Black women are constantly questioned, criticized, and called “ghetto” for our unique styles. Websites and blogs regularly mock us—urging Black women to stop wearing elaborate nail designs or “unnecessarily” long acrylics. Employers often suggest that we avoid braids, labeling them unprofessional.

Yet despite this stigma, our style is consistently appropriated. From rock and roll to 3D glasses, Black innovation has long drifted into the mainstream—stripped of context, then celebrated. Today, celebrities like Billie Eilish, Dua Lipa, and the Kardashian-Jenner sisters flaunt long, dramatic acrylic nails and braided hairstyles—trends that Black women have championed for decades.

Dr. Mia Moody-Ramirez, a professor at Baylor University, puts it plainly:
"People have embraced some of the things Black people do throughout history. But when other people do it, they're praised for not being afraid to take a risk, and it's considered high fashion. The sad part is that when Black people do the same thing, it's 'ghetto.' There's a negative connotation."

This double standard isn’t new. The disdain toward Black women and our culture is rooted in the racial caste system of slavery. In a journal entry from 1860, slaveholder Amelia Akehurst Lines wrote with open disgust:
"We have eaten our share of negro filth and I do despise the race. I wish the abolitionists had to eat, sleep and live with them until they had enough of their ‘colored brothers and sisters.’”
(Lines & Dyer, 1982, p. 192)

That hatred didn’t end when slavery was abolished. Fast forward to Florence Griffith-Joyner, also known as Flo Jo. She shattered world records in the 100 meters at the U.S. Olympic trials—but the media obsessed over her nails more than her speed.

"Regardless of intention, French manicures and pastel colors signal white, middle-class, heteronormative beauty. Long, sculptured, airbrushed nails, on the other hand, are markers of Blackness, sexual deviancy, and marginalized femininity," wrote Professor Lindsay Pieper in a 2015 essay.
"Writers highlighted Flo Jo’s fingernails as both a source of intrigue and revulsion, subtly emphasizing racial differences. Because she preferred long, colorful nails, she was depicted as abnormal, deviant, and different."

The Royal Painting is a response to that gaze. It reclaims the beauty of Black women—beauty that is so often mocked, policed, and then commodified by others. When Black femininity is always under the microscope, I believe it’s essential to place our aesthetics in a new context. One of reverence. One of legacy. One of power.