My creative discipline is not linear. It does not move in straight lines or obey predictable timelines. As a painter, as an artist, I am constantly negotiating momentum—learning how to return to the work, how to remain consistent within a practice that resists consistency itself.
There are weeks when I wake at six in the morning, full of intention. I exercise, bathe, prepare breakfast, and step into the day as if it were carefully planned. After that, I return to the studio. I am a slow painter. My process asks for patience, for preparation. I clean my brushes, arrange my materials, and sit with the work. Before I paint, I listen. I hold a quiet dialogue with what already exists on the surface, allowing the work to tell me what it needs.
When I begin painting, time stretches. Each session lasts hours—sometimes three, sometimes five. Between these moments of focus, I step away. I eat, watch a film, let my mind wander. These breaks are not interruptions; they are part of the rhythm. They allow the work to breathe, and they allow me to return with clarity.
Yet unpredictability is constant. Some days, I enter the studio and remain there through the night, carried by an intensity I cannot plan for. Those nights demand their own recovery—late mornings, disrupted routines, a body negotiating exhaustion and desire. The structure I once crafted for myself loosens, and with it comes doubt, worry, and the pressure of expectation.
Still, my creative discipline holds one clear goal: to show up. To enter the studio regardless of mood, regardless of energy, regardless of doubt. Whether I am filled with excitement or weighed down by resistance, I choose presence. I choose to sit with the work, to remain available to it.
This act of showing up—again and again—is what keeps me afloat. Not perfection. Not speed. Not consistency in the conventional sense. But commitment. A quiet, stubborn devotion to being there, to doing the work, and to trusting that presence itself is enough.
Question 2
●My work honors the dignity of ordinary people and captures the pulse of contemporary South African life. Through painting, I explore culture, identity, and youth, bridging pop culture and streetwear with history. In a country marked by inequality, my practice becomes an act of empowerment—grounded in gratitude, storytelling, and the ongoing search for meaning.
Question 3
●Pushing culture through my practice as a painter is vital because my work exists within a global conversation about accountability, presence, and lived experience. As a young Black person in South Africa, and within the broader diaspora, I paint from lived realities—holding space for what it means to grow up, to endure, and to exist with awareness. My practice insists on being present: capturing and reflecting the political, emotional, and social conditions of my country and my people in real time.
Historically, Black figures in painting have often been pushed into shadows, misunderstood, or rendered invisible. My work responds to this absence. Painting becomes a way to reclaim visibility, agency, and authorship—to document our stories on our own terms. These narratives come from people who look like me, who live through these experiences, and who carry the weight of being human in complex and non-linear ways. There is power in that honesty.
My practice is committed to elevating Black life with care and truth. Through deliberate material choices and imagery rooted in everyday life, I explore resilience, unity, and collective healing. The figures in my work are not symbols or abstractions; they are reflections of shared humanity. While the experience of being human is often heavy and uneven, it becomes more grounding when people come together—not only to improve themselves, but to strengthen one another.
Ultimately, my work is about starting conversations: finding ways to live better, to reclaim dignity, and to imagine more sustainable and compassionate futures. Painting, for me, is both a record and a proposal—a space where reflection meets responsibility, and where coming together becomes an act of hope.
My creative discipline is not linear. It does not move in straight lines or obey predictable timelines. As a painter, as an artist, I am constantly negotiating momentum—learning how to return to the work, how to remain consistent within a practice that resists consistency itself.
There are weeks when I wake at six in the morning, full of intention. I exercise, bathe, prepare breakfast, and step into the day as if it were carefully planned. After that, I return to the studio. I am a slow painter. My process asks for patience, for preparation. I clean my brushes, arrange my materials, and sit with the work. Before I paint, I listen. I hold a quiet dialogue with what already exists on the surface, allowing the work to tell me what it needs.
When I begin painting, time stretches. Each session lasts hours—sometimes three, sometimes five. Between these moments of focus, I step away. I eat, watch a film, let my mind wander. These breaks are not interruptions; they are part of the rhythm. They allow the work to breathe, and they allow me to return with clarity.
Yet unpredictability is constant. Some days, I enter the studio and remain there through the night, carried by an intensity I cannot plan for. Those nights demand their own recovery—late mornings, disrupted routines, a body negotiating exhaustion and desire. The structure I once crafted for myself loosens, and with it comes doubt, worry, and the pressure of expectation.
Still, my creative discipline holds one clear goal: to show up. To enter the studio regardless of mood, regardless of energy, regardless of doubt. Whether I am filled with excitement or weighed down by resistance, I choose presence. I choose to sit with the work, to remain available to it.
This act of showing up—again and again—is what keeps me afloat. Not perfection. Not speed. Not consistency in the conventional sense. But commitment. A quiet, stubborn devotion to being there, to doing the work, and to trusting that presence itself is enough.
Question 2
●My work honors the dignity of ordinary people and captures the pulse of contemporary South African life. Through painting, I explore culture, identity, and youth, bridging pop culture and streetwear with history. In a country marked by inequality, my practice becomes an act of empowerment—grounded in gratitude, storytelling, and the ongoing search for meaning.
Question 3
●Pushing culture through my practice as a painter is vital because my work exists within a global conversation about accountability, presence, and lived experience. As a young Black person in South Africa, and within the broader diaspora, I paint from lived realities—holding space for what it means to grow up, to endure, and to exist with awareness. My practice insists on being present: capturing and reflecting the political, emotional, and social conditions of my country and my people in real time.
Historically, Black figures in painting have often been pushed into shadows, misunderstood, or rendered invisible. My work responds to this absence. Painting becomes a way to reclaim visibility, agency, and authorship—to document our stories on our own terms. These narratives come from people who look like me, who live through these experiences, and who carry the weight of being human in complex and non-linear ways. There is power in that honesty.
My practice is committed to elevating Black life with care and truth. Through deliberate material choices and imagery rooted in everyday life, I explore resilience, unity, and collective healing. The figures in my work are not symbols or abstractions; they are reflections of shared humanity. While the experience of being human is often heavy and uneven, it becomes more grounding when people come together—not only to improve themselves, but to strengthen one another.
Ultimately, my work is about starting conversations: finding ways to live better, to reclaim dignity, and to imagine more sustainable and compassionate futures. Painting, for me, is both a record and a proposal—a space where reflection meets responsibility, and where coming together becomes an act of hope.