BASTIK

On my way to my studio, I was consumed by these emotions, and as soon as I arrived, I began to paint—not with a goal, but with an urgent need to channel what I was feeling. I painted a diptych that absorbed the chaos of my emotions with every brushstroke: a black stain stretched across a red background, with a glowing yellow light emerging in the space between the two panels. The act was instinctive, almost unconscious. When I got home that day, I looked at the picture I had taken of my chaotic composition and noticed something emerging—a bull.

The next day, I returned to the studio and carved the bull out from the darkness, leaving the yellow light suspended in the middle, glowing like a presence between the two canvases. The painting felt powerful but alien—unlike anything I had created before. Seeking insight, I reached out to my cousin Julie, who researches Haitian culture, history, and Vodou spirituality. I asked her about the significance of bulls in Haitian traditions, and off the top of her head, she shared that bulls are tied to the land and agricultural practices, and that in Vodou, the sacrifice of a bull is reserved for great causes.

That week, she sent me songs about bulls from Haitian artists like RAM, whose lyrics emphasized the bull’s endurance—its refusal to die easily. The symbolism struck me deeply. What was I painting? Was I painting a dying bull? Was I painting defeat?

As Julie continued her research, she connected the bull to Bossou, a lwa in Vodou associated with strength, protection, and the bull. What began as a spontaneous outpouring of emotion started aligning with layers of meaning from Haitian spiritual and cultural traditions. Julie shared a song, "Bossou ki kotew prale," by Samba Nikel. I had never heard of this song or seen its artwork before. But the album cover strikingly resembles my painting.

The connection deepened when I saw the vèvè associated with Bossou. On the geometrical drawing there is a bull, and on the bull’s head was a star—not just any star, the Star of David. The same star that appears on the Israeli flag. This detail left me speechless. I am still not sure what to think about it. The alignment between my painting, the violent events that propelled it, and the cultural and spiritual elements tied to Bossou felt inexplicable yet undeniable.

Reflecting on this experience, I find myself drawn to Frankétienne’s spiralism, which affirms that chaos is the womb of life and light. The chaos of my emotions, the chaos in Palestine, Beirut, Haiti, and the chaos on my canvas were all part of a larger process of creation. From the dark stain emerged the bull; from anger and worry emerged a sense of protection and endurance.

Bossou’s light was there all along. Before the bull, before the forms emerged, the light had been present in the middle of the two canvases—a quiet, persistent force holding the chaos together.

I do not claim to fully understand what happened. As someone who is not a Vodou practitioner, I approach these connections with deep respect and humility. What I can say is that this was a metaphysical experience for me—a moment where emotions, symbols, and the unseen forces of culture and history intertwined in a way that defies logical explanation.

Today, Bossou’s light illuminates new possibilities of being for me: the refusal to accept defeat, the understanding that defeat is death, and the endurance to find creation amid destruction. While I may not fully grasp the meaning of this experience, I hold the story close, allowing its mystery to live alongside its power.

Frankétienne says: The cosmos is the fundamental matrix of chaos, and chaos is inevitable.