In the Groove is a visual rhythm, a love letter to the ancestral pulse of sound that lives in our bones. This piece embodies the sacred relationship between Black bodies and music, where the boundary between human and instrument dissolves. The woman’s form curves into a bass, rooted in the earth but reaching beyond it, while her hair flows into piano keys—each strand, a note in a living score. Around her, waves of indigo and fire swirl like sound made visible, a chromatic improvisation echoing the spirit of jazz, gospel, soul, hip hop—every note we've sung into survival.
For generations, soulful music has been more than sound for African Americans—it’s been sanctuary, strength, and storytelling. From spirituals and blues to jazz, gospel, and hip-hop, music has offered a space for joy, resistance, healing, and hope. It’s lifted us during our highest celebrations and cradled us in our lowest valleys. It has been a balm for pain and a spark for creativity, a language when words failed, and a lifeline to something greater.
Her face is peaceful, not because the world is easy, but because she has entered that sanctuary where sound becomes spirit. This is what Black music has always done: created sanctuaries in struggle, found beauty in brokenness, and conjured joy and freedom out of vibration. The layered instruments aren’t just tools—they’re legacy. A drum set in the middle like a heartbeat, a guitar stretching toward the horizon, a base holding the grief, funk, and grace of generations, and a horn—shining from her chest like a call to rise. In the Groove is an offering, a prayer painted in color and line, honoring how our sound has always been our salvation.
Poem: In the Groove
She leans like dusk on a porch in July,
hips carved from mahogany and hymn,
a bass in her spine,
a horn in her chest—
the echo of every ancestor still humming.
Her hair is a scale of black and ivory,
keys stretched long like lineage,
melody braided with memory—
Miles, Nina, Aretha
all whispering between the strands.
Beneath the oil of color and sound,
she holds a secret:
that music was our first rebellion,
our joy behind closed doors,
our language when words were stolen.
In her stillness, there is motion—
not the kind that shouts,
but the kind that heals:
a hush after hallelujah,
a heartbeat after heartbreak.
She is not painted, she is played—
a living chord in the jazz of Blackness,
where pain turns gospel,
and groove is the way
we remember we are still alive.
And oh, the joy—how we rise in it!
Clapping on the two and four,
feet stomping like praise,
laughter spun through Sunday kitchens,
melodies sweet as peach cobbler steam.
In the Groove is available for purchase. Collect it today!