American Sublime: Discovering the Quiet Power of Amy Sherald
I recently went to Baltimore to see the retrospective of Amy Sherald at the Baltimore Museum of Art, and I left far more moved than I ever anticipated.
I’ll be candid: before this exhibition, I did not know Amy Sherald’s work particularly well, aside from the fact that she painted the official portrait of Michelle Obama in 2018. That image is so iconic that it can easily eclipse the rest of her practice. Beyond it, my understanding of her artistic process, her themes, and the depth of her political engagement was limited. I arrived with curiosity, but few expectations.
The exhibition quickly proved to be both enlightening and disarming. It also carries a powerful backstory. Originally scheduled to be shown in Washington, D.C., at the National Portrait Gallery, the exhibition was ultimately withdrawn by Sherald herself when it became clear that certain works would not be allowed to be displayed. The reason: the presence of queer representation. The decision to censor, even partially, was one Sherald refused to accept.
This moment feels particularly telling. Art has always been political. Portraiture, in particular, has always been bound up with questions of power, visibility, and legitimacy. Who is seen? How are they portrayed? And who gets to decide? Today, those questions feel more urgent than ever. Artists are not merely observers of their time; they are participants in it. Amy Sherald understands this deeply, and she uses her platform with conviction and clarity.
Her paintings are deceptively quiet. With their muted palettes and grayscale skin tones, they appear restrained, almost calm. Yet the emotional charge is unmistakable. These works insist on presence, asserting individuality, dignity, and humanity against a long history of marginalization and erasure of Black and queer bodies.
I was also unexpectedly moved by a small, seemingly ordinary moment in the gallery. A little girl—no more than six years old—turned to her friend and said, with unmistakable excitement, “Look, this is the portrait of Michelle Obama.” Her eyes sparkled. In that instant, you could feel hope—recognition, pride, and aspiration all at once. Michelle Obama was not simply a former First Lady or a historical figure; she was a model of possibility, someone to look up to. It was deeply moving to witness how representation can quite literally ignite imagination.
One painting, however, stopped me almost completely: Breonna Taylor. Standing in front of it, I was unexpectedly overwhelmed. There is no spectacle, no dramatization—just a composed, dignified portrait of a young woman whose life was violently cut short. The restraint of the image makes it all the more devastating. I found myself close to tears, struck by how powerfully Sherald restores Breonna Taylor’s humanity, allowing her to exist beyond headlines and tragedy.
I left the exhibition changed. What I had assumed would be a simply informative visit became a deeply emotional experience. I went in knowing very little, and I walked out wanting to know more—to read, to research, and to spend more time with Sherald’s work and the questions it raises.
This retrospective reminded me why art still matters so profoundly. In moments when voices are constrained or silenced, art becomes an act of resistance. Amy Sherald refuses erasure, refuses censorship, and refuses to dilute her vision. In doing so, she offers us something rare and necessary: the chance to see differently, to feel deeply, and to imagine more boldly.
I urge you to go and see American Sublime for yourself before it closes. The exhibition is on view at the Baltimore Museum of Art through April 5, 2026, and it is an experience that lingers long after you leave the gallery.
