11/05/2025
Who does she Represent?
Stop Playing in Our Faces with Statues Like Grounded in the Stars
Let’s have a real conversation.
Historically, statues were created to commemorate. To symbolize the divine, memorialize the heroic, and reflect a culture’s highest values. They told the world what mattered and who mattered. From gods to generals, emperors to artists, you don’t carve a 12-foot figure out of bronze just to say “meh.” You sculpt to say something. And right now, Times Square is saying something loud and wrong.
On April 29, 2025, a 12-foot bronze statue titled Grounded in the Stars was unveiled in the heart of Manhattan. Created by Afro British artist Thomas J Price, the statue depicts a fictional Black woman in casual attire—expressionless, hands on hips, posturing like she’s waiting for her Uber or folding laundry. Meant to be a “modern take” on Michelangelo’s David, it was funded by Times Square Arts and a handful of cultural and corporate sponsors.
And I’m supposed to clap for this?
Listen: I’m not about to drag Thomas J Price. He did what he was paid to do, and did it well—through the lens of hisexperience, which is rooted in Britain, not Brooklyn. But the issue isn’t Price. The issue is the people who chose him. The people who, once again, looked past Black American artists—especially Black American women—to commission work meant to represent Black American womanhood in the most trafficked urban square on Earth.
You mean to tell me that in a nation bursting with visionary Black women sculptors, y’all flew across the damn Atlantic? Again?
Let me remind you who was right here, ready and more than qualified:
Simone Leigh — Who literally transformed the U.S. Pavilion at the Venice Biennale. Her Brick House looms over NYC’s High Line with majesty and grace, and she centers Black womanhood like it’s her divine calling.
Alison Saar — Who gave us Swing Low, a stirring monument to Harriet Tubman in Harlem. Her bronze work vibrates with ancestral wisdom and historical depth.
Vinnie Bagwell — Who was outrageously passed over for a Central Park commission in favor of a white artist. She created The Enslaved Africans’ Rain Garden—a literal sacred space.
Tanda Francis — Who fuses African heritage with regal presence. Her sculptures don't whisper; they proclaim.
All four of these women know our streets. Our rituals. Our struggles. Our Sunday best. So why were they denied this opportunity? While the statue is undoubtedly a beautifully crafted depiction of a Black woman, I’m not convinced it reflects the style and essence of Black American women—even in its simplicity.
Because in this era of aesthetic tokenism, Black American women are good enough to be depicted, but not enough to be paid. That’s not inclusion. That’s exploitation with better PR.
And while we’re here, let me just ask: Why is it that Black people in public art are either tragic, common, or shock value oddities? You never see white figures immortalized in statues looking regular or disheveled. George Washington’s not waiting for a bus. Teddy Roosevelt’s not on the corner with a grocery bag. But for us? Our normalcy is always coded as poverty. Or fatigue. Or passivity. Enough.
Black women are the standard bearers of global beauty, innovation, and style. You want “normal”? Let’s normalize their excellence.
As of 2023, 30.1% of Black women aged 25+ hold a bachelor's degree—double what it was in 2000. In higher ed, they’re killing it: 64% of bachelor’s degrees, 71% of master’s, nearly 66% of doctoral and medical degrees among Black students go to Black women. That’s normal.
From 2019 to 2024, Black women-owned employer firms grew by 51.2%, far outpacing all other women-owned businesses. Nearly 49% of all African American-owned businesses belong to Black women. That’s normal.
And in 2024, Lisa Blunt Rochester and Angela Alsobrooks were elected to the U.S. Senate—doubling the number of Black women ever to serve. That’s not rare anymore. That’s becoming normal. That’s the everyday you should be sculpting.
So why weren’t we presented with a statue of a Black woman in business attire? In a cap and gown? Rocking a power stance on the courthouse steps? Is that too aspirational for your taste?
This piece—however technically fine—feels like yet another missed opportunity to show the world what Black women actually are: not mundane, not props, not abstract symbols of resilience—but dynamic, accomplished, and damn near divine.
You commissioned a statue to stand in Times Square, the heartbeat of the American public gaze, and you decided that the image that best represents Black womanhood was... someone waiting in line?
Stop playing with me.
This isn’t an anti-art rant. This is about power. About narrative. About money. Nearly $1 million dollars went overseas that could’ve gone into the hands of a Black woman artist from here, with roots in our soil, and eyes attuned to our legacy.
You had a chance to celebrate Black American women—our scholars, our entrepreneurs, our politicians, our mothers, our trendsetters, our damn artists—and you squandered it on an image that could’ve been pulled from a surveillance still.
That’s not normal. That’s negligent.
And I’m not going to sit quietly while people throw around words like “inclusive” and “groundbreaking” to mask lazy decision-making and shallow representation. This wasn’t inclusion. This was erasure with a bronze finish.
We deserve more. Our women deserve more. And next time—don’t just include us in the sculpture. Include us in the commission
