I did not get into art. Art got into me. For me, art is a natural process. I can create with anything. I build with wood, paper, layers of paint. I question what a painting is. Often the way I make the work is left explicit. Stretchers lay bare. Canvas is crumpled, torn, or shredded. Staples can be more than simple fasteners and can function as paint. A work does not have to be one thing or another. A painting can have elements of photography or sculpture, blurring the conventions between disciplines. I believe in the spirit. Sometimes I enter the work; we become one. I create as if from nothing, always listening to my senses. The process speaks to the poetry of my childhood, the survival strategies that Haitians use to get from one day to the next. The strict economy of line and texture, the use of everyday objects, and makeshift elegance recalls my grandmother’s home in Port-au-Prince, which against all odds had splendor.