“What’s the art that comes when what happened is out in the open? When what’s been buried is laid out for all to see? What would the country’s [creative works] look like if they said what was happening?”

That quote from a pre-Black Lives Matter novel jumped out at me after a conversation I’d had with an editor of an art magazine. He’d hoped to feature a portrait of a black man but his publisher vetoed the idea because the artist was white, even though it was a beautiful and timely work of art that might have opened dialogue around race relations as well as the social function of art.

His decision was based on a firm belief that it was time for white people to stop depicting black people who needed to tell their own stories and make their own art. The white artist’s responsibility, the publisher argued, was to open doors for black creativity, to mentor black writers, artists, and thinkers, to help them secure funding, visibility, and legitimacy, all of which required providing a venue for their work.

A friend agreed. White artists need to move over and create space for black artists to make their own art, she argued. They should attempt to assist black people in accessing grants and exhibitions so black artists can share their artistic identity free from idealized versions of black people that ultimately reflect white bias.

I fundamentally agree with the intent of this position, grounded in a strong sense of reparation and social justice. But something about it doesn’t seem quite right. As Princeton professor Eddie Gaude said recently on MSNBC, “it’s not about doing something for African Americans, it’s about doing things with us,” which begs the question, why identify an artist’s skin color? Artists produce art, good art moves and enlightens. Establishing boundaries can preclude necessary dialogue, learnable moments, and heightened awareness, which occurs when any creative artist offers portraits of lives lived, whether with words or a pallet.

Imagine a conversation between two people seeing a portrait of a black man, and a picture of a white artist who created it. Perhaps one of them has never considered the publisher’s point of view. Maybe the other resents the notion that only artists from the same milieu as their subject can portray people in art or literature. How sad to miss that dialogue, that heightened awareness and new way of thinking.

There are larger questions to consider. What is the connection between art and social justice? What is the role and responsibility of artists to educate or advocate? Do they have a responsibility in this moment to do that?

I once met a South African artist who thought social justice should be the sole purpose of art. He was driven to paint and sculpt anti-apartheid works because he saw it as his responsibility as a white South African who deplored the injustices in his country. His powerful work was viewed internationally. It was moving and instructive. It led to all kinds of dialogue when communicating was vital and affirming. Should only black artists in South Africa have done that work?

The existential question may be this: Can disparate communities - ethnic, cultural, religious, racial, geographic – converge as one human family, arms linked in hope, moving together toward a fragile future where there is room for all to co-exist peacefully?

I am reminded of a black woman in a book group I attended once who called me out for a piece I’d written about my grandmother’s suicide. My story included aspects of her life that had driven her to despair. Suddenly, the woman grew enraged. “Your grandma wasn’t cleaning white women’s toilets like mine. She went to the beach once in a while! She wasn’t dirt poor!” Stunned by her need to trump my grandmother’s hopelessness with her grandmother’s pain, I thought, they were both women who suffered. Wasn’t it our mutual task to tell each other’s stories of women’s oppression?

Surely it’s more productive to have people of all skin tones and backgrounds speaking together about their lives and their Other-imposed limitations; more instructive to represent each other artistically and politically in compassionate ways, more hopeful to act in solidarity, free from politically correct positions, clasping hands in mutual protest, respect and understanding.

In the same way, if one is moved by a work of art, and takes action for the greater good because that piece of art has enlightened them, does it matter who made it?

Buddhism teaches that to be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake involves risk. Sometimes that means letting someone speak for you in their own way, telling stories even though they aren’t your own, or painting faces that are different from yours. Without that might we be shutting down various ways to create new landscapes of possibility?

The poet John Keats said being able to embrace uncertainty, things we don’t know, doubts – and sharing those uncertainties and doubts – could be a gift.

I think the portrait of a black man by a white artist could be such a gift. That the artist’s skin color denied us that is, in my view, a sadly unnecessary lost opportunity.

Years ago I wrote a column about the complexities of race relations. It bore the same title as this commentary. I revisited it recently because of a troubling experience that brought it to mind.

The event that triggered that first piece involved an exchange I’d had with a black woman for whom I felt deep respect. We were in a women’s group talking about women and depression. I said that my maternal grandmother had hung herself. I talked about her limited, sad life and recalled that her happy moments were few. One of them was occasional day trips to the beach where she could sit quietly and escape her daily life, rife with various oppressions. Suddenly, the woman snarled, “At least she wasn’t cleaning other people’s toilets!” The comment pushed our conversation into a contest about which of our grandmothers had suffered the most in their equally sad lives.

In the essay, I wrote, “What is it that brings about the rage of one woman, or one race, against another in so powerful a way that what might have been shared in the name of solidarity is obliterated? I do not ask this out of historical naiveté. One can certainly articulate the roots of black, and feminist, rage. But there is something in our psyches striking out, pushing on frayed edges, about to burst. It is palpable and it is straining our collective being.”

I also recalled a letter I’d written to writer Alice Walker who seemed then to be very angry at white women. “Mea culpa,” I wrote. “I am not black. I am not poor. But have I nothing of value to offer? Is there no way for us to hear each other and to find strength in common experience so that we can grow and build a better future together?”

These questions resonated again in a recent exchange I had with someone I have long respected for the vital work undertaken by this community leader. I had hoped to attend an event being organized by this person as a journalist in order to write about the organization’s important work. When I asked to attend the event as media, limiting conditions were imposed that were outside standard journalistic practice. The restrictions were particularly disturbing since I was known to the event’s organizer and should not have presented a threat of insensitive reporting.

When I said the restrictions were unusual, explained why and asked for them to be lifted, I received, to my shock, an accusation that I was revealing my sense of “white entitlement” and that I had “implicit biases.” In an exchange that included reference to our respective work,” I was told that I enjoyed “the luxury of whites” to retire when I tired of my career while people whose “dedicated life work” could never stop.

These comments left me breathless. They smacked of reverse racism offering no path to reconciliation. They suggested that all white people constitute the Other, the perpetual outsider in need of education in order to understand and empathize with the black experience. This from a community leader whose entire raison d’etre is said to be racial justice, dialogue, and the growth of healthy diversity within our communities.

In the piece I wrote on race relations, I paraphrased feminist writer Elizabeth Fox-Genovese. “She makes a strong case for conversation in which community is the center. She asks us to explore how our fierce claims to individual rights may be impeding the larger context.”

In Fox-Genovese’s own words, “Race and gender should enjoy privileged positions in our understanding of American culture for they lie at the core of any sense of self, [but] unless we acknowledge our diversity, we allow the silences of the received tradition to become our own.”

“Acknowledging our diversity, finding our centrality, and deciding what kind of a community, and nation, we will become are lofty goals not easily operationalized,” I had written. “But perhaps if we could all find a way to talk about it together we could begin. Maybe someday, even though things may not be absolutely black and white, it won’t matter quite so much whose turn it is to ride in the front of the bus.”

Where we sit in the bus is no longer germane to a discussion of what divides us. We have, at least, moved beyond that terrible and unjust chasm. But within the context of my recent experience there is still much room for healing, it seems. That healing cannot take place if we can’t speak to each other respectfully, free of difference-based assumptions, and charges of gross insensitivity. Healing will not take place if we can’t work together to realize the benefits of individual and organizational relationships or foster partnerships that lead to respectful and productive dialogue for social change. Finding such common ground is especially important among people in leadership.

It broke my heart to participate in the exchange I’ve partially shared, especially because I believed the two of us were respectful of each other and our respective work. The episode showed me that there is still much work to do, even between people we think share similar goals and aspirations.

But most of all, the exchange made me sad, like my grandmother must have been when she sought understanding.