MEMORIES
Featured
September 3, 2018
14" x 18"
Acrylic on Canvas Panel
I sat on our front stoop in the summer. We lived there and I witnessed life. I'd love to hear the sound of that ice cream truck. The blues playing for the old men under the tree. The cheers from the drill team. Just to hear life.
July, 2017
18" x 24"
Acrylic on Particle Board
000578
Girls dese fools out'ere shootin.
-- Who? Where?
GeeShawn, shot Poo Ova here n'da Jets.
--OMG!
Poo stupid ass got shot & trying to save his damn shoe
-- Now GeeShawn, he always startin trouble
Gurl imma tryna get me a baby by GeeShawn fo' somebody kill him so my baby can have dat good hair.
-- You so ratchet ; )
May 1, 2016
24" x 17"
Acrylic on Soft Canvas
000502
I can't remember what my room in this apartment looked like. I don't recall the bathroom. But with accurate clear detail I can remember this living room. This was such a sad space for me. It was this apartment that my mom was shot in.
December, 2013
14" x 18"
Acrylic on Canvas Panel
000361
There have been many songs and paintings that depict hood life. Tupac made “My Block.” Too Short made “The Ghetto.” Scarface’s whole career depicted hood life, “What do you see” being up there. Geto Boys: “Crooked Officer” or “Ghetto Fantasy.” Common’s “The Corner.” Or N.W.A.’s “F*** the Police.”
But none is more widely celebrated or accepted or played every summer at a cookout or family reunion somewhere than the Fresh Prince song, “Summer Time.”
This painting, for me, is along those lines. My hood was more than gang shootings, rapes, murders, robberies. My hood was those things. But friendships, family, happiness, joy, creativity and the innocence of a child also existed within my hood.
March 14, 2012
18" x 12"
Acrylic
000219
Those who were suppose to love and protect me beat and bruised my body, my spirit and forever changed who I could have been. Funny how love still hurts. Maybe this is yet one more bruise left by them.
16" x 12"
Acrylic on Canvas Panel
000073
Having spent so much time in solitary confinement, I could feel my humanity eroding with the passing of each day. The pounding on the doors reverberated through my bones. The smell of sweat, blood, urine and feces mixed with the pungent odor of desperation. I began my time thinking what was wrong with these people. Soon I was being gassed. I was becoming the animal I was trained to be by the conditions of that environment. There were these moments, between fights with the guards, when the gas mixed with my own sweat caused the hatred that burned in my heart. I could feel it on my skin. Then the clouds would part and the hulk would recede and the broken humanity would peek through. In those moments I would feel tremendous despair.
This is reflective of my struggles to deal with segregation in prison. At times I didn't act like a human because I was not being treated like one. After one of many beatings (by the very people who were supposed to help me), I sat in that moment, gas still clinging to my body and burning. Cold and hungry, I sat on that concrete slab and wondered, would it ever end? Why had my life been a constant struggle since day one? See camera in upper left hand corner.
December, 2009
20" x 16"
Acrylic on Canvas Paper
000072
As a boy, my brothers had some unique punishments for me. I’d not recall the first time or what led to it. I remember the house (apartment). I was about 8 when we moved there. When I was about 9, we had both downstairs apartments and that was the first time I was thrown in there. I had developed a fear of the dark. So much happened to me in the dark. I remember being terrified. Once I kicked on that door and it popped open and what I faced outside that door made being inside of it less horrible. How it was set up -- the line down the center of the back of me would be the crack from where the two doors came together. My brother had learned to use tools in shop class and that allowed him to place a pole outside the door and prevented me from opening it. After a while, I made up games to distract me from the heat -- it was really hot. I think there was a boiler in the basement under this closet. I also needed to keep my mind off of the bugs in there with me.
This is an image of being locked inside what we, as kids, dubbed the hotbox. In the beginning it was terrifying. Unable to get out. Then I realized why would I want to get out? I was hungry. I was hot. I was alone in the dark. But the boogie man was outside that door. What happened to protecting and nurturing a child? Maybe the hot box was protection and I was nurtured into exactly who and what I was meant to be.
2009
18" x 14"
Acrylic on Canvas Panel
000071
This painting was based on my memories of my time in Jamaica. A picture on my granny's wall. I am not sure if it was a photo or a professional photo. I was thinking of what it would be like to be at home, sitting there, enjoying a smoke and drawing and to hear my Babe call my name and wonder was I dreaming or if she would have really given it all up for me to hang out with me on this simple rock.