I first visited Breonna Taylor’s home in Louisville, Kentucky, after the first anniversary of her death. I had recognized the apartment from the video footage, forensic reports, and witness accounts of the night that police officers fatally shot the 26-year-old in the early hours of 13 March 2020. In time, her life and legacy would galvanize a nation to reckon with police violence against Black women, but in the immediate days and hours after her death, her family was mourning her loss and beginning their long fight for justice.
I had come to Louisville from Chicago to pay my respects and because I was creating The Black Girlhood Altar, an art project that pays homage to the lives of Black girls and young Black women who have gone missing or been murdered in the United States. At first, I had looked at street murals and toured the exhibition dedicated to her “Promise, Witness, Remembrance” at the Speed Art Museum, but to truly understand the trauma that unfolded, I needed to go to back to the beginning, the place she called home.
There, I immediately heard echoes in the air: the rhythmic sound of a basketball hitting the pavement, the birds chirping in neighboring trees, and the hum of a lawnmower. In the distance, I noticed two young kids stretching their arms to pull each other over the wall. Outside Breonna’s apartment door, there were pastel chalk lines on the pavement in the shape of hearts and flowers – clearly made by a child from the neighborhood.
The chorus of sounds and colors initially made me feel a bit uneasy. Could birds sing and children play in the same location where Breonna Taylor was killed in the middle of the night? The juxtaposition of the humdrum of our daily existence and the devastation of this deadly encounter reminded me of a trip to Ghana, where I had toured the forts along the coast where west Africans were sold and held in captivity for months before being forced to board ships to the Americas. Outside those dungeons is a gate we call “the Door of No Return”, which leads to the Atlantic Ocean. But if you go there today, you will walk out that door and be greeted by scenes of Ghanaian fishermen casting their nets into the sea and vendors selling their wares. Life has not stopped for grief.
And yet, the signs of tragedy in Louisville were still there. Outside Breonna’s bedroom window, a stem of dried roses remained on the ledge. I later learned that the flowers had been left by visitors who came to pay their respects on the anniversary of Breonna’s Angel Day. A visible bullet hole remained on the wall.
I contributed a pendant and photographs to the Breonna memorial and I met her neighbor, Jose, who lived next door in apartment 3. He had moved into the neighborhood a few months after Breonna’s death. Jose told me that the neighbors who lived above and below her apartment had left shortly after her death. He had moved into this apartment a couple of months ago to live with his sister. He shared stories about how many people had traveled to Breonna’s apartment to drop off stuffed animals and flowers to honor her life. The previous property owners kept the apartment vacant for a long time (it is now occupied), and many visitors, including her family, used to come.
He showed me how the structure of his apartment had the same walls and floor plans as Breonna’s, as well as the bullet hole left in his wall from that night. It struck me that despite not knowing Breonna, Jose somehow felt responsible for being her memory keeper. I felt the need to photograph him and his sister, making me similar to them, as part of a small community of artists, activists and everyday Americans inspired to remember her for ourselves and others.
The Black Girlhood Altar is a traveling art installation that reminds us of the invisibility and vulnerability Black girls and young women face, while also holding a space for collective grief and public healing. It is dedicated to eight Black women and girls: Rekia Boyd, Latasha Harlins, Ma’Khia Bryant, “Hope”, “Harmony”, Marcie Gerald, Lyniah Bell, and Breonna Taylor.
Over the two years of working on the project, I also had the privilege of developing a relationship with Breonna’s younger sister Ju’Niyah Palmer, with whom Breonna originally shared that apartment.
She told me that if I wanted to understand Breonna, I should come to the home that Ju’Niyah now shares with their mother. I visited on the eve of what would have been Breonna’s 30th birthday. At their home, 30 minutes from downtown Louisville, there were no basketballs, just a lush green pasture, empty barns, and a human-made lake. Breonna’s spirit was present when I entered, and there were little artifacts memorializing her in the kitchen and on the doors. In the living room, I passed by boxes and packages still waiting to be opened, but there was one room ready for visitors.
They invited me upstairs into a loft-styled attic called the “Breonna room”. High above everything else, it was lovingly curated with every card, letter, and artwork community members had given them since Breonna died in 2020.
Ju’Niyah told me that they often go there to meditate, mourn and mark time. It is bright and bold, peaceful and powerful. It is their private sanctuary and their personal altar. That they allowed me to photograph them in that space was a generous moment of trust and solidarity.
Recently, Ju’Niyah attended the closing of the Black Girlhood Altar exhibition (I co-curated with Robert Narciso) at the Chicago Cultural Center – amid the fourth anniversary of Breonna’s death. There, she saw my photographs that captured her in real time. Later that afternoon, Ju’Niyah, on a panel, shared how she copes with the loss and continues to honor her older sister: “You have to keep on living.”
To date, no officer has been charged with shooting Breonna Taylor. The US justice department charged four officers and ex-officers with federal civil rights violations, such as lying to get a warrant, in August 2022. One pleaded guilty. In November 2023, a judge declared a mistrial in the federal case against Brett Hankison, after the jury was unable to reach agreement. Two others remain to be tried. I hope art is not the only form of justice this family will receive.
