As I have journeyed through this remarkable life, I have come to believe that we are not merely placed upon this earth to consume its beauty, we are called to contribute to it. Every sunrise, every hardship, every triumph, every tear, every melody, every conversation, and every quiet moment of reflection has become another color upon the vast palette of my existence.
My desire has never been simply to live.
My desire has been to receive life with gratitude and to return it with generosity.
I long to gather every lesson that life has offered me—the joyful and the painful alike—and transform those experiences into something that might encourage another soul. If my days have been blessed with beauty, I hope to multiply that beauty. If they have been marked by suffering, I hope to redeem that suffering by turning it into compassion.
That, perhaps, is the true purpose of my art.
Every painting I create carries a piece of my spirit. They are more than combinations of pigments and texture; they are fragments of memory, whispers of prayer, echoes of childhood, conversations with my father, celebrations of my homeland, and testimonies of a life still unfolding.
Within every brushstroke lives a story.
Through my paintings I seek to preserve the richness of my culture, not as something trapped in history, but as something breathing, vibrant, and alive. I paint to honor those who came before me, to remember the voices that shaped me, and to ensure that beauty inherited is never forgotten.
Yet culture alone is not enough.
My canvas has also become the mirror of my heart.
There I reveal my fears, my hopes, my questions, my gratitude, my victories, and even my brokenness. Art has given me permission to speak when words were too small. It has allowed silence to become visible and emotion to take form.
Many people ask me what my paintings mean.
Quite simply, they mean my life.
They are reflections of ordinary days transformed into extraordinary moments. They capture the laughter of family, the rhythm of cities, the melodies of memory, the colors of Africa, the pulse of America, the tenderness of faith, and the resilience of the human spirit. They are my diary without sentences.
Yet I have never wished my paintings to exist merely as decoration.
Beauty, by itself, is incomplete if it does not awaken thought.
I want my work to gently challenge the heart. I hope it encourages us to examine the habits that rob us of peace, the fears that divide us, the prejudices that diminish our humanity, and the distractions that keep us from becoming our best selves.
If even one painting can cause someone to pause…
To forgive…
To hope again…
To smile…
To dream…
Then that painting has already fulfilled a purpose greater than myself.
To me, art is one of humanity’s greatest languages.
Long before nations agreed upon words, they spoke through symbols, colors, music, rhythm, dance, and image. Art crosses borders where language cannot. It enters rooms where arguments fail. It whispers where speeches shout. It comforts where explanations fall short.
Art has become my sermon without a pulpit.
My poetry without pages.
My prayer without spoken words.
It is one of the most indispensable forms of communication I have ever known.
Through it I can make statements that encourage compassion instead of hatred, understanding instead of division, generosity instead of greed, hope instead of despair.
If I possessed the power of creation itself, I know exactly what I would paint.
I would paint a world where every child feels safe.
A world where neighbors become family.
A world where compassion outweighs conflict.
Where kindness is considered strength rather than weakness.
Where laughter is abundant, forgiveness is ordinary, and peace is as common as the morning light.
I would fill that canvas with gardens untouched by war, rivers unpolluted by hatred, skies uncluttered by fear, and hearts liberated from bitterness.
Then I would lean close…
Breathe upon that painting…
And watch it become reality.
Perhaps every artist secretly carries that impossible dream.
Though I cannot create a perfect world, I can paint pieces of the one I hope is coming.
Perhaps enough pieces, scattered across enough hearts, may one day resemble the masterpiece we all long for.
Among life’s countless blessings, few compare to the privilege of being an artist.
Art has never simply been my occupation.
It has become my companion.
My refuge.
My teacher.
My ministry.
My inheritance.
My offering back to God.
There are moments when I stand before a completed painting and realize that it has revealed something about me that I had not yet discovered. The canvas often knows my heart before I do.
What profound joy it has been to leave impressions of my inner being upon the world—not footprints that fade with time, but colors that may continue speaking long after my voice grows quiet.
Sometimes I wonder who I might have become had art never found me.
Would I have discovered another language for my soul?
Would I have learned to see beauty hidden inside suffering?
Would I have recognized God’s fingerprints upon ordinary days?
I do not know.
What I do know is this:
Art did not simply become part of my life.
It became the way I learned to live.
It taught me to see miracles in color, music in silence, hope in broken places, and possibility where others saw only emptiness.
For that gift, I remain forever grateful.
Thank God…
I am an artist.
(Excerpts from My Life in Living Colors-Memoir)
