I paint to translate inner worlds into colour. My work moves between two languages — vivid, geometric portraits of women, often Afro-Caribbean, adorned with hibiscus, music, and gold; and quieter, textural landscapes where a single figure meets sea, moonlight, or sky. I am Dominican, and have lived in Europe — the Netherlands and Ireland — for more than two decades. That long crossing sits inside the work: the warmth and saturation of the Caribbean meeting the restraint of the North, neither one winning. Hibiscus keeps reappearing. So does the moon. So do women standing alone, somewhere between two places. Music runs through much of what I make. Treble clefs wind through hair, notes drift across faces, melodies become rivers under full moons. I think of these as portraits of interior life — the soundtrack a person carries with them, made visible. I believe in excess where it earns its place. Gold leaf, glitter, crystal, metallic pigment — I use them without apology. They aren't decoration; they're how light enters the painting. A face deserves to shimmer. A moon deserves to be actually golden. I have no interest in the idea that serious painting must be sober. I work in acrylic on canvas and on fabric, often building texture with palette knife. Each piece is one of a kind. I don't make editions or prints; if a painting speaks to someone, it goes home with them and that conversation is finished. — Y.L.R.
