Which of your works are you the most proud of and why?
The work I hold closest to my heart is “The Monarch”. It’s a portrait of a woman gazing into the eyes of a monarch butterfly, though in truth it was less about the image and more about a longing I carried within me at the time.
I was reaching for a reconnection with nature — for that quiet dialogue between the human spirit and the natural world. My mentor, Neville Legall, and I had been painting en plein air, and I was beginning to see landscapes not as backdrops but as living presences.
The butterfly entered the painting almost on its own — as they often do in my work — a symbol of transformation, freedom, and quiet regality.
In calling the piece “The Monarch”, I wanted to honor both the butterfly and the woman, a reflection of Mother Nature herself. It remains a painting that invites wonder, as if holding a secret just out of reach, and that mystery is why I cherish it.
How would you describe your artistic style or creative approach?
My work has often been described as ethereal, and I embrace that. I’m less interested in replicating reality than in creating a space where the ordinary slips into the extraordinary — where there’s room for mystery, softness, and “otherworldliness.”
My process is intuitive, more feeling than formula; I often begin without knowing exactly where the piece will end, unless it’s a commission.
Lately, I’ve been drawn to natural and abstract forms, but portraiture still has my heart. At the center of it all is energy — I want my paintings to carry a pulse, a vibration that reconnects viewers to themselves, to nature, or to something unseen but deeply felt.
I was reminded of this while working as a gallery attendant for the 2025 Carifesta art exhibit. A woman recognized me from “The Monarch”, which she had seen in a previous showing. She told me she could feel the energy radiating from it even across the room, and asked me what I had hoped the piece would evoke.
She encouraged me to keep creating with that same modern flare, and shared her hope that I would one day have my own studio. That moment reminded me that my work doesn’t just live on canvas — it lives in the energy it awakens in others.
What’s the most rewarding part of being an artist?
The greatest reward of being an artist is witnessing how a piece of my spirit can live on in someone else’s life. That truth revealed itself to me very early. When I was four years old, a neighbor bought one of my drawings — a sketch of our whole neighborhood — for $20. He told me never to stop making art, and I still think of him as my very first customer.
From then on, even in high school, I found myself creating commissioned pieces that were usually given as presents or heartfelt gifts.
That thread has continued into my adult practice. Many of my commissions are deeply personal — portraits of loved ones, memorials for those who’ve passed, visual stories of travels, large abstracts meant to hold space in someone’s home.
To see a client’s eyes light up, to feel their emotion as they recognize something of themselves or their memories in the work — that is a sacred exchange. For me, art is not just pigment on canvas; it’s a bridge between souls. And when I see that bridge carrying joy, remembrance, or even healing, it affirms why I create.
What is the greatest lesson you’ve learned as an artist thus far?
The greatest lesson I’ve learned is that art resists confinement. For a long time, I pressured myself to define a “style,” to fit into the neat categories that others expected of me — portraitist, abstract painter, realist. But in chasing labels, I found myself stifled.
Art is not meant to be a box; it is a river. It shifts, it evolves, it carries you into new territories if you allow it. Yes, developing a signature voice matters, but that voice should be alive, not frozen. My work has taught me that growth comes from giving yourself permission to wander — to let curiosity, not expectation, guide the hand.
As I’ve grown as a person, my art has grown as well. I feel less confined by the kind of work I’m expected to create. With all the labels others might assign me — immigrant, Black, queer, Caribbean, woman — there is certainly art to be made from those identities, and perhaps there always will be.
But for now, I want my work to remain on another plane, because those very identities have shaped in me a sense of expansiveness, of existing beyond any one category. That is where my art lives too.
Has your understanding of “finished” changed over time?
Yes, completely. In my earlier years, I equated “finished” with perfection — every brushstroke polished, every detail refined until reality itself was mirrored. But over time, I realized art is not about perfection; it’s about presence. Now, a piece feels finished when its energy speaks clearly — when it radiates the emotion or vibration I hoped to release into the world.
And when you’ve been drawing, painting, creating for 23 years, you grow accustomed to hearing the question, “Is it done?” I’ve learned to hear that question for what it is without carrying the weight of it as pressure.
Sometimes the truth is that to some eyes a piece may feel complete, while to others it may not. What matters most is whether it feels finished to me — whether I can sit with it and feel its spirit breathing on its own. To me, “finished” is not the end of the painting but when it begins to breathe on its own.
