Lynette Yiadom-Boakye's Art
A practice of consistency, timelessness and being unethered
Prior to sitting down to write this, I spoke to a few friends and family members whose careers are being disrupted by the fly by night executive orders. Hearing about the real-world impact of these delays and uncertainties, it felt almost trivial to write a missive about art history.
However, right before these conversations, I read Elif Shafak’s eloquent essay where she observes, “We live in the age of angst. Nothing is solid anymore. These are liquid times.”
She encourages us to respond to these liquid times by anchoring ourselves in enduring things like literature and art because they nurture the seeds of hope.
I have no illusion that my words here will offer more than a fleeting reprieve from the churn of our “age of angst.” But I am committed to showing up through the instability.
Today, my attention turns to the art of Lynette Yiadom-Boakye (YAH-dum BOH-ah-chee). Her work invites pause and reflection.
She creates portraits that place individuals against dark, muted backgrounds, their expressions contemplative, yet with a sense of detachment. Their presence tethered to the here and now, yet seeming untethered to a specific space or time. Perhaps mirroring how many of us feel these days: grounded, yet off-kilter.
Born in London (1977) to Ghanaian parents, it makes sense that her figures feel third culture-like and untethered. Lynette Yiadom-Boakye sees herself as a painter and a writer equally. She writes poetry and prose. The titles of her works, often poetic, show her dual devotion to visual arts and words.
Lately, I’ve seen quite a few notes on Notes decrying why visual artists are on Substack. There’s a call to make Substack for only writers. I wholly disagree with this sentiment.
The Harlem Renaissance and the European Renaissance thrived on the intermingling of disciplines—playwrights, musicians, visual artists, writers, actors, and activists all feeding off each other’s creativity and energy.
To separate these practices is to lose the vibrancy that comes from the comingling.
With this in mind, I appreciated learning of Yiadom-Boakye’s embrace of writing as a core part of her practice. In her own words.
“I write about the things I can’t paint and paint the things I can’t write.”
She also shares that she gets ideas for paintings from literature.
I watched several YouTube interviews with Yiadom-Boakye, and she exudes a writer’s energy—large glasses, deliberate speech, and thoughtful responses to questions.
She has an easy laugh and a warm smile, the kind that suggests someone who genuinely enjoys people and conversation.
Watching her body language and presence, I couldn’t help but think how fortunate we are to live in a time where we can see, hear, and record artists in their own words. Highly recommend listening to your favorite artist be interviewed or speak, it adds another layer of intimacy and understanding of their work.
What’s particularly moving me about Yiadom-Boakye’s work right now is her unwavering consistency. I’m at a point in my creative journey where I’m exploring multiple art styles, color palettes, and subjects, so I can’t help but feel a bit (innocently) envious of her steadfast approach.
Her consistent use of dark color palettes, figures, mood setting and style makes her work instantly recognizable.
Yiadom-Boakye paints most of her artworks in one day. Just wowed by this. She said in a podcast interview that she typically exercises in the AM with a trainer, eats breakfast, listens to this playlist with Miles Davis, Nina Simone, Prince and others and then gets to work and by the end of day she finishes a large scale piece of work.
She says she likes to capture the initial sense of the painting and then move on to a new piece. If you are an artist, you know this is a big exercise in self restraint because we like to fiddle with our work until we sometimes squeeze the initial magic out of it.
When I learned that London’s Tate Museum acquired 14 of Yiadom-Boakye’s works for its permanent collection, placing them alongside the old guard of Rembrandt, Van Dyck and others, it brought to mind this podcast. In it, an art critic discussed his article arguing that DEI/ identity politics in the art world have allowed bad art by POC and other underrepresented communities to be celebrated.
I could write an entire piece unpacking my thoughts on that. For now, I just wondered if this critic included the Tate’s acquisition of Yiadom-Boakye’s work in his assessment of so-called “bad art” by underrepresented artists.
Then I came across this BBC radio discussion with an art journalist, she mentions that the Tate’s conservationists, those who work closely with the technical aspects of preservation, were blown away by Yiadom-Boakye’s craft. From her underpainting to her use of “Old Master” techniques, the very same methods used by the painters her work now hangs beside.
Honestly, I shouldn’t have reveled in this nugget that Yiadom-Boakye is just as good as the “Old Masters,” as if their work is the only measuring stick. While it was momentarily satisfying to hear this, the reality is, Yiadom-Boakye’s mastery doesn’t need validation from proximity to Rembrandt or Van Dyck.
A few places to see her work up close:
"Edges of Ailey" exhibition at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City, running until February 9, 2025.
Additionally, her work is part of the permanent collections of several museums, including:
Tate Britain in London
The Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York
The Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh
The Pérez Art Museum in Miami
Such a great read - thank you for this reprieve and this call again to art of all sorts, words and visuals. We need them all now more than ever. <3
Beautiful reflections on beautiful works. I cannot believe these are finished in one go. Her consistency is remarkable & I’d guess it took years of refinement to discover.