05/17/2026
Home is not a fixed coordinate. It is a bricolage.
Fragments of memory held together by light.
A specific way of sitting on a porch in Stantonsburg.
The texture of hair beneath a mother’s hands.
The weight of silence in a room full of history.
We carry these pieces across oceans. Across generations.
An archive of the Diaspora.
Sensory. Real. Ours.
Captured in the dim light. Where the truth lives.
Portraiture as a map back to ourselves.
Fine Art. Fine Memory.