By: Hadassa

The weekly #us series presents a brief snapshot into a Black person’s life. We are beautifully varied. We are not monolithic.

Nothing speaks my language like art. Brush strokes are words I can understand, colors are tones that I can hear.

I’ve never considered myself to be particularly articulate or wordy. I can state the facts plainly, as most of my fellow scientist do, but when it comes to penning a good word, I usually use a brush. Artistic expression is my primary language; and I’ve found ease in communicating who and what I am in colors, mediums, textiles, tones and textures. Every blank surface calls to me: an empty canvas, brimming with a story longing to be told, gestures concealed, frustrations unspoken.

Art, particularly fashion, has been a part of my family’s legacy as far back as the early 1900s, where my great grandmother, Victoria Bully began her career as a seamstress. The trade was passed down to my grandmother, who designed and constructed wedding gowns, entire wedding parties, school and business uniforms, and more. She then taught me everything I know about sewing and fashion. I recall during my early childhood her vogue catalogue subscription, and receiving the massive fall/spring catalogues early in Sept. We would pour over it for hours, fixated on the latest fashions of each season, the new trends and patterns and colors, and then selecting all the styles we wanted to try. My cousin and I were even inspired to design a few pieces of our own, which she would teach us how to cut and assemble on our own.

I soon found fashion and design as an outlet, a way to express my insecurities, strengths and everything in between. Being very aware of my figure, I was always intentional about recreating my models with the same broad hips, big butt and tiny waist that I was made to disguise under matronly “appropriate for my age” attire. Vogue never offered suggestions for the curvy, but I managed to find inspiration in the pages of that catalogue. Despite having a very well developed taste for fashion, during my early teenage years my wardrobe did not reflect it. My wardrobe was carefully curated by my mother and grandmother, whose shapes I’ve inherited, in an attempt to protect me from unnecessary attention. They understood society’s overly sexualized perception of a young voluptuous teenage girl, and did what they thought was best to protect me from predatory men. In the process, I grew more self conscious of my body and developed some form of dissonance between the fashion I embraced in my mind and what I thought was available or appropriate for my body type. 

The journey to body acceptance wasn’t one that I could have ever predicted. It was through my interest in fashion, art and design that I discovered not only what was suitable but tasteful and vogueish even for someone as curvy as myself! I discovered a style that allowed me to comfortably enhance my features, minimize self-consciousness, and showcase my creativity.

As a self-taught artist, I have always been very critical of my work. I recognize the flaws easily, I’m aware of the disparity between talent and technique. Despite the imperfections, I love my work. At its core, it is a reflection of how I view myself: recognition and acceptance of all that is. Despite being very critical of their work, true artist are indifferent to the options of others, seeking neither praise nor validation. Arriving at that point where one is no longer confined by the opinions of others is where the real freedom begins, allowing expression and creativity to be boundless and the piece is developed and displayed to satisfy the need for expression, not merely the enjoyment of the viewer. More than anything, the artist wants you to be moved in a profound way, to feel something when you view their work. In the same way, I’ve used this attitude to optimize my self-acceptance and body image, translating my love of color and artistic expression into my personal style to convey how I feel about my body of art.