Hear My Cry

In 2017, I began a project called The Surface NYC, filming music videos for random street performers in New York’s subway. No crew—just me, my camera, and whoever felt like the right fit that day. The thrill of the unknown—the spontaneity of meeting someone new and creating something on the spot—was electric. Though I eventually ended the series, it became the foundation for "Hear My Cry".

I met Qenu during one of those sessions. The day had been frustrating—I hadn’t found anyone to film, and 42nd Street Central Station was my last stop before heading home. Just as I was about to leave, a violin’s sound filled the station—deep, raw, hauntingly beautiful. It wasn’t just music; it was a cry. A longing to be heard.

I approached Qenu after his performance, introduced myself, and asked if he had any original pieces. He did. We started filming right there. I remember holding back tears behind the camera—his music transcended sound. It was pain, beauty, and resilience woven into every note. The acoustics of the station, the rhythm of footsteps, the flow of people—it all became part of the composition.

Years later, in 2020, amidst the unrest, discrimination, and violence against people of color, I revisited the footage. I had kept Qenu’s performance on a hard drive, not knowing what I would do with it—but it felt like it had been waiting for that moment. In a time of despair and brokenness, Hear My Cry came to life, a visual and musical expression of struggle, pain, and the need to be heard.