I’m fascinated by the use of felted hair mats to clean up oil spills—how something as intimate and personal as human hair can so effectively absorb environmental damage. There’s a quiet poetry in that gesture of care and restoration.
Listening Like a Plant in St. Croix
Michael Pollan’s The Botany of Desire: A Plant’s-Eye View of the World reframes how we see the green world around us—not as passive, cultivated objects, but as active participants in shaping our desires. It’s a perspective that lingers long after the last page, especially here in St. Croix, where the land hums with quiet intelligence.
Pollan’s invitation to view plants as co-creators made me reconsider the medicinal herbs growing wild across my property. Guinea hen weed curling through the underbrush. Lemongrass swaying in the trade winds. Turmeric pushing up in my raised planters. These plants aren’t just there. They arrive, they signal, they speak—if we’re willing to listen.
What if these plants are already in conversation with us, guiding us to notice where balance is needed, where healing is overdue?
Since reading the book, I’ve begun to move more slowly through the land, letting my hands hover before touching, asking inwardly before harvesting. I’m starting to feel that these plants are not just medicine for the body, but memory-keepers, storytellers, and perhaps, old friends with lessons still unfolding.
In St. Croix, where ecological wisdom is hiding in plain sight, The Botany of Desire offers a gentle challenge: to listen more deeply, to be in relationship, not just use.
What might change if we all listened like the plants do—rooted, attentive, and open to what the land is trying to say?
May: Inspiration, Community, and the Power of Collaboration
This month has been a whirlwind—charged with shared energy, creative breakthroughs, and meaningful connections. From my pilgrimage to Rome for Jubilee 2025 to the 1-54 Contemporary African Art Fair in New York, NY Art Week exhibitions, and a return to my Jersey City showroom, one thing has become clear: collaboration and community are the lifeblood of my practice.
A standout moment was collaborating with artist and maker Nate Watson to build a custom loom lightbox for Entre Genres, a commission for Coty Infiniment Paris. I envisioned light passing through the weaving—refracted by suspended glass perfume bottles—capturing an ethereal, floating quality. Nate’s fabrication exceeded all expectations, and on a tight deadline. His generosity and expertise were instrumental in bringing this vision to life. I deconstructed marine line into soft fibers and wove airy, cloudlike gestures into the frame. The process opened new doors for me creatively—I’ve already started sketching a series of lightbox loom works inspired by this experience.
Being immersed in art has been equally inspiring. Morgan Mahape’s beaded portrait at the 1-54 Fair stopped me in my tracks. The intricacy and emotion of the piece had me digging into my bead stash, suddenly seeing each bead like a pixel—tiny fragments forming a larger truth. That’s the power of great art: it reframes your perspective.
Spending time with other artists—talking technique, exchanging feedback, or simply standing in quiet reverence before a piece—has reminded me that art is never made in isolation. We are shaped by our conversations, our collaborators, and the environments we move through.
And yes, Rome was magical. Our trip began the same day Pope Francis passed away. We were among the first 100,000+ people to pay our respects during the wake at St. Peter’s Basilica. Standing before the frescoes, sculptures, catacombs, and icons I once only studied in books was surreal. Ancient cities built upon ruins of older cities—a living metaphor for layers of history and belief. I left with a deep desire to create a Threshold Altar installation, my own contemporary interpretation of iconography, spirituality, and faith. A slab of mahogany waits in my studio, alongside ritual items I’ve been quietly gathering. More soon on that.
This month, I’m filled with gratitude—for creative collaboration, for the artist community that surrounds me, and for the ongoing invitation to grow. Inspiration, after all, multiplies when shared.
Inspired By: A Flipbook Machine
Each morning at Sky Garden STX, I step out onto the deck of my studio and let the sounds of the island caress me. The pearly-eyed thrashers call first—raspy, relentless, full of attitude. They dart through the trees like mischief in motion. Then the doves join in, their coos low and mournful, like lullabies passed down from long ago.
I listen.
Their chorus is not just background noise. It’s an invocation. The rhythm of wings, the hush between calls, the way the birds stake hold of space with sound. It’s music. It’s memory.
The birds are teaching me to pause, to trust the silences between gestures. To let motion emerge from stillness.
I’ve started wondering: What does it look like to be guided by birds? Not as subject matter, but in process, in tempo, in spirit? I’m not sure yet. But recently I came across a flipbook machine by J.C. Fontanive, the way it cycles through images of birds in flight—over and over, rhythmic, hypnotic, alive—it mirrors what I feel on the deck each morning: movement as meditation. Repetition as revelation.
I don’t know exactly where this is going. But I do know that before I pick up any materials, I always listen first. To the wind. To the wings. To the wild logic of song.
Let’s see what unfolds.
J.C. Fontanive
Ornithology L, 2018
four-color screen print on Bristol paper, stainless steel, motor and electronics
5.25 x 4.25 x 4 inches
How to Be Fully Present
Counting rice evokes repetition, patience, devotion, and ancestral memory. It’s both meditative and meticulous—a task sometimes used to test sanity or teach discipline, but also to slow down time.
I’m obsessed
With these floral garland videos flooding my feed. Many of these plants grow in my own garden. The possibilities are endless
MacGyver-ing Plastic Bottles Into Cordage
I am definitely going to try this, to make cord out of plastic bottles and then weave with it.
Decolonize The Body
with human hair…
March: Celebrating Small Wins
This month, I’m focused on noticing and celebrating the small wins that often get overlooked. In a world that sometimes measures success by big, public milestones, I’m finding joy in the quieter victories that keep me moving forward.
Completing an unfinished piece of art, mentoring a student through their first creative breakthrough, or building raised beds the prepare for the next growing season—these moments might seem small on their own, but they build toward something much larger. Acknowledging them helps me stay motivated and connected to my goals.
One particularly meaningful experience these past months is seeing how our first residency artists at Sky Garden have settled into the space. Watching someone else find inspiration here, has affirmed my belief in the power of this creative community. And the resulting feedback has been helpful in refining Sky Garden programming and the compound itself
As I work toward the longer-term project, launching the paid residency programming, I’m learning to embrace patience and trust in the process. There’s something grounding about celebrating what’s already been accomplished rather than focusing solely on what’s ahead.
These reflections remind me to pause and appreciate the journey. Progress isn’t always dramatic; often, it’s the steady accumulation of small, meaningful steps.
27 Little Fountain’s Saman Tree: My Muse
The moment we swooped down the driveway of 27 Little Fountain in Christiansted, St. Croix, and saw the towering tree by the dry riverbed, I knew I had found our home. The house, a clear gut job from the MLS listing, didn’t matter. The tree called to me, welcoming me, and I instantly felt the property’s unique magic. The Saman tree (Samanea saman), with its vast canopy and enduring presence, holds deep meaning in Caribbean folklore. Rooted in Afro-Caribbean, Indigenous, and Creole traditions, it symbolizes spirituality, healing, and community—offering profound inspiration for my art and the eco-artist residency I am developing here.
1. Ancestral Spirits
In Afro-Caribbean spiritual traditions such as Obeah, Santería, and Vodou, the Saman tree is revered as a sacred home for ancestral spirits and a portal to the spiritual realm. Its roots are believed to bridge the living and the dead, making it a site for offerings, libations, and prayers to honor ancestors and seek their guidance. The branches of our tree, adorned with wild dragon fruit and night-blooming cereus, provide natural offerings to bats and birds alike.
2. Healing Properties
The Saman tree is valued in Caribbean folk medicine for its practical and symbolic healing powers. Traditional healers use its bark and leaves to make teas for colds, fever, and diarrhea, while its resin or sap is applied to skin wounds. This connection to health and vitality reflects a holistic view of nature as a source of sustenance and renewal.
3. Shelter and Protection
The tree’s sprawling canopy provides more than just shade—it creates a communal space and symbolizes safety. Beneath its branches, we’ve hosted bush baths, storytelling sessions, and community gatherings. For farmers, the Saman tree is a sign of good fortune, its shade nourishing crops, enriching soil, and sheltering goats, embodying abundance and protection. Its deep roots seek out and signal underground water sources, further enhancing its significance.
A Living Symbol of Life and Connection
The Saman tree is deeply intertwined with the life I am building, blending the physical and spiritual worlds. Its legacy of shelter, healing, and connection to ancestors inspires reflection on the unseen forces that shape our lives, echoing themes central to my new work.
This enduring tree stands as a testament to a reverence for nature and its ability to sustain, protect, and heal—a reminder of the profound stories rooted in this land itself.
