I’m deeply honored to share that my work Caribbean Friendship Bracelet has been included in Fiber Forward at The Gallery at Yellow Studio in Cross River, New York.
Fiber Forward brings together women and non-binary artists whose practices challenge and expand traditional ideas around fiber art. The exhibition explores how thread, rope, fabric, and other fibrous materials can hold memory, meaning, experimentation, and conversation.
The exhibition will be on view from May 30 through June 28, 2026, with an Opening Reception on Saturday, May 30 from 4–6pm. An Artist Talk will take place on Saturday, June 27 at 2pm during Upstate Art Weekend.
Included in the exhibition is Caribbean Friendship Bracelet, one of the earliest works from my I Am My Hair series. The piece is constructed from wrapped and embellished rope using recycled sari thread, ribbon, beads, zip ties, and other found materials. Through color, texture, and repetition, the work opens conversations around hair, identity, touch, and the lived experiences of microaggressions.
I’m grateful to be in dialogue with so many thoughtful artists working within fiber, materiality, and storytelling. Thank you to The Gallery at Yellow Studio for including my work in this beautiful exhibition.
June moves like a crossing. Two bodies of work, two distant geographies, each carrying its own truth about material, memory, and who gets to touch what.
Fiber Forward — Caribbean Friendship Bracelet
May 30 – June 28, 2026 The Gallery at Yellow Studio, Cross River, NY Artist Talk: June 27 (Upstate Art Weekend)
Caribbean Friendship Bracelet reads like hair before you read it as sculpture.
Extensions of rope; wrapped, woven, tied, and embellished with recycled beads, zip ties, ribbon, lace, tape, and bottle-cap bobbles, pull you in with color first. Hue as lure. Texture as invitation. Then the work turns.
These forms stand in for natural hair: bold, whimsical, and loaded. They open a door to conversations people often avoid, microaggressions, stereotypes, implicit bias, carried in something as intimate and public as hair.
Imagine, hair. The elusive, coveted “good” hair. On some days and for some people, that is my hair. Or was. Or can be. But you should know by now—Don’t. Touch. My. Hair.
This piece holds more than my hand. I invited the community into the studio, five people wrapping yarn, recycled sari thread, ribbon onto rope. We worked side by side, talking through the trials and negotiations of our hair. Their gestures live in the surface. Their stories are embedded in the tension of every wrap.
It’s not just a sculpture. It’s a collective record.
Miami Fiber Triennial: Exterior Interventions — Place as Material
June 11 – July 23, 2026 Threading the City: America250 Miami-Dade County Cultural Affairs / National Endowment for the Arts
In Miami, the work moves outward.
Fiber enters the city as a material system—bound to labor, migration, extraction, and care. It meets weather, infrastructure, and the public not as decoration, but as evidence.
As a place-based artist, I begin by walking—listening, foraging. Plants, seed pods, shoreline debris. Marine waste becomes material, but also record, carrying the imprint of tide, trade, and time.
Through weaving and knotting, I don’t transform these elements—I bring them into relation. Each piece is a conversation with the land and sea, shaped by what is revealed and what resists.
My practice moves across gardening, foraging, assemblage, weaving, moving image, sound, and installation because the story itself is layered.
Rooted in African diasporic knowledge and the weight of colonial and environmental memory, the work navigates inheritance and rupture—what has been preserved, buried, and what continues to surface.
Within the frame of America250, the work traces what has been built—and at what cost.
What does the land remember? What have we taken—and what remains? What continues to speak, whether acknowledged or not?
Across both exhibitions, the thread is clear:
Hair. Rope. Vine. Line. Each one a carrier.
Of touch. Of boundary. Of history that refuses to stay hidden.
If you meet the work this June, stand close, but understand what it asks of you.
Reading about the new research surrounding the origins of the Book of Kells brought me back to the time I spent studying its pages last summer. Scholars are now reconsidering whether the manuscript may have originated in the Pictish monastery of Portmahomack in Scotland rather than solely within the Irish tradition it has long been associated with. What stayed with me most was the discussion around material process, vellum making, pigments, carving, ornament, and the close relationship between labor, devotion, and land.
While reading, I found myself thinking about how the Book of Kells moves beyond manuscript tradition and becomes something deeply tied to material knowledge and human touch. The layering of spirals, botanical forms, animals, symbols, and ornament carries a sense of accumulated care and attention over time. It also made me reflect on my own interest in wrapping, knotting, cyanotype, marine debris, and plant knowledge as ways materials can hold memory.
The manuscript is a reminder that making has long been connected to preservation, ritual, and the passing of knowledge across generations. Even centuries later, these works continue to speak through their materials as much as through their imagery.
This mask began as fragments, discarded cardboard, envelopes once carrying bills, wine This one began with what was closest at hand, recycled cardboard, an envelope already opened, fragments of mono-printed deli paper. A wine cork, a piece of bone, shells still carrying salt. Nothing chosen for perfection, only for presence.
I built it through layering, raffia, yarn, string, wood beads, binding each material until it settled into place. Acrylic paint moved across the surface like a seal, then a reveal. Small elements, pop sticks, wood chips, a shard of selenite became both structure and quiet signal.
The process was intuitive, almost call-and-response. Add, layer, remove, pause. Listen. Adjust.
This first mask holds the origin of the series: a gathering of discarded things finding voice together. Not polished, not resolved but awake. A vessel of protection, memory, and becoming.
The studio has been loud lately, not in sound, but in pull.
I’m working across multiple series at once, moving from one piece to another, then back again. Rope on one table. Foraged material drying in the corner. A vessel half-bound. A line of thought that won’t sit still. It feels a little ADHD in the studio, attention splitting, doubling back, chasing sparks before they cool.
It’s a gift and a curse.
Focus, for me, doesn’t look like a straight line. It looks like orbit. One piece unlocks another. Finishing something doesn’t close it, it opens a door. I’ll tie off one work and immediately see where it wants to go next. So I follow it, even if it means holding five things at once.
Right now, I’m in that stretch, finishing, resolving, pushing pieces to their edge while new ideas keep interrupting. I don’t fight it. I work like an octopus, reaching, holding, testing, building across everything all at once.
All of it is moving toward my solo show at Cane Roots Gallery in Christiansted, opening later this year. The work is rooted here, in St. Croix. New rhythms. New materials. New material histories. What the land offers. What the sea leaves behind. What the island reveals over time.
There are not enough hours in the day to bring every idea into the light. I’ve had to accept that. Some things will wait. Some will evolve. Some will never be made and that’s part of the practice too.
But what is here, what is becoming, is enough.
Each piece carries the imprint of this moment of working in motion, of holding many threads, of trusting that even in the scatter, there is a pattern forming.
If you know me, you know how much I love the color purple.
Not just for its beauty, but for what it holds. Purple has always felt like something I move with, somewhere between earth and spirit, between the everyday and something more ancient. And yes… maybe a little bit of Prince lives in that feeling too, the way he made purple into a world you could step into.
Tyrian Purple carries that same weight in a very real way. A color once extracted with time, labor, and devotion. A color that signaled power, but also process, something earned, something made slowly.
Watching this video, I kept thinking about material and meaning. How something so small can carry so much history. How color itself can be a record, of place, of bodies, of hands at work.
On April 11, 2026, knitters around the world will gather for the Knit for Food Knit-a-thon 2026, a 12-hour knitting marathon raising funds to fight food insecurity.
Participants can knit for the full twelve hours, join for a few rows, or simply donate. Funds raised will be shared equally among Feeding America, World Central Kitchen, No Kid Hungry, and Meals on Wheels.
Fiber has always been a language of care. Stitch by stitch, makers gather across distances, using their hands to support something larger than themselves.
