Featured Artist

By Emma Defries 

Emma Defries is based in London and works at the Lisson Gallery; she is also opening a UK residency in collaboration with the Public Statue and Sculpture Association. We had a lovely natter about her work over a cuppa.

Could you share the earliest influences that shaped your creativity?

I grew up on the West Coast of Scotland on the Isle of Islay in the Hebrides, a remote atoll of islands rich in ancient history, wildlife, and whisky. It was a relatively feral existence, often left to my own devices, exploring secluded beaches and craggy hills with friends or on a pony for entertainment; the only rule was to appear for meals. Dark rock pools, which at first glance seemed rather dull, were a theater of entertainment, watching trout rise in a loch on a warm afternoon, standing against the wind on a craggy hilltop whilst being lifted off your feet watching the churning sea below.

The weather was the constant companion; if you waited long enough, it would change from mist to rainbows; like any coastal area, the light spilled everywhere, shifting constantly. The ferries and small planes were controlled by the weather, at times not getting supplies into the island community for a few days. This place taught me to look, explore, and be curious; given the limited TV and telephone exchange. We only had a few shops selling local produce, and Gaelic was spoken in most places. It was a wonderful community who supported each other through life’s many storms. 

At age seven, I was sent off the island to boarding school to ‘sort out my learning issues,’ a rather draconian experience, but I soon discovered the art room. However, I relished coming home to the wild. I still go back often to make work and to see family. If you could call a place a muse, this would be mine. We moved to London when I was 17. I hit the deck running, wanting to attend art school, but my mother suggested I train as a chef to learn a trade. The food journey was a good adventure for a few years, but the urge to paint was unrelenting, so I secretly applied and was accepted to Chelsea Art College, much to my mother’s displeasure. It was a fantastic adventure being permitted to explore materials, learn the art language, and immerse in art; plus, I could ‘cook’ my way through the holidays to earn a wage. Finally, I felt heard.

What purpose does art serve?

Art undeniably holds a vital purpose in our lives. In essence, art is a visual communication that translates what the creator perceives; it can record an event, spark dialogue and response, or give joy in its form as an object. I felt lucky to be at art school when the Young British Artists were making headway in London. I felt I had permission to experiment on my work, spurred on by the edgy work of Sarah Lucas, Jenny Saville, and Tracy Emin. Chris Ofili once gave a lecture, which was hilarious, especially as he bought cases of Elephant beer for us to enjoy whilst he shared his slides; which felt wonderfully decadent to me as a student. Today many artists collaborate with science institutions as a way of communication. 

What have been your most profound influences in shaping your understanding of environmental art?

The genesis came from growing up in a wild and remote place, which taught me to observe and be with both elements and place. I have always collected found objects from walks, slipping them into pockets. Some inspire work, and some are used in the work. All of them record the walker’s actions.

So, early credit to my high school art teacher, Mrs. Keating, who ignited the flame for making work. Her encouragement and discipline were infectious. I remember how upset she was when I told her I could not go to art school then. I promised her I would find a way to do so one day. My mentor at Chelsea, the late Roger Ackling, told me to dig deep and keep searching to find the essence; it was not just about the making but also the process, time, and finding the tools to bring the work to fruition. His own work of delicate burned marks onto found driftwood using the sun reflecting through a magnifying glass was so tangible in its simplicity, capturing time and place. Another artist, Richard Long, whose documented walks and words record a moment in time, confirmed that walking was a part of my work; using natural clay as a material for his installations was instrumental. I remember being struck as I walked through Anthony Goldsworthy’s Midsummer Snowballs on June 21, 2000. This installation of 13 relocated one-ton snowballs filled with gathered pebbles, twigs, ears of barley, wool, crow feathers, berries, beech branches, chalk, and even bits of rusting barbed wire and discarded chunks of agricultural machinery was placed around old London. It brought to light the confrontation of loss of wildness to urban life, each snowball shedding its contents onto hot concrete pavements as it melted. Goldsworthy’s constant investigation of impermanent installations of colored leaves, twigs, or ice sculptures, which he photographed, showed a fragile sensibility of the environment. 

Ann Mendieta effectively used her body within the landscape to record herself in place, I also turned to Agnes Martin, whose starkness resembles poetry. Olafur Eliason is another artist whose practice is embedded in science regarding our footprint in the environment. Writers have also played their role in my journey, Robert MacFarlane’s The Old Ways discusses the varied surfaces we walk on in the UK, chalk, clay, granite etc. Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost and Simon Schama’s Memory and Landscape have been well thumbed.

Can you take us on a journey through the evolution of your work?

Back at Chelsea, I was making 3D paintings, some in encaustic, with an undulating surface; I was deeply fascinated with the surface of land and water. Other pieces were multiples depicting the reflection of color on the wall from the painted surface – akin to a buttercup’s yellow reflection under the chin. These works resonate with the reflected color on the walls. I gradually shifted to more two-dimensional pieces, but I have continued to work in multiples or series, often making work about the same place, noting the shifting light over a day, or even a year, how the same place changes constantly. Walking is integral to my practice; it gives me a tangible personal experience with places, utilizing found objects and pigments or earth in the work has been constant. 

Moving to the US in 2001 was also profound. I soon found a shared studio space on Desbrosses Street with a wonderful cohort who took me under their wing. Finally, I had a space for my own work, and a new chapter began. 

My process-led practice really flourished, grounded in personal engagement with places addressing time, weather, place, and loss. The joy of discovery is ever-present when walking within these places while equally I am humbled by each step. Found items form the focus of my response to these projects, creating tangible links to where I gathered these finds. These projects help me map a dialogue regarding the environment through collaboration between the collected objects and the artist. 

Trace is a series of discarded Scottish roof slates used as both a drawing substrate and a part of the work. I  record walks and draw on them after the event, etching onto the slate, lines of walking through places as a form of mapping. 

Traveling to Iceland and Norway, I walked on glaciers. It was deeply impactful to realize that the ice I walked on would disintegrate and evaporate, leaving behind a scarred surface. This prompted me to work with cyanotype, bringing the elements as collaborators into my practice as a tool. Standing on frozen surfaces, I imprinted on the cyanotype, recording the action and our imprint on place. 

During the COVID-19 lockdown, I worked on a Breath Series, making burn marks in sync with breathing. This work investigated breath. We are born on an inhale, and we pass on an exhale. This work has since become a meditative practice. Previously, I had made a performance drawing of breathing while burning marks for my thesis show when I graduated from the School of Visual Arts. I went back to school for my master’s degree, another profound event in my journey.  

Investigating sites transformed through climatic shifts has been an ongoing part of my work. Recently, the work has involved using found tree and plant materials and soil to create natural dyes and pigments. It explores their properties, limitations, and potential, resulting in various artworks derived from different environments, including drawings and woven pieces. These inks and pigments form a unique palette that captures the essence of each location. The Language of Trees series investigates the damage caused by invasive insects on trees, making inks from plants and trees, depicting the loss of ash from the ash borer, oak from oak sudden decline, and pine loss from pine beetle damage, an ongoing issue. Oak gall ink has been used for centuries as an ink. 

Can you talk about weather as an element of your practice?

Weather defines us all, connects us all, and allows us all to experience the wrath and joy of the elements. Weather controls us; she is a shapeshifter. I have made work from looking at and experiencing the weather, and an early series of graphite and charcoal drawing pieces emerged from intense Islay storms. I have experimented with using wind in drawing and using the weather in my cyanotype work. 

Why do you often use graphite as a material?

Well, graphite is carbon, and the earliest use was graphite wrapped in sheepskin, ultimately becoming the pencil. I often use land-based materials, such as charcoal, earth pigments, and graphite. I make my inks and charcoal from tree and plant materials. It feels akin to the land becoming the work. There is something wonderful about using homemade charcoal as a material.

How do you balance work as an artist and raising a family?

I had my first solo show when my son was six weeks old. I have always felt thankful to have this passion, and more so, as I could work from home. I lived in Stanfordville, upstate New York, then. Having traveled so much for work, I was determined to be at home for my children. Piecemealing time has been complex; working at night when everyone was asleep was a solution in the earlier years. It certainly helped when they were in school full-time, which was when I worked. Holidays were more complex, and my schedule had to shift with their timetables.

The children and I moved near Falls Village 12 years ago and have loved living in this rural area. They have been deeply supportive of my work, helping as studio assistants, filling their pockets with whatever I find on walks, and giving their opinions on occasion. They are also supportive of why I do the work: that place is special, and we are simply custodians for the next generation. We do not own anything. Sometimes, I feel the place owns us. 

If you could beg, borrow, or steal a piece of work what would it be?

A Richard Long clay drawing installation inside would be excellent, or an Agnes Martin painting, but I would love to live with a sculpture outside, perhaps a piece by Agnes Denes. I also love the idea of The Future Library, a planted forest that, in 100 years, will become a library of books. Authors are invited to donate a book they have written to the library, which will be printed once the tree has grown. Maybe I will plant a sculpture for the next generation to enjoy. •

To learn more about Leora Armstrong and her work, you can visit her on Instagram @leoraarmstrongstudio or her website at leoraarmstrong.com. You can also learn more on Gerald Bland gallery’s website, geraldblandinc.com, and on Furnace Art on Paper Archive’s website furnace-artonpaperarchive.com.