What does it feel like to grow up surrounded by the ocean, to get to know it as a constant companion?
Growing up on a small island like Saint Vincent has really made me very conscious of its ubiquitousness. Even if I am not necessarily spending time in the sea, it’s always in the periphery of my everyday life - whether I’m driving or running a quick errand. I think this has definitely impacted my understanding of the space I inhabit and by extension how I can care for it. The ocean is truly an intrinsic part of my life. I’m always aware of the stark contrast of feeling its absence whenever I travel and visit landlocked places in particular.
Growing up in differently shaped landscapes the idea and understanding of what is perceived as boundaries on one hand and on the other, something that gives us comfort and the boundlessness of a place of longing.
For instance, someone growing up in the mountains can find freedom on top of a peak and experience the sea as very limiting. How would you describe the impact of the landscape you grew up in on your understanding of freedom and boundaries?
I think the shifting of a boundary first begins in the mind – if we can imagine it, I think it is possible in one way or another. Of course, there are certain physical realities which prevent us from going to certain depths and heights, but even within this limitation people always find a way to go a small step further than the boundary which is really just fear manifested in a particular way. I was fortunate growing up to have open-minded parents who encouraged me to explore the landscape and sea. I think that initial foundation in understanding my own body in relation to my environment really helped me to learn to push myself. Freedom to me is being totally immersed in a situation with no restraint from the social constructs that exist on land. This is why I love the ocean because it is truly a democratic space in this regard. We all have to reckon with the elements and our own vulnerability, regardless of our physical capabilities.
What we found very affecting is that you somehow manage to enclose a certain intimacy in your photographic work, although one of your repeated topics is the absence of something, e.g. in your work “disappearing people”. Presence and absence is a well known topos within photography theory in general. But how would you describe your position towards these antipodes and in relation between human and nature?
I like to think that part of my work creates a feeling of imminence – a sense that something is always on the cusp of happening or has already happened, and we’re just witnessing the aftermath. I think this unfolding moment is what I try to explore. One of the recurring themes I explore in my work is transformation. I think of this in terms of scale, time, and the merging of two seemingly unrelated moments. For example, I’ve extensively documented the event of the explosive eruptions of La Soufriere volcano in St. Vincent. While there is the sheer scale and awesomeness of witnessing such an event, I’m particularly interested in the remnants of the event – in this case my documentation of black sand. Something that is seemingly minuscule in relation to witnessing an ash plume breaking through clouds. However, I believe there is memory that is coded into the remains of an event – our land and seas contain the accumulation or scars of past events. Most recently, I documented the aftermath in the marine environment underwater after Hurricane Beryl devastated our islands in 2024. Sometimes I intentionally remove the human element from my images, but their presence is suggested in the image in subtle ways. When people are included in my images, there is often a masking that I play with where they are shrouded by a shadow, or natural elements like leaves, bubbles underwater, a piece of coral etc.
