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.