“Cradled by Corfu” is a love letter to the island that sheltered my family during a moment we’ll never forget. In 2023 during a family vacation to Europe, we switched gears when Dad got sick and we realized we needed to go to the emergency room for a life saving surgery followed by ten days in the critical care unit. Upon discharge when the Doctor said, 'see you in fourteen days', with shocking expressions and open mouths, we were like 'you know we don't live here right?' For one full month, this beautiful rural Greek island located in the Ionian Sea, fully embraced us.
When my father’s life hung in balance, the generosity of the locals in Corfu gave us calm, care, and clarity. These images are about the quiet power of place, and the way a landscape can hold you while a miracle unfolds. Corfu did what no words could—held us gently. These photographs are a testament to how the island’s sea, stone, and sunlight wrapped around my family like arms. This series is part memory and part offering, to a place that gave us breath when we forgot how to inhale.
In 2020, I was awarded a contract to create a photography series for the newly opened Hospital for Special Surgery (HSS) in West Palm Beach. Designed to bring a sense of serenity and life into a space of recovery, the series features intimate portraits of Florida’s native flora and wildlife. Each image offers a quiet moment, reminding patients, staff, and visitors of the natural world’s gentle rhythms.
These photographs were selected not just for their beauty, but for their ability to evoke peace, presence, and connection. Rooted in the belief that art can be part of the healing process, I hope this series invites the viewer to slow down, breathe, and feel held by the landscape outside the hospital walls.
Amid the movement and emotion of each event, there are still moments—quiet petals holding space between conversations, soft blooms bearing witness to joy, grief, union, or transformation. These images were captured not in isolation, but in the heart of real gatherings. In focusing closely on flowers present at these events, I tend to document what often goes unnoticed: the language of nature woven into human experience. Each petal, each curve, tells a story not just of the flower, but of the moment it belonged to, and they always draw me in for another look.
I'm personally inviting viewers into a hidden world—where textures ripple like silk, colors bleed like watercolor, and nature’s design reveals itself one filament at a time. By getting close, we see more than beauty; we witness architecture, emotion, and precision unfolding in silence.
These are some quiet moments I snuck away from my family to find while we decompressed the day after my grandfather's sister's funeral. She was our closest aunt from her generation, whom we all had wonderfully personal experiences with as she fixed our hairstyles into whatever she thought they should be, while gently saying only the sweetest things.
My uncle drove us from Mango Valley in the parish of St. Mary to Westmoreland for the best parrot fish I have ever had in my 41 years of life #justfacts. Sometimes my daydreams carry me back here..
Tsunami
Tsunami is a mixed media series (2021–2025) built from predatory lending shreds, acrylics, house paint, and recycled materials — fabrics, braiding hair, pearls, and even tabletops. The work began during the pandemic, when the flood of junk mail in the U.S. — over 100 billion pieces annually — became an unexpected source of anxiety for me. I shredded it in frustration, questioning why companies I was already paying would still contribute to deforestation with false pre-approval letters. Combined with the constant sight of litter tossed from moving cars, I found myself wrestling with what role artists can play in conversations about sustainability.
At the same time, I was a small business owner locked into a 38-month lease on my Fort Lauderdale photography studio. Clients came to me with their grief and frustrations, and I offered them makeup and dress-up sessions as a kind of therapy — but I didn’t yet know how to decompress from holding that sorrow. My stress levels rose, and soon I began dreaming of tsunamis.
In these dreams, the water came in many forms: sometimes violently tossing me, sometimes letting me cling to something solid, sometimes sweeping past while I remained untouched. I swam through submerged streets with calm, mermaid-like precision, or stood watching walls of water build and collapse. Over time, my fear eased, and I became one with the waves, even breathing steadily underwater.
When I researched the symbolism of tsunami dreams across cultures, I realized they could signal not destruction, but transformation. This shifted the series into a coping mechanism — an artistic space to process anxiety, sustainability, identity, and predatory lending practices. I drew inspiration from Japanese masters Katsushika Hokusai and Mori Yuzan, blending their fluid line work with proverbs from mostly Jamaican, Nigerian, Bantu, Hebrew and Scottish backgrounds. I used shredded junk mail to render water, pointillism to mix colors in the viewer’s eye, and transparency — literal and symbolic — to speak openly about redefining myself after 20 years as an event, wedding, and portrait photographer.
The series will ultimately include 36 works, honoring Hokusai’s Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji.
Beyond paintings, Tsunami has the potential to become an immersive installation and temporary public project— sculptural waves of shredded junk mail, soundscapes shifting from crashing surf to serene shorelines, and calming light that transforms the viewer’s emotional state. These spaces could serve high schools, college campuses, therapist offices, children’s hospitals, and retirement homes — places where anxiety runs high. I imagine collaborating with other artists and curators to bring this vision to life, honoring both environmental responsibility and intergenerational resilience.
