When Lisa began brainstorming concepts for the cover of her forthcoming non-fiction book, she wanted to give the creative team a lot of space. The thoughts she sent her editor were mostly open ended—social media handles of artists she loved, examples of books where she liked the aesthetic, notes on mood and palette. As a debut author, she didn’t want to overstep. But she also included a few more specific things: She wanted the art to be gender neutral—no pinks or purples. No images of Black people or linked hands, no variegated splotches suggestive of DEI or unity. She’d seen it done to too many other books by Black women—think Maame by Jessica George, or Brit Bennett’s The Vanishing Half. By giving a clear sense of her limits, Lisa figured she’d avoid the problem. (Lisa is a pseudonym; her book is in production with a major press.)
Of the design options that later landed in Lisa’s inbox, the majority were pink and purple. One had people holding hands. Another, a picture of a Black person. Even the paint splotches were there. All the signifiers she’d asked to avoid. By crudely foregrounding that the author was a Black woman, the design eclipsed all other aspects of the book—including the thing it was actually about. As if a clichéd depiction of the author’s identity was the only reason a reader might want to pick it up, and the only thing they would find inside.
