The Artist

A curator once introduced me as 'the work' and I have never corrected her. It remains the most accurate job description I've been given. I stand on plinths for a living. I hold still under museum light while people in good glasses walk slowly past me, and when the shutter goes, whatever I was doing with my shoulders becomes permanent. Most models are photographed. I prefer to say I'm acquired.

The white cube is my natural habitat. Give me an empty studio, one hard wall of daylight, a block to sit on, and I will give you a catalogue. I trained in dance in Santo Domingo until my knees filed a formal complaint, and what survived the transfer is placement: I know where my hands are the way other people know their own names. Photographers tell me I'm easy to light. That's generous. The truth is I've spent years learning what the light wants and getting there first.

Off the plinth I'm less exhibition, more storage room: I collect exhibition catalogues I have no shelf space for, I argue about merengue versus bachata with my brother every Sunday, and I maintain the afro like the national monument it is. My grandmother says I should smile more in pictures. I tell her the Mona Lisa built an entire career on declining to, and we leave it there until next Sunday.