I had a whole love affair with the Arts in the 90s, y'all — as an undergraduate student at the University of Virginia. The studios and libraries were my happy places. Places to work out and create beauty, and then to study the influences and ideas that gave me a footing as a young adult. In the Fine Arts Library at UVA, I used to disappear into the stacks for hours.

I went there first because of beauty. Images pulled me in — the weight of a figure, the elegance of a curve, the gravity held in a line. I lingered because something in the work asked me to slow down. Ask questions. To look again. To stay.

Why this line? Why this restraint? Why does one mark feel inevitable while another feels empty?

As I moved deeper into art history — and more specifically Black art history — the beauty did not fade. It intensified. What changed was my understanding of what I was seeing. The marks were no longer only formal decisions; they were responses. To history. To pressure. To survival. To love.

The quest mattered because the beauty mattered first. Understanding the why behind the beauty became personal. I wanted to know the lineage of the artists whose work held me. I studied the giants of Afro-American art history — not to explain the work away, but to honor its depth. Mark-making became a language of meaning, not decoration.

That way of seeing never left me.

From Immersion to Teaching

When I became an art teacher in urban elementary schools — working with immigrant students, children from the Middle East, and Black and brown communities — I carried that sensibility into the classroom.

Yes, I taught the fundamentals. Line. Shape. Color. Form. And I loved teaching them.

But I also knew that fundamentals are never neutral. A line is never just a line. It can describe. It can honor. It can resist. It can remember.

I wanted my students to experience beauty first — the pleasure of making, the satisfaction of seeing something emerge from their own hands. From there, we could ask questions. We could make connections. We could talk about history, culture, identity, and power without stripping the joy from the work.

Beauty opened the door. Meaning walked in after.

Elizabeth Catlett: Beauty with Conviction

Elizabeth Catlett entered my teaching life this way.

Her work is undeniably beautiful — composed, balanced, assured. But once you stay with it, the conviction reveals itself. Catlett (1915–2012) was an American-born sculptor and printmaker who spent much of her life in Mexico, committed to making art that served people historically pushed to the margins.

She centered Black women, laborers, mothers — not as symbols, but as full human beings. Her political commitments were real and costly. She was surveilled, restricted in travel, and eventually chose Mexican citizenship rather than compromise her beliefs.

Yes — she was radical. But she was also disciplined. Her lines are controlled. Her figures are steady. There is no spectacle of suffering.

Sharecropper, a work I have taught for years, became an anchor for my students. We entered through the image — its strength, its clarity — then stayed to talk about labor, class, history, and dignity. We studied how Catlett used line to communicate endurance without exaggeration.

The students understood immediately. They always do.

Returning to the Work

Years later, I had the opportunity to walk through an exhibition of Catlett's work at the National Gallery of Art. Seeing Sharecropper again felt like greeting an old friend — quiet, firm, unapologetic. The sculptures held warmth. The prints held restraint. The work did not rush to explain itself.

It reminded me that beauty and conviction are not opposites. They can coexist. They can strengthen each other.

Why This Still Matters

We are living in a time of urgency. Grief, anger, and confusion circulate quickly. We are often asked to respond before we have time to see clearly.

Elizabeth Catlett offers another way. She shows us that beauty can be an entry point into responsibility. That stillness can be active. That making space to think is not disengagement — it is care.

Art has always been a place where humanity is held intact.