A quiet revolution in the art world to honor and celebrate Black Queer community

It’s not every day I walk into a museum and feel seen. But on a recent Thursday morning at the de Young, standing in the glow of Isaac Julien’s multi-screen installation, I felt something rare: genuine belonging.

Truthfully, museums have always felt complicated. I love art, but too often, the spaces and stories on display don’t reflect my own. Most of the time, it’s like being a guest in someone else’s beautifully curated home—a place you’re allowed to enter, but not really meant to inhabit.

That’s why the current Isaac Julien exhibit, which runs until July 13 at the de Young, is so powerful. Julien’s work is unapologetically Black and queer, weaving together history, desire, migration, and longing for home. His work even offers meditation on Black grief during the HIV/AIDS crisis. 

As an HIV-negative Black queer man, seeing stories of elders who lived through the height of the AIDS crisis represented in a museum setting is powerful and, honestly, emotional. For so long, the experiences of Black queer folks, especially around HIV, have been pushed to the margins or erased entirely. It feels like a long-overdue recognition. 

There’s a sense of belonging, of history being reclaimed and honored, and also a bittersweet reminder of how much resilience and beauty exists even in the face of pain. It’s more than just representation—it’s healing, solidarity, and a public acknowledgment that our stories matter.

But the exhibit is just one part of a larger shift happening at the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco (FAMSF). I noticed it right away in the way Abram Jackson, FAMSF’s first-ever Director of Interpretation, described how he leads a group of community members through Julien’s installation.

For him, there was no art history lecture, no talking down. Jackson asks questions, inviting conversation, and making space for the visitors—many experiencing a museum for the first time—to share what they saw and felt. With this ethos, the museum doesn’t just display art; it becomes a place where people like me could actually belong.

Jackson’s leadership has been quietly transformative. After last year’s Kehinde Wiley exhibition, when a visitor posted on Instagram asking for a space to experience the show with other Black folks, Jackson and his team created dedicated affinity viewing hours—giving people with shared identities a chance to connect and reflect together. The museum has continued this practice with Julien’s show, offering special times and community conversations for LGBTQ+ visitors like myself and allies.

Under Jackson and with the support of Google.org, the de Young has also replaced the traditional docent model with the Interpretation and Outreach Associates (IOA) program: young, culturally fluent guides, many of them queer and people of color, lead tours that feel more like conversations with friends than lectures. The museum’s team regularly conducts “equity edits” of wall text, making sure descriptions of the art are accessible, honest, and inclusive of the full histories—especially those too often erased or ignored.

These changes—practical, structural, and visible—mean a lot in a time when so many institutions are quietly backing away from diversity initiatives. Jackson doesn’t mince words about the stakes: “We can’t afford to look away from the realities these works confront. It’s our responsibility—not just as a museum, but as members of this community—to create space for honest, sometimes difficult conversations. That’s how we honor the art, and the people it represents.”

For me, all of this feels quietly revolutionary. Accessibility isn’t just about free admission or a rainbow sticker on the door. It’s about allowing queer, Black, and marginalized people to shape the story, participate fully, and feel at home. It’s about being welcomed, not just tolerated. In the packed gallery conversations and the lines out the door on free-admission days, I see a hunger for this kind of honest engagement—not just among people like me, but across the city.

I left the de Young that morning changed. In Isaac Julien’s luminous visions, and in the museum’s evolving approach under Abram Jackson, I glimpse a future for the Bay Area where our stories aren’t just displayed—they’re honored. Where our presence is not just allowed, but celebrated. And where, at least in one of San Francisco’s oldest art institutions, belonging is more than a buzzword. It’s a promise being kept.