I started making work that I assumed would be far too garish

The words of Kehinde Wiley, master of color, vision, and voice, resound like a hymn to defiance and grace: “I started making work that I assumed would be far too garish, far too decadent, far too black for the world to care about. I, to this day, am thankful to whatever force there is out there that allows me to get away with painting the stories of people like me.” In this confession is found both vulnerability and triumph. He speaks of beginning his path with doubt, with the fear that his art would be too bold, too unapologetic, too true to his identity for the world to embrace. Yet his gratitude now shines like a victory torch, for the very thing he thought would cast him aside became the source of his power.

To call one’s work garish and decadent is to acknowledge its confrontation with tradition, its refusal to be subdued. Wiley’s canvases are drenched in ornament, in vivid flourishes that challenge the muted tones of Eurocentric portraiture. To call it too black is to confront the history of art itself, a history that too often erased Black bodies, or placed them only in servitude or shadow. Wiley dared to center them in majesty, to paint them enthroned, crowned, and immortal. His fear that the world would reject this reveals the weight of centuries pressing upon the shoulders of a Black artist. His gratitude that such work could thrive reveals the breaking of chains.

The ancients too knew the danger and necessity of bold art. When Michelangelo unveiled the Sistine Chapel, many thought his work scandalous, overwhelming, even grotesque in its excess of human form. When Caravaggio placed peasants and beggars in the faces of saints, critics called it vulgar. And yet these very works reshaped history. Wiley stands in this lineage: his decadence is not excess, but revelation; his boldness is not vanity, but truth. The same force that allowed Michelangelo’s ceiling to endure allows Wiley’s paintings to speak: the enduring human hunger for truth rendered in beauty.

In his words, Wiley also surrenders to mystery: “whatever force there is out there.” He does not claim his success as his own invention, but acknowledges something greater—fortune, providence, divine will, or simply the unseen current of history. This humility magnifies his triumph, for he sees his art not as entitlement but as gift. His thankfulness becomes not merely personal but spiritual, a recognition that the ability to tell the stories of people like him is sacred.

One need only recall the unveiling of Wiley’s portrait of President Barack Obama, a work that stunned the world. There, amidst lush greenery and bold patterns, sat the first Black president of the United States, painted by a Black artist who once feared his work was “too much.” It was not too much—it was exactly what the moment demanded. Just as Wiley’s art reclaims space for those erased from the halls of history, so too did that portrait declare: this is not excess, this is truth, this is presence. Gratitude for such a moment is gratitude for the possibility of transformation itself.

The lesson here is profound: what you fear is “too much” may in fact be your greatest gift. Do not shrink your art, your voice, or your identity to fit the world’s narrow expectations. Be thankful for the force—call it providence, destiny, or resilience—that allows you to speak boldly in the face of silence. And when the world makes space for you, as it did for Wiley, remember to use that space not only for yourself but to honor the stories of those who look like you, live like you, and dream like you.

Therefore, let us act. Create boldly, live authentically, and tell the stories that others may be too afraid to tell. Do not fear being “too much”—for in being unapologetically yourself, you may be giving voice to countless others who have long been silenced. And when doors open, enter with gratitude, as Kehinde Wiley has done, and transform that space into a throne for truth. For the wisdom of his words reminds us that art, identity, and gratitude together have the power not only to heal the past, but to shape the future.