Visualizing a “god of queer liberation:” An interview with queer artist Daniel de Jesús about their new Philadelphia exhibition

Daniel de Jesús, Salvator Mundi, 2018, Acrylic on canvas, 24x30". Permission from the artist. 

BY EMMA CIESLIK August 6, 2025

On July 10th, the annual group art exhibition hosted by the William Way LGBT Community Center opened in Philadelphia. Featured alongside Kenzi Crash and James Rose, Daniel de Jesús is a Philadelphia-based artist, composer, and cellist whose works have been displayed throughout the city of Brotherly Love, including at the Galería es Arte in Old City and in community-based exhibitions with La Colectiva. de Jesús blends Catholic iconography, mysticism and queer identity through symbolic, often ornate Baroque-style figures with roots in queer Catholic art histories including unicorns and Saint Sebastian. 

de Jesús is also a renowned cellist and vocalist, leading the art-rock project TivaTiva and a member of the cello rock ensemble Rasputina. This latter group is well known for its Gothic instrumentals. de Jesús incorporates these Catholic aesthetics into his paintings which in this exhibition explore queer bodies and sexualities as conduits to sacredness. After the exhibition opened, I sat down with de Jesús to learn more about his exploration of saints and symbols like Sebastian and the unicorn, and the importance of queer and trans people reclaiming Catholic iconography on their own terms. 

This interview has been edited for length and clarity. 

Cieslik: Would you mind introducing yourself, however you feel comfortable?

de Jesús: My name is Daniel de Jesús. I am an artist based in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. My pronouns are they/them, and sometimes he/him. I am also a multifaceted artist. As a singing cellist, I have been writing my own music since 2006. Often, the themes I explore in my music are the same themes I explore in my visual work. I’m extremely inspired by the lens of mysticism and Catholic iconography. 

Cieslik: Before we get started, would you mind sharing more about your upbringing? Were you raised Catholic?

de Jesús: Yes, that's a very interesting story. I was not raised Catholic. I was raised as an evangelical here in Philadelphia, in a predominantly Puerto Rican community. I was raised in a Spanish-speaking evangelical church, but even then, I remember this beautiful Solomon Warner illustration of Christ and stained glass windows--a lot of the art was directly lifted from Catholicism. I think I looked at Catholic iconography as an observer from a distance. It was not something that was part of my upbringing per se in a religious or spiritual sense but rather much more in an educational sense. 

Daniel de Jesús, The Smallest Miracles I - Self Portrait, 2015, Acrylic on canvas, 16x20". Permission from the artist. 

Cieslik: Your art in many ways explores religious syncretism, specifically how Catholicism has absorbed local folk traditions as part of its colonial project and how local communities covertly incorporated folk traditions to maintain their heritage in the face of colonial violence. Where did this interest in syncretism come from?

de Jesús: Right, I am a big art history nerd, and I went to art school. While I learned so much about American art and Renaissance art, they didn't teach me anything about art that reflects my background or the people that I know, namely Latin American art. I didn’t learn it in school, so for me, the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s show Tesoros exploring art during the colonial era of Latin America from the 1400s to the early 1700s opened my world. The museum looked at this art not as sub-European but as a category on its own terms and reflective of the people who created it. That show changed my life, just seeing how these pillars that were one part of the Church revealed a carving of an Aztec god when turned upside down. 

As I grew up in the Puerto Rican community, I was surrounded by Botanicas. Even though I was evangelical, those Botanicas had a lot of these sculptures and images of the Virgin Mary, and saints related to Santeria. When I grew up, I was told, “oh, no Santeria is witchcraft,” and I’m like, “yeah, but why is the baby Jesus there?” 

Nobody really explained to me this incredible story of the syncretism of all these different groups of people and their religious beliefs, but yes the oppression and colonialism of Catholicism but also the creativity and inventiveness of these art forms as a new sense of identity and iconography was born. It was through this kind of visual anthropology that I began investigating for myself: who am I? Where do I come from? Why am I here? I started using these images based in colonial Latin American art as a way to talk about what it means to be Puerto Rican. 

Cieslik: In this exhibition, you reclaim the Medieval symbol of the unicorn as inherently queer. As you write in your artist statement, “once a symbol of masculinity and immortality in medieval culture, now reclaimed in queer narratives as an emblem of beauty, resistance, and transcendent authenticity.” How did you begin The Kiss of the Unicorn series? 

de Jesús: In terms of the unicorn, I grew up obsessed with the film called The Last Unicorn, and I bought the book by Peter S. Beagle. I just loved that story, and as I became an adult, I felt like that story is an allegory for many things. It could be an allegory for the gay experience, in terms of what happens to the unicorn when she changes into a human being and the feeling of her body. I thought it could even go further as an allegory for the trans experience, so as I was reading the story again as an adult, I started investigating more about the unicorn and took a trip to the Met Cloisters in New York to see the tapestries about the hunt of a unicorn. 

In the panel depicting the hunt of the unicorn, the unicorn is lured by the virgin maiden. His [the unicorn’s] horn is a phallus, a symbol of immortality, that if you have this strong libido, your legacy lives on, and of course, the king gets to drink the blood [of the unicorn] at the end of the story. But before this, they have this beautiful image of a unicorn in some kind of gate. These images started to trigger a lot of things for me because when you grow up in a religious household that condemns homosexuality, you begin to develop repressive behavior, and there was something about that unicorn in that cage that made me think of my own experience. 

Daniel de Jesús, Hunt of the Unicorn, 2025, Acrylic and pastel on panel, 24x36". Permission from the artist. 

And then the hunt also felt like what happens when they destroy that part of you through religious dogma, through fear. And as a contemporary viewer, the unicorn is not just relegated to Medieval imagery, it lives on through children’s birthday parties and pop culture. I saw the story of the unicorn as an analysis of breaking out of repressive behavior because the unicorn is magical, living as its authentic self. In my own painting depicting the hunt of a unicorn, a man turning into a unicorn has been wounded. This is what happens when we try to suppress our true self in making up rules or lies about this part of ourselves. There is another person trying to protect another unicorn, to mask it, to hide it, such as when people repress who they are. 

Daniel de Jesús, You're Dangerous Upon The Lips My Unicorn, 2018, Acrylic on linen canvas, 32x40". Permission from the artist. 

In another painting [You’re Dangerous Upon the Lips My Unicorn (2018)], it’s quite the opposite. There’s an image of a bride running away with the unicorn, and I am the bride. I’m no longer trying to kill or hunt my authentic self. I am no longer attacking myself. I am uniting myself and running away in the middle of the night. What I am trying to say is to be authentic through the beauty of this magical creature, asking viewers: did you ever try to repress that magic [inside yourself]? What made you repress that magic? What are you hiding that power? When you release it, you’re free, and you can learn to love yourself. 

Cieslik: What did it mean to you to reclaim religious imagery as a queer and trans person? There is a rich tradition of queer Catholic art, and art created by queer Catholics. How has this history, especially surrounding figures like St. Sebastian that are today interpreted as beacons of homoerotic desire and spiritual sensuality critical in your work?

de Jesús: It opened the door for me. With the imagery of St. Sebastian, I see the beauty of his body, pain as pleasure. I mean, when many Renaissance portraits of a homoerotic St. Sebastian was created, people could go to jail for being gay in Italy, so images of St. Sebastian are to me a representation of the suffering of people who face repression [and queerphobic violence]. I did read an article about how St. Sebastian also appears in the lives of everyday queer people, especially queer people who are Catholic. St. Sebastian sometimes appears on retablos or ex-votos, small images created in Mexico. One depicts a gay couple thanking St. Sebastian for them finding one another. There’s another image of a man sitting on a bed alongside a woman standing. This is the story of a trans woman, her life before and her life now, and she faces and thanks St. Sebastian for the strength and endurance to see her transition through. 

I feel like because gay artists have adopted the figure and the symbolism of St. Sebastian, that just gave me license to play with it as an analysis of my repression. Some paintings in this show, specifically a trio, depict different moments I lived through visualized through the body of St. Sebastian. One first captures the feeling of being gagged with the ropes around the neck, hands collapsed almost in prayer, but their mouth is slightly open as if about to respond to those awkward questions: do you have a girlfriend? Are you married? You created these scripts because you can’t breathe when you have to code switch. 

The second figure is a little bit more sassy, staring at the viewer, almost like a saintly iconographic image. In this image, the rope has been cut, no longer tying the person. It’s an ode to bondage but also freedom because since it’s broken, the person is released.

And finally, this other figure has tears streaming down their face and one arrow piercing their heart. That one definitely represents the moment when I started to really question the existence of love and whether love was real when living deep in repression. When you’re living in repression, you start to see the world in a very different way. You start to go through this phase of feeling unworthy, and so that image reflects this. The St. Sebastian series uses that image of the suffering body as a way to see and understand the stages of repressive behavior, and as mentioned in the titles, a passageway to queer liberation. 

Daniel de Jesús, Saint Sebastian Contemplates his Beauty, 2025, Gel transfer and acrylic on panel, 11x14". Permission from the artist. 

Daniel de Jesús, Saint Sebastian is awakened by queer consciousness, 2025, Gel transfer and acrylic on panel, 11x14.” Permission from the artist. 

Daniel de Jesús, Silenced Virtue; an exercise in repression, 2025, Gel transfer and acrylic on panel, 11x14.” Permission from the artist. 

Cieslik: What is the impact of incorporating symbols of contemporary queer identity, including the pink triangle, into dialogue with the halos of Christ and saints? How is visualizing queerness within Catholicism a pathway towards queer liberation, and reclaiming inherently queer spirituality?

de Jesús: Well, when I learned about the pink triangle, I was shocked to see it as a marker of death from the Nazi regime to them becoming an icon, an image or symbol for rising queer rights, and I just thought, let’s raise the status of the pink triangle even higher. Rather than a halo to symbolize some kind of god, this is the god of queer liberation, this god represents our community. I created this image with a figure holding the world in their hand, how they were a savior of queer liberation. We deserve an icon, and rather than a halo, I used a pink triangle. 

Cieslik: In your Saint Sebastian series, you explore the pierced saint whose erotic suffering is a pathway to sainthood. How is your art an exploration of queer Catholic eroticism historical to the Church and explored presently within communities reclaiming Catholic imagery as inherently queer?

de Jesús: There is a theme in Latin American iconography, in Catholic iconography, called Cristo el Novio. It looks very much like a very lounging Christ, very sensual. I think of Thomas Eakins. I think the sensualness surrounding Christ has always been there. I’m just tapping into a tradition that I’ve observed, and to just be a little more direct with it. I’m putting it into my own experience. I guess thinking about the way in which you come out to yourself, how you overcome repressive behavior. 

And then, in terms of what it says to other people of faith, specifically who are Catholics and for whom this imagery is part of their faith practice, I think it’s kind of a new framing or point of view that will help them think about the ways that queer people have been a part of this Church for a really long time and have contributed incredibly things to the very walls of the Church. I’m not trying to be sacrilegious. It’s never been my intention, but more than anything, I feel like I’m a student and bouncing off these previous images. I learn from these images, I digest, and make something new. 

Catholicism has had a massive influence on the western world for good, for bad, but I definitely celebrate seeing this syncretism, where people took Catholicism and created a new expression, new language, tying in and seeing themselves represented. I don’t think it’s any different with the queer experience. I think people are doing that too and seeing their function and role within it. The very practice of using Catholic iconography to tell a story, to engage in a direct narrative, has really changed my life, and I see value in that. 

Cieslik: Why is it important for the queer and trans community to see themselves represented in divine imagery, to see themselves represented as Saint Sebastian, as the Bride of the unicorn in these spaces? What did it mean to you, and what do you think it means to the wider LGBTQ+ community?

de Jesús: I think one of the things that really helps anyone who has ever experienced repression is seeing yourself in a positive light, or in a divine light, as you said. To be divine, to be worthy, I think that’s what that does. What a lot of those artists try to do, especially with, like, polychrome sculpture, they try to create something that looks real right in front of your face, so that you can feel their pain, like the painting of Christ or La Magdalena, you could see heaven opening up in front of you. 

If you don’t see your own representation, or if you don’t see yourself as part of that story, it might make you feel like you’re not supposed to be there. Even though I’m a person that does not have a faith practice, I feel like a lot of LGBTQ+ people do have a faith practice. They want to be part of it. They should have every bit of access, and to see themselves in it. I think everyone should feel empowered to use Christian, Catholic imagery as a tool, as a language. 

Cieslik: How do you see your art as part of a wider movement within the queer community to kind of reimagine, but reclaim religion as queer?

de Jesús: Yes, I think of another artist who posts Catholic and Medieval content--the Greedy Peasant [the online account of Tyler Gunther who runs the Pride Eve celebration at St. John the Divine]. They are using a lot of humor, but sharing accurate history and context. They are turning the needle on the conversation and really thinking about the Catholic Church as a space that is not just about the divine but also about Catholic culture as humanist and queer. 

I think what we’re doing is reframing so that people can look and realize that excluding queer people from this space is wrong. I think people just forget about these queer histories and many are lost. I think Gunther and I are seeing something that’s beautiful and we’re understanding how this touches the divine, how the divine is within all of us and how we are all worthy. 

Cieslik: As you write your artist statement, “the process of self-liberation, of choosing love, embodiment, and truth, mirrors the spiritual journey of saints and sages. My art becomes a visual liturgy, where the sacred and the sensual converge.” What do you hope people walk away with from seeing your paintings? What message do you hope they take with them?

de Jesús: I hope that they take away that yes, there's pain, but that they walk that journey with me of discovering things that are sensual and beautiful and sometimes erotic. That plays off this kind of iconography, like I set up the paintings in the exhibition along one wall to feel like an altarpiece, so I hope they also come away understanding the intention and with a sense of hope that they can discover beauty in anything, that even in repression, a lens through which I created these paintings, there is mysticism and there is resolution and hope for acceptance. 

I also wanted to share that I wrote an album called Kyrie. Because I had played quite a few Masses, including Bach’s Requiem as a cellist and stringer player, I wanted to create an album that imitated a death Mass, recognizing the death of the part of myself that was repressed, that part of myself that I worked really hard to say goodbye to so that the new self could come through. This album lent itself to some of the artwork that you saw in the exhibition, including the painting called The Wake. It connects to my album, I have a song with the same name, and it also centers on putting that part of myself to rest. 

Daniel de Jesús, The Wake, 2025, Acrylic on panel, 18x24". Permission from the artist. 

This three-artist exhibition was curated by Jake Foster, Art Exhibitions Manager at the William Way LGBT Community Center. de Jesús’s paintings will be on view until August 28, 2025.