The moments on the Eastern Cape where I discovered reminders of some of my favorite works of art from El Anatsui: When I Last Wrote to You about Africa were surprising. The rocks on the beach at Cape Vidal looked to me like Akua’s Surviving Children—deep brown formations being battered by the sea. The houses scattered on the hillsides in KwaZulu-Natal brought to mind the placement and shapes of Open(ing) Market; the colorful beadwork by native craftspeople, reminiscent of those spectacular wall sculptures. And most enchantingly, the tin can tops of Peak Project turned into musical instruments, strapped to the ankles of the revered Sangomas (traditional Zulu healers) as they danced.

This is not to suggest the homogeneity of the continent, rather the connections that help us relate—people to people. As Anatsui said, “I think the most important thing is that one is able to reach or communicate but not necessarily on the basis of one’s geography.” Through my American eyes, these small jewels of resonance were sweet reminders of home.

Melanie Davis-Jones recently returned from a trip to South Africa.

Approaching the painting, the very first in the exhibition, I knew I would gaze at a masterpiece.

I had heard curators speak of the artist’s incomparable skill, but it was not until I had a visceral response to the painting that I understood. Prior to that moment I could only imagine (admittedly rather skeptically) what they all had described as Rembrandt’s uncanny ability to show dignity, nobility, piety, or anguish to get to the soul of his subject.

Through precision in the finest details—the intricate lacework, the soft curls of fine blond hair, the thoughtful (and ofttimes piercing) gazes—we are invited into the moment. Unquestionably, a better understanding of the circumstances of Rembrandt’s work and the backdrop of the city of Amsterdam in that era enriches the appreciation of the works of art. (The audio tour or the UNC–TV documentary in the adjacent gallery does an incredible job of telling the story.) However, the Rembrandt in America experience is at its essence a personal, even evocative, encounter.

Look closely at the paintings; you will find yourself moved (and perhaps struck by the sense that many of the people depicted look as though they could step out of the frame and join you in the gallery). A master? No question. Even if, like me, you have not studied art history, you will leave with the absolute contentment of being in the presence of pure genius.

Image: Rembrandt van Rijn, Self-Portrait, 1659, oil on canvas, National Gallery of Art, Washington; Andrew W. Mellon Collection; 1937.1.72

Melanie Davis-Jones is the Director of Marketing at the North Carolina Museum of Art.

I view the 30 Americans exhibition with immense gratification because from my perspective, our culture—and its range of experiences—is rarely put on view and valued as art without a qualifier. Not “black” art or dance or theater, simply creative expressions to be celebrated (or critiqued).

Growing up in New York made me a lover of the arts, and I am passionate about sharing cultural experiences. My parents (and grandparents) were college-educated professionals; I had a comfortable life. The lone searing memory of my childhood is of being on a school bus when I was six years old, headed to first grade (gleeful in my pretty red dress and matching shoes!). As we approached the school, I looked down and saw angry faces, mouths shouting words I didn’t understand. When I arrived home, I asked my mother why the people were so mad at us. Her reply: “It is not you; sometimes people fear what they don’t understand.” (You’re probably wondering how my recollection is so distinct; that’s extraordinarily philosophical for a six-year-old! Well, it was the first, but not the last, time I heard that particular reminder.) I grew up with integration, discrimination, the Black Power Movement, women’s liberation . . . a child of the ‘60s and ‘70s. As a result, race is a fact, not a definition, of my life, yet I am profoundly aware of the struggles that got us to where we are today and the obstacles we still face. It is our reality.

These issues of race, gender, and perception are eloquently addressed by many of the artists in 30 Americans. I am proud of the North Carolina Museum of Art for the decision to mount such an important exhibition. I relish walking through the galleries and seeing work by artists collected and assessed, as Mera Rubell said, “not by their race but by their exceptional talents.”

Last week I had a conversation with one of the security guards, who inquired, “Have you seen our new exhibition?” When I assured her I had, she said, “I wore my Afro puff today because I saw an expression of our beauty in some of those paintings and felt proud!” I do too. As on the day of President Obama’s election, perhaps we are standing a little taller because in these moments, our rightful place in history—and in contemporary society—is indisputable. 30 Americans is filled with everything from breathtakingly beautiful works to hauntingly troubling images, affirming there’s no single way to be African American, or for that matter, American. Whoever you are, however you identify yourself, it is an exhibition that will make you think, make you smile, make you wonder . . . and after all, isn’t that what great art is all about?

This post is one of a series on staff perspectives of 30 Americans. Melanie Davis-Jones is Director of Marketing at the NCMA.