When Golden was a young curator in the nineties, her shows, centering Black artists, were unprecedented. Today, those artists are the stars of the art market. By Calvin Tomkins  Photograph by Lyle Ashton Harris for The New Yorker More than seven hundred people came to the black-tie gala for the Studio Museum in Harlem last October. It was gala season, a time when, on an almost nightly basis, cultural institutions around the city congratulate themselves and raise money doing it, and this one draws the liveliest, the best-dressed, and by far the most diverse crowd of celebrants. Thelma Golden, the museum’s director, seemed to be everywhere at once as she moved around the room welcoming Spike Lee, Nicole Ari Parker, Questlove, Julie Mehretu, David Byrne, and many more. Golden, who is fifty-eight and five feet tall, with close-cropped hair and surprisingly large eyes, was wearing a long, sparkly dress. In this world, at least, she is one of those people who, like Elvis and Oprah, do not require a last name. “Thelma is the consummate New Yorker,” her friend Elizabeth Alexander, the president of the Mellon Foundation and the evening’s honoree, told me. “She can talk to anybody, and she’s hilarious in a New York way—precise, unpredictable, irreverent, keen, clickety-clack.” Support The New Yorker’s award-winning journalism. Subscribe today » | 
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