Art gave me my voice at a young age. As I child, I struggled with understanding social situations, bullying, and even watching my father suffer through a grueling addiction. I closed off, and I turned to my sketch pad for alleviation. As I got older, it became cathartic to draw about my mental struggles and the black diaspora. Due to my diaspora, I thought the only way I could honor the sacrifices my ancestors made for me was to go into an undesired career that guaranteed a high income. I didn't consider art as a career path for me until I met my first black artist, who would later become my first mentor. He encouraged me to explore art more deeply, and that gave me a more authentic way to honor my ancestry. My first time visiting an art museum, it felt like I had taken a step back in time. Art was a powerful expressive tool for me throughout my childhood, but I had never seen art transcend time the way it did in a museum. It seemed to color all of the stories I had been told in history class, but the more I immersed myself in that world, the more I realized it did not describe my past or any other black person’s past. Our history wasn't celebrated in the way it deserved. This is what helped me bridge the gap between art as a communication tool and a time-traveling tool. I realized that I had to look forward and change the narrative myself for my children and my children’s children. I knew my actions now would have a deeper impact years from now. It wasn’t until the protests surrounding the death of George Floyd in 2020 that I decided to use my art as a lighthouse to communicate with people who had similar struggles in life as I had. I could put our experiences and our bodies in a place of exaltation. That started my project “We The Protest.” It consisted of interviews and portraits of protestors to capture their grief, empathy, and resilience. After those portraits were accepted into shows, I began to paint about my own mental struggles in hopes of relating to women like me who were confused about their place in the world. Now, I’m painting portraits of my family members to honor my family’s history and immortalize my black family. I think about the numerous times I’ve gone into a museum and seen a portrait of a typical 1800s European family, and how their image was preserved; how they were immortalized as the heart of America. I’m overcome with gratitude at the thought of that being my family’s portraits one day. I hope that in the future another young woman like me can see people who look like her being immortalized and celebrated in art through my work. I can honor my family’s history by portraying us as deserving of being painted and dictating our narrative. Future generations won’t have to discover art and be left with a hole of questions as to why we weren’t included. Instead, they can be instilled with the burning desire to contribute in the same way I had, and others before me. I just want to be the ancestor for future generations in the same way that my ancestors were for me. I may not know exactly where my work will settle years from now, but I do know that it is my life’s purpose to celebrate and exalt BIPOC life through art. If my work can inspire one person, then I’ll have been fulfilled.

Communication in its deepest form occurs through art. I was pretty young when I realized this; that art can transcend time and communicate with future versions of ourselves. My mother used to draw stick figures for me on sticky notes and communicate her love and her hopes for me in ways I didn’t quite understand as a child. She’d draw me as a superhero or have me riding an elephant, and those small drawings enraptured me. They showed me that there were different ways I could communicate with others. Even now as an adult I didn’t think they would mean so much to me, but when I consider the birth of my art journey I am always led back to those moments. The yearning to communicate only grew for me. I drew about my mental struggles or the people who made impacts on my life, and it was cathartic. It wasn’t until the protests surrounding the death of George Floyd in 2020 that I realized that I could use my art as a lighthouse to communicate with people who had similar struggles in life as I had. I could put our experiences and our bodies in a place of exaltation instead of underground. That started my project “We The Protest.” It consisted of interviews and portraits of protestors to capture their grief, empathy, and resilience. After those portraits were accepted into shows, I began to paint about my own mental struggles in hopes of relating to women like me who were confused about their place in the world. After that, I painted portraits of my family members to honor my family’s history, and immortalize my black family. I accomplished as much as I could with the schooling I could afford, and with a hodgepodge of other resources. I volunteered, I found mentors, I was awarded residencies, newspaper articles, and radio interviews. I've even mentored my own students and learned more about my practice and communication style through that. Now, I've found myself at a crossroads; I questioned if I should continue my journey knowing that I lacked essential skills or if I would continue my higher education and invest in myself to communicate in the ways I truly desired. The latter was an easy choice, and affording school has been the only hurdle in the decision-making process. I’ve realized that through my work I can communicate with generations after me. When years roll by and I am an elder or not a part of this world anymore my voice will still be here. Those future generations will see art that praises people who look like them, people who fought for them, and people who struggled like them. Young black people won’t have to wander into prestigious spaces wondering why they weren’t included – and hopefully, they’ll be inspired to continue to create and share our narrative for the generations that follow them. This scholarship will contribute to all of that because it will aid in teaching me to refine my voice. My mother predicted something for me when she drew me on the backs of giants, and wearing capes – she imparted her hope in me for the woman I’d become. She’s the only reason why I know that art works; that it actually transcends time. Her hopes for my future have become my hopes for everyone who comes after me. I assuredly know that the best way to show them that is by showing them how worthy we are. I just need help from my community to see that through.

Communication in its deepest form occurs through art. I was young when I realized that art holds the ability to transcend time and that it can be used to communicate with future versions of ourselves. It just took me longer to understand that this version of time travel was available to me. This realization made me notice that my ancestors were stripped of their ability to communicate with us. There were no pictures, letters, or stories for me to hold onto. I never knew who they were, and that not only caused intense diaspora for me but also made me unsure of my own future and whether I was worthy enough to leave a legacy. My art was the only way that I was able to combat those thoughts because it encapsulated my sense of identity; it allowed me to share parts of my experience that I couldn't put into words. I knew my work was exactly what I wanted to pass down to not just my family, but entire generations of people of every demographic. Part of what took me so long to understand that art was available to me was its accessibility. I grew up in a lower-middle-class home where there was no history of higher education or financial knowledge. Art appeared to only be for the upper echelon and was gatekept in fancy museums that were filled with items I could never in my wildest dreams afford. My parents tried their hardest to raise us better than they were raised, and in many ways they did, but we struggled to keep our heads afloat. We lost our family home in 2008, and my parents separated which left eleven-year-old me to grow up quickly and help care for my younger siblings while my mom worked to provide for us all. I didn't have anyone to help me prepare for college or learn about scholarships and different financial opportunities which made me a victim of predatory loaning. I believed that my destiny was to be financially lacking, and that made a degree and career feel further from my grasp. Luckily, the only way I could cope with that was through art. I started small, but the more I created and shared, the more I noticed that my work had an impact. Then my practice started to grow. I earned residencies and was invited to shows. I knew that it was my way through my family's generational lack, and it was a way to inspire others who had similar upbringings as I had. I started using my left brain more to support the passion that existed in my right brain. I decided to be logical about understanding my finances, overcoming them, and finishing my degree. For so long I felt overwhelmed with ironing out my debts and figuring out a way to continue school. It took me utilizing my left brain more to organize my spending habits, save money, and begin solving my debt. I also started focusing on new ways to earn income from my art so that I could continue to support my artistic journey. Using my right brain has always been far more intuitive for me, and my work only continues to get stronger the more I trust it. I know that my right brain is my lantern through undiscovered terrain, but now my left brain is my compass. I know now that art is for me, and I know that I will become the ancestor that I needed when I was young. My work dictates my future, and it's clear that my destiny is in abundance.

Communication in its deepest form occurs through art. I was pretty young when I realized this; that art can transcend time and communicate with future versions of ourselves. My mother used to draw stick figures for me on sticky notes and communicate her love and her hopes for me in ways I didn’t quite understand as a child. She’d draw me as a superhero or have me riding an elephant, and those small drawings enraptured me. They showed me that there were different ways I could express myself and show others that I love them. Even now as an adult I didn’t think they would mean so much to me, but when I consider the birth of my art journey I am always led back to those moments. The yearning to communicate and express myself only grew as I got older, as it does with most adults. I struggled with understanding social situations, bullying, and even watching my father suffer through a grueling addiction. I closed off, and I turned to my sketch pad for alleviation. I drew about my mental struggles or the people who made impacts on my life, and it was cathartic. It wasn’t until the protests surrounding the death of George Floyd in 2020 that I realized that I could use my art as a lighthouse to communicate with people who had similar struggles in life as I had. I could put our experiences and our bodies in a place of exaltation instead of underground. That started my project “We The Protest.” It consisted of interviews and portraits of protestors to capture their grief, empathy, and resilience. After those portraits were accepted into shows, I began to paint about my own mental struggles in hopes of relating to women like me who were confused about their place in the world. Now, I’m painting portraits of my family members to honor my family’s history and immortalize a “common” black family. I’ve realized that through these works I can communicate with generations after me. When years roll by and I am an elder or no longer a part of this world my voice will remain. Those future generations will see art that praises people who look like them, people who fought for them, and people who struggled like them. Young black people won’t have to wander into prestigious spaces wondering why they weren’t included because those spaces will be created for them. Our narrative will be ours to dictate, and hopefully, the next youth will become inspired to continue to create and share our narrative for the generations that follow them. My mother predicted something for me when she drew me on the backs of giants, and wearing capes – she imparted her hope in me for the woman I’d become. She’s the only reason why I know that art works; that it actually transcends time. I have never felt more like a superhero than when I am in front of my easel, sharing my experiences and expressing my love. Now, her hopes for my future have become my hopes for everyone who comes after me; that our mere existence is enough to be beheld. I assuredly know that the best way to show them that is to communicate to them how worthy we are.

My family’s history was never one to be preserved. It’s a universal experience for a black kid to learn about slavery and wonder if that dark stain directly affects them. In my adulthood, that reality was confirmed for me. I experienced every different stage of grief, sorrow for my ancestors, and confusion about my identity. After months of mental toiling, I arrived at the realization that I wouldn’t be who I am without my ancestors’ sacrifices. I saw them in myself physically, mentally, and spiritually. Then came the question of “How do I honor them? How do I give back to people who gave so much to me?” My first time visiting an art museum, it felt like I had taken a step back in time. Art was a powerful expressive tool for me throughout my childhood, but I had never seen art transcend time the way it did in a museum. It seemed to color all of the stories I had been told in history class, but the more I immersed myself in that world, the more I realized it did not describe my past or any other black person’s past. If I saw art about black people, it was a constant reminder of that dark stain. Our beauty was smeared away. This is what helped me bridge the gap between art as a communication tool and a time-traveling tool. I realized I couldn’t go back in time to give, but that I had to look forward and change the narrative myself for my children and my children’s children. That became my way to honor my ancestors – to give as much as they gave me. I started first with portraits of black protestors, to show our resilience. Then I moved to self-portraiture to examine black identity. Now I’m painting tremendous portraits of my family to preserve them as royalty. I think about the numerous times I’ve gone into a museum and seen a portrait of a typical 1800s European family, and how their image was preserved; how they were immortalized as the heart of America. I’m overcome with gratitude at the thought of that being my family’s portraits one day. I hope that in the future another young woman like me can see people who look like her being immortalized and celebrated in art through my work. I can honor my family’s history by portraying us as deserving of being painted and turning that dark stain into something beautiful. Future generations won’t have to discover art and be left with a hole of questions as to why we weren’t included. Instead, they can be instilled with the burning desire to contribute in the same way I had, and others before me. I just want to be the ancestor for future generations in the same way that my ancestors were for me. I may not know exactly where my work will settle years from now, but I do know that it is my life’s purpose to celebrate and exalt black lives through art. If my work can inspire one person, then I’ll have been fulfilled.

I remember the first time I saw black art in a reputable gallery. It was only two years ago. Jordan Casteel's black portraits had their own space in the Denver Art Museum, and they blew my mind. The paintings were larger than life and finally represented black people in ways we have always seen ourselves. I repeatedly visited, not realizing the strength and inspiration the exhibit was giving me every time I stepped foot in its doors. In retrospect, that exhibit changed my life and my career path. I was just a hobby artist before visiting that exhibit. I entered myself into local, borderline scammy art shows to build my confidence in my work. I enjoyed drawing and painting occasionally, but I never felt as if it would take me far in life. I never believed that my artwork -- my voice held space in the art world. That was until I visited Jordan Casteel's exhibit. Seeing a black woman from Colorado have an entire exhibit to herself in my favorite art museum lit a fire in me. From that day on I was no longer a hobby artist, but a working artist. I realized that I have the power to create space for myself in the art world; that my voice was essential. I started making art around the black American experience. I painted about the civil unrest that happened in my state last year, and about how black history erasure has led to black art erasure. The more these paintings were shared and featured in galleries, the more I realized how big a role seeing black art played in my life. I had never seen black art as a child, and it became evident to me that due to my ancestry, there was no art that I could look back on for inspiration or tradition. My history was stolen from me, and that is why I never felt worthy of sharing my work. It only took one art exhibition to change that for me. I hope to be that inspiration for someone else in the future. I hope that black people can look back and see art like mine; and feel their history firmly behind them. I hope I give others the strength and inspiration that was gifted to me so that they feel inclined to document their vulnerable experiences as black Americans. Black history is American history, and black artists are the vehicles that preserve it by giving future generations stepping stones to guide them through life. This scholarship would help me in my next step in my career; which is earning my degree. I have put so much time and effort into my craft, that I am ready to finish school and give myself the credentials that I work so hard for. It would open a world of opportunity for me. Art can be viewed at https://www.tyreejoart.com/

I remember the first time I saw black art in a reputable gallery. It was only two years ago. Jordan Casteel's black portraits had their own space in the Denver Art Museum, and they blew my mind. The paintings were larger than life and finally represented black people in ways we have always seen ourselves. I repeatedly visited, not realizing the strength and inspiration the exhibit was giving me every time I stepped foot in its doors. In retrospect, that exhibit changed my life and my career path. I was just a hobby artist before visiting that exhibit. I entered myself into local, borderline scammy art shows to build my confidence in my work. I enjoyed drawing and painting occasionally, but I never felt as if it would take me far in life. I never believed that my artwork -- my voice held space in the art world. That was until I visited Jordan Casteel's exhibit. Seeing a black woman from Colorado have an entire exhibit to herself in my favorite art museum lit a fire in me. From that day on I was no longer a hobby artist, but a working artist. I realized that I have the power to create space for myself in the art world; that my voice was essential. I dived in headfirst when I began my career. I started mentorship with another artist who inspired me, and individual classes through Udemy and Patreon to better my craft. I drew and painted for hours every single day. It wasn't long before I reached a skill level that I never thought I could, and the countless hours of work I had put in had begun to pay off. When the social unrest and BLM protests began in my city, I found a place to put my voice and exercise my vulnerability. During the protests, I interviewed protestors and painted their portraits to erase the violent stigma given to black Americans for standing up for their rights. I felt compelled to complete this project despite having no end goal in mind. Then I remembered Jordan Casteel's work and how she put black people, history, and art where it belonged: in galleries and museums. It became my goal to do the same with my protest portraits. It became my goal to celebrate black American moments by preserving them through art. It became my goal to have black people celebrated and represented in the way that we see ourselves. I applied to every show and gallery I could find. The more the paintings were shared and featured in galleries, the more I realized how big a role seeing black art played in my life. I had never seen black art as a child, and it became evident to me that due to my ancestry, there was no art that I could look back on for inspiration or tradition. My history was stolen from me, and that is why I never felt worthy of sharing my work. It only took one art exhibition to change that for me. I hope to be that inspiration for someone else in the future. I hope that black people can look back and see art like mine; and feel their history firmly behind them. I hope I give others the strength and inspiration that was gifted to me so that they feel inclined to document their vulnerable experiences as black Americans. Black history is American history, and black artists are the vehicles that preserve it by giving future generations stepping stones to guide them through life.

Pan's Labyrinth completely shifted the way I viewed movies by challenging every preconceived notion I held when it came to what a movie is. It is my favorite movie I have seen to date and has largely influenced my current taste in film. The first time I watched Pan's Labirynth I was awe-struck. Some of the themes were mature for my understanding at the time, but the storyline, acting, and visual beauty of the movie left an impression on me. I realized that I hadn't just watched a typical "horror" film like my prior favorites: Jeeper's Creepers and Chucky. I had experienced depth in the midst of horror. As I continued to watch it year after year, the movie revealed more of itself to me. It went from being a dark and fantastical adventure to a story of adolescent escapism, and sacrifice in the midst of torrential violence. I realized that the main character had to choose which version of horror she would brave: a world of abuse, death, and instability or a world of beasts, uncertainty, and darkness. The movie aged with me, and while the beauty of the film lasted every year, my heartbreak towards the story intensified. Pan's Labyrinth's visual elements were also incredibly memorable. The colors and costumes were gorgeous. Two of my favorite movie characters have come from it: Pale Man and Fauno. El Fauno embodied an eerie father figure who emerged from the darkness and held a glimmer of hope. Pale Man resembled utter destruction and the gravity of choice; this was a reoccurring theme that every single character encountered throughout the film. The well-roundedness, depth, and perfect aging of Pan's Labyrinth changed what I looked for in a good movie and stands the test of time. This is why it is my favorite.

Re-enrolling in college after a three-and-a-half-year hiatus marked a change in the dedication I had towards my career. I was always interested in pursuing a career in an art-related field, but I struggled with misdirection. In 2015, I went to the University of Colorado, Boulder to pursue a degree in Fine Arts. The school wasn't a fit for me, and my motivation towards earning my degree fell flat. I transferred to the University of Colorado Denver for 3-D animation, and while the environment was better, I was still unsure if this was the proper route to take. I ended up dropping out. It was an impromptu decision because I convinced myself that "I can pursue art without a degree!" Surprisingly, dropping out ended up being the best decision I have made for myself thus far. I spent the next three years learning how to navigate life. I taught myself all of the fun things: waitressing, paying bills, and figuring out my health insurance. As these years passed, the only constant that remained in my life was my art. In tough times, I would draw. In happier times, I expressed myself in the same way. When I began sharing my work, people began connecting with me. I realized how much my art meant to me during this period. I started applying to local art shows and gaining spending money while I waitressed. My friends told me how much my simple drawings spoke to them, and I began to understand that I could communicate to others in this way. I learned how to paint and used the skills I nurtured to speak about black issues. I painted about social injustice, and the paintings were asked to be in galleries. I was asked to speak to others about my work, and it became evident that this was my career path. Now, I want desperately to keep growing and advancing in my career. I want to sharpen my craft and communicate in more effective ways so I contribute to the growth of black art. The only way for me to do this is through school. The University of Colorado, Denver re-accepted me into their Fine Arts program. I'll be pursuing my bachelor's in Fine Arts with a minor in painting and drawing. My life goal with this is to have art become more accessible to minorities in poorer areas. I want to communicate black American life through my work, with the hopes that it continues to reach others and inspire them to use their voices. Painting is my passion; the last three years have proved that to me. Going back to school is the next and most vital step in my career. (Art can be viewed at TyreeJoArt.com)

Although I'm not featured in the photo, the boldest moment I've had in my life thus far is when I attended and photographed the social unrest that was occurring in my state last summer. I stood directly in between protestors and police to capture this photo. I was afraid because the tension between the two groups was tangible, but being able to encapsulate this moment of unity between total strangers reigns as one of my boldest and proudest moments.

Art is the most undervalued form of communication that humans have used since the beginning of our existence. It goes more underappreciated each passing day. As a black woman, I know that we haven't had the opportunity to share our artistic viewpoints with the world without erasure. The art world can be pretentious, patriarchal, and discriminatory towards black people; women especially. I want to create space for black women in art, and I want to start by communicating how deafening the erasure of black history was and still is in black communities today. I want to create a series of pieces detailing the loss of identity I've experienced as a child until now. Growing up I learned about slavery and how black people were brought here and sold and traded so much that they did not even know their mothers and fathers. I always knew that these people were connected to me, but it was hard to find that connection as the entire story of my people felt so jumbled, tossed around, and lost. I am confident that there was art created by my people and used to communicate their struggles during this time, but we see none of it. That has led to me feeling lost as an adult, and like I have no history to fall back on or tell to my future children. There are no traditions for me, and no stories of my family. I see African immigrants who know their family history and are proud to celebrate it. For a long time, I felt nothing but envy. For this series of pieces, I wanted to create a discussion about the vulnerability, envy, and identity loss that a lot of black Americans experience, but never voice. These pieces will be self-portraits, where my portrait (my identity) is distorted by substances that represent America, whiteness, and blackness. An example of one of the paintings will be titled "milk bath." Here, I'll photograph myself nude in a bathtub filled with milk. I'll then go on to paint the portrait. In this portrait, milk represents whiteness. It represents these perfect ideals that our country claims to have. It represents the entire foundation of our society. As a black woman who lives in a predominately white state, I've always been surrounded by whiteness. Schools teach white history, the majority of our leaders are white, the majority of art is white. The bath of milk is what symbolizes all of this, and I will be placed inside. I'll be in a fetal position to communicate vulnerability and juvenescence. I want to highlight how easy it is not to see yourself in a milk bath, as milk offers no transparency. It is possible to be lost or missing inside a bath of milk, and no one would realize it. I'll use different substances in other paintings such as black and white paint, mud, saran wrap, etc. to draw out different tones in each painting. I want to communicate all of the frustrating and scary feelings of experiencing loss of identity, not just including feeling surrounded by whiteness. There will be themes of self-betrayal, confusion, desperation, and acceptance as well. They will tell a story of how not being given an identity allows you to create your own. I believe the series of pieces will give others a better understanding of the internal struggles that black Americans face and that it is more than what airs on the news. We have feelings that are hard to acknowledge and address, but once we do and the conversation about it begins, it'll create healing and togetherness within a community. It would be a wonderful way to document our present for future generations.

My mom always liked to dream big. She was a hairstylist, so an example of this is when she would talk about her dream hair salon. I'd usually be flipping through her appointment book early in the morning while my mom prepared for her day and went on about the salon. She would talk about the colors of her logo, how she would schedule clients, and how excited she was to be an employer. I always noticed that her appointment book was meticulously organized, with names, phone numbers, and duration of each hairstyle requested down to the minute for each client that she penciled in. My mom was not a very organized person, so her appointment book displayed a different level of commitment from her that I didn't yet understand. She was so invested in creating a positive career for herself, and the amount of hard work she consistently put in never occurred to me. I would never understand until I decided to pursue a creative venture as an adult. I took her mindset with me growing up. After a few years of waitressing, I finally quit and decided to pursue artwork full time. It was my only passion in life, and the confidence my mom instilled in me pushed me to pursue it. I've learned many lessons from it, and one of the most important that I've adapted is that personal success is never linear. I've seen my mother fail; she lost her very first shop she owned. Despite this, she never stopped doing hair, and she never stopped talking about her dream shop. I've also failed tremendously. Once I prepared a set of paintings for a notable grant. It took me months to paint them, and I felt I had the proper skill set to win. I didn't win. I was visibly shaken and I doubted my abilities afterward, but losing the grant was the best thing that happened to me because it opened an entirely new set of opportunities for me that I didn't yet see. This leads me to my second lesson, and that is that rigidly planning your entrepreneurial path can stunt your growth. It is important to learn from opportunities that open themselves to you, and not to be one-track-minded in your vision of success. You can miss out on valuable life lessons if you keep your blinders on. Another lesson that I've learned is that you have to believe in yourself, your abilities, and your product. If you don't believe in it, no one else will. It was difficult for me to value my product and accept critique. Once I did believe in my work I couldn't stop sharing it, and people believed in me and trusted me. It's given me confidence that I can succeed in this field, and I realized the only thing holding me back was myself. My final lesson is that I had to learn to change my habits. I may not be organized or an early riser, but to succeed I have to commit to those things. I think about my mother's appointment book and gain a world of understanding of what she sacrificed to do what she loved. Despite a successful career, my mother has never stopped dreaming, and I will do that same. I'll always want to grow in my career. I have her to thank for that. www.tyreejoart.com

This is my family's dog Beau. He is by far the derpiest member of the family. Since puppyhood his people, naps, snuggles and treats have been his greatest pleasures in life. My personal favorite photo is the one where he stares out of an empty glass door, not realizing that his arch nemesis, the invisible forcefield, had actually been shattered by my brother the day before. He was totally free to walk outside, but he wouldn't dare test the imperceptible veil of his greatest foe.

As a child, I always struggled with my blackness. When I would watch television I would very rarely see women who looked like me, and when I did I clung to the idea of them desperately. I held onto the idea that a black woman could be "something." I had no idea how hard it would be to hold onto those beliefs. We lived in a predominately white area growing up, so I was teased for being black and poor. I didn't understand why I was so different or why I was bullied for things out of my control. I began to idolize whiteness, and in turn, I released my idea of black women being something -- being anything. During this time in my life, I had never felt less seen or heard in my life. I tried to embrace my blackness more through high school and my freshman year of college but still envied white people. Their blue eyes seemed like a key for a door into a world of opportunity, and my brown eyes seemed to leave me keyless in the dark. I convinced myself that they were somehow better than me. These convictions led me into an intense depression. Then one day, while struggling with her hair, my little sister muttered something I'd never want any young black girl to say: "I wish I was white." I had an epiphany: and that was that these feelings I had were not something factual or that I stood alone with; they were something massively cultivated by others and spoon-fed to the black community as a whole. It became a mission of mine to accept my blackness. I needed to find a way to actively reject the feelings of inadequacy, and embrace those of equality and acceptance. Drawing had been a favorite past-time of mine; it had occupied a large portion of my life, so it only made sense to embrace my blackness through that outlet. Gaining the confidence to share my work was the most daunting step, and once I did, I was able to communicate more effectively. I've progressed primarily to painting black people, and I have used these portraits as a segue into the fine arts world. The project that I've most recently finished is called "We The Protest." This project consists of four portraits and six interviews from black protestors at the 2020 BLM Protests. These portraits have served to eradicate stigmas surrounding black people and protestors by transforming them from someone violent to someone beautiful. They became someone worthy of being in an art museum for their actions. Amazingly, the paintings and interviews were invited to be in multiple shows where they are currently displayed. While it feels incredible to have these black faces in these spaces, it still doesn't feel like enough. My ultimate goal is to bring art to black areas and make fine art more approachable and accessible to black people. I want black people to have a larger presence in fine art, and for us to invade the spaces that we once believed were unattainable. I want our history to be narrated by us. I believe that people severely underestimate the power that art holds within a community. It cultivates creativity, self-expression, and documentation. It provides therapy and a voice to the voiceless. Becoming an artist has allowed me the confidence to find my voice and space in this world. It has allowed me the confidence to travel abroad alone, re-enroll in college, and imagine a bright future for myself. My art has allowed me to become "something," and it's my goal to empower others to do the same. Paintings available to view at www.TyreeJoArt.com