Featured Works

“Sebastian: See Me, Free Me” by Geoff Staub is a politically charged, deeply personal painting that uses the figure of St. Sebastian to condemn modern-day fascism, religious hypocrisy, and systemic violence against LGBTQIA+ people and other marginalized communities in the United States.

At the center is Sebastian, explicitly tied to the Christian martyr St. Sebastian—a Roman soldier who secretly practiced his faith, was shot with arrows, survived, and was later killed. Staub invokes Sebastian as a symbol of the “closeted” self, of resilience under persecution, and as a protector against plague, echoing how parts of the LGBTQ+ community embraced him during the AIDS crisis. Here, Sebastian becomes a stand‑in for queer people and others who are oppressed by those who claim the name “Christian” while acting in ways that betray the teachings of Jesus.

Layered text and imagery frame this central figure within a larger historical and political warning. The date “1933” points to Hitler’s rise to power and the opening of Dachau, signaling that the mechanisms of fascism—concentration camps, racist violence, state terror, and impunity—are not distant history but a mirror of current U.S. policies: immigration detention, cover‑ups, racism, and unaccountable brutality.

“1998” invokes the murder of Matthew Shepard, underscoring the ongoing reality of lethal anti‑LGBTQIA+ hatred. Phrases in German and French—“Nie Wieder” and “Plus Jamais” (“Never Again”)—taken from Holocaust memorials, confront the viewer with the failure to uphold that promise as new forms of dehumanization and mass persecution reappear.

The visual vocabulary reinforces this message: Pride colors appear not as a celebration, but as prison bars, suggesting that queer identity itself is being confined and criminalized. Barbed wire evokes concentration camps and the broader machinery of oppression and suppression.

Staub incorporates and adapts lyrics from Green Day and U2 to sharpen his critique. References to “Sieg Heil,” rewritten to target a current “fascist” leader, and phrases like “Kill All The Fags That Don’t Agree,” “I’m the Faggot America, Not Part of a Redneck Agenda,” and “Or Hypo‑Christian Bigot Agenda” call out a culture and regime that center straight, white, self‑identified Christian men while silencing, erasing, or inciting violence against others. 

“Kill Your Icons” turns biblical injunctions against idolatry back on those who idolize political leaders and nationalist ideology above God, even as they persecute others “in the name of Christianity.” The quotation from U2—“Free at last, they took your life, they could not take your pride”—echoes the spirit of Martin Luther King Jr. and affirms that dignity, identity, and community cannot be annihilated, even by murder.

Finally, the code “194546” appears as a quiet but firm assertion of accountability: a reminder of the years marking the end of World War II and the Holocaust, the liberation of concentration camps, and the trials that held perpetrators and collaborators to account. It stands as a warning and a hope that today’s crimes against humanity, too, will one day be judged.

Altogether, “Sebastian: See Me, Free Me” is both lament and rallying cry: a visual indictment of fascism, homophobia, and “hypo‑Christian” bigotry, and an insistence on the enduring pride, resilience, and equality of all human beings.

“Andy: Can’t Hear, Don’t Care” is Geoff Staub’s second powerful entry in his “queer spiritual resistance series,” first unveiled in October 2025. While its predecessor, “Sebastian,” depicted suffering and martyrdom, “Andy” pivots to a forceful declaration of defiance, dignity, and hard-won joy. The painting centers a deaf, gay man who staunchly rejects both pity and shame, asserting his complete selfhood against the onslaught of religious hypocrisy, ableism, and homophobia.

The title “Can’t Hear, Don’t Care” claims deafness as identity and strength rather than defect. Staub draws a deliberate parallel with queer pride: just as queerness is reclaimed from pathology as life‑giving and sacred, deafness is reclaimed from tragedy as difference, culture, and power. Andy “hears with his eyes and listens with his heart,” reading the world through visual nuance and inner discernment. His body, especially his hands and arms, becomes the site of meaning, communication, and resistance.

Text within the work—“Deaf & Gay! But I’m Not The One Who’s Disabled”—reverses the usual logic of disability and sin. The painting insists that the true “disability” is found in prejudice, hatred, exclusion, and “hypo‑Christian” beliefs: a hypocritical, spiritually anemic Christianity that betrays Christ’s command to love. Andy’s posture and gaze refuse pity, shame, or apology. He stands as morally clear and spiritually sound, indicting those who cloak bigotry in religious language.

The pride rainbow is reimagined as vertical prison bars, transforming a symbol of celebration into one of surveillance and criminalization. Queer existence appears policed, confined, and judged as a “crime.” Barbed wire wraps these bars, evoking war, concentration camps, and systemic persecution. Some segments of wire appear bent or broken, hinting at partial liberation—a reminder that progress for doubly targeted people, such as those who are both deaf and queer, remains incomplete and contested.

Staub emphasizes resistance and agency throughout. Phrases like “Resist the Persecution” and “Take Up Arms Against Your Oppressors” poetically reinterpret Andy’s signing arms as “arms” of struggle, solidarity, pride, and love. His body becomes an arsenal of language, perception, and compassion rather than violence. The phrase “Save Your Icons” inverts the earlier series’ directive “Kill Your Icons,” challenging viewers to stop venerating authoritarian power and instead protect living “icons”: marginalized artists, thinkers, queer and disabled visionaries who embody justice and compassion.

A theological strand runs through the work, crystallized in the integrated U2 lyric: “I believe in the Kingdom come, then all the colors will bleed into one.” Staub reads this not as a call to erasure but as a vision of radical equality and belovedness where diverse identities remain visible yet fully embraced in God’s love. The hidden numeric code “194546” subtly ties contemporary oppression to the end of World War II, the Holocaust, and postwar trials, insisting on historical memory and accountability.

Ultimately, the painting critiques weaponized Christianity that justifies bigotry and offers Andy himself as a “living theology” of justice, inclusion, and radical neighbor love. Deaf culture and queer resilience are affirmed as sources of insight and strength. The work calls for a double act of seeing: to see Andy as equal—neither pitiable nor sinful—and to see one’s own impairments of hatred, fear, and hypocrisy. In this layered meditation on identity, faith, and justice, difference becomes revelation, and love the nonnegotiable demand.

Just Love: Transgender

24" x 24" – Acrylic on Canvas

In “Just Love: Transgender,” Geoff Staub weaves together Deaf culture, transgender pride, and a quiet but firm demand for justice into a single, bold icon of compassion.

At the center of the canvas is the American Sign Language gesture for “I Love You” — the most important and universal sign within ASL. In Deaf culture, this handshape carries layered meaning: it can be tender, playful, reverent, or exuberant, depending on the signer’s expression. Staub elevates it here as a bridge of understanding, a way of saying that love transcends sound, language, and identity. It becomes a blessing extended outward to anyone who sees the work: Deaf, hearing, cisgender, transgender, and everyone beyond or between.

Behind and around this hand, the colors of the transgender pride flag create the visual and emotional atmosphere of the painting. Light blue calls to traditional associations with boys and masculine identities; pink, with girls and feminine identities. Between them, the white stripe stands for those who are transitioning, non-binary, gender nonconforming, intersex, agender, or otherwise outside the man/woman binary. By placing the ASL “I Love You” in front of these stripes, Staub suggests that love is both the ground and the goal of gender authenticity: whoever you are, however you identify, you are worthy of simple, unqualified love.

The title “Just Love” becomes a wordplay and manifesto. “Just” means morally right, proper, and deserved; it also means lawful, justified, and exact; and in everyday speech it can mean “only” or “simply.” Staub layers all these meanings into the phrase: transgender love is morally right, fully merited, and should be legally protected. At the same time, the painting insists that love needs no elaborate defense—it is “just” love: simple, pure, and very real.

On the bottom, the sequence “194546” appears as a quiet but weighty code. For Staub, these numbers point to 1945–46: the end of the Holocaust, the liberation of persecuted people, and the Nuremberg trials where an international community held crimes against humanity to account. By embedding “194546” into a work about transgender love, Staub draws a line from historical atrocities to contemporary persecution of marginalized groups, including trans people. It is a reminder and a warning: hatred has a history, and so does accountability. One day, those who commit violence and discrimination against vulnerable communities will be answerable as well.

“Just Love: Transgender” ultimately functions as a visual benediction and a moral stance. It celebrates transgender lives and loves as rightful, beautiful, and inherently dignified; honors Deaf culture and language as carriers of deep human connection; and quietly affirms that love and justice belong together.

Saved From Addiction II, Featuring Banksy’s “Fallen Angel, 2004” (reappropriated reproduction)

24" x 24" – Acrylic on Canvas

Geoff Staub reimagines Banksy’s iconic “Fallen Angel” as the central figure in a deeply spiritual narrative about addiction, surrender, and redemption. The painting presents the addict as an angel in crisis—someone inherently good and full of potential, yet trapped in a relentless cycle of using more and more to escape pain, fear, and shame. The bottle marked as poison, the cigarette, and the weary posture evoke a life on the brink, while the Gucci trainers quietly insist that addiction reaches across class and status; no ne is immune.

Banksy’s fallen angel becomes the Addict: once radiant, now worn and homeless-like, halo askew and wings dulled. The traditional symbols of purity—halo and wings—are subverted into emblems of despair and societal neglect, underscoring the message that “even angels bleed.” Addiction is shown not as a moral failure, but as a tragedy that befalls some of the most loving, gifted, and sensitive people.

Throughout the composition, phrases such as “A Little Won’t Do It” and “More Is Not Enough” trace the escalating desperation of active addiction. “Needle Chill,” echoing U2’s “Running to Stand Still,” suggests the frantic lying, scheming, denial, and self-betrayal required to reach that first hit—the exhausting chase for a momentary sense of calm and “normal.”

Counterposed against this spiral are spiritual declarations that mark the turning point: “Save Me!,” “My Will,” and “Your Will, Not Mine.” Here, Staub explores the inner battle between self-will—driven by fear, pride, and the illusion of control—and a radical surrender to a Higher Power. “Bondage of Self” names the ego-driven prison that keeps the addict stuck; “Surrender” becomes the paradoxical gateway to freedom: the idea that one must “surrender to win.”

A cross anchors the painting in Christian symbolism, yet it is explicitly inclusive—a sign of a Higher Power that watches over all of God’s children, regardless of race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, class, or belief. From this spiritual source emerges “My Savior”: not only a divine presence, but also a specific, human “angel” who steps in on God’s behalf. This Savior is the person who intervenes, loves fiercely, and takes concrete action to pull the willing addict back from misery, destruction, and death.

Around the central figure, “Pride Splatter” erupts across the surface in energetic bursts of color. The splatter suggests both chaos and plurality: the disorder consuming the addict’s life, and the many different people, identities, and communities touched by addiction’s reach. Interwoven with this chaos are angel wings and ASL “I love you” hand signs, quietly filling the background. They stand for the unseen network of care—the family, friends, and fellow travelers in recovery—who love the addict, pray for them, and refuse to give up.

A “Dancing Angel” descends into this turmoil, a visual embodiment of grace in motion. This figure both rescues and rejoices—symbolizing the joy of recovery, the celebration that erupts in heaven and on earth when an addict chooses life. The moment of surrender is not painted as defeat, but as a victorious turning point: the decision to let go of self-will, to trust in something greater, and to accept help.

“Saved From Addiction II” is ultimately a testimony on canvas: a story of being lost and then found, of a fall from grace and an even more powerful return to it. Staub’s reappropriation of Banksy’s “Fallen Angel” transforms a symbol of urban despair into a profoundly hopeful image—one that insists there is always a path back, and that no matter how far they have fallen, angels can still be saved.

“Hear the People Sing”

24" x 24" Acrylic on Canvas,

“Hear the People Sing” is a contemporary political painting that connects the spirit of Les Misérables and the French Revolution to today’s struggles against fascism and oppression in the United States. 

Centered on a faded, steel-toned American flag—once strong and beautiful, now marked by tyranny—it is set against a background of red, white, and blue that evokes both the French and American flags, underscoring shared histories of revolution and resistance.

The partially obscured phrase “Hear The People Sing” suggests the silencing of protest and the whitewashing of state violence, especially against minorities and LGBTQIA+ communities.

Lyrics from “Do You Hear the People Sing” encircle the flag as a rallying cry for Americans demanding to be heard and to reclaim their inalienable rights to “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness”. 

The lyrics act as a rallying cry, urging viewers to fight for freedom and resist tyrannical regimes. Taken together, these lyrics are an anthem of resistance. They describe a people who have moved from silent suffering to collective anger, from anger to solidarity, and from solidarity to active struggle for a more just and free society.

Each of these lines from “Do You Hear the People Sing?” expresses a different part of a political and emotional awakening, moving from anger to action to hope for a new world.

By weaving together U.S. founding ideals, the legacy of the French struggle for freedom, and the defiant voices of Les Misérables, the painting insists that humanity will not be victims of fascism or silence. It calls viewers to stand up, join the fight, and defend The Right To Be Free.