The Botanical Renaissance: Painting Femmes, Power, and the Chaos of Creation
Flowers don’t ask for permission to bloom—they just do. They push through cracks, stretch toward the light, spill over fences and sidewalks, refusing containment. They are life-giving, resilient, chaotic, powerful—just like femmes.
In my Botanical Series, I paint flowers not as fragile decorations, but as symbols of endurance, transformation, and defiance. Their petals twist and curl in impossible poses, their roots push through the weight of bricks and concrete, their forms take up more space than the world allows. They are perimenopause, ovulation, pregnancy, menopause—the entire spectrum of femme existence, from first bloom to final petal.
For too long, patriarchy has dictated what is beautiful, what is worthy, what is powerful. But we are reclaiming it. We are in a renaissance of femme identity, of autonomy, of creative and economic power. And just as the classical painters used chiaroscuro to illuminate kings and gods, I use it to highlight us—to carve our presence into history, to demand that we be seen.
This series is a reminder: We have always been the creators, the life-bringers, the ones who shape the world. And no system can stop what is already in full bloom.
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 are not soft. They are violent in their transformation—burning through the sky, shifting minute by minute, demanding to be seen before surrendering to darkness. They hold contradictions: romance and fear, hope and sadness, the promise of tomorrow and the death of today.
Growing up in St. Petersburg, Florida, the ocean was always there, but like so many natives, I rarely stopped to take it in. We assume it will always be waiting. Yet, I dream of water constantly—not as a place of stillness, but as something alive, changing, pulling and receding, reflecting the world above it. Water is fluid, like gender, like identity, like resistance. Sunsets, too, are acts of defiance—refusing to dim, burning brightest just before disappearing.
In my work, I paint them not as backdrops, but as forces. The sky, the water, the light—they are never still, never silent, never asking permission to exist.
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
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.
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.