Blackness in the twenty-first century is the blackest black that black has ever been. It is the darkest dark—so dark that we cannot discern its shape or form. It exists and extends into infinite blackness—an orchestrally churning sea of blackness. Challenged and encouraged by Langston Hughes’s 1926 The Negro Artist and The Racial Mountain, in these objects I attempt to contextualize my identity within a sea of blackness, which is to contextualize my identity within the now. Blackness is complex. It is all things at once. It is rich and sweet, just as it is bitter and tar.