FIELD NOTES / No. 003
A Seamstress
My brother Terrel and I were only five years old when she stitched matching tuxedos for us to wear to the Miss Bahamas Beauty Pageant, where she had spent weeks making many of the contestants’ gowns. Long before I understood fashion or craftsmanship, I understood the excitement of watching fabric slowly become something extraordinary.
That was the world I grew up in.
Nearly every Saturday, my mother would gather us into the car and head into downtown Nassau. We’d visit the fabric stores first, running our hands across bolts of cotton, linen, satin, and lace before making our way to Mr. Joy’s on Farrington Road. Mr. Joy sold notions—buttons, zippers, thread, ribbons, hooks, snaps, buckles—thousands of small objects that most people hardly notice.
My mother noticed every one of them.
She could spend hours searching through trays of buttons, comparing textures, weights, and colors, imagining the possibilities before a single stitch had been sewn. As a child, I thought she was simply shopping.
Now I realize she was designing.
She had learned these skills from her own mother, passing knowledge from one generation to the next through her hands. There were no manuals. No formal classrooms. Just observation, repetition, patience, and care.
Although I never became a seamster, my mother taught me something even more valuable.
She taught me how to see.
She showed me that every material has a character. That every decision matters, even the ones most people will never notice. That excellence is often hidden in the smallest details—a perfectly chosen button, a carefully finished seam, a zipper that disappears into the garment as though it had always belonged there.
My brothers, Terrel, Kareem, and I were often recruited as assistants. We held fabric, sorted buttons, carried boxes, threaded needles, and did whatever small jobs she needed done. At the time, they felt like chores.
Looking back, they were lessons.
Some of my strongest childhood memories are of lying in bed late at night, listening to the steady rhythm of her sewing machine from another room. Long after the rest of the house had gone quiet, the motor continued to hum. That sound became part of the soundtrack of my childhood—a quiet reminder that beautiful things are often made while the world is asleep.
By then, handmade craftsmanship in the Bahamas was already beginning to disappear. Mass production was replacing the traditions that had shaped generations before us.
But my mother refused to let those traditions disappear.
In our community, she became something of a folk hero—not because she sought recognition, but because people trusted her hands. They came to her with weddings, graduations, celebrations, pageants, and moments they wanted to remember. She understood that clothing was never just clothing. It carried hope, pride, dignity, and memory.
When I think about my own work today, I realize I inherited far more than an appreciation for craftsmanship.
I inherited a belief that making is an act of love.
Every object deserves care. Every material deserves respect. Every detail deserves attention.
I learned all of that long before I ever called myself an artist.
I learned it sitting beside my mother as she quietly transformed cloth into something people would carry with them for the rest of their lives.