“In code I stand with you”: We still can’t breathe f5a4;

This is a social media artivist poster.
Photographic based AI and digital portrait with typography.

I am capturing a haunting moment of defiant stillness and collective memory. Cloaked in a hooded garment and framed in solemn lighting, both a visual autoethnography and a visual ethnography.

The tattoos represent me, and the fist represents an echo of Black Power iconography and global protest imagery. The gaze within my poster, unflinching and direct, holds the viewer accountable.

Over the female image, the words “WE STILL CAN’T BREATHE” strike in urgent red, invoking the lasting trauma and legacy of George Floyd’s murder and the ongoing police brutality disproportionately affecting Black communities worldwide.

My image is more than commemorative. It functions as a visual manifesto, calling attention not just to the violence inflicted on Black men but to the enduring emotional and political labour carried by Black women, who often shoulder the burden of mourning, organising, resisting, and remembering.

This is artivism, this is activism, this is the juxtaposition of digital platforms and tools.

Technology embodies historical systems of oppression; its gatekeepers remain the same dominant figures who have always controlled access and narrative."

Black British Art has always been embedded in the struggle of Black British Communities.

I am taking back my black female power and using these tools to resist and to challenge hegemonic power structures. Paying homage to 'The UK Black Art Movement' and continuing their legacy.

Historically in the UK, Black women have stood at the frontline of resistance, often without recognition, as we have mourned, mobilised, and challenged violence inflicted on Black communities, especially against Black men.

From the Mothers of the Mangrove and the New Cross Fire families, to the tireless campaigning of Doreen Lawrence for justice after the racist murder of her son Stephen Lawrence, Black British women have shouldered the emotional, legal, and activist burdens of police and government neglect.

This lineage of mourning-as-resistance and Black feminist care is themed within my social media post using art recalling both personal grief and collective struggle, echoing the work of women like Marcia Rigg, who continues to fight for justice after the death of her brother, Sean Rigg, in police custody.

Positioning our stories at the heart of both historical remembrance and visual activism.

The use of Typography is deliberate and includes over 100 hashtags, including Jamaican pidgin/creole language and African diaspora hashtags, as symbolic.

In the last 100 years, not much has changed for Black Britons:

1925 for Black Britons:
No legal protections against racial discrimination

Exclusion from skilled jobs, housing, and social mobility

Community organising beginning in the shadows of colonial rule

White British society upheld systemic racism as normalised policy and culture

Black people in Britain were marginalised in the 1920s and started forming the foundations of future resistance movements like the African Progress Union.

“Britain’s Black communities were already intellectually and politically engaged, laying the groundwork for later resistance movements.”
(Adi, 2019, p. 16)

Even in the 1920s, Black communities were disproportionately policed. Records show that Black seamen were often targeted for alleged immigration violations or petty crimes, despite their contributions to the British economy and Empire.

“Blackness was criminalised through the gaze of the police and press, contributing to a cycle of surveillance, deportation, and community trauma.”
(Solomos, 1993, p. 45)

My work aligns with Critical Race Theory, particularly its emphasis on counter-storytelling, systemic critique, and intersectionality. CRT argues that racism is not an abnormality but is embedded within legal and societal systems, including policing structures.

“We still can’t breathe” is a counter-narrative that reclaims space in a media landscape where Black pain is often sensationalised but not humanised or archived with dignity.

“The voice of people of colour is required for a deep understanding of the legal system... and of how the law is far from neutral or objective.”
(Delgado and Stefancic, 2017, p. 45)

My artwork is that voice: part testimonial, part resistance, and part archive. It makes visible the racialised violence that persists while centering the Black British woman’s role as a witness and power in the struggle for justice.