My practices in art and writing are influenced by my work in ethnoecology as a descendent of Black farmers from West Africa and the Caribbean.

THROUGH THESE MEDIUMS, I SEEK TO WEAVE THE THREADS OF MY DIVERSE ANCESTRAL LINEAGES, REAWAKEN INDIGENOUS KNOWLEDGE, AND HONOR THE ETERNAL KINSHIP BETWEEN HUMANS AND OTHER LIVING ORGANISMS.

This painting was made from a batch of ice dyed paper with powdered moringa leaves. Nebedaye is the indigenous Wolof name for the Moringa oleifera tree, whose leaves and seeds are used for their medicinal properties in West Africa. Moringa is a powerful herb that supports many dimensions of our bodies, helping to boost our energy level, ease digestion with its high fiber content, and strengthen the blood and bones. Its green pigment conjures the spirit of the jungle where trees are wise guides offering protection and wisdom.

This piece references the four moments of the Sun, an ancient diagram that appears in African, Asian and Native American cosmologies. It depicts solar movement through the four stages of a day from sunrise and noon to sunset and midnight. It forms a diamond shape and moves across a circle, serving as an external reflection of the human spirit and biology. I hope this artwork inspires the viewer to value and appreciate the traditional use of natural materials for health and wellness.

‍

We are holy on purpose, colored black as land. Charged up

with some primordial fire, I say, Fool, don’t be dreamt abandoned

like a rattle adrift in the rain. Our tear-salt rings when we

pound the door to nowhere asking for forgiveness. Let it ricochet up

the Tower as it crumbles, that light — desperately boiling internal

organs, beaming a song with teeth. Holiness awaits in the Devil’s jaw

and the womb of the land is a beast. Struck by some

long lightning, I say, Fool, begin again. Meet the rising Sun

on the unknown horizon. The key lives in the stomach

and the solution is guts. Defeat holds no rhythm, so plow

the psyche for sound. Begin again. See the World on our crown,

rich victory prismed in our two-strand twists.

We are big digits on purpose, like forevermore. Resurrected

on seventh chances, I say, Fool, the time is now. The past no longer

exists. Just wisps of ideation twinkle our inner eye while we drink up

all the nothing. It tastes like a stale tornado, that linger — heaves

backward on the Strength of the life force. I say, Sun, fall twice

and rise thrice. Shimmy dust off.