The Language of Healing: Paulcy Odama on Art, Medicine, and Meaning

Paulcy Odama is an artist who approaches the human condition with the sensitivity of someone who has witnessed both the fragility of the body and the complexity of the mind. Before dedicating herself fully to art, she practiced medicine — a journey that continues to shape her understanding of suffering, resilience, healing, and the quiet contradictions of existence. Today, her multidisciplinary practice spans painting, ceramics, and mixed media, using materials such as earth pigments, charcoal, clay, thread, gauze, pearls, and stone to construct deeply symbolic works that invite contemplation rather than certainty.

Across series such as Humans and Ladders, Humans vs Dreams, Those Behind the Bushes, and Humans and Hymns, Paulcy examines ambition, memory, hope, conflict, transformation, and our shared humanity. Her figures, often faceless, translucent, stitched, or suspended between presence and absence, become mirrors through which viewers encounter their own longings, fears, and questions about what it means to live.

In this conversation, Paulcy reflects on her transition from medicine to art, the philosophical ideas that shape her practice, the symbolism embedded in her materials, and why she believes art is not merely a form of expression but a space where humanity can confront its deepest wounds, uncertainties, and possibilities.

Haneefah: You once worked as a medical doctor, healing physical bodies, and now you create art that seems to examine the soul. Looking back, do you feel you changed professions… or simply changed the language through which you heal people?

Paulcy: I don’t see it as a complete change of profession. Medicine made me sensitive to human struggles, resilience, the fickleness of life, and the complexity of humanity. Art allows me to explore all those concepts from a different angle. As a doctor, I treated physical wounds, and as an artist, I treat emotional, social, and existential wounds that we carry.

Your work repeatedly explores the tension between control and fate. Do you believe human beings truly shape their destinies, or are we mostly responding to forces larger than ourselves?

I believe we are shaped by both, depending on our drive and choices. We are constantly moving between agency and circumstance, between moves we make and moves that were made for us.

There’s a haunting awareness of striving in your art, people climbing, waiting, competing, dreaming, falling. What is it about the human condition that draws you so deeply to these moments of longing and uncertainty?

Because longing is universal. Humans are insatiable, constantly reaching for something. Yet we are not certain or guaranteed that we will get what we want. I am interested in that fragile space between aspiration and outcome, where uncertainty exists.

In Humans and Ladders, the climb toward success feels endless, almost tragic. Do you think modern society has confused achievement with fulfilment?

Absolutely. We keep climbing, and when we get to one destination, we climb again blindly. Always reaching, always stretching ourselves thin. Praying that once we reach that certain height, we will feel happiness and fulfilment. But we are hungry beings; satiety never arrives.

Many of your works suggest that happiness is fleeting and unstable. Why do you think human beings struggle so much with contentment, even after getting what they once desired?

Because desire constantly renews itself. The moment one desire is fulfilled, another one comes. We never stop dreaming. It is like a loop, going round and round.

Your figures often appear translucent, faceless, or unfinished, as though they exist between presence and disappearance. What does that ambiguity represent for you?

The figures are intentionally open. I want to create a space where every viewer can see themselves in my work, regardless of gender, class, or race. The ghost-life figures also speak to impermanence, memory, and the fleeting nature of existence.

You work with earth pigments, charcoal, gauze, thread, pearls, stones, and clay, materials that already seem to carry memory and history within them. Do you see your materials as collaborators in storytelling rather than mere artistic tools?

Yes. My materials are not passive. Earth, clay, charcoal, and stone carry histories within them. Gauze suggests healing, thread suggests connection, and clay reminds us of transformation. Each material brings its own meaning to the conversation.

Your canvases are punctured, stitched, and partially repaired, almost like wounded bodies trying to heal. Why is visible damage and imperfect restoration so important in your artistic language?

Our planet is a body made of several systems functioning as one, but we have made so many wounds in it marked by conflict, loss, and environmental degradation. The holes are my acknowledgement of these fractures. I use dyed medical gauze to fill the big holes and leave the smaller holes open because most times in society, we wait for problems to become huge before we try to solve them.

In Humans vs Dreams, some people leap toward their dreams while others abandon them entirely. What do you think separates those who continue dreaming from those who quietly surrender?

Hope. Not optimism but pure hope. The willingness to continue despite uncertainty and disappointment. The people who continue dreaming are not necessarily the strongest or most talented; they are the ones who push despite the setbacks.

Those Behind the Bushes present humanity almost like pawns in a hidden game of power. When you observe the world today, do you think people truly understand who or what shapes their realities?

Not always. Many forces shaping our lives are invisible. We often experience their effects without seeing or knowing them. My work invites viewers to question what lies behind the visible surface of things.

Your work often feels philosophical, spiritual, and symbolic all at once. Are you consciously asking existential questions through your art, or do those questions naturally emerge during the creative process?

Both. I begin with a concept, but the work often leads me to deeper questions. The process is as much about discovery as it is about expression.

In Humans and Hymns, humanity becomes an orchestra capable of harmony through humility and shared suffering. Do you still believe human beings are capable of genuine unity in today’s world?

Paulcy: This painting is a prayer. Sincerely, it’s difficult to have faith in humanity. We have shown that we are capable of extraordinary division. Continent versus continent, country versus country, state versus state, tribe versus tribe, classmate versus classmate, and the list goes on. I am a realist; I do not think we are capable of absolute, genuine unity. But we can all try to be more compassionate and cooperative.

Transformation appears constantly in your ceramic works; butterflies, flowers, pearls, dust becoming beauty. Why are you so drawn to the idea that growth often emerges through pain and pressure?

Because nature demonstrates this constantly: pearls form through irritation, and clay transforms through fire. Butterflies emerge through struggle. Growth is never comfortable. Many of my most meaningful transformations came through pain. I find beauty in the paradox.

Your art seems less interested in giving answers and more interested in holding difficult truths in suspension. Is art, for you, a way of understanding life… or a way of surviving it?

Both. It can get overwhelming, living in the times we are in today. Art helps me make sense of the world. I am interested in creating a space for reflection. Maybe if I can see my struggles illustrated, I can understand them better. Art is my therapeutic release.

If your entire body of work could leave humanity with one final reflection, one truth about being human, what would you want people to carry with them long after they leave your exhibition?

I would love for people to not just know but be conscious of the fact that we all share the same humanity. We are playing different versions of the same game, and perhaps the deepest meaning lies not in winning but in shared living.