My friend Sara always digs for the deeper feelings and meanings.

In April of 1992, I was watching the LA Riots play out on national television. Compelled to do something, I wrote this song in an effort to bring a glimmer of hope into the darkness. That darkness descended on Minneapolis in the form of ICE agents this month. This song remains relevant; it still represents the hope I wish and pray for. If there is any chance of us 'changing the world,' it will be when we discover that love is stronger than violence.

I grew up in Minneapolis, then left in the 80s for the wilds of New York City, but Minneapolis was always home. I was asked by Terry Esau to contribute a work of art to his site highlighting recent heartbreaking events there. VivaLaResistance.org The street where Alex Pretti was murdered was an important street to me and just about everybody I knew. Perhaps it can be a turning point. The world has certainly reacted. Which gives one hope. Billy Barber

I wonder: Who would Jesus identify with right now in Minnesota? Read on to hear my thoughts addressing Racism, Injustice and Christian Nationalism. My personal experiences steer this to be purposely provocative, and meant to leave you pondering. This is a call for people of Faith, and all of us, to stand with those whom Jesus identifies. This is an invitation to wonder, face hard truths and respond. Refugees They escaped into the black of night Velvety darkness and silence their only friends Hurried, hushed tears Fleeing to another nation for hopes of Future's warm sun to rise there Refugees A Hit on their child's head They dissolved away from death threats Praying they'd precipitate toward peace The boy now a stranger in a foreign land Just to live in the land of the living *Jesus, Mary and Joseph flee Herod* I wonder if our Lord identifies more with The Refugee or The Power Hungry Guilty Though innocent, he heard "Guilty" The word throbbed under his brown skin like An ache from an ancient untreated infection Same old spirit, another new mask Bloodshed, disappearance, broken deals It’s how sin... Masquerades around elephants in courtrooms Yet, he knew this sting long before a court date His hometown brought speculation and suspicion "Wait, he came from THERE?" That sick spirit danced in vile laughter upon Presumption Incrimination, before explanation His proof stamped over with "Guilty" Melanin saturated, Messiah Savior, *Innocent Jesus unjustly condemned* I wonder if our Lord identifies more with Our Citizens of Color Targeted Or The Spirit of Whiteness & Presumed Guilt

A few weeks after the start of the Metro Surge, I lost a major art commission from an outstate patron who said they were uncomfortable with “how our city is behaving right now,” and with my refusal to stay quiet while my people are hurting. I was livid, to be honest, and even considered driving north to hand-deliver my anger like a casserole nobody asked for but everybody would smell. Instead though, I saved gas, I went back to the studio, and spent a couple of days painting this cardinal. I painted another cardinal a few weeks back, and put some words with that one as well. In those words, I spoke about the feral sermon in her feathers, the red that refuses to RSVP, the color that doesn’t knock so much as kick the door open and ask why survival keeps getting called controversial. That first cardinal taught me that red is not as much decoration as it is an alarm. Red is what shows up when truth runs out of synonyms. This new one feels different though. Sharper. Or more present, at least. This one feels like it has been watching armored vehicles idle outside apartment buildings, watching families rehearse contingency plans the way families in the burbs rehearse vacation packing lists. Here is what I’m learning as this cardinal came to be in the midst of our city holding its breath: If you cannot stand on your convictions, you are posturing and not standing at all. You are hovering somewhere between comfort and cowardice, mistaking approval for oxygen. Convictions are load-bearing. They are the beams that hold the roof up when helicopters circle low enough to make prayer feel like whispering into a siren. And yes — absolutely, named it at the top — standing costs you things. Sometimes said things are commissions. Other times said things are invitations and being liked by people who only loved the version of you that never required them to witness suffering up close. But anything you keep by abandoning yourself was never yours to begin with. The cardinal knows this to be true. This bird does not tone itself down when winter arrives. It doesn’t consult first with the snow to see if visibility is still appropriate right now. It only gets louder. An embodied exclamation mark existing in a paragraph written entirely in frost. And so, in that spirit of the cardinal that cuts across the grey of winter, here’s my ask: Stop auditioning your integrity for audiences who call terror “policy” because it doesn’t live on their block. You do not owe your glow to anyone who benefits from your dimming. You do not have to survive by becoming swallowable. You are allowed to be the color that interrupts the weather the colorless drag in. Now is the time to take an inconvenient stand. Be the cardinal. Be the siren. Be the impossible red that refuses to apologize for reminding winter that it has never once been permanent.

Watch a special behind-the-scenes look at Shangri-La Studios, where she reimagines Mr. Rogers’ iconic song “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?”

We’ll remember the names of those who died On the streets of Minneapolis

"Music expresses that which cannot be put into words." --Victor Hugo Describing what is happening to my beautiful city has been difficult. I've written and deleted endless drafts this week. In the end, I asked my old friend Billy Johnson to come in and share some old-time music, penned in 1940 by Woody Guthrie. There was no discussion of what to sing -- we both knew my first instinct was correct. Billy sends it down the road very well, and I trust you'll hear why this pairing provides me with the hope we all need at this time. Please share it widely. Be helpful. Be kind. Love one another – Stand tall for these things. -Glenn Cronkhite Custom Cases

They came out before the sun. The cold met them there. It bit the ears and burned the lungs. Breath came out sharp and white. People walked with their shoulders raised. Gloves were thin. Some hands were bare. They walked in Minneapolis where winter pressed its authority into the city and the streets shone hard and pale as if truth itself had frozen there. The sky stayed low. Buildings watched. Every step required attention. Because ice measures weight, that can end hopeful steps with the law of gravity. There were signs, cardboard stiff with cold, ink dark against the white air. There were loud voices, rising and falling, testing the space between buildings. And there was silent objection, held in posture, in faces set forward, in the refusal to leave without saying a word. People gathered wrapped in coats and resolve, fear moving among them quietly, fear for their children asleep at home, fear for the children walking beside them now, fear for what might come next if no one stood here. Hands stayed close to pockets and to one another. The sanctity of existence stood among them not spoken but felt, in the nearness of bodies, in the shared knowledge that each life here mattered. The streets were sealed with old snow. Still they stood upright, learning how to remain human in the open cold. A boy asked why they were there. His father said some things can’t stay indoors. The cold stayed with them. So did mercy. It moved quietly through the crowd, in small kindnesses, in strangers making room, in voices lifted not to conquer but to witness. Night came early. The city dimmed. Still the line moved forward. They kept going.

It’s Friday night, and I feel the weight of the week on my shoulders—a heavy sadness at the state of our city and our world. I asked AI to help me reinterpret this song. Please listen and reflect on who we are as a people. Let this be our collective prayer—a prayer of confession and hope. May love be reborn in us. Terry Esau

VivaLaResistance.org is born from grief, rage, and love — my awakening to the realization that silence is no longer an option. As Minneapolis has borne witness to state violence, displacement, and the cruelty of policies that tear families apart, we turn to the oldest human language we have: Art. This site is a gathering place for those who create in the face of despair. For the songwriters who cannot sleep. For the poets who feel history tightening around their throats. For the painters, photographers, filmmakers, and designers who see what is happening and refuse to look away. Viva La Resistance is not about perfection. It is about truth. It is about expression as survival — about naming what hurts, what angers, what still hopes. We invite artists from Minneapolis and around the world to submit work that protests, mourns, resists, remembers, and imagines something better. All submissions will be carefully reviewed with care and respect. This platform also connects art to action. Visitors will be able to donate to organizations supporting immigrants and refugees, transforming feeling into tangible solidarity. We believe artists hold a quiet power the world desperately needs: the ability to shift hearts, reshape narratives, and remind us that no system of harm is permanent. Art is not decoration. It is resistance. Join the movement.

The Minneapolis Whistle Creed (adapted from the Marine’s Rifle Creed) This is my whistle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My whistle is not a weapon. It is a signal. It is a warning. It is a reminder that we are watching. I must carry it as I carry my conscience. My whistle, without me, is silent. Without my whistle, I am still not powerless. I must blow it true. I must sound it louder than fear. I must use it before silence becomes consent. I will…. My whistle and myself know that what counts is not the volume, not the shrillness, not the echo down the block. What counts is that neighbors hear it. What counts is that someone looks up. What counts is that no one disappears unnoticed. We will be heard… My whistle is human, even as I, because my community is my life. It’s has no barrel, no recoil, no authority. It works only if someone is willing to breathe into it. Its strength is not in force but in signal. I will keep it ready. I will guard it like I guard my voice. I will not be quiet. Before my neighbors and my city, I swear this creed. My whistle and myself are the defenders of my community. We are not masters of anyone. We are witnesses. We are alarm clocks in the night. If something happens on our block, it belongs to all of us. So be it, until the day whistles are unnecessary, and the only sounds carrying through Minneapolis are music, laughter, and the low hum of a city that doesn’t need to warn itself anymore. Until there is peace!

Music/Lyrics • Jennifer Grimm Vocals • Jennifer Grimm Background Vocals (l to r) • Jermaine Fritz, Sara Renner, Katie Gearty Bass • Jeff Bailey Drums • Greg Schutte Percussion • Josh Alfaro Keyboards • Tommy Barbarella Video • Aaron Levin Audio • Zach Thayer Captions • Jennifer Grimm A Studio•p8tra Production

Part of what makes Minneapolis beautiful is the tapestry of diversity--altogether beautiful.

HEY-OH, WE WON’T BE SILENT is a protest song about standing together, raising our voices, and refusing to look away while injustice continues. This song is meant to be sung in the streets, at rallies, and wherever people gather to demand change. It’s simple. It’s direct. It’s for the people. If you’ve ever felt unheard, this song is for you. If you’ve ever marched, chanted, or stood in silence — this song breaks that silence. Sing it. Share it. Stand together.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” — Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. People standing up in Minnesota are standing up for all of us. Thank you, Twin Cities. Your resistance is our revival.

"He said they were monsters, but all I see is fear on the throne."

She was a disruptive force of nature, boldly performing random acts of altruism, smiling at strangers, releasing firelight, and showing empathy to everyone she met. SHE WAS A REBEL

Bodies on frozen lakes calling for help.

I’ve been a professional artist for more than half a century. When I was twenty-five, I imagined that after I’d been painting for fifty years, I’d have a sense of mastery that would yield critical approval and financial reward. I’ve had both these things and, in fact, been fairly successful–but the name and fame game has always left me cold. It’s shallow and fickle and brings little real satisfaction. I’m motivated to uncover things in the act of painting. Invisible realities—a kind of inner landscape. I believe that behind what’s happening in our country right now is something very ancient and deeply malevolent–but I don’t think it is human in origin. I’m not discounting the very real evil afoot on a human level. But my new paintings are a kind of behind-the-veil danse macabre. A memento mori–meditation on good and evil…a kind of Bertold Brechtian theater of the absurd. I hope the work connects with people who are hurting right now, as well as those who want to think about what’s really happening around and inside us. The paintings came from somewhere deep inside of me and were a surprise to me–a break from what I’ve been doing for years. They’re a kind of return to where I started in the 1970s. A familiar place that has become unfamiliar. Just like America.

When my boys grow up and go into the world, they’ll discover how flowers smell different to them than they do to the world. they’ll meet people who will breathe them in and be immediately pulled back into kitchens where grandmothers lift lilacs like blessings, and prom dates, and mothers days, and rooms where the worst hasn’t happened yet. my boys won’t follow them though. When my boys are asked where the rose carries them, they’ll feel the weight of winter in their toes, remember how incense sticks to their clothes, and how petals on pavement are a geography of grief. and then they’ll say the names of neighbors that the rest of the world only knew through a screen: Alex Pretti. Renee Good. Fletcher Merkel and Harper Moyski, from their school Annunciation. George Floyd. Amir Locke. Philando Castile. Jamar Clark. I didn’t go to my first vigil and lay flowers down until I was an adult. my boys haven’t known a boyhood without them. sometimes I still don’t know how to hold that, but they do. they have learned from our city that flowers are how we fight back against death, how we chase away the stench of awful, stake our claim on the air, and find each other again.

I started this painting over lunch today, when I could feel my inner addict trolls start breaking too many dishes in the kitchen. The canvas is where I go to see if I’m still standing on anything solid or just throwing fists in mid-air.