Finding the Heart in the Abstract: A Review of Minor Black Figures by Rion Amilcar Scott
From the moment I heard about Minor Black Figures, I was intrigued. The title itself evoked a sense of complexity and nuance, and it promised a story deep enough to spark meaningful reflection on identity and artistry. Rion Amilcar Scott’s exploration of Wyeth, a Black artist entangled in personal and societal dilemmas, offers a piercing look into a world where self-consciousness often trumps genuine connection.
At its outset, the novel presents us with a hefty dose of political context, specifically surrounding the events of 2022 and the fallout from the Dobbs decision. It’s a risky opening; one that may create a distance between readers and the protagonist, Wyeth, as he spirals through his thoughts about art and life. The initial chapters read almost like a philosophical essay, where public sentiment feels more pronounced than personal feeling. We find ourselves in Wyeth’s mind, stuck in a figurative La Brea Tar Pit of self-doubt, where every thought is weighed against imagined judgments. Though this made the beginning of the book a challenging read, I ultimately found that this complexity added depth to Wyeth’s character—a man living not just with the burden of his own identity but also the weight of societal expectation.
Scott’s choice to name his protagonist Wyeth—after the famed artist Andrew Wyeth—felt deliberate and loaded. The interplay of Wyeth’s conflicting heritage, with a white mother who teeters on the edge of neglect and a disapproving Black family, creates a beautifully complex character striving for validation. As I journeyed through Wyeth’s experiences, his struggles with self-identity and his place in the overwhelmingly white sphere of art history emerged vividly. I found myself pondering the challenges of navigating such a space, especially as Black artists often grapple with the “white gaze” in their work.
Among the vibrant cast of characters is Keating, a lapsed Jesuit priest whose path intertwines with Wyeth’s amid their respective existential crises. Their relationship, filled with tension and vulnerability, becomes a pivotal part of the narrative. I appreciated how Scott deftly navigates the complexities of their dynamic—Keating’s presence doesn’t equate to wisdom but rather emotional honesty. Wyeth’s gradual connection with Keating leads him to confront his insecurities and, eventually, to find his voice as an artist.
Scott’s writing is reflective, packed with insights that often had me pausing to grapple with their profundity. The pacing felt deliberate; at times, I wished Wyeth would break free from his mental labyrinth and speak boldly from his heart. However, when he finally does, it’s a triumphant release, and I couldn’t help but cheer him on as he moved from an abstract existence into a heartfelt and vulnerable reality.
While Minor Black Figures may not be an easy read—its intricacies demand patience and reflection—I found genuine reward in its pages. This novel will resonate with those who appreciate character-driven stories that challenge societal norms and confront deeply rooted feelings of self-worth. It’s a book that invites readers to think, reflect, and ultimately engage with the heart of the matter.
For anyone navigating their identity or seeking a deeper understanding of the participations between race and art, Scott’s work is an essential read. As I closed the book, I felt a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration—a testament to Scott’s ability to create a necessary dialogue that lingers long after the last page is turned.
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