In April 2017, I led a workshop at Warehouse 521 called “Paint Your Story.” I taught a multi-step creative process to help people translate their emotions into abstract art.
As I guided participants through connecting with their heart’s energy and expressing it through color, line, and movement, I painted alongside them—not my whole story, but one part: hope.
My canvas came to life with upward-moving spirals in blues, greens, and golds, symbolizing the slow, steady climb toward the life my heart desired. I wasn’t painting what was, but what could be. I believed that if I could channel hope through my brushstrokes, I might manifest it into reality.
2nd Avenue Art Wall, Nashville, TN. Curated by Ashley Bergeron Segroves, The Studio 208
Later that year, I submitted three works for a public art initiative called the 2nd Avenue Art Wall—a group exhibition installed on the AT&T network facilities building in downtown Nashville. The painting from that workshop was selected.
It felt surreal to see it enlarged, digitized, and printed on vinyl, then installed on glass for the public to see. I remember bringing a bottle of champagne in my bag, pouring it into plastic cups, and celebrating right there on the sidewalk as people passed by and admired the work. It was one of those small, perfect moments.
Then came December 25, 2020.
An RV packed with explosives detonated on 2nd Avenue. The blast shook the city, shattering windows and scattering debris across the block. The artwork was destroyed along with many buildings. Photographs taken in the aftermath showed shards of glass still clinging to pieces of the painting—faint hints of blue and green among the rubble.
Photo by John Partipilo
The site still remains closed, fenced off, and under reconstruction. But the original painting is still with me, and it’s still full of the same upward energy.
That moment on the sidewalk may be gone, but the story it told isn’t.
Art is never meant to last forever. Neither are we. We evolve. We break. We rebuild. We shift from canvas to vinyl to memory, but we are still here. Hope is still here. Even in silence. Even in loss. Even when it feels like everything has come undone.
Four years later, the street is still healing. One day it will reopen. It will be brand new. The scars may fade, but the story will remain. And if we let it, that story can remind us that even in the face of destruction, hope never leaves us—it just waits to be seen again.
How has hope helped you evolve through times of chaos?
