Truth, Not Approval: AIYANA-LEE Takes it All Back

Photographer SEQUOIA EMMANUELLE @sequoiaemmanuelle
Stylist CARA GORDON @cara_gordon
Hair PAVY OLIVAREZ @pavyartist
Makeup GILBERT SOLIZ @gilbert_soliz
Production Coordinator CASSIDY COCKE @cassidy.ac
Photography Assistant SARAH SEKULA @photosfordayz
Interns AMEEN KHER, CAROLINA ESPINOZA, ANGELA OSORIO @caerolinea @ang51a
Producer ANNA VOLKOVA @volkacreativespace
Location VOLKA CREATIVE SPACE @volkacreativespace

Words by Kimberly Haddad

The first thing you notice is the voice. It doesn’t float into the room—it detonates. Raspy, electric, trembling with a kind of fury and ache that makes you sit up straighter, like you’ve just been told a secret you’re not supposed to repeat. When Aiyana-Lee sings, it’s less performance than confession, like every note is pulled up raw from the wound.

There’s a line Lee returns to often: no one is going to save you. It’s not a cliché for her—it’s a fact, seared into her life by years of almosts and near-ruins. She learned it when her label deal collapsed overnight, when she and her mother counted borrowed bills just to stay housed, when the industry reduced her to something smaller than she knew herself to be. Comparisons almost pulled her under, but instead she fought to remember her own authenticity. And when there was nothing left to lose, she made the harder choice: to keep going anyway. To start from exactly where she was—even when it meant posting into the void, unsure if anyone would ever hear her.

For a year, it felt like shouting into a canyon. Six TikToks a day, reels on repeat, verses written on a bedroom floor. Most of it sank without a trace. Then came “My Idols Lied to Me,” a track that didn’t sound polished so much as lived-in. That realness—that unfiltered, nothing-to-hide honesty—was exactly what made it impossible to ignore. It’s the kind of song that finds its way to Spike Lee.
  

Now, she’s walking the Cannes red carpet, holding her own in a scene opposite of Denzel Washington that critics called one of the strongest in film. She’s opened for Lil Wayne, performed at BET’s 45th anniversary dinner, and drawn praise from icons like Elton John. But none of that shine distracts from the center she’s fought to hold. Her art whether sung or acted—comes from the same place: a refusal to sell out for someone else’s approval.

After years of industry gatekeeping, you decided to write, produce, and release independently. What was the moment you realized you couldn’t wait for permission anymore?
I think everyone has a moment where you realize in life that no one is going to save you. I had a lot of moments like that, especially after one of the last labels I was signed with. It was sold off, and I was left in a position where I was completely broke, almost homeless, and there was no choice but to move. Sometimes life forces you into situations you need in order to grow as a human. For me, there was no choice but to make something happen. I posted online for probably a year straight, every single day. I had four or five TikTok accounts. I was posting reels daily. I didn’t see results until a year in, but I didn’t want to wait anymore. You just need to start—wherever you’re at.

Many artists talk about “finding” their voice. In your case, it feels like you always had it but had to fight to keep it. How do you protect it now?
It’s tough because this industry really tests and challenges you. What has helped is seeing the impact and the reaction of people to what I have to say. It’s about the way people relate to it and the support from the community I built online. For example, connecting with Spike Lee has been a really beautiful thing. It has helped me find the confidence to be a thousand percent authentic, because it doesn’t work any other way. It has only ever worked when I’ve been one hundred percent myself. We’re in a time where we have to be authentic as artists, and when you stop playing the comparison game, that’s when you really win.

You’ve spoken about transforming grief and abuse into art with- out letting those experiences define you. How do you walk that fine line between drawing from the wound and not living in it?
Putting it into art is what heals me and helps me move on from those situations. It also helps me understand them. Art is both an expression and a therapeutic tool for me. It allows me to move past those experiences and, hopefully, make others feel seen by sharing the things I’ve been through.

This wasn’t one of my original questions, but I wanted to ask because it’s something I’ve been moving through myself. I’m in the process of writing a book, and part of that means revisiting some painful memories and trauma from my past. I’ve noticed that while writing, I can feel my energy drain, and sometimes for days afterward I’ll feel agitated or unsettled—it’s like being retriggered. I’m curious, does that ever happen to you in your creative process?
Oh, wow. I will say, there have been times where I cried it out, and I have definitely broke down in my bed. I feel like “My Idols Lied to Me” was one of those songs. I was just questioning how it even happened. It’s a bit surreal when you’ve been fighting your whole life—at least it feels like it—to be heard. And I still go through that now. I can see how it can be really tough to relive those things, especially if you’re still going through some of them.

Would you say the catharsis comes more in the writing, the performing, or the sharing?
I think all of them in different ways. It’s really like writing a diary, but then you get to perform it out loud—and having a community built from it is where you kind of find that safe space.

Spike Lee once told you to treat music videos like short films. How has that shaped the way you conceptualize your visual world?
It completely rewires your brain chemistry. I have always kind of felt like music videos were supposed to be cinematic, like short films. For him to say that, and then go further in depth about what he meant, really did something for me. He showed me Michael Jackson’s videos and how he was able to combine music and film. It was all so inspiring and definitely affected my thought process in terms of how I want to create my next batch of work.

Your work feels deeply layered—emotionally and visually. What’s one small, cinematic detail in one of your videos that you’re most proud of, but that most people might miss?
Oh damn, girl, that’s a real one! Shoot, this girl is really testing me right now! [laughs]

Not even a little bit sorry.
No, no, I love it. I am here for it. Damn, a detail. There’s a lot, because I do all my own treatments, so I have been able to—or at least tried to— create my own world. A detail—damn. I’m really trying to think through all of my videos right now. I’m having flashes.

I get that. As artists—whether writers, musicians, or creators—we pour so much of ourselves into the work. We tend to hyper-focus on these tiny elements, the little details we get so excited about. But so often, those are the things that end up slipping past others unnoticed.

Yes, that is so true, so true! I mean, there are a lot of Easter eggs in all of my videos. There was a point in time when I did these two videos back to back. There was “Gangster of Love” and “Make You Love Me,” which were both continuations of each other. It was all part of the same story, so I was really proud of that. Then, “Make You Love Me” went into “Table for Three,” and that gave a flashback to all the music videos I had done in the past. So yeah, there are a ton of Easter eggs in all my videos. “My Idols Lied to Me” was like a documentary to me. It was this raw documentary style storytelling. I like to include moments that feel visually shocking, to kind of draw attention to how the story feels to me. Do you know what I mean? Trying to transmute the feeling of what I went through.

Playing Sula in Highest 2 Lowest  felt personal for you. Did that role teach you anything about yourself that music hadn’t yet uncovered?
Oh, so much. Acting in general, and getting to do some- thing like this, was an opportunity of a lifetime. It really taught me to be in the moment—that’s a huge one for me. Denzel [Washington] told me to really just listen, and that’s kind of the gateway to acting: just listen. That really put me in the present moment. The opportunity itself also felt like a moment of confirmation—that the journey I have been through was, and is…I don’t want to say valid—but it did feel validating. And it was a testament to the fact that you can really be at your lowest, and that can get you to your highest. Pun intended! [laughs]

The Hollywood Reporter described one of your scenes as the strongest in the film. How do you prepare emotionally for that level of intensity?
Damn, firstly—I don’t even know what to say about that. That’s wild. I keep hearing it, but I still can’t believe the beautiful response I’ve received. It’s been really surreal. That is the best way to describe it. I don’t think anything can truly prepare you, because once you’re in the room, it’s just you, Denzel, Spike—you know what I mean? Nothing can really prepare you for that. I think the key was just putting myself in the moment, especially because I’ve been through that exact same scenario, where there’s an executive there and I’m doing exactly what Sula is doing. That’s why it felt so deeply personal. The nerves you feel, being in the presence of someone who is that powerful, someone who can change your life. And being on set with someone like Denzel who has such a strong, beautiful, and big energy, is enough to put you in your character. So, my preparation was rooted in knowing what that feeling was like. I’d been there before—getting my karaoke machine, sitting outside record labels, trying to get people to hear me. It felt just like that kind of moment. This time, Denzel was the executive—Mr. King. It was wild. To me, he is one of the greatest alive. He is absolutely magnetic.

Silence can be protective, but it can also be corrosive. In reference to your latest single “City of Lies,” how do you decide when it’s time to speak out—and when to let the work speak for itself ?
I haven’t found that yet. I don’t know if I’ve found that balance, because for me—with who I am and everything that comes with that—it’s a combo of speaking on things myself and letting the music speak for itself. I think both are very important. I never wanted to be an artist who wasn’t touching people in some way. I love putting things into the music, and there is definitely a lot more of the story in the music, but I don’t shy away from saying things myself as well.

You said, “Creating from truth, not chasing approval—waking up knowing I didn’t abandon myself—that’s the real win.” Was there a time you felt you did abandon yourself ?
For sure. There have been a lot of times in my career where it would have been so easy, and I was treading that line really carefully. There was a time when I was put into situations where I was being forced to make music that was really not at all who I was. I was told I was a pretty face and that I could sing, but that was all I was to them. You’re reduced to one thing. You can’t be funny. You can’t be smart. You can’t produce. You can’t write. I feel like that’s a tactic to make you feel powerless. That’s just the truth. It’s really a tactic that people use to be in control of you. I’ve tried to be small to appease people. There have been times I played it small and was demure. We’ve all been there, especially as women. But it gets to a point where you don’t win that way. And if you’re not winning that way, there’s something wrong. Especially now in 2025, you can’t really win playing the corporate game. And we are seeing this happen in real time. There’s a problem in the industry, and something has to change. The way I see, if you’re going to hate me, at least hate me for who I am.

It feels like there’s this huge cultural shift happening right now—people aren’t responding to the polished, packaged stuff that way they used to. People want honesty, vulnerability, something that actually feels relatable and alive.
Absolutely. It’s very one-dimensional right now.

We’ve talked a lot about your art—I’d love to go back to the beginning. Can you share a little about your family life and what growing up was like for you?
I had an amazing childhood because of my mom [Daciana-Nicole Anderson], who is incredible. She is a 17x multi-Platinum songwriter and a boss lady in her own right. She survived going through a revolution, being homeless, and then carved out a path for herself in life. I am so inspired by her. She always had music playing, sessions, and I got to tour a lot with her and see and experience different cultures. It was a beautiful thing. Then, on my uncle’s side, my uncle is David Ruffin from The Temptations. Jimmy Ruffin was my grandfather. I had a very musical, soulful upbringing.

Is there a piece of advice from your mother that you find yourself returning to in moments of doubt?
Oh, it’s getting real vulnerable girl—it’s getting really vulnerable! [laughs] You know, there is something she always said, and this was before I even had any followers. Sometimes you get caught up in this thought that no one really cares about what you’re doing, you know? And that’s just the reality of how you feel a lot of the time, especially with this comparison game in the industry. But my mother always said: they might not care today, but they will care tomorrow. She always told me that I can’t dilute myself or play pretend as someone I’m not. You really just have to be yourself. It was always a conversation about authenticity. She really instilled in me not to sell out on who I am. And that is what I keep going back to because it can be so easy to return to your old ways when you see people win who are not being authentic. You always have to return to being yourself.

You’ve said makeup used to be a shield, but now it’s a tool of self-expression. Can you share more about this and the ways in which you express yourself through fashion?
I used to deal with horrible acne. People used to comment and say that I was pretty, but I had a pizza face. It was completely heartbreaking. That really shaped so much for me because it’s something you can’t control at all. I was going through puberty, and it didn’t really stop until the beginning of my twenties. It was really tough because I felt like I couldn’t leave the house without foundation on. I felt like I was hiding for a long time, and because of that, I always resorted to really heavy makeup looks, which I do love—but it was more about doing it to hide than for the art of it. Within the last year, my relationship with makeup has changed. I feel more comfortable wearing less and also just trying to emphasize what’s already there instead of trying to change the way I look. I realize I have a really unique look, and I’d like to play more into that rather than make myself a copy-paste of what I see.

I love that. You are gorgeous, and it’s so refreshing to hear that because I feel like these days, everyone looks exactly the same. I just read an article about Vogue starting to use AI-generated models in some of their print ads, and honestly, I find it disturbing. There are so many beautifully unique humans in this world, and to fall back on something artificial feels like such a step backwards. It’s not only bad advertising—it also reinforces impossible beauty standards for a generation of women already under so much pressure to look perfect. Now we’re competing with faces that don’t even exist.
Aww, thank you. I really appreciate the love, big time. And yeah, I saw that. We are moving into a very interesting time where art as a whole is under attack, throughout all industries.

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