Liberty Street in Autumn: The Weight We Carry, The Hope We Grow
The bricks beneath my feet were cracking, breaking under the weight of the buildings they were meant to support. Scattered across them, dead leaves clung to the last remnants of autumn, their golden edges curling inward. And yet, through the fractures, small green clovers pushed their way to the surface—thriving in a place they were never meant to grow.
That moment, captured in a single photograph on Liberty Street in Savannah, became the foundation for my painting Liberty Street in Autumn. The layers of color, the exaggerated perspective, the light catching the shine of a leather boot—every element speaks to the weight we carry and the hope that refuses to be buried. Like the clovers, femmes and marginalized communities continue to rise through the cracks of a system designed to hold us down. This painting is about resilience, about noticing the overlooked, about redefining what is possible—even in the most uninviting spaces.
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.