I think it's every artist's nature to want to escape. It's also human nature in a way, depending on your personality, to want to get away from it all.

I was born in a small clapboard house on an island, but I also have certain privileges that I didn't have when I was on the island. So that dichotomy again is actually really crucial.

If you take a flower to Mars, for example, the hostility of Mars probably won't allow the flower to live without oxygen. The process of being an artist, for someone who wasn't born in an arts-centric environment - I came from the Bahamas, where there's not a historic tradition of art-making, at least from the Western prospective - in a way is kind of an alien concept.

I don't really feel pressure. I'm so distracted by what we're doing; I'm doing this four-acre project, it's just absorbing all my attention. Before you know it we're onto the next project, and so on and so forth.

Sometimes I'm inspired by the material and sometimes there's an idea that speaks to a material.

Poetry makes sense of the parts of human experience that are confusing and not decodable in any other way. It makes accessible the inaccessible.

I think there's an interesting line drawn towards extreme environments, and the way I define extreme is through a sense of otherness. Or foreignness.