Behind the Canvas: The Story of Textured White
The hidden DNA demands to be seen. You can coat it in plaster, but the soul will always find a way to break through the surface.
Using thick plaster, sand, and rough strands of frayed burlap, I unwittingly poured the entire 500-year geometry of the novel into one monochromatic canvas. Clara’s inner tension continued gnawing at me even after the book was complete. I needed to represent that constant friction of living inside a light-skinned body that hides the truth of who she really is and where she comes from—the feeling of an identity trying to claw its way out after being buried for generations.
But if you look closely, you can almost make out the winds caressing Puerto Rico, the Oba Oriaté’s cowry shells, and even the sweat-soaked uniform of a 39th New York Infantryman standing at the blood-stained Angle at Gettysburg.
What do you see?
