What is your expression?
I work with things that are around me. I engage more with things most people don’t usually see like mycelia, the tiny root-like threads of fungi that grow underground and turn them into large, delicate installations. It is my way of giving space and shape to what often goes unnoticed, whether it’s in nature, in the body, or in everyday life.
My expression lives in the space between softness and structure. I work with fiber-based materials like raffia, voile, cardboard, fabrics to build fluid architectural, and site-specific installations that feel fragile, resisting monumentality.
These forms often sag, cling, or quietly spread in space and way beneath the surface.
I am drawn to processes that hold memory: plaiting, stitching, mat-weaving, cutting, knotting, painting, assembling, print making, painting. I find pausing and meditation in repetition, in the hand that returns again and again. I work in dialogue with digital processes of mark making like laser-cutting and engraving.
I make work that asks to be witnessed slowly. Whether I am working with digital tools or ancestral techniques, I am interested in what remains when strength isn’t performed but quietly endured.
I look into the value of things; I am interested in what is essential versus what is visible. I work with overlooked materials that challenge ideas of what is essential, asking us to see care not as something secondary, but as a force that holds, supports, and remains. My choice of material is partly determined by their meaning to me, my experience in how I work with them, availability, access; whether I will be able to source more.
What inspires you?
I am inspired by what lingers by unfinished thoughts, quiet tensions, and the kinds of longings that don’t go away with time. There is a tenderness in wanting more from within me and then the world while learning to live with what is. My practice often begins there in that space of ache, care, and noticing.
As an African woman and contemporary artist currently living/working in Norway-Europe, I often feel the gap between what is seen and what is understood. That distance has taught me to trust subtlety. I am drawn to materials like raffia (which we use to make crafts for home and other people´s homes) and cardboard (which is seen carrying precious, valuable items, in transit but is often overlooked, discarded when its purpose is over) not only for their tactility, but because they carry histories of labor, movement, survival. I think about care a lot not as performance, but as something lived, repeated, sometimes unspoken. Siri Hustvedt’s The Shaking Woman also helped me see how the body holds what language cannot. That stayed with me.
I love how society says ‘you got this, queen’ right before watching you burn out and calling it a character flaw.
I am inspired by the tension between what we are taught to hold in and what longs to fall apart; especially the kind of femininity that demands to be composed, capable, and endlessly giving, not asking for help never needing, never breaking: continuous proof that you are competent as alive, and endlessly available. I think a lot about hyper-independence. It says: “If I don’t hold it together, no one will.” But in nature, mycelium offers a different model. It survives not by standing alone, but by spreading, connecting, and sharing, entanglement. Probably hyper-independence is a survival instinct in response to not being held. I am interested in how softness, rest, and even collapse can be deliberate refusals, results, and not just signs of failure.
I am encouraged by constructive feedback and those that believe in, support my practice. I am also inspired by people who have been pushed to the margins yet continue to create, gather, and sustain their practice and others. Much of my work is shaped by a deep commitment to those communities especially women who build support systems with very little, and whose contributions are too often invisible. In many ways, I make art to honor that invisible strength. I keep going because I believe in structures where people and practices can breathewhich shapes both how I work and what I hope to create with others.
How do you describe your art?
I describe my work as a conversation about what holds us up and what we overlook. It’s rooted in care, in repetition, in the tension between what is visible and what is essential. Even when it appears delicate, every line, knot, or cut is carrying something joy, being, grief, rest, labor, memory, or hope. I don’t mind if people interpret it differently. What matters to me is that they feel invited to slow down and notice what they might usually pass by.
My work holds both friction and flow. There is a tension between softness and structure, between the handwoven and the machine-cut, between what is inherited and what I am inventing as I go. I use materials like raffia, voile, and laser-cut cardboard some tied to ancestral craft; not as nostalgia, but as a living thread passed through generations, hands, and quiet labor even if not declared. In a fast-moving art world, I find value in slowness, softness, and the kinds of knowledge that endure, others to digital precision to build forms that sag, spread, or cling.
I am drawn to contradictions domestic labor rendered monumental, delicacy that disrupts, visibility shaped by absence. At the same time, there are parallels running through it all: care as structure, repetition as language, the body as an archive, vessel. My art doesn’t try to reconcile everything. It invites the viewer to slow down, notice the in-between, and stay with what isn’t easily resolved. Some see calm in what I make. Others feel unease. Both are welcome.
I paint and draw a lot too.
In my most recent installation Table of Air, shown at Bergen Kunsthall earlier this year, I worked with countless laser-cut mycelial forms in cardboard, stitched and assembled with raffia into a fragile form of a pillar stretching across from the center of the room to the walls, threatening collapse. I was thinking about the mushroom; specifically, the Kabaala, a sacred and indigenous mushroom from Buganda as both a spiritual and communal force. It nourishes, it gathers, it disappears. In that, it holds the memory of something shared, something devoured.
The work questioned: what is essential, and what is merely visible? What do we consume without noticing? My installations often choose not to perform solidity. Their fragility is intentional. They side-eye the idea that value must be loud, heavy, or permanent. Sometimes we rarely notice what matters most until we stop to look.
It`s smaller parts did not stand alone. They leaned, depended, interconnected for the whole structure to stand without eventually collapsing. I reflect on how interdependence is not weakness, but structure; how support systems often operate through entanglement, not just dominance. We are asked to consider: What if dependence is not a flaw, but a way of staying alive together? What if tending to ourselves is not separate from care, but part of what makes it sustainable.
`A dress that can not be worn´ plays with expectation and refusal.
It is what happens when femininity refuses to behave. I laser-cut it into pieces; not out of rage, but relief. It was easier to shred the expectation than to squeeze into a shape that was maybe not meant to hold me. In this work, we see a royal blue dress made from repurposed fabric shreds and reassembled into the shape of a dress. it carries the silhouette of something meant to adorn. It references something meant to be worn, admired, or contain yet it resists function, containment, and ease. It’s a dress that remembers being worn, but it later made space for something else entirely, more like decaying into a new beginning.
Why did you end up living where you are?
I came to Bergen for art school and somehow, I am still here. I am still figuring out if I’m here by choice, by visa conditions, or by sheer artistic stubbornness, but Bergen has a way of growing on you (literally it rains enough for that).
In all seriousness, I have been able to carve out space here to make work, and to ask better questions. It is not always easy being an African artist in a small Nordic city, but between the rain, the quiet, and the friction something is making form, sharpening my voice. I am here building, quietly rooting, and letting mycelial things take shape.
What do you like about the art scene and the town?
There is a kind of intimacy in Bergen’s art scene that I appreciate. It’s small enough that people remember your name, but large enough to challenge you. You can show up to an opening alone and still end up deep in conversation with a curator, a fellow artist, or someone who just wandered in from the rain. That openness matters.
And the town? It’s dramatic in all the right ways seven mountains, endless rain, and light that changes your whole palette. Bergen forces you to slow down, which isn’t a bad thing when you’re working with unresolved ideas. It holds space for quiet work, and I like that.
What could be better in the local artscene?
There is goodwill in the Bergen art scene, however access can still be shaped by slow decision-making, bureaucratic processes, and an unspoken preference for familiar networks and maybe aesthetics.
Inclusion may often stop at invitation. I think what is needed is deeper trust, more risk taking, shared authorship, and long-term support for voices that challenge the usual pace or shape of things.
What are you currently working on?
Right now, I’m sketching and testing new ideas still exploring my fluid, architectural forms, but with a renewed focus on working sustainably and independently. After years of research and access to high-end equipment in art school, I am learning how to adapt my methods to what’s available to me now, more tactile, more deliberate. I am listening and paying more attention to the decisions I make while creating repeatedly.
I am also writing a lot: grant applications, proposals, and reflections that help me stay close to the heart of my practice while navigating the demands of survival. Protecting my focus feels urgent. I am in a tender but determined phase: experimenting, applying, and actively seeking work that can hold space for both my creativity and my livelihood here, or, and in Uganda.
I am open to opportunities that deepen my practice and invite collaboration, whether through exhibitions, residencies, teaching, or commissions. I am especially drawn to long-term projects that center dialogue, care, and the voices of those often overlooked, where I can both grow and contribute meaningfully.
What are your ambitions and plans for the future?
I am committed to building a practice that thinks and expresses work that holds space for care, complexity, and the kinds of truths that don’t need to be resolved to be real.
I plan to develop more large-scale installations especially site specific ones, collaborate across disciplines, and eventually create platforms that support other underrepresented artists, and also those that cause the less privileged yet talented to believe in possibility.
Long-term, I hope to balance making with mentoring, and continue shaping conversations around materiality, memory, and visibility both inside and beyond the gallery space. I am not rushing, but I am moving with intention.
Who of your colleagues deserves more attention?
Isah Kiviaho, a friend and photographer who works across photography, is experimenting with installation, coding, and performance, but what sets her apart is the way she choreographs moments of reverie; delicate, charged spaces where presence drifts between memory, emotion, and embodiment. Her relationship to nature is immersive and intuitive, often blurring the line between ritual and play, grief and softness.
While I often approach fragility through structure and the quiet labor of care, Isah’s practice moves more like a daydream that refuses to be tamed. She pairs ephemeral materials like dried petals, blurred bodies, and stillness in motion with a curious use of digital tools, not to control the image, but to let it slip, echo, and unfold. There’s a rare emotional precision in how she captures the in-between: Moments that ask nothing of you except to notice, to stay a little longer.