I pour paint to remember, to release, and to rebuild. My practice begins in meditation, surfaces as color, and resolves as a conversation between latex paint and gravity. Working without brushes, I tilt, drag, and flood the canvas until an internal vision—part ancestral memory, part present‑tense emotion—breaks through the surface.  When Spirit calls for it, I puncture the canvas, opening literal gaps that echo the ruptures in Black history, the holes in personal memory, and the fractures left by generational trauma. The torn fibers expose the hidden structure of the canvas the way trauma exposes bone: raw, undeniable, and ready for transmutation.

I don’t just paint to alchemize—I paint to release, to resurrect, to speak in a language my hands remember but my mouth never learned. Some works are scar-maps…flashbacks. Others are sermons—still wet, still weeping, still alive. Every piece is a purge. The canvas becomes a veil between worlds, and I get to reach through it to touch what my ancestors and I left behind. My spirit is embedded in every layer, every pour. Some pieces come through me like a scream I’ve waited years to voice. Others unfold slowly, like grief teaching itself how to speak. What matters is the trance. A meditative descent into the place where my higher self, my trauma, and my ancestors all braid into one voice.

Color and composition carry the weight of these stories. Jewel tones mingle with murky neutrals, mirroring the tension between visibility and erasure.  I build my palette like prayer—calling forward the hands that moved before mine. Every layer is a negotiation: between rage and stillness, between historical grief and future possibility. 

I work with latex paint because it mirrors the duality of my own body—fluid, strong, messy, vibrant, unapologetic. The paint moves with me, alongside me, through the canvas. The holes in certain pieces are more than aesthetic—they are memory gaps, emotional absences, and silences I inherited. Depression ate pieces of my past. Trauma blurred timelines. But what remains—what I choose to portray—is sacred. My work is a ritual of release and return. Not healing as perfection, but healing as process. Messy. Beautiful. Nonlinear. True.

My work holds space for those caught in the loop of survival. Each painting is a pause in my own timeline, and somehow, always, a reflection of someone else’s. These pieces mirror buried screams, generational traumas, and moments we thought we lived alone. Healing doesn’t occur in straight lines. It spirals. It slips. It returns. It belongs to no one and touches everyone. My paintings are portals for healing—living breathing invitations to stop, to release, to fall apart, and still come back together again.