Aminata's work is a testament to the power of memory, emotion, and personal history. Through her art—whether it's writing, photography, or ceramics—she finds ways to externalise the feelings and experiences that have shaped her. Little Girl Blue, one of such deeply personal pieces, was born from a need to honour her younger self, to make tangible the complexities of growing up, and to challenge the ways we extend (or withhold) grace based on appearance. Her creative journey isn’t just about aesthetics; it’s about validation, about making space for emotions often dismissed, about transforming pain into something beautiful.
In this conversation, we explore Aminata’s artistic process, the roots of her creative house, Iyeketi, the stories behind her most personal works, and how photography, in particular, has become a vessel for preserving the intangible. We discuss the ways colourism, memory, and identity influence her art, and how she has learned to reclaim moments from her past and turn them into something lasting and beautiful.
What was it like growing up as a child in Senegal?
I was born and raised in Dakar, Senegal, and my family still lives there. Now, I’m in Canada with my sister. Growing up in Dakar was a mix of conflicting realities for me. On one hand, I was deeply rooted in my culture—my family is very indigenous to Senegal, and we've been there forever. But on the other hand, I struggled with colourism, which created tension in different spaces. At the time, and even now to some extent, colourism was a big issue. If you were darker than what was considered the norm, you faced a lot of bullying. Despite all these challenges, I wouldn’t change my experience of growing up in Dakar—it was the best thing. I love Dakar; it’s my home, filled with memories of family, cousins, and community. But school was particularly difficult because of the way colourism played out there. Before I found the arts in general, books became my first escape, and my dad was a big part of that.
Outside of that, I also loved painting and drawing. But like many African parents, mine didn’t see art as a viable career path. Growing up, it just wasn’t an option from their perspective. Now, there’s been a shift—more openness to creative fields—but back then, pursuing art professionally wasn’t encouraged. Still, my childhood was a nuanced experience, like any other. It had its challenges, but it was also a very privileged one, giving me the opportunity to explore different interests and learn about the world in many ways.
Thank you. It’s important to mention these issues including colourism. It's lovely that you found solace in books and art. When did you first realise that art was your love language and that it was something that you wanted to pursue?
Funny enough, my shift toward fully embracing art is pretty recent—maybe a year or two ago. Before that, I saw it as more of a hobby, a way to express myself outside the rhythm of capitalism. But everything changed when I started a sculpture program two or three years ago. That was the moment I realised just how important art was to me. My practice evolved from scattered creative pursuits into something more defined—sculpture became my foundation. Before that, I was heavily involved in the fashion scene. I did some styling and customised clothes and shoes, so my art had a strong textile and fashion influence. Even now, there’s still a textile element to my work, but it's more rooted in studio arts. Being in the fashion industry for a while really shifted my perspective on art and commerce. I still believe fashion and art go hand in hand, but the commercial aspect of fashion—especially the consumerism—felt too brutal. Working in that space, I struggled with the culture and the character of people in the industry. It just didn’t align with what I believed art should be: something meaningful, something beneficial to people. That realisation pushed me to step away from fashion and focus entirely on studio arts—on creating for myself. Until two years ago, I hadn’t really defined what brought me joy or made me feel grounded in my art. But once I did, I made the conscious decision to fully invest in my practice.
I completely understand that. The commercial side can be hard to take in. I’m glad that it led you to find your path. You work across multiple disciplines–visual arts, ceramics, writing as well. How would you define yourself as an artist?
I know the word multi-disciplinary gets overused, but I think it genuinely applies to artistry. I recently heard someone say that to be an artist, you need to be in a constant state of play, always ready to learn. That really resonated with me because I’ve seen it in my own art practice and in others’. Artists usually have a medium they feel comfortable with—something that, through practice and technique, becomes second nature. But along the way, other materials and methods start calling to you. You find yourself experimenting, asking, ‘Why not try this with that material? What happens if I combine these?’ Before you know it, you’re working across multiple disciplines because they feed into one another. That constant play is what allows you to discover what excites you, what resonates, and what expands your artistic language. For me, that process started after high school. I had stopped drawing and painting when I entered university because, as my mom put it, that’s not serious work. But creativity found its way back through fashion. I played with dressing up and exploring shapes and silhouettes. Then, styling led me to construction—realising that when I didn’t have access to the right pieces, I had to build them myself. That process of layering and assembling translated into a love for working with my hands, which led me to ceramics. In ceramics, I fell in love with shaping, which naturally progressed into sculpture using different materials.
So for me, being an artist is about living. Your experiences, interests, and curiosities all shape your practice, and more often than not, that practice becomes multidisciplinary. It’s a constant evolution, and I think I’ve only recently come to fully embrace that.
That makes a lot of sense. I noticed you also enjoy spaces and architecture in general. How did that come about?
With sculpture, I also started discovering more artists and architects, and I’ve come to really admire the way architects define space—not just in terms of construction, but in how we live and interact within those spaces. Funny enough, at one point, I actually wanted to be an architect. But then I realised I hate math. That was the dealbreaker. Still, my love for architecture never faded, so I found another way to engage with it—through sculpture. Sculpture, in a way, led me back to architecture and design in general, including interior design. Because at its core, artistry is design. Even though they’re considered separate fields, the creative process feels the same—building something from the ground up. That’s why you see architects transitioning into creative direction for fashion houses. The foundation is similar; it’s all about structure, form, and function.
Travelling has also made me more aware of how our environment shapes us. The imagery we see every day, the layout of our cities, and even the smallest design choices influence how we move, interact, and experience life. When I lived in Montreal, for example, I noticed how walkable the city is. The streets are shorter, making it easier to cross, and certain areas are blocked off for pedestrians. That kind of urban planning directly affects how a community functions—how people connect, and how they move through their daily lives. It made me realise how deeply design impacts not just aesthetics but the way we exist in a space. How do people engage in this neighbourhood? Places are urbanely designed in a way that they have access to each other more easily, it encourages interaction and community. During a visit to Singapore earlier last year, I discovered some architects. I learn through reading as well. I also have friends who are architects and work in architecture, some enjoy it and some don’t and they find themselves slipping and transitioning into other means of art like fashion. This exposure developed this little passion of mine for architecture and a part of me still believes that one day, I’ll go back and get a bachelor’s in architecture.
That would be very cool. It’s all so connected, at the end of the day. You’ve mentioned a couple of places and I’ve seen some of your videos exploring spaces in your home country, Senegal, as well. I wanted to ask what in Africa has influenced the way you tell stories or the way you look at art?
That’s an interesting question—one I’ve never really asked myself before. But I think, whether I’m fully aware of it or not, my influences come from many places. Writers, for sure, because I love reading, and storytelling plays a huge role in how I approach art. Lived experiences shape a lot of my work, and now, more than ever, I find that places influence me as well. If you had asked me three years ago, I probably wouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t as aware of my environment back then. But as I’ve grown into myself, I’ve started to see the world differently. There’s still a lot of discovery happening—I'm still in my twenties, after all. But certain inspirations stand out: authors and directors I admire, and architects I’ve come across at symposium’s and other conferences; and Senegalese artisans, who have been a constant presence in my life. In Dakar, for example, you see artisans displaying their work along the roadsides all the time. It’s part of the everyday landscape, something I grew up with but never fully appreciated until I got older. That kind of imagery—so deeply woven into daily life—becomes an influence even when you don’t realise it.
And when you grow up within a certain environment, it’s just your reality, and you don’t always recognise how different it is from other places. It’s only when you step away, experience new spaces, and then return that you start to see things with fresh eyes. Living in Montreal for a few years and travelling in between really made me notice how cultural practices shape everything—the way we build, the way we arrange our surroundings, the way we tell stories, and even how we live our daily lives. That shift in perspective helped me appreciate my own culture more. I started seeing the value in things I once took for granted—whether it’s the stories passed down through my family, the way my aunts share experiences, or even the textiles I use in my work. A lot of the fabrics I work with were given to me by family members, not something I went out and bought. In Senegal, we’re big on giving—hospitality is at the core of who we are. We give stories, we give objects, we share spaces. And for me, receiving these things—whether they’re physical or intangible—becomes a way of learning, of taking in culture and history in a deeply personal way.
Speaking of drawing inspiration, what exactly are your own general inspirations? I know Iyeketi means to uplift. So what inspired that? And what inspires you in general?
So, if I were to say it directly, it means "to lift something up." It refers to picking something up, and I think I was in a phase of my life where I took this as a personal driving force. At the time, I often felt alienated—not just within fashion, but within the creative scene as a whole. I struggled to understand the reasoning behind how people navigated it, especially when it came to promoting messages or ideologies they claimed to believe in—messages that were supposed to support the community and culture. The culture is the people, after all. But while there was plenty of talk about uplifting the community, I saw little action to back it up. I noticed contradictions—people publicly advocating for protecting others while privately enabling harmful behaviour. There were individuals who would go online and champion causes like protecting Black women, yet behind the scenes, their actions told a different story. They were commodifying these messages, using them to gain access to spaces they claimed to reject, yet actively sought out. Recognising this hypocrisy, I made the decision to remove myself from that environment. I needed to ground myself in my own artistic practice and redefine who I was outside of a creative community that no longer aligned with my values. That’s where Iyeketi came from—it became a mindset, a commitment to openness, both within myself and toward whatever unfolded in my journey.
To be an artist—or to truly find yourself as one—you have to live your life. And living comes with challenges, choices, and an understanding of where you stand in different situations. Who are you beyond the things you say? How do you actually behave when faced with the same situations you judge others for? How do you show up for the people and causes you claim to love—whether in an abstract sense or in real, tangible ways? Who are we really protecting? Who are we enabling by refusing to take a stand? If the opportunities we chase are built on the very harm we claim to oppose, then should we willingly partake in them? That realisation became a compass for my art practice. It shaped the stories I wanted to amplify and engage with. I love my family. I love my friends. They—along with so many others—are my direct connection to a communal practice. They don’t exist in a vacuum or as theoretical concepts; they are real people with real lives. So, my question became: How do I align my art with the things that truly matter to me? How do I ensure that my work contributes to the well-being of the people I care about, whether in thought or in action? And I think that’s where my love for certain themes and ideas comes from.
When I talk about stories, when I mention authors—these are people who genuinely believe in endogenous practices and the idea that we are all interconnected. Whether we share a nationality, a culture, or not, we are mirrors of each other at the end of the day. That understanding has become the foundation of what I believe in and what I strive to enable—through the imagery I create, the work that interests me, the projects I choose to be part of, and the people I want to support, surround myself with, and love. To me, all of these things are intertwined. They aren’t separate threads but part of a larger whole that should be uplifted together. And that just makes sense.
Perfect. Judging from the way you've just spoken about how everything came about, it’s clear that it’s very personal. And so is a lot of your work; from Little Girl Blue to even your ceramic pieces. Walk me through the emotions and ideas behind specific pieces that you make.
Little Girl Blue was born from a moment of self-reflection—a realisation that in some ways, I was letting down my younger self. As a child, I often felt unappreciated and denied the same grace as others because of how I looked. I wanted to externalise those feelings, to create something tangible in a world where fashion often felt fleeting, existing only in images and posts. I gathered fabrics that carried history—curtains from my childhood home, a piece of my mom’s dress, and other materials tied to my past. A childhood photo became central to the piece. I remember that day: I had been happy until I was scolded for no reason and then told to smile for the picture. That moment stayed with me—it wasn’t that I chose to frown; my environment had shaped my response. Little Girl Blue was my way of reclaiming that moment, of transforming pain into something meaningful.
My childhood was beautiful, but injustice was woven into it. I felt things deeply, even when I lacked the words. Over time, I saw how these experiences shape us—how even those who love us can cause harm. It’s never just one story; it’s layers, colliding to form who we become. In making Little Girl Blue, I honoured my younger self, acknowledged my pain, and made peace with it.
Colourism also played a role in these experiences, yet it was often dismissed. It’s not just about attraction—it’s about who is given patience, grace, and the space to be human. It dictates who gets left behind in times of war as we’ve seen so often. Who is viewed as expendable and whose bodies are seen as a space that is naturalised for harm. The question is: why does this spectrum of desirability dictate how much humanity and compassion we’re extended? For dark-skinned girls, life was never easy—no matter where we were. Little Girl Blue became a declaration of what I deserved: grace, understanding, and the right to just be. It marked a turning point—letting go of certain people and stepping into myself. While ceramics feel like play, my deepest emotions always return to photography, especially archival family photos. That’s where my memories live, where my connection to home—Senegal—feels most real. There’s something so delicate about those memories, like they can only truly exist in souvenirs. A photograph may be flat, but the emotions tied to it make it feel alive to me. And then the question becomes: how do I translate that for others?
I enjoyed walking through that with you—thank you. We consume things digitally now. You're on Instagram and TikTok, and you’ve built a community there, but you also love working with your hands—creating things you can touch and feel. How has digital storytelling blended with your traditional mediums? And how has social media influenced your work and the way you connect with others?
That’s still an ongoing journey for me—figuring out how to connect my physical work to the digital space. There’s definitely a community and interest online, but sometimes, to me, a picture falls flat. I’m particularly drawn to video because I feel like emotions come through more in motion than in a static image—though, of course, some photographers are incredible at capturing that essence in a single shot. So, for me, this remains an open question. I often create work that I never post—not because I don’t want to share it, but because I struggle to translate how it makes me feel in real life through a digital camera. That can be frustrating, so sometimes, I just don’t do it. Lately, I’ve been trying to break that mould by experimenting more with recording and editing. But anything longer than 30 seconds? Wow. I suddenly understand why editors get paid so well. I can’t be everything—I can’t be the artist, the editor, and everything in between. So sometimes, it’s easier to keep it to myself, share it with friends, or simply post a quick picture in a dump without making a whole thing about it. That’s also why writing is important as an artist—it helps you present your work when images alone aren’t enough. I was recently at a design symposium and I saw an artist whose work I’ve admired for a while, Delali Cofie. He has a series of sculptures that are worn on the body, and I think the whole project is called At the Conjuring of Roots, I Wished To Meet Me. I already loved the work, but reading his artist statement gave it a whole new layer of meaning for me. It made me realise that the process—the why behind making something, and the conscious decisions taken along the way—is a crucial part of storytelling. That process itself can help explain the work in a way that visuals alone sometimes cannot.
I’ve been yearning to write more. I really do enjoy writing, but I think university took the joy out of it for me. After writing so many papers, I just hit a wall—like, okay, I’m exhausted. So now, I’m trying to rediscover writing for myself, outside of that academic space.
Lately, I’ve been reading two authors who have really stuck with me—Akwaeke Emezi and Malidoma Somé. They both have this way of not just explaining a concept but fully embodying it in their writing. It’s so clear, so immersive, that I just get it instantly, even when it’s fiction. I find that so beautiful, and I yearn to write like that. But, if I’m being honest, I’m also intimidated by it. The idea of sharing with an online community is something every artist grapples with, I think. I was talking to a friend of mine, Raul—he’s a painter in his 40s, has worked in so many different mediums, and is now teaching me how to paint. Even with all his experience, he still has questions about social media and storytelling. Not necessarily about building a huge audience, but about reaching people—getting the stories we long to tell in front of the people who need to hear them. That’s why physical spaces matter so much. Exhibitions, symposiums, conferences—these are crucial for community-building and discussions that go beyond just the art itself. They create space for conversations about ideologies that shape the arts, about how we can move forward, and sometimes just for pure play, for joy. And when I find myself overthinking all of this, feeling lost in the process, I remind myself: that all I have to do is exist in a way that makes sense today. That’s enough.
Absolutely. It’s difficult to share something so personal and find the ‘right’ way to do so. As you’ve mentioned before, you love fashion and I would describe your style as bold, poetic, and playful. How does fashion tie into your overall artistic identity?
My fashion is deeply tied to how I feel—it all flows from simply living. Fashion videos come easily to me because they’re effortless; I’m already wearing the outfits, so setting up my phone before heading out feels natural. I owe my love of fashion to my mother. She was the star of the family, always arriving with a look that turned heads. Watching her get dressed was mesmerising—no matter how she felt, she carried herself with grace and self-respect. I think I’ve taken that with me but in my own way. My style shifts depending on where I am. In Canada, especially in winter, my outfits are more practical and toned down because I’m focused on getting things done. But in Dakar, it’s different. I feel bolder, and more experimental with textures and colours. There, dressing up is slower, and more intentional—less about function, and more about expression.
When I was younger, I swore off black. It felt flat, like a missed opportunity for something bolder. Now, I wear it all the time—not for style, but for practicality. In the studio, black hides stains and keeps me looking put together. Ironically, what I once rejected now serves me in ways I never expected. But I still find ways to make it interesting—focusing on silhouettes, structured pieces, and statement outfits that stand out. My style has also shifted toward comfort. I used to love high-waisted pants, but now? If it’s uncomfortable, I’m not wearing it. There’s a deep self-respect in choosing comfort—physically, emotionally, creatively. Fashion (and life) should move in alignment with how you feel. Statement pieces do the work for you when effort feels out of reach. When people ask, “How do you dress like that?” the answer is simple: by living. Prioritising comfort and instinct naturally shapes your style. And in a world that constantly destabilises us—especially as Black people—choosing ease is a quiet act of resistance. Whether in fashion, art, or life, it’s about finding what makes sense for you and holding onto it.
Finally, what's next for you?
I think I’m living in my next right now. I just moved cities after spending eight years in Montreal, where I started feeling stagnant. Last year, I realised I wanted to take sculpture and installation more seriously, so I applied to one of my dream schools—and now, I’m in their sculpture program. Moving cities felt like stepping into the next stage of my life. Montreal had a creative community, but it didn’t quite reflect what I was looking for. I have friends there whom I love dearly—they were my anchors—but I needed something new, something that made me feel like my life was moving forward again. So now, I’m in a transition phase, still adjusting, still exploring. It’s challenging, but I’m staying open—to whatever feels right, comfortable, and in alignment with how I want to exist both for myself and for others.
Lately, I’ve been enjoying my time in the studio, meeting other artists, and doing studio visits. That’s actually how I’ve been making new friends—people invite me to their studios, and I get to see their work up close. That’s how I met Raul, a painter, and his partner Flora, who has a papermaking studio. I even learned how to make paper! It’s not for me (too wet!), but it was a cool experience. So right now, I’m just settling into this phase—feeling however I feel each day and moving accordingly. I’m taking care of the people I love, showing up when it matters, and holding myself accountable for the things I’m still learning. There’s always more to learn, always more growth ahead. But for now, I’m embracing this next—wherever it leads.
Thank you so much, Aminata. It was a pleasure speaking with you.
Written by: Mary Obiri-Ibe and Omotola Saba
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