My work lives at the intersection of memory, Black life, and everyday beauty. I am drawn to the things we carry—scraps of fabric, stories told in passing, photos tucked into the pages of a Bible—as sites of meaning, resistance, and joy.

I work through archival methods both formal and informal: scrapbooking, oral storytelling, performance, and Black domestic traditions of keeping. I am interested in how Black families—mine included—have long practiced self-documentation in the face of erasure. I understand these acts not only as survival, but as creativity, love, and care.

I am especially drawn to the stories that live in the gaps—in the silences, the contradictions, the fragments passed down through generations. I write into these spaces not to fill them neatly, but to dwell in what they make possible. My practice is inspired by traditions of magic realism and Black storying, where the border between truth and imagination is porous and fertile. I grew up hearing animal tales from my grandmother, full of tricksters and wisdom, and I carry the voice of my father—a master storyteller and teller of lies—who often reminded me, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” That saying lives at the heart of how I make: not as a rejection of truth, but as an embrace of deeper, layered knowing.

Through The Things We Keep, I explore the blurred edges between memory and ritual, between what is remembered and what is reimagined. I am interested in memory as a living practice: tactile, embodied, imperfect. My creative process is often slow and sensory—gathering, listening, reworking. I follow threads, listen for ghosts, and trust the weight of what wants to remain.

I make to remember, and I make to feel closer—to my people, to myself, and to a future rooted in tenderness.