Samson at Four captures a boy lost in mischief, a world I never fully entered. We were brothers but distant—I never knew his pranks, his laughter or the small rebellions that shaped him. Here, he stands like a trickster mid-scheme, his holiday hat and missing lenses hinting at a joke I was never in on. Playful yet distant, he reminds me how we moved through life on parallel tracks. The background drips like melting time, the circles hovering like echoes of presence and absence. In paint, I try to piece together what I missed, filling the spaces between us with colour, memory and longing.
Samson Preteen is laughter on the verge of breaking free, a boy settling into himself. He’s looser now, shoulders relaxed, head tilted just so—caught mid-joke, fully at ease. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he stands, his oversized shirt hanging off him like he couldn’t care less. He’s changing, stretching into something new, but without urgency—just riding the moment. The golden backdrop pulses behind him, alive, as if the world already knows he belongs. Here, he is rhythm, movement, transformation—paused just long enough to be seen.
Samson at Fourty is the culmination—where raw pain softens into bittersweet remembrance. His glazed eyes lock onto the viewer, suspended between worlds, as if seeing beyond the canvas. Haunting yet inviting, they confront the fragile line between presence and absence, silently asking for understanding. Sweat beads trail down his face—not just from effort, but from struggle, each drop clinging before falling, a quiet echo of endurance and time slipping away. The headphones tether him to something unseen, a rhythm that soothed him in life and lingers beyond. Though unheard, the melody endures—a quiet echo of his spirit, playing for those left behind.
Influences for this triptych draw from my Congolese heritage and the broader African tradition of honouring ancestors through art and memory. Historically, it mirrors the way artists like Käthe Kollwitz worked through personal grief, particularly in her series on the loss of her son in World War I. There’s also a philosophical undercurrent to the work, inspired by existentialist thought—particularly Søren Kierkegaard’s writings on loss and faith—and by the poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke, whose reflections on mortality have often resonated with me.
Like many of my works, I use a vibrant acrylic palette to convey deep emotion, blending the turbulence of grief with the quiet poignancy of memory. At the centre are the coin-like backdrops, a recurring element in my pieces. These circles symbolise the endless cycle of life, death and rebirth, their rhythmic repetition unmistakable. They also serve as a spiritual reminder that my work is about more than what’s visible—it’s about the unseen connections between past, present and future.