In a recent post contemplating the contradicitons of southern black folk art, Roger Reeves elucidates the meaning of this piece in striking relief. I am especially taken by the line he quotes from Terence Hayes' "Arbor for Butch":
This is what it means to believe in ascension and fear climbing.
I imagine that I'll spend a considerable amount of time in the kind of Keatsian rumination Roger describes in this post re-ordering my understanding of Washington, black art, and performance of identity. As Finnie might put it, "I'm still proccessing it."
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