By Cherimie Crane Weatherford
My article often stumbles and staggers out of my brain onto my keyboard with the hesitancy of fear mangled by judgment, misinterpretation, and the ripples it may cause toward those I love – but not this time. My fingers can barely contain the energy from this weekend’s experience, and my words flow more freely than any other recent memory.
Almost a year ago, I accepted a position so out of my comfort zone that I even thought I had lost my mind. I ran full speed into the world of nonprofits, community activism, and the power of art. For the first time in more than 20 years, I was a beginner.
A gentleman whom I deeply respect — a visionary whose fearless dedication to the arts leaves me in perpetual awe — shoved me as gently as a steamroller toward expanding my expectations, both of others and of myself. My self-doubt ricocheted off him, falling on deaf ears, met with his unwavering, unamused gaze. I kept retreating to the familiar excuse of “I am not an artist,” but he remained unbothered, his irritation clear at my reluctance to embrace the unfamiliar.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and I found myself in the final hours of a weekend-long event that changed my life. Chalk it Up Beaufort 2025 moved at the speed of light from our first meeting to the last table folded and returned. Our opening ceremony exceeded our expectations as Tabby Place came to life with artists, sponsors, community leaders, and residents wanting to know more. During Aunt Pearlie Sue and The Gullah Kinfolks’ performance, I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt their song’s electricity as feet tapped, shoulders swayed, and hands clapped. Little did I know, this was just the beginning.
Day 2 came bright and early, and impassioned artists from near and far wasted no time turning mundane pavement into pure masterpieces as visitors watched with wonder. As the day went on, joy multiplied with the colors of the chalk. Residents, tourists, community leaders, artists, and art lovers poured through the gates to experience the power of art, not knowing they were as much a part of the completed work as the strokes from the artists.
Even the enthusiastic sand gnats could not dampen the pure sunshine flowing through the festival. Donning mosquito nets, artists gleefully shared their creative process with passersby. With childlike wonder, people of all ages stood in complete awe as the artists transformed asphalt into live-size art, listening intently as the creators shared their stories.
Saturday night came without warning, and I found myself rushing from the festival to USCB for “Off the Wall Onto the Stage: Dancing the Art of Jonathan Green,” by the South Carolina Ballet Company, our featured event of the weekend. Knowing I had to speak to an excited audience, the butterflies moved in as they often do during times of intimidation. Once again, my expectations of the night proved far below reality. It was as if time stood still as I sat shoulder to shoulder with an audience so entranced by the performance that I wondered if others had to remember to breathe, too.
In times of change, I miss my childhood home of Mississippi the most. I felt home in a different zip code on Saturday night. From one act to the next, I was in church, a blues hall, and back to church again. I felt the songs of my youth, the words of my grandmother, and the soul that only impassioned hymns can touch.
History tapped me on my shoulder and made me take notes as art and dance transcended boundaries and biases and ignited the spirit of every single attendee. With each graceful pose, the dancers summoned tears, inspiration, and a shared humanity. The music took me back to old wooden pews, folded sermon fans, and the lightness of heart that comes from a well-told message.
For a moment, I realized my fortune of growing up as a frequent visitor of a Black church. I watched as those around me did their best to contain their bodies’ movement and the joy in their hearts. We all failed. Singing, dancing, and standing ovations were the chosen dialect of the evening.
Jonathan Green is one of us; his feet feel the pricks of oysters, his eyes see the tides change, and he knows the scent of pluff mud and the force of the ocean. His art moved the audience in ways I have never seen before, and I doubt I will again. We all felt at home in Beaufort and with each other.
Day 3 brought the event to a close with even more mesmerizing art, local students showcasing their talents and volunteers continuing their work of heart. Friendships started and strengthened, and for a few hours, the world saw color in the most productive way humans can: as a tool of healing and connection.
My determination to grow the Freedman Arts District has superseded my fear of the unknown. As the storm rolled in, threatening to wash away the event’s touchable effects, it was the unreachable, unbreakable effects that remained.
Yes, I am in a brand new world professionally but a familiar world personally. Please become involved with the Freedman Arts District, donate, volunteer, sponsor, and/or attend community events. If you, too, are tired of the ties that break, we work in the world of the ties that bind.
The Freedman Arts District is here to stay, to impact positive change and to remind us all that through art and creativity, we can celebrate a shared humanity. A note of immense gratitude to donors, sponsors, volunteers and dedicated board members that selflessly poured time, energy and funds to make this festival a reality.
Cherimie Weatherford is a long-time real estate broker, small business owner, wife and mom in beautiful Beaufort, as well as a S.C. Press Association-award-winning columnist for The Island News. She is the Director of Operations and Programs for the Freedman Arts District.
