The Color Connection

What Amy Sherald's Color Palette Taught Me

I finally caught Amy Sherald’s exhibition at SFMoMA before it closed this weekend. For those of you who are not familiar with Amy, she is an African-American realist artist who famously painted Former First Lady Michelle Obama’s official portrait for the White House and of Breonna Taylor’s for the cover of Vanity Fair magazine in 2020.

Left: Former First Lady Michelle Obama, Right: Breonna Taylor. Paintings by Amy Sherald.

Being the first Thursday of the month, museum admission was free, with just a $10 fee for the special exhibition. Yet despite the affordable cost, I hesitated. Lethargy crept in. Making the trip to the city felt like too much of a hassle, and I kept coming up with excuses. But deep down, I knew it would be good for me—to be out and about, to be around art as a reprieve from grieving.

Then I had a crazy idea: what if I brought Ate Marica with me? She loved art. She loved museums. I imagined saying to her, Tara, Ate! Pasyal tayo sa SFMoMA. (Tara, Ate! Let’s go to SFMoMA.) That was motivation enough to reserve my ticket online. After lunch, I tucked the 4x4 acrylic block with her picture into my black shoulder bag—something tangible to hold, to touch whenever I missed her. With that quiet comfort, I set off for the museum.

As I rounded the corner toward the bus stop, I noticed a mint-green Fiat parked in an office driveway. It brought a huge smile to my face. She used to drive Malyn’s in New York City and fondly called it “Minty.” It felt like a sign, as if she were saying, Game, let’s go to the museum!

The moment I walked into the exhibition space, a surge of energy and excitement washed over me. Not only were the subjects’ gentle gazes arresting, but Sherald’s rich, eclectic color palette drew me in. Oh, the color combinations were fresh and surprising: a woman with a camera in a peach blouse and turquoise-green skirt, accented with tangerine orange and deep red, set against a lime-green background. A gentleman in an olive-striped pale lemon jacket, peach pants, and a powder blue bow tie carried a peach fedora hat and a brown rabbit, standing before a distressed emerald-green/olive backdrop.

What I deeply admire about Amy’s work is its transcendent quality. Her portraits address the omission of Black Americans in portraiture, choosing to depict her subjects with a quiet dignity and calm presence. In doing so, she moves beyond identity to highlight our shared humanity. Except for the larger pieces, most of her paintings are intentionally placed at eye level, inviting viewers to engage in a conversational gaze with the subjects. There’s something profoundly beautiful about that.

Paintings by Amy Sherald from the exhibit American Sublime. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Paintings by Amy Sherald from the exhibit American Sublime. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

Then, something unexpected happened—the portraits that resonated with me the most featured Amy’s striking combination of aqua blue and canary yellow.

Paintings by Amy Sherald from the exhibition, American Sublime. San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.

They reminded me of five quiet portraits I took at the hospital. The accent wall had a similar shade of blue, and the canary yellow mirrored the protective gowns we, family and friends, wore during our visits.

At the time, I saw these images simply as a way to document the moment for myself. What drew me in was the window light and the sparse details on one side of the room—the clock, a chair, the corner of the bed, a notebook, a water bottle, and stacked boxes of nitrile gloves.

Raffy. January 19, 2025 4:14pm. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

Malyn. December 31, 2025, 1:21pm. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

GT. January 19, 2025. 4:17 pm. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

Bern. January 17, 2025, 4:28pm. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

Suiee. January 9, 2025, 2:48pm. Photograph by Stella Kalaw

I now see these pictures through the lens of color, rather than sadness alone. And color, I’m realizing, is a kind of bridge leading us back to a memory without fear.

“It’ll get better,” Ate Marica used to say to a friend whose relationship with her sibling was strained for several years. Last week, that friend texted me to say they had reconciled—a softening of the heart, alchemized by the impact of Ate Marica’s sudden passing.

Maybe that’s why Ate Marica came with me to the museum—to remind me that I’ll be alright, that in time, things will get better, and that she will always be present. She was speaking in the language I know best—through color, light, and beauty.

Maybe this is what Amy’s work is also teaching me. That art—whether hers, mine, or someone else’s—can rewrite the way we hold our own histories. Not by changing what happened, but by changing how we see it.

Amy’s work gave me a fresh perspective. The melancholy details remain outside the frame—the ticking clock, the IV’s three quick beeps whenever it paused, the hum of the air conditioner from the ceiling vents. But the heart has the capacity to expand, to see these not just as reminders of loss, but as portraits of love and presence.

And so, I keep looking. Amy’s rich color palette lingers with me, an invitation to explore, to reflect, and to let it inspire my future work—whether in photographs, collages, or the quiet simple moments in between.

INTERVIEW WITH AMY SHERALD

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