Brushstrokes and Battle Cries: Why My Art Is a Protest
My art isn't just about beauty—it's about bearing witness. To the quiet unraveling of identity, to the resilience in decay, to the truth of what it means to inhabit a body that's been politicized simply for aging. I paint to reclaim space, to say the feminine experience is worthy, raw, complex, and powerful—even (especially) when it’s uncomfortable. This isn’t just art. It’s a protest—layered in color, shadow, and truth.
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.
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.