In My Mother’s Garden

My mother began sending me photographs of the flowers blooming in her garden in Haiti. I couldn't visit — hadn't been able to for a long time. So I painted them.

Each painting started with her photograph and became something else: a way of being present across distance, of slowing down long enough to really look at what she was showing me. The watercolor process suited this. It's patient work. It doesn't let you rush.

I haven't painted botanicals in years. Coming back to them with my mother's garden as the subject felt entirely different — less like a return, more like an arrival.

Most of my work tends toward weight: layered compositions, complex themes, a certain darkness. These paintings chose something different. Not escape, exactly. More like a deliberate turning toward softness. Flowers felt right for that. They don't argue with the world. They just grow.

Rooted in Haitian heritage, shaped by years of living between cultures — Haiti, France, the United States, Senegal — this series is quieter than what I usually make. That's intentional. Some things are better said gently.