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 scale, shifting the composition—a peony unfolding beyond recognition, a wine glass teetering on an unseen edge, grapes swollen to impossible proportions. Sometimes I refine my vision in Procreate, arranging forms before committing to paint, but once my brush touches the canvas, the image begins to breathe on its own. I think about light and shadow, color and contrast—not just as visual elements, but as a language. What does it mean to illuminate? To obscure? To take up space? These choices are never just aesthetic; they are deeply intentional.
Feminism in art does not always arrive in neon protest signs. Sometimes, it blooms in the slow, deliberate act of refusing to shrink. The world teaches women to make themselves small, to be decorative, to be palatable. But my paintings challenge that expectation in subtle ways—in the scale of a flower that refuses to stay confined, in a table that tilts just enough to feel unstable, in objects that seem familiar yet are impossibly distorted. Still life has long been dismissed as a "feminine" art form, but what if still life is its own quiet rebellion?
Light is never neutral. It tells us what to admire, what to ignore, what to see. In my work, light bends and shadows loom, playing with perception—challenging the notion that beauty must be delicate, obedient, easily understood. What happens when beauty is unruly? When it overwhelms? When it refuses to be contained?
This is the quiet power of feminist art. It does not always scream. But it disrupts, unsettles, reclaims. It asks the viewer to pause, to reconsider, to see. And in that space of reconsideration, there is room for change.
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.