In her celebrated black cut-paper silhouettes, Kara Walker unflinchingly critiques the violent and racist Antebellum South. But while dreaming about America’s new first lady, the award-winning artist reveals a less scathing side to her subconscious.

Well, the circumstances leading up to the dream were:
Last year, I met Michelle Obama in that brief, scintillating, oblique way of patrons and supporters. We shook hands, and I nuzzled in next to her for a quick snapshot—several others were there, vying to be a part of the picture. I look smug, my hand cinched around her waist like a fresh suitor. Holding my champagne and leaning my head an inch away from hers, we are the same height, or maybe she is taller. I position myself as girlfriend, sister, fond acquaintance. I am hoping that she will realize how good I am to know. I make a lame joke. She responds with a knowing look that, I think, means she understands that I am an artist of some repute who could provide the White House with some art—that I could make it “clean.” I even seem to believe this, my hand gripping the future first lady’s waist. Lord.

"It's time to bring it, Kara," I say to the radiant Kara Walker, who needs no prodding, as we freak across the dance floor together on the 45th story of a building overlooking Ground Zero, her metallic silver vest and long black gown flowing from side to side. This isn't exactly where one might expect to find the award-winning art legend. She is flanked on all sides by drag queens in furry fleshtones and assless gear. Nearby, James Franco chats with abstract artist Mark Bradford, while Debbie Harry, the words "Art Sells" displayed across her chest, shares a (probably dirty) joke with filmmaker John Waters, who hosted last night's New Museum Spring (Un)Gala.

During the course of this interview, Kara Walker refers to herself as a “firewoman.” It’s an apt metaphor, and a welcome antidote to the 40-year-old artist’s blistering silhouettes that depict antebellum stereotypes of savagery, violence, and uncontrolled, deviant libido. On paper, her broad-stroke mythologies are overrun with infanticide and rape. But in person, Walker dispels her reputation as an “angry black artist” -- a label that has followed her throughout her illustrious career -- with humor and modesty. When, for example, she showed up to participate in this month’s The Black List: Volume Two, an HBO documentary directed by Timothy Greenfield-Sanders, Walker responded: “Oh, right! I’m contributing to something! Shit!”. Humility aside, the winner of the MacArthur Fellowship (also known as the “Genius Award”) has contributed immensely to contemporary discussions on race and gender, securing her position as one of the most influential, polarizing artists of her generation.