For almost half a century, Bull Hill Cemetery, southwest of Marlin, was a place that only grandparents remembered and few could still locate. The Middle Brazos River foliage had nearly swallowed it up, clover and tangled weeds treading over the slaves and freedmen's gravesites.
As I have said before, conversation for the arts is like oxygen for fire. Ignore them, and they slowly wither. This is not a contemporary development. In 1941, artist Nicolas Calas wrote to Alfred Barr at New York's Museum of Modern Art that "the hardest thing for an artist . . . trying to earn a living in America is to make contact with an educated public. If our work isn't known here . . . it's nearly impossible to go on."