I think of the sun as a kind of painter. As it passes through windows, curtains, leaves, and architecture, it creates temporary images that shift throughout the day. My paintings begin with these moments, when a shadow becomes more visually present than the object that casts it, a curtain dissolves the distinction between inside and outside, or a familiar place becomes briefly unrecognizable. 

Growing up in Dakar, Senegal, and later living in the United States made me aware from an early age that there can be more than one way of understanding the same thing. Moving between cultures taught me that my own perspective is never the only possible one, and that two people can encounter the same world differently without either experience being less real. 

I return to windows for a similar reason. I think of them as portals for perception: structures that seem to promise a clear view while continually complicating it. Sunlight catches on the glass, reflections overlap with what lies beyond it, and curtains veil or fragment the view. Interior and exterior can occupy the same surface at once. What initially appears to be a straightforward view becomes layered, unstable, and dependent on where you are standing. 

Rather than describing a place exactly as it is, I am interested in these moments of perceptual uncertainty. Light rearranges the ordinary world, allowing multiple ways of seeing to coexist and reminding me that what we see is never quite the whole picture.