstances that had not always been seen as part of Black experiences. I’d place Black individuals inside scenarios not always viewed as their domain. For example, I wanted to use Cheever, Carver, and Yates’ familiar storytelling style with Black characters in mind to see if it changed the familiar structure and, if so, to discover the root cause. My emphasis was on portraying Black characters within environments not always linked to them.
Then things shifted. I arrived at the end of that aesthetic path and wondered what else I might be interested in. The association between individuals and society started to intrigue me, especially how ties may be established between people within written narratives. Representation then gradually lost my focus, yet it gained prominence.
The rallying call during the previous years was “representation matters.” Roughly between 2010 and 2020, it felt like the ultimate objective was representation at all costs, despite any considerations for the structures in which we were represented.
I believe that more substantial questions need to be considered in relation to this ethic. And while I was writing “Minor Black Figures,” I was focusing on the unwritten rules of representing life, the guidelines people instinctively apply when they observe the work of Black artists, or Black individuals portraying their existence. How do Black communities present their experiences to themselves and others? And what are the penalties for breaking the rules? How does an individual absorb these unspoken rules? This book was a journey of sorts, one where I could examine those issues in depth and uncover the current state of representation for myself.
This portrayal of society isn’t objective, of course. However, I feel as though my pupils have not retained this objective; a representational aspect generally found inside writing has disappeared. I am not sure that they can comprehend that within fiction writing a kind of implicit agreement exists, one in which you illustrate a version of events. Their mentality does not typically consider that when writing a novel. It could be said that they are not providing a depiction of any kind; it is as near to pointillist reality as possible. It’s peculiar, bizarre.
I find that idea intriguing because my experiences with students seem to differ when discussing novels. They generally analyze a story through the lens of what’s happening sociologically.
Writing presents a reverse scenario, one where they wouldn’t know how to start creating a realistic situation. The idea of depicting a world isn’t there.
They tend to be efficient when deciphering symbols at high rates, breaking items down into a symbolic representation virtually instantly, but fail to actually comprehend the literal events. I believe this to be connected with the concept that reality no longer has meaning for them.
As people tend to imply, “it’s the phones” that have caused us to exist with a combination of the digital and physical environments. We are caught inside of a system with references.
It’s like Swifties’ close-reading tactic, being careful while spotting references, but failing to develop a coherent rationale.
The students are too skilled at translating metaphors. They tend to be lost and burdened by heavy symbolic interpretations without having the opportunity of experiencing literature firsthand. They aren’t learning to acquire facts, but rather to experience a story in full. Experiencing the journey, not simply taking a piece of information away. Contemporary mainstream stories are often fashioned to accommodate a rapid translation of symbols, failing in function, at least compared to those stories of old.
Or a misinterpretation of interpretation. As I express to students, their thoughts on a certain idea are valid, but they won’t come to a resolution regarding the novel. There’s more, even when you are firm in your beliefs concerning what is said inside of its pages.
Ideally, correct?
If it’s a quality book.
People tend to have overlooked the capacity to study a text with a practical aim, engaging in it through humble means. Let’s analyze the book simply and with an unbiased mentality, avoiding our complex interpretations that we have developed within educational institutions to observe it in a human fashion. What has occurred within the literal details? There is much more to gain, and the same translates to paintings.
I once thought I couldn’t value or comprehend the concepts behind abstract expressionists like Jackson Pollock, Helen Frankenthaler, and Joan Mitchell. However, I examined the paintings, taking in the shades of black, red, and white. I thought that its style was improvisational, akin to jazz, creating an emotional experience. It triggered a newfound value for paintings, offering a gestural feel.
As a final thought, it all comes down to your capacity to recognize the expression behind something. Character and theme will become secondary if you focus intently on the element that truly creates the piece. Referencing “Minor Black Figures,” it highlights one learning the process, then comprehending the broader details of human life.
In many ways, Wyeth appears too well-informed. His awareness of the art world and how it treats works by Black creators triggers an inability to engage with his own artistic expression. Watching him attempt to remove portions of that is powerful. I wanted to explore the art-restoration aspect. Wyeth relies on income-generating tasks, which include restoring works as part of his occupation, which we see play out across the novel. I wanted to ask how that piece came in as another activity linked to creativity, but with its own struggles.
I am drawn to processes and materials. I try to immerse myself as much as possible. American capitalism forces Wyeth to hold many positions. With Wyeth set on preserving a work, I saw that I could contemplate how art is preserved, how artists are remembered, and what pieces are stored and forgotten over time. What exactly is an archive and how does the general concept develop based on our varying appreciation of art and artists? There are varying beliefs about women in the twenty-first century compared to those of the nineteenth century. Therefore, a reclamation occurs where we restore work willfully removed.
Our current ideas pertaining to archives, those being repositories containing everything imaginable, seem to be a fictional depiction. Actually, the norm is that people are not typically remembered by the system. Art created throughout any era is commonly overlooked. Even as we focus on the nineteenth century containing Dickens and James, there were more whose names are not known.
I wanted Wyeth to go searching for a missing Black artist. And what would that mission look like? This requires both searching for an unknown person, as they likely lived before the advent of modern surveillance and social media, and figuring out that the said individual also belonged to a lower class, or queer group. The process creates an even larger barrier, and I didn’t want to create another fictional retelling. Those kinds of stories are overdone, in my view, and provide an overly optimistic view of what may occur from the research.
Wyeth is faced with a mystery and we get to see him analyze the facts that he uncovers, even on the keyword level. It’s intended for the real enthusiast.
It was my homage to the use of paperwork. I generally enjoy movies containing paperwork where a document is explored in great detail.
However, the true mystery isn’t necessarily who Dell Woods is for the reader. The purpose of Wyeth’s exploration generates the dilemma of its impact on history. What does it say about how the artistic drawings can be perceived?
At its core, the intention in the plot is the query of the level of knowledge one must have pertaining to the artist. Is this knowledge obtained by observing the art or knowing the details of their biography? Should that background influence the views and elevation of their work? These tensions are also ones that Wyeth considers throughout the book.
Roland Barthes wrote his take on the subject some time ago, yet my weariness of biographies feels slightly more stubborn. It’s a personal viewpoint.
I call that biography poisoning, as countless writings, particularly those dedicated to authors admired by me, place a focus on biographical readings. I don’t want any of that information, because it has nothing to do with my concerns. Wyeth is more impetuous regarding his views pertaining to those personal details, even as the novel makes a dialectical case, challenging beliefs, and revealing alternate insights. It serves to provide alternate details and place them in conflict.
It wouldn’t have mattered when the artist was born or died. That generally is irrelevant, but also potentially not. A section of the book works to challenge the perceptions of Wyeth, filling him with more doubt and forcing him to face his fears to create a genuine personality.
I have arrived at this point without mentioning Keating, the seminarian. What a connection. Or maybe “connection” isn’t the most apt term, but the method he utilizes to pressure Wyeth’s skepticism is significant. I must inquire in the most direct sense, what do the Jesuits signify to you?
I admire them. I was brought up in the Baptist religion, but I dedicated my earlier years to reading historical texts. It’s tough to examine the history of Europe without considering Catholicism, because it played a crucial role in colonization. As a result, I have typically been drawn to the culture. The various ceremonies are captivating. They are a religious order focused on education, instruction, and preparation, serving God from afar. That sense of guidance and duty is compelling.
Education, instruction, support, duty, and humility are each integral, so they are often seen as educators or mentors. I believed that if an event were to trigger a crisis of faith, it would have been the pandemic for those embedded inside communities. Keating’s crisis is a result of these various elements and the focus on the current spiritual challenges. Wyeth faces his own challenges as an artist, and Keating shares that experience with the church.
Each of these individuals can learn from the other. Keating showed seriousness about his devotion to God, which shows a collection of beliefs at odds with Wyeth’s more casual, open views. At a certain point, Wyeth will state that he values people. Keating will rebut by saying that Wyeth barely knows his neighbors, or something else. The book is set up to show how he and others are not within any group.
Plus, he is appealing. I thought of Joe Alwyn while forming his character.
I can envision Wyeth’s depictions of that character, likely beautiful.
There was a moment when the book was going to be titled “Black Portrait of a White Man,” but I decided against it. Keating helps to change and impact Wyeth’s perceptions, providing him an opportunity to meet and grow through encounters linked to the creative process, wants, religion, and overall faith.
Protestant Americans tend to believe that faith and learning are on divergent paths, and that challenges to faith are trivial or are only solved by going to the opposite end, resulting in atheism and good beliefs.
Louis Althusser talked about this in “Ideology and the Ideological State Apparatuses,” providing the examples of how ideological individuals do not believe they hold those positions. To explain, he used the concept that communicating to people with religious convictions provides a belief that they aren’t serious. However, Althusser emphasizes that they are in fact being serious, but it seems comical from the view of people who do not share those truths.
The moment you’re highlighting is when Wyeth says the God connection is serious. He is then faced with deciding how to address the situation, either humoring or acknowledging the truth with respect by seeing the importance. Condescension, acknowledgement, or respect? He is not perfect in any regard, because he is not fully understanding. Most people do not initially act in good faith.
I am reminded of a time when my partner explained that transubstantiation is not a metaphor. The thought was something along the lines of “It’s like his body or whatever.”
There have been wars over that. Many people have been killed. Is it one of the differences or separations? It might have divided Calvinism and Lutheranism by questioning beliefs or metaphors. For the Catholic faith, it isn’t close.
Not at all.
It is his body and his blood. And it is present on earth, all at once. End of the debate. In saying that, I also want to state I respect it.
And that is likely why people still stand in awe of Catholics. In that respect, a non-denominational, queer-friendly church feels lacking.
Those services come off as a “wear whatever you want” service. Would one like to worship a god that is comfortable with my clothing during a house of prayer? Probably not. I likely need a strict sky deity and rules. Credit or debit. The knowledge of one’s position is ideal.
What do you hope, or fear, may be the impact of your book?
The book is entirely based around how I have feared its future impact.
I agree.
The hope is to inspire thought over Black subjectivity and what is in the minds of those artists. People try to express agency and their subjectivity. I hope that people connect, share feedback, and find inspiration. If that is accomplished, I would be honored to have ignited discussion.
Sourse: newyorker.com
