I’m not sure if it was a full-circle moment. The return of the artist, if you will. But this moment felt different.
Maybe it was because nearly every one of my senses was activated—everything besides taste. However, the taste level was there, in my face, in a major way.
My heart, my brain, my love for fashion had reemerged in the best way.
My husband was there. My son was present. And I was having an out-of-body experience.
Yes, it was that deep.
What I learned about myself through this exhibition is that I am whimsical. I love fantasy. I’m fascinated with opulence. And I too, am art.
Every move through the exhibition seemed better than the last. The truth is, I wanted to take my sweet time combing through every detail. The synapses in my brain were working overtime. I could have easily spent four hours there.
Instead, I used my laser-skimming skills and what I call my attraction method. I moved through the art instinctively, allowing myself to be pulled toward whatever caught my eye.
The truth? Everything caught my eye.
I could feel my body heating up. It was exhilarating to see avant-garde fashion, visual storytelling unfolding on screens, gigantic dolls, and architectural details usually reserved for runways and fashion’s biggest risk-takers.
It was beautiful and grungy.
Elegant and sexy.
Mutated and bold.
If I had to choose one description, the answer would be all of the above.
I was emotionally charged like a child and impressed like a curator.
Two feelings that rarely cross paths.
As I walked through the visual experience, one of the security guards approached me and complimented our family. She shared that so many Atlanta celebrities had come to see the exhibition.
Then something unexpected happened.
She pulled a small notepad from her back pocket.
“I like art too.”
Inside were her drawings.
They were beautiful.
I looked through her book and told her, “You’re talented. Don’t give up on it. You’re really good.”
She smiled in a way that made me feel like maybe she needed that little piece of encouragement that day.
The security guard snapped a family picture for us, and we continued through the exhibition. Omari was ready to go and I, had got my fix. Marquis was conent as his family was safe and happy.
I intentionally walked much slower than my family.
I allowed my cheetah-print heels to click against the museum floor.
I smelled something sweet in the air—almost like cotton candy.
I looked one more time at the structural jacket worn by Naomi Campbell. The word DREAM was present.
I glanced over at the blush-pink dress and thought to myself:
I am on a natural high at the High Museum.
I walked through the main gallery and admired the opulent gowns one more time—the details, the shimmer, the lace, the tulle, the exaggerated silhouettes, the bold wording.
Then there was the gown that read:
I LOVE YOU.
And I thought to myself:
I love you too.
The High Museum is one of my favorite museums, but this exhibition set the bar.
More importantly, it reminded me—in every subtle way imaginable—that this space is for me.
Not just as an admirer.
As a writer.
As a creative.
As the same person from the 2000s who believed her visual eye would take her places.
And it will.
I walked out carrying wonder with me.
Maybe that was the full-circle moment.
Maybe the artist didn’t return at all.
Maybe she had always been there.
I am a writer.
I am a creative.
I am art.
