Installations

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I joined an intermediate straw plaiting class at Doonkalik Studios after my appreciation for the craft deepened beyond admiration alone. As I encountered more intricate designs and learned about the labor behind them, my desire shifted from wanting to be only a consumer of straw work to someone who could understand the process, the skill, and the cultural weight it carries. Learning how to plait became a way of becoming more educated—of moving closer to the knowledge held within the material itself.

During the class, my instructor, Ms. Rosemary Brice, spoke candidly about the challenges facing the straw plaiting community. She explained that there are very few active plaiters remaining, and many of those who practice the craft professionally are aging. As a result, distinct styles and techniques are not being passed down. When the individuals who developed specific methods pass away, their knowledge disappears with them. Alongside this loss of cultural knowledge is a stark economic reality: the final straw plait is sold for a price that is painfully disproportionate to the cost of harvesting the straw, the time invested, and the level of skill required.

As I began calculating how much plait is sold for per yard against the hours of labor, physical strain, material costs, and expertise involved, it became clear that these workers are earning only pennies per hour. This realization sat heavily with me. While I was reflecting on this imbalance, Ms. Rosemary casually reminded us not to leave straw in plastic bags, as silverfish bugs would come and eat it. At that moment, as I held the plait in my hands, its form suddenly reminded me of the insect itself.

That moment sparked the central metaphor of this body of work. The very thing being created becomes the thing that consumes it. The system that depends on straw plaiting—tourism, commerce, cultural display—is simultaneously responsible for its erosion. My heart ached at the clarity of that realization. The straw industry, as it currently exists, is unsustainable, and its fragility mirrors the vulnerability of this pillar of cultural practice.

This solo exhibition, consisting of three straw sculptures and a painting installation at the National Art Gallery, uses straw both materially and metaphorically. The works examine cycles of consumption, neglect, and loss, while honoring the labor and knowledge embedded in the craft. Through these pieces, I aim to draw attention to the quiet disappearance of straw plaiting traditions and to question what it means to value cultural heritage only after it has begun to vanish.

An Evening in Guanima is a captivating collection of Bahamian folktales that immerses readers in the rich cultural storytelling of the Bahamas. Stories feature beloved characters such as Bouki and Rabbi, Jack and B’er Debbil, and the Gaulin Woman. These tales are infused with humor, moral lessons, and elements of magic, offering insights into island life and values. 

This sculpture was inspired by a Bahamian folklore about a foreign woman who shape-shifts into a bird at night. She marries a local bachelor, but when he finally witnesses her transformation, she takes him out to sea, never to be seen again.

The work was created during a pivotal moment in Bahamian history — the referendum on whether Bahamian women could pass on citizenship regardless of circumstance. At the time, conversations with strangers revealed a troubling disconnect: many focused on job scarcity or expressed xenophobic attitudes toward immigrants, seemingly overlooking the law’s significance.

As a woman of mixed heritage — my mother American, my father Bahamian — I felt acutely the precariousness of belonging. Had my father not been Bahamian, I would not have had citizenship simply because of the “wrong seed.” This sculpture emerged from that mix of frustration, reflection, and longing. The folklore resonated with me, a story of outsider status and fleeting connection, mirroring my own experiences of being seen as “other” in the place I call home.