A: That was in 2007, after I finished my Domestic Threats series. The last painting in that series hardly interested me. I was wringing my hands, thinking, “I’m a full-time artist not making art —what do I do NOW?” It was frightening. At the time, I was also taking a jazz history class at Lincoln Center. One day the instructor spoke about Miles Davis.

He explained how Davis moved away from bebop —where musicians packed in as many notes as possible to show off—to cool jazz, where every note carried weight.

And something clicked. I realized I’d been working like bebop: showing off meticulous detail, every stitch of fabric, every grain in a wooden floor.

That revelation was my way forward. I stripped everything back. No more domestic backdrops. Just the figures, placed against solid black. Only what mattered. That was the beginning of my Black Paintings.

The block that had haunted me for months lifted in an instant, because I’d found a new way to speak. I realized the black background represented the dark place I had emerged from; the vibrant figures symbolized resilience and life.

It was like a lightbulb going off.

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