Brushstrokes and Battle Cries: Why My Art Is a Protest

Art has always had something to say. Sometimes it's subtle, like a whisper that lingers. Other times, it’s more of a scream—a full-bodied, paint-splattered roar. I’ve found myself somewhere in between, using my work to speak to something deeply personal yet painfully universal: the feminine experience.

Now, before you picture me standing on a soapbox in a beret with a megaphone (not that it doesn’t sound fabulous), let me clarify. My art isn’t about shouting for the sake of noise. It’s about witnessing. It’s about capturing the quiet unraveling of identity that can come with aging, motherhood, and the slow decay of how society values the female body. It’s about challenging how that narrative gets written—and who gets to write it.

We live in a world where a woman’s body is regulated more than a poorly run HOA. Fertility is worshipped until it’s gone, and then suddenly we’re invisible. Menopause? Hysterectomy? Those words still make people squirm. But I’ve lived them. And instead of shrinking, I decided to paint.

Meditation, 2025

I paint peeling petals and overripe fruit. I paint cracked vessels and tangled blooms. I explore decay—but not as an ending. As a transformation. A shedding. A reclaiming. Because the feminine experience is not a linear path from maiden to mother to forgotten. It’s layered, complex, messy, and deeply, achingly beautiful.

And yes, my work is political. Because choosing to center stories that have been dismissed or overlooked is political. Choosing to say, “This matters. This body. This moment. This grief. This bloom.” That’s activism with a brush.

The Flourishing Reign of Femme (Close Up), 2025

Artists have always been mirrors and windows. We reflect, we reveal, we remind. And I don’t take that lightly. Every time I start a new piece, I think about what I want to say with it. Sometimes it’s soft. Sometimes it’s defiant. But it’s always honest.

Because for me, art isn’t just about beauty. It’s about truth. And truth—especially the kind that centers the voices of women, of queer folks, of those shoved to the margins—is a radical, revolutionary thing.

So if you’ve ever felt unseen, unvalued, or told that your story was too much, too weird, too emotional… same. That’s why I paint. That’s why I share. That’s why I’ll keep going.

Even if the world would rather look away.

"This Is Garbage": The Secret Mantra of Every Artist Who's Ever Grown

If You Don’t Hate Your Own Work, Are You Even an Artist?

Let’s just be honest for a minute: every artist hates their own work. Okay, maybe not hate-hate, but at the very least, we all go through that rollercoaster of “this is brilliant” to “this is garbage” within, like… three brushstrokes. And if you haven’t had that moment where you step back, squint, and say, “ugh, why did I think this was a good idea?”—I both envy and slightly distrust you. 😄

But here's the thing: that little inner critic is part of the process. It’s not a flaw. It’s not a bug in the system. It’s the system.

We grow through discomfort. We evolve through dissatisfaction. Artists are constantly striving—striving for better compositions, stronger color stories, deeper meanings, tighter technique, looser technique (hello, paradox)—all while trying to express something that words can’t quite hold.

And yeah, sometimes that striving looks a lot like staring at a painting you finished a week ago and thinking, “Well, that’s not it.” But you know what? That’s good. That’s growth. That’s your inner artist calling you forward into what’s next.

I like to think of it like training for a marathon. Or maybe an Ironman Triathlon where the swim is emotional vulnerability, the bike is imposter syndrome, and the run is caffeine-fueled bursts of inspiration at 2 a.m. There are moments of flow, sure. There are even sprints—days when the muse shows up and things just click. But for the most part, art is about mental strength, endurance, and a whole lot of practice.

Athletes don’t stop training because they hit a new personal best—they push harder. They analyze, tweak, try again. Why shouldn’t we do the same? Why shouldn’t we push ourselves to become the artist we aren’t quite yet?So if you’re sitting in your studio (or at your kitchen table or your favorite coffee shop) staring at your current piece thinking, “This is trash”—congrats. You're doing it right. That tension you feel? That’s the gap between where you are and where you want to be.

And maybe we never fully close that gap. Maybe that's kind of the point. Maybe hating our work just a little is what keeps us showing up, keeps us evolving, keeps us curious.

Or maybe we're all just a little unhinged. Who's to say...

See The Flourishing Reign of Femme in Person This Spring in St. Pete

The Flourishing Reign of Femme, 2025

I’m so excited to share that my piece, The Flourishing Reign of Femme, will be on view in the Burka Member Lounge at the Warehouse Arts District Campus from April 12 to May 28, 2025, alongside other amazing pieces of member art. If you’re local to St. Petersburg (or feel like making a little art-inspired road trip), this is your chance to see the work up close—layers, textures, brushwork, and all.

This piece is deeply personal. It's a reflection on power, presence, and how femininity expands to take up space—even when it's been told to shrink.

In The Flourishing Reign of Femme, the objects traditionally considered masculine (a dresser, a wine glass—both “masculine” in many languages) are intentionally minimized. They appear almost too small, slightly out of place, as the more organic, fertile elements—vibrant turnips, scattered petals, a cracked eggshell—spill beyond their borders. It’s a quiet rebellion. A reclamation. A soft, radiant force that refuses to be contained.

Slightly “Off” Perspective Detail, The Flourishing Reign of Femme, 2025

This painting is part of my ongoing exploration of beauty in decay, the resilience of the feminine experience, and how societal frameworks attempt to contain something that was never meant to be boxed in. It’s about blooming anyway—blooming more, in spite of and because of the cracks.

And to see it in person? That’s where it really lives. The way the colors shift in the light, the subtle texture in the layers, the push and pull between restraint and overflow—it all comes through best when you’re standing in front of it.

📍 Details:

What: The Flourishing Reign of Femme on display!
Where: Burka Member Lounge, Warehouse Arts District Campus
Address: 515 22nd St S, St. Petersburg, FL
When: April 12 – May 28, 2025
Admission: Free and open to the public during regular gallery hours

If you do stop by, I’d love to hear your thoughts or see a photo of you with the piece! Tag me on Instagram @LynnetteGrimmArt or shoot me a message.

Thank you for supporting local art, local voices, and the ever-expanding reign of femme.

When the Muse Ghosts You (AKA Making Bad Art on Purpose)

Let’s talk about artistic block. You know, that lovely little feeling when you sit down to create something brilliant and instead your brain is like:

“What if… instead… we reorganize your baking cabinet for two hours and then cry about it?”

I’ve been deep in that space lately. Ironically, I am excited about the paintings I’m working on—I mean, I’ve got some beautiful, weird, deliciously messy ideas cooking. But despite that, inspiration has been kind of... meh.

Not gone. Just distant. Like a flaky co-worker who leaves your slacks unread.

So what have I been doing about it?

Making bad art. Like, purposefully. Garbage. Nonsense. Weird little sketches. Globs of paint with no meaning. Doodles that look like your cat walked across the canvas with Cheeto dust on its paws. And honestly? It helps.

Because here’s the truth: when I can't find that magical “flow,” the only way out is through. And sometimes “through” means making things that are straight-up ridiculous or boring or ugly.

I live with ADHD (shout out to my neurodivergent creatives—you are not alone), and I get bored so easily. That’s why I always have about 5 to 10 paintings going at once. It’s not chaotic, it’s strategic. (Okay, it’s a little chaotic.) But it helps. It lets me hop around when one subject makes my brain go “ugh” and another makes me go “oooh.”

If you’re in a similar space—whether you’re an artist, writer, student, business owner, or someone who simply wants to be motivated but can’t even start—I want to say this:
You are not broken. Your creativity is not gone. It’s just taking the scenic route.

Make weird stuff. Make bad stuff. Make stuff that would horrify your 7th-grade art teacher. The important thing is that you keep making. Something. Anything.

My most recent abomination, March, 2025

Eventually, the spark comes back.
(And in the meantime, your baking cabinet does look amazing.)

💬 Let’s open this up: What’s your go-to strategy for getting unstuck? Do you also create "trash art"? Do you lean into rituals? Deadlines? Dance breaks? Share it in the comments—I’d love to hear how you push through the blahs. And hey, maybe we can all steal each other’s tricks. 💡

—

👉 If this hit home, forward it to a friend or share it with someone else who's in the struggle. And if you want to see my current chaos-in-progress (aka “art”), you can always check out what’s happening at LynnetteGrimm.com or on Instagram @LynnetteGrimmArt.

We’re all in this messy, beautiful process together. ❤️

The Botanical Renaissance: Painting Femmes, Power, and the Chaos of Creation

There is an undeniable power in blooming. In unfurling. In taking up space.

Botany, at its core, is life-giving—pushing through the soil, reaching toward light, flourishing even in the harshest conditions. It is a cycle of growth, transformation, decay, and rebirth. Just like us. Just like femmes.

This series is not just about flowers. It is about the full spectrum of femme existence— ovulation, menstruation, perimenopause, pregnancy, menopause—from first bloom to final petal. It is about the beauty of bodies in flux, about the chaos of creation and the myth of fragility. Because despite what patriarchy has spent centuries telling us, femininity is not weakness. It is strength, endurance, resilience. It is the ability to create life, to endure pain, to survive, to build, to shape the world. And yet, our power is constantly undermined, dismissed, controlled.

But patriarchy is dying. And like any dying system, it is clinging desperately to its last breath—lashing out, oppressing, restricting, trying to convince us that we are losing, when in fact, we are redefining everything. We are in a renaissance of femme identity, of autonomy, of economic and artistic power. And this series is my way of documenting that moment.

Lush Resilience, 2024 (cropped)

Botany as Femme, Femme as Life-Giving

Flowers have always been used as metaphors for femininity, but always in ways that serve the male gaze. They are depicted as delicate, ornamental, beautiful only in their prime. But what about the flowers that refuse to wilt quietly?The ones that grow wild and unruly? The ones that thrive in cracked concrete, that burst through oppressive structures, that refuse to be tamed?

In this series, my botanicals are not just decorative—they are defiant. I paint them oversized, unruly, taking up space they were never given permission to claim. They bloom in impossible ways, their petals stretching, curling, twisting into something both chaotic and intentional—because what is creation if not both?

Their forms are distorted, exaggerated—mirroring the way femme bodies are treated in society. We are told that we are most beautiful when we are small, contained, youthful, effortless. But real beauty is in the fullness of experience. In the way bodies stretch, expand, contract, bear weight. In the way hormones shift, blood flows, skin changes. In the way we endure.

The Fruits of our Labors, 2024 (cropped)

Chiaroscuro: Light and Shadow as Power

I use chiaroscuro in the same way the classical painters did—to highlight what is important, to carve out space for the subject, to force the viewer to see. The Renaissance masters used light and shadow to emphasize strength, divinity, importance. They reserved it for gods, kings, figures of power.

I am using it for us.

In my paintings, light falls onto femme bodies, onto botanical forms, onto the raw physicality of creation and transformation. I use shadow not to diminish, but to define—to give depth, to highlight the weight of existence, to show what has been hidden.

Femmes have spent centuries in the shadows—our stories, our histories, our pain, our triumphs. But light belongs to us, too.

The End of Patriarchy, The Rise of Femme Power

The reason we are seeing a surge in oppressive policies, in violence against femmes and marginalized communities, is because we are winning. We are stepping into our power, claiming our space, building our own systems. The patriarchy is crumbling, and it is terrified.

This series is about that moment. The moment before change fully arrives. The moment where old structures try to hold on, but the roots are already pushing through, the blooms are already bursting open, the vines are already climbing the walls.

I paint to capture this transition, this chaos, this power.

This is a renaissance of femme identity.

This is a reclamation of beauty on our own terms.

This is the resistance in full bloom.

Sunsets, Water, and the Violence of Change

Sunsets have always captivated me—not just for their beauty, but for their violence. They are not gentle things. They consume the sky, shifting minute by minute, burning in deep reds and golds before vanishing into darkness. They carry contradictions: romance and fear, hope and sadness, the promise of tomorrow and the death of today.

Growing up in St. Petersburg, Florida, the beach was always nearby. But like many natives, I rarely went. We take it for granted, the same way we take for granted that the sun will set, whether we stop to watch or not. And yet, my fascination with sunsets and water has never faded. I dream of the ocean often—not as a peaceful escape, but as an expanse of movement, of shifting colors and unknown depths, of adventure. Water speaks to the fluidity of life, of gender, of identity, of power and perspective. The ocean changes as the sky changes, an endless reflection of whatever is above it.

Sunsets as Resistance

A sunset does not ask permission to take up space. It does not soften itself for anyone’s comfort. It demands to be seen, to burn brilliantly before night falls. That is why I paint them—not as passive backgrounds, but as the central force of a composition. Sunsets are reminders that nothing stays the same, that change is inevitable, and that even the most ordinary things can be breathtaking, unsettling, overwhelming.

To stop and witness a sunset is to resist the pull of urgency. We live in a world that thrives on distraction, that demands we keep moving, keep producing, keep working until we collapse. The system does not want us to stop and look at the sky. But when we do, we reclaim something—our time, our presence, our right to exist without justification.

Feminism and the Power of Transformation

The world teaches femmes to shrink, to soften, to fade quietly—but sunsets do the opposite. They expand, explode, refuse to be ignored. They are at their most spectacular just before they disappear.

I think about this often as I age, as I watch how society treats femmes who step out of line, who take up space, who refuse to dim themselves. We are told that our value is tied to youth, to compliance, to softness—but what if we are like the sunset? What if we burn brighter as we go?

Water, Fluidity, and the Ebb and Flow of Power

Water and sky have always been intertwined in my mind. They reflect one another, move together, fight against each other. The ocean is never still—it changes with the tides, with the wind, with the pull of the moon. It is fluid, like gender, like identity, like resistance. It carves out new landscapes, reshapes shorelines, destroys and creates in equal measure.

I paint water and sky because they are never the same twice. Because they remind me that nothing is permanent—not oppression, not injustice, not the forces that try to hold us in place. Governments rise and fall. Cultures shift. Perspectives change. The ocean swallows the shore and spits it back out, rearranged. The sky burns at dusk and is reborn in the morning.

Art as an Act of Witnessing

Sunsets and water are constants, but they are never still. They are everyday miracles that most people overlook—just like the resilience of those who are expected to disappear, to stay quiet, to comply.

But we are still here.

We shift, we burn, we crash, we rise again.

That is what I paint. That is what I fight for. That is what keeps me looking up at the sky.

Liberty Street in Autumn: The Weight We Carry, The Hope We Grow

Savannah in November is a city caught between seasons—summer’s warmth still lingers in the air, but autumn has settled into the cracks. The leaves are crisp underfoot, scattered across brick sidewalks that have held the weight of history for centuries. I was standing on Liberty Street, looking down at my own feet, and saw something that stopped me—shoes, bricks, leaves, shadows. The moment was ordinary, but something about it felt enormous.

The bricks, placed there with intention, were breaking under the weight of the buildings they were meant to support. How often do we, too, bear a weight that is expected of us, holding steady while the cracks form beneath our feet? How often do femmes and marginalized people serve as the foundation of society, expected to endure, to carry, to keep everything from crumbling—even as we ourselves begin to break?

And yet, even here, something unexpected: small green clovers, poking through the fractures, littered among the dead leaves, surviving in a space they were never meant to thrive.

Building the Painting, Layer by Layer

I didn’t just want to capture this moment—I wanted to build it, the way it had built itself in my mind. Like the bricks, the painting had to be layered—colors placed deliberately, knowing that what is underneath is just as important as what is visible. Underpainting in rich reds and oranges, pulling warmth through even the deepest shadows. Muted earth tones, giving weight to the structure. Vibrant greens, nearly hidden, but persistent. A glint of sunlight on the shine of a leather boot.

This is how I see the world. Even in something as simple as a sidewalk, I find contrast—light against dark, color breaking through the mundane. A dead leaf can be dull, brittle—or it can be a burst of gold if you look at it in just the right way. That’s what I want my art to do: shift perspectives, make the unnoticed impossible to ignore.

Resistance, Persistence, and the Weight We Carry

The symbolism of Liberty Street in Autumn extends far beyond bricks and leaves. The cracks in our foundations aren’t just physical—they are political, they are personal, they are generational. We live under a government that thrives on control, on oppression, on making sure the cracks don’t just form but widen, making sure the weight stays heavy on our shoulders. And yet, we persist.

Like the clovers in my painting, we find a way to survive in the places we weren’t meant to grow. In a system designed to silence us, femmes, LGBTQIA+ folks, people of color, immigrants—we are the ones finding ways to bring beauty into a world that often refuses to acknowledge us. We are the ones still creating, still building, still breaking through.

This painting is about that persistence. About the weight we carry and the hope we cultivate. About the ability to see something small, something overlooked, and recognize it as power.

Liberty Street in Autumn is a reminder: even in the most uninviting spaces, something beautiful can still take root.Even under oppression, even when the weight of the world is pressing down, we find ways to grow. And that, more than anything, is what keeps us moving forward.

Reframing Beauty: Feminism, Still Life, and the Art of Resistance

The hum of my projector fills the studio, casting fragmented shapes onto the blank canvas. I adjust the composition—an iris twisting impossibly in its pose, a wine glass teetering on an unseen edge, grapes swollen beyond proportion, their weight undeniable. These objects should make sense, but they don’t. Their scale is off, their placement is unnatural, their presence demanding. Sometimes I refine my vision in Procreate (a really great tool for artists if you are unfamiliar), arranging elements before committing to paint. Other times, I let instinct take over, mapping out rough forms with light strokes, shifting and erasing until the canvas begins to breathe.

Then comes color. My mind cycles through color theory, perspective, light, and shadow, considering not only what will work visually, but what will work symbolically. What does it mean when something is bathed in light? What does it mean when it is pushed into darkness? These choices are never neutral. They dictate what is seen, what is dismissed, what is amplified.

My art is rooted in that tension—the way the world tells femmes, gender-expansive people, and other marginalized individuals to shrink, soften, disappear, while I insist on expansion, distortion, resistance.

Still Life as Subversion

Feminism in art is often expected to be loud, confrontational, direct. But subversion does not always arrive in neon protest signs. Sometimes, it blooms in the slow, deliberate act of refusing to shrink. Still life and botanicals—forms that have long been dismissed as decorative, domestic, passive—hold a quiet power. In my work, I take these elements and rearrange them, enlarge them, force them into a new conversation.

A table tilts unsteadily, threatening to spill. Flowers overtake the frame, breaking free from the space meant to contain them. Grapes—often associated with fertility, indulgence, pleasure—become overwhelming, their size asserting a presence that cannot be ignored. These objects push against the patriarchal notion that beauty must be small, compliant, and digestible.

Light is never just light. In my paintings, it bends unnaturally, casting highlights where they shouldn’t be, drawing attention to the unexpected. A glass of wine may glow while a once-prominent object fades into the background, a visual metaphor for the way power is distributed, who is centered, who is allowed to take up space.

Still life is a radical act when it refuses to conform.

Art as Resistance in a Time of Oppression

I turned 40 last year, and with each passing year, I see more clearly how the world seeks to erase femmes as we age—to strip away desirability, to render us invisible. It is an extension of the same system that polices our bodies, our choices, our autonomy. The weight of ongoing oppression—from the policing of reproductive rights to the targeting of trans and nonbinary communities—presses into every aspect of existence.

But we are still here. And we are still creating.

Art has always been resistance. It has always been a means of reclamation, of storytelling, of refusing erasure. The patriarchal standards imposed on us are the same ones that demand obedience and silence from all marginalized groups. But we are not silent.

The Power of Perspective: A New Way to See

Through art, I invite viewers—regardless of their personal beliefs—to look again. To see the world differently. To question what is “normal” and what is simply inherited bias.

If I scream, many will turn away. But if I present a table set with impossible objects, with fruit too large and light too unreal, they will pause. They will wonder. And in that space of reconsideration, there is room for change.

My art is an act of resistance, but also an act of invitation. A call to reconsider. A challenge to the notion that beauty must be small, soft, and compliant.

I paint to remind us that we can bloom wildly. That we do not have to shrink. That we can reshape the frame entirely.

And that is resistance.