Is philanthropy for you a soft power — or a form of protest? What has changed you the most?
Motherhood. It’s softened me in the best ways — and made me stronger than I thought I could be. I feel like The Velveteen Rabbit — and I love it.
As for philanthropy, I absolutely believe in voting with my purse. My contribution alone may be small — but collectively, it’s the only real way to create change.



As a writer, what’s harder — writing the sentence or choosing the painting?
Writing the sentence! I often think of the quote attributed to Mark Twain: “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.” Finding the right words in the right order is my daily struggle.
Choosing a painting is easier — I’m not the creator. I can simply see whether or not it works. Being the originator is far harder.



If you could pass on only one piece of art to the next generation, what would it be — and what would it say?
A small notecard that fits easily into a pocket. And it would read:
“Choose wisely.”

Interview by: Noskovskay Valeriia

You live between continents, cultures, and languages. Where do you feel most at home?
Wherever I find kindness — I know I can find home.

Which places have shaped you the most?
Kingston — because it was born of so many cultures brought or drawn there. It’s still being shaped.
The Masai Mara — for its sheer natural beauty.
Paris — because past and present exist there side by side.

Art and books are your architecture. What always lives on your bookshelf beside your paintings — and why?
Photos of the people I love.
The Elements of Style — a classic on clarity.
My parents’ personal Bibles — I love their handwriting, their notes, the verses that moved them.
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe — it distills the heart of colonization.
What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami — a meditation on movement, writing, and life.
And eyedrops — for all the reading and looking.

Turner’s landscape in your mother’s living room was your first encounter with “serious” art. What does that word mean to you now?
It was “serious” to me because it mattered to her. Today, “serious” still means: it matters — to me or to someone I love. In the art I take seriously, I look for rigor — where the material expression rises to meet the artist’s intention.

You collect works related to the Black diaspora. Is that about voice? Belonging? Identity? Or something even more personal?
It’s always personal. I collect what resonates with me as a woman, a mother, a daughter of immigrants, a lover, a sister — and a Black woman.

Suzanne, you don’t just collect art — you seem to see the soul in it. How do you know when a piece is truly “yours”?
Every piece I’ve ended up buying has called me closer — to investigate what the artist is trying to express. I don’t believe in love at first sight. I value the pieces I return to again and again, each time discovering something new.

You’ve said that Hiroshi Sugimoto’s Caribbean Sea photo is more than aesthetic — it’s a memory. Does art need to “hurt beautifully”?
I’m anti anything that hurts — but I believe art can teach. I came to that photograph around 2010. It was taken in Jamaica in 1980, where I grew up. Seeing it allowed me to rediscover the beauty of my homeland with fresh eyes. Sugimoto’s sea series is about time — and I find that deeply poetic.

She doesn’t just collect art — she listens to it. Writer, patron, and art collector Suzanne McFayden speaks to us about finding home in kindness, the poetry of memory, the rigor of creation, and the beauty of returning — to images, to books, to self.