LC: You were awarded a family artist-in-residence position at the Wassaic Project for the summer of 2024. What was your experience in the residency and how did it influence your artwork?

DO: The Wassaic residency gave me space to reflect on identity and how I approach it in my work. During a phone conversation with a student, I shared how my parents immigrated from the Dominican Republic without an understanding of systemic oppression in the U.S. I thought about my father, a dark-skinned man from a low-income background, and how he struggled to navigate a society shaped by racism and classism. Those reflections surfaced in my studio practice as I began experimenting with cyanotype prints on pages from Drown by Junot Díaz. I coated the pages with light-sensitive solution and layered found materials like stones and a metal grid, creating prints that gave the impression of the text being submerged, connecting personal history to visual form.

I also had a good time getting to know the other artists-in-residence. There were meaningful conversations exchanged over meals and during informal gatherings, and we often traveled together to see gallery shows in nearby towns. One moment that stood out was learning what a hamlet is—small details like that grounded us in the unique character of the place.

The residency also allowed me to deepen my relationship with my son, who I don’t share a household with year-round. We spent mornings exercising and having breakfast together before he went to a camp focused on deconstructing instruments to make sculptures. Seeing his growing interest in working with his hands was meaningful, and having that creative rhythm together strengthened our bond.  It was comforting to have everything within walking distance—our home, my studio, and his camp. I was grateful to not have to commute and to be fully present. The experience also supported our evolving family dynamic—my wife and daughter joined us the following week, and after two weeks, we returned to the city so my son could reconnect with his mom. My wife and I were also able to carve out time to check in with each other, which felt grounding as we continue to blend our family with care and intention.

LC: You are a multimedia artist, community art producer, and educator who works in printmaking, collage, and sculpture. Are there artists or others who have inspired you to work in such a broad range of disciplines, and with a focus on community?

DO: My early experiences at The Children’s Art Carnival in Harlem were foundational—teaching artists there helped me understand that art can be both personal and communal. That ethos continues to guide my work as an educator and artist. Emmett Wigglesworth, a member of the Weusi Artist Collective and a teaching artist at CAC, deeply influenced how I teach; his emphasis on seeking and telling the truth through art shaped my approach to guiding students. I’m also inspired by Sanford Biggers, whose use of humor, metaphor, and a wide range of materials feels both practical and poetic, and David Hammons, for his conceptual rigor and sharp cultural critique. The late Betty Blayton, co-founder of the Children’s Art Carnival, was equally important—her belief in the transformative power of art and commitment to accessible, community-based education laid the foundation for how I approach my practice today. Living and working in Harlem continues to inform my commitment to community, equity, and creative purpose.

LC: Your two pieces in this exhibition, Father and Son, 2018, and Inception, 2019, are part of a series that you created using the cyanotype technique.  This is a resist printmaking process, first developed in the mid-19^th century.  The beautiful intense blue color is typical of cyanotypes, as is the reversed light to dark, similar to a negative.  Can you briefly describe how you utilize the cyanotype process to produce images on cotton fabric?

DO: Yes, the fabric is 100% cotton and repurposed—many pieces come from old pillowcases, tablecloths, or garments that hold personal or familial value. I made these pieces while in residence at Materials for The Arts. I begin by coating the fabric with a light-sensitive solution and letting it dry in the dark. Then, I layer found objects, drawings on transparent film, or photographic negatives and use either glass or plexiglass to hold down the transparencies while being exposed to UV light. I then take the exposed paper and place it through separate baths of water which means I submerge it in a tray with water and then another tray until the unexposed chemicals are removed from the fabric.  The image appears in silhouettes with those distinctive blues surrounding it. The process itself is methodical, hands-on, and the reliance on the UV light makes it a spiritual experience.  

LC: What attracted you to the cyanotype technique?  In these works, you are using different materials and images to create a print as opposed to physically collaging materials together.  Does the cyanotype process relate to your interest in collage?  

DO: Yes, the cyanotype process relates closely to my interest in collage. I’m drawn to how it allows me to assemble a composition by layering objects like shattered glass, jewelry, feathers, or cut-out drawings on acetate across the light-sensitive surface. While the process is photographic, the act of arranging elements on the fabric feels very much like building a collage. I was initially attracted to cyanotype because of its uniform, monochromatic quality—it creates a distinct environment through blues and their varying hues. I also appreciate how the final outcome is shaped by natural factors like the sun’s direction and time of day. Even though I’m not physically adhering materials to a surface, cyanotype lets me incorporate aspects of drawing, painting, and object-based composition in a way that feels cohesive with the rest of my practice.

LC: There is a mysterious and whimsical quality to these art works.  Can you talk about the imagery in these two fascinating pieces and what you would like for the viewer to take away and understand?

DO: Inception, 2019, connects to another work titled Good Souls Fly High, which was about my father’s passing. In Inception, my son gains a flying horse after losing his best friend—his grandfather. The horse becomes a metaphor for how he continues to soar through life, even after loss. At the center of the composition is a doily surrounded by wire hangers, forming a starburst. The hangers feel like a force field—protection and tension all at once. I incorporated forged metal spirals made during a residency at Vermont Studio Center, inspired by Adinkra symbols, specifically those representing leadership. Below, there’s a scale: one end shows a figure pulling down on the spiral’s tip—symbolizing the emotional weight of caring for my mother after my father's passing—and the other end features my co-parent balancing the opposite side with a sphere, symbolizing the complexity of maintaining a supportive partnership for our son. At the top right, my son rides the flying horse, protected by the same wire hanger force field. A man and woman float toward the star in search of God. The print ends in a scarf that flows into water, suggesting emotion, cleansing, and transition.

In making this work, I reflect on how, during the transatlantic slave trade, so many families were torn apart and scattered—yet bonds of care, spirit, and legacy endured across generations. That knowledge grounds me in the present and reminds me to nurture my own family, to stay connected in love and responsibility, even if we no longer share the same home. This piece is a vision of how we hold each other through time, space, and memory.

In Father and Son, 2018, a father figure stands surrounded by wire hangers, evoking both protection and pressure—fragile architecture holding shape under emotional weight. The child, placed within a square on the opposite side, appears held by structure but also set apart, as if watched over from a distance. Earrings scatter across the sky like stars, reminders of ancestral presence, while leaves float along the bottom—symbols of change, time, and rootedness. A doily in the upper left corner hovers like a setting sun behind a mountain, offering warmth and memory, a nod to matriarchal care and domestic rituals passed through generations.

The piece speaks to distance and connection—how fatherhood can be both near and far, steady and abstract. It also reflects on how the threads of lineage are never truly broken. In the context of the transatlantic slave trade, where families were forcibly torn apart and reconfigured, I’m reminded of the power of intention in keeping bonds alive. This print honors the beauty and ache of fatherhood, and the spiritual responsibility to show up, even across silence, time, or absence. It’s a prayer that love—when guided by grace—can bridge any divide.