Long Range Studio Visit

Emery Gluck + Sorcha McNamara

This Long Range Studio Visit brings together two artists, Emery Gluck and Sorcha McNamara. They chose to send physical letters to each other and embrace the slower pace of written correspondence, to wrestle with putting their ideas onto the paper in front of them and then to spend time with the actual object of a letter pinned to their studio wall as they read and digest the content and composed a reply. They talk about their inspiration and how as artists we translate the ‘mush’ of multi-layered thoughts and emotions into a universally accessible language or object.

Dear Emery,                                                                                                                        

How are things with you?

I began to write by hand, but decided to type the thoughts out first to lessen any flimsiness or incoherence on my part, which so often happens when I write by hand. It’s an arduous process of sifting through waves of mush before I reach any ounce of clarity. Such is life, you could say. 

I’m writing this while staring at my walls, from the floor. The room is full of pieces, in varying degrees of certainty. Some have been here longer than others, some have overstayed their welcome. The gaps in the walls are punctuated by strips of masking tape, holding individual landscapes of their own. Parts of the floor and the sill of the window have gatherings of passion fruit skins, now hardened to shells - things I’ve been collecting, but have failed to grasp the reasons why. I trust that they will come to me later; or maybe not at all.

Recently, I’ve been thinking about the word ‘relief’ — specifically about describing certain parts of my work as a relief — an object that has forms projecting outwards from a supporting surface plane; something raised, or even detached, from its background. And then, painting as a form of relief. This thought feels relevant to me right now, at a time when it feels like I’m drowning in admin work. How do you balance your time between making/cultivating art and then being your own secretary, curator, critic, social media manager etc..? On the one hand, it gives us full control and independence; but on the other, it splits our focus and can leave us unable to fully concentrate on a single thing. I remember hearing somewhere before how multitasking is really brutal for your brain, making it work harder than it should, over time sapping its energy, depleting its cells. Hence the waves of mush.  

Looking at your work again, I’m curious about your titles. I think both of us have a similar sensibility when it comes to language/naming things, but your titles feel very emotive and much more generous to the viewer — offering glimpses into a specific (or hazy) memory or state of mind. How do you approach naming your pieces? Do the words come before, during or after the process? For me, the

language part is vital in how I make any bit of sense of the process. Like the work itself, I approach language abstractedly, and often look at the marginal parts of it — using uncommon or obscure words when I can. I usually take phrases from bodily processes, or gestures, and bend them to somehow connect whatever I’m making. To connect with the inner workings of something is a thought I keep returning to, or more accurately, the impossibility of truly knowing your own insides, your own mind, and what it looks like. This thought actually originated while I was at PADA. By chance, I picked up one of the journals in the library space and ended up reading part of an essay by an artist/researcher, who was observing medical students working on a cadaver — how they took such care and attention to the body and all its parts. She described a certain sadness surrounding the fact of never truly knowing someone intimately, since you can never get close to their insides, their inner spaces. But can I remember the name of the artist, the book, or the project she was working on? Of course not. I was probably multitasking.  

I love the idea of these letters existing as physical objects, individually connected things, as well as virtual artefacts. The act of writing with ink is also as much a sensory experience as it is a functional one; an act that almost parallels painting in some ways.   

Speak soon,

Sorcha

Dearest Sorcha,

To answer our first question - right now I am looking at what exists outside of my bedroom window. I start my days here before going to my studio. It’s interesting to look out an open window. You’re still inside but the visual boundary between inside/outside goes away when the screen of the glass is opened. I love watching the leaves respond to the wind. They seem so joyful. The softness of this dance becomes even more beautiful to me when coupled with the chaotic noises of the street. I cannot see the sounds but I know what they are. A man clearing his throat, a scooter driving by, the trash being collected. 

I think about the senses a lot. About how they become heightened as I become more still. And this exaggeration of feeling seems to prompt a deeper connection to my inner world. Which in turn takes me to a deeper connection to the outer world - this view from my window. And I wonder if looking through the ‘window’ of a painting can prompt a similar sensation. 

I wish it was more common knowledge that viewers need to sit with a work to really see it. To feel the things that exist beyond what they directly see. One of my favourite things is to see two strangers looking at the same piece of art. Imagining the different worlds it takes them to.

I think about looking a lot. All of the things there are to look at. And how vision changes. With light. With age. With headspace. Some days all I see is the ground in front of me. And others I feel like my view has expanded. That everything is wider. And softer. I love when this happens. It’s like living with dream eyes. I can see so much more. In nature. In people. And again - I wonder if looking at a piece of art can take us to this place. Of seeing with a softened but expanded view. I think so. I hope so. 

People love to ask artists where we find inspiration. Or what our creative process is. And I struggle to answer these questions. Because it’s not something I really search for or identify. It just happens. By looking. My dreams supply a lot of my recent visual references. But quite loosely. But even that is really just looking, isn't it? Looking at these images our dreaming minds create. Images that the neuroscientist Dr. Rosalind Cartwright says are compounded memories which we associate with particular current emotions. So maybe there is a link to these. To the way our view of the world is always shifting. That it is our current emotional state and past associations that come together to create this kaleidoscope view of the world around us. Maybe looking is the first step in healing. Or in understanding ourselves and others. Or in remaining curious and in awe of all the little wonders. 

Talk (write!) soon,

Emery

Emery,

Your letter was so absorbing to read. Really meditative. I’ve always been fascinated by the poetic condition of windows, how they are spaces that communicate both intimacy and distance — often simultaneously. As a painter, you can’t help but continually refer back to this shape, this framework of seeing. And although a large part of what I do involves finding ways to disrupt this shape, I am frequently drawn back towards a windowed, roughly 20 x 30cm scale. It’s a size that can be handheld, cradled like an iPad or somebody’s face. 

I agree with you on the need for a more conscious, considered approach to looking at art, and even to everyday observation in general. It’s about entering into a state of radically heightened consciousness, of expanding the senses to see more, to feel more. It’s interesting what you wrote about experiencing a ‘softer’ view of everything. It kind of goes against the ideal of having clear and focused perception all the time. It made me think of the work of Uta Barth, whose photography almost entirely embraces what is peripheral to our vision - those fleeting, momentary, glimpses that go unnoticed, and similarly, the blur and the haze that comes with prolonged staring. To experience these kinds of moments, I think, is essential, both to ground you in the here and now and also to take you outside of yourself. And this relates back to gazing through windows.

I also find the ‘inspiration’ question a bit tricky...it’s definitely not something that can be searched for, it’s also not something that hits you suddenly. It’s what is there all the time. It’s a sensibility. And, like you say, it comes through looking, through perceiving. I do sometimes wish I had a specific area or particularity in my research, in a similar way to a scientist or psychologist — some graspable ‘thing’ that could offer a clearer, more coherent narrative to my practice, one that would perhaps be more easily understood by people, including (especially) myself. But I think I value ambiguity and mystery a little too much for that.   

Something I’ve been loosely working from recently is old photographs. Mostly mundane shots, images with ‘mistakes’ in them, some colour overlay or overlap with another picture. I’ve been cutting and splicing these to further remove them from any context, only capturing the corners of people, the uncertainty of a non-event. It’s unlikely that I’ll paint directly from them, but they’ve been causing some intriguing moments in the studio. There is something dreamlike within them, something of the half-remembered, that acts as a counterpoint to the immediacy and felt-ness of the painted surface. 

Although my own dreams are often uninteresting, over the past few months in particular, I've   experienced powerful sensations of deja vu — whether that’s down to an oversaturation of imagery, or just my mind inventing some excitement to make up for the lack of a dynamic routine, who knows... 

Talk soon,

Sorcha

Sorcha,

What a joy it was to read your letter. Holding your paper, seeing your handwriting - I didn't realise how much I have missed this layer of intimacy that technology strips from communication. Of course the visual and audio elements that a phone call or facetime or audio message allows is intimate as well - just a different kind. This is a long-winded way of saying how special it felt to receive and read your beautiful letter and to feel a type of connection to a person that I have not felt in so long. Which is crazy because it used to be a fairly normal sensation. I remember writing so many letters as a kid. To grandparents and also to friends in cities I had moved away from. I guess I am feeling quite wordy this morning. Might have been a good idea to do the same as you and type this out first. But I have a feeling my ego would edit too much out if I wrote this letter in several drafts. So, apologies for any previous or following incoherence. 

You compared writing to a process of sifting through mush before reaching clarity. Which made me wonder - do you read much of Anne Carson? I was reading an interview the Times did with her a few years ago, in which she described writing as ‘the struggle to drag a thought over from the mush of consciousness into some kind of grammar, syntax, human sense…’. The timing was so close to your letter and I found it interesting that you both used the word mush. I struggle with this as well. In writing, speaking, painting. I wonder if that’s what makes an artwork ‘good’ - how successfully the artist transfers the mushy and multi-layered thought/idea/emotion into some kind of universally accessible language or object. To me, I think painting serves as that in-between. Which may be why I remain drawn to it. It invites the viewer to spend time suspended in the space between consciousness and the physical. 

Lately, I've been curious in exploring how other media may also do this, maybe even better. In my studio, painting tires me more than it has before. Feels arduous. Drawing and writing have felt much more exciting and intuitive. Researching too. Mainly about dreams. I’ve been enjoying seeing the copious links between neuroscience, ancient traditions around dreams, my own connection to dreaming, art and conversation. More to come. But I am working on prioritising this research and what will come of it, over painting. Which my ego struggles with. Creating good paintings, showing and selling said paintings, more easily fulfills the stories I've created around success and productivity. But I am working on doing what feels fulfilling in my physical body rather than my brain. Do you experience this as a painter? Where it begins to feel hard, not in a mental way but in a heavy, physical way? 

Lately, my studio has been such a haven, a grounding space to return to amidst the chaos of moving several times in a new city. I keep some of my most precious things there. Photographs of female ancestors, letters from friends, a shrivelled orange peel that I just cannot throw away. I was happy to read that you also have an affinity for the hardened shells of once juicy fruit. 

You asked me how I balance the many roles of being an artist. I wish I knew! By taking on new projects and courses apparently. Did I mention I am learning how to code? Ha...ha…

I enjoy being in charge but I am working on being comfortable asking for and accepting help. It’s hard when your work is so independently driven to know how to do this. As far as balance goes - I really try to take it day by day. Think about what would feel good to accomplish, and then work on just doing that. Easier said than done, but I think Covid/lockdown really helped me get better at this. It opened up the time and space for me to connect with this part of myself. Intuition I guess. I wish I could say I always do this, but right now it is a practice rather than a daily habit. Do you feel like covid changed how you approach your days? I remember hearing or reading the idea that ‘how you spend your days is how you spend your life’. This is both comforting and terrifying to me. Fueling as well though. I think I spend much of my days looking at things, listening to things, tasting things. Experiencing things deeply. Or! Just the opposite. Frantically multi-tasking. Somewhere between these experiences might be the sweet spot. Deeply connected but also productive. 

As far as titling work - it’s a love/hate relationship. It’s like another layer of linking the viewer to the mush. I don't know why I am perpetually embarrassed by basically every past title I've assigned to a painting. At the time the titles feel so right. Like they invite the viewer in to this intimate but unfamiliar space that exists within the work. My hope is that the invitation holds them in the work as they become immersed, and the unfamiliar world I created starts to feel deeply personal and familiar to them. Does that make sense? I think that’s why I love art so much. The expansive connection it can create. Beginning with the artist to herself in the studio. But hopefully outside as well. 

I really enjoy the economy of your titles. They are pared-down but so effective. I feel quite touched by them. Held in a way. Does it take you a long time to choose the right word? Or do you find that the words come to you quite easily? I keep a running list in my phone of bits I like from various things I read or listen to. When I finish a painting, I refer to this list if the title doesn't come to me some other way. This technique is sometimes magical - I see a potential title that seems so right for the work. It makes me wonder if some future version of myself made me notice that bit of text. Other times it is a frustrating and arduous task. Where nothing feels right. Almost stupid. It’s kind of funny honestly. Titling. Isn't that why I am painting? To not have to assign words to the mush? Oh I fear this letter is quite chaotic. Sorry for the rambling. Anyways, I hope you are well and I can't wait to talk soon. 

Emery

Emery,                                                                                                               

Thank you for your kind words and elaborate responses! The letter-writing process is something I'm unused to, but it’s been fabulous so far…

Haha yes I try not to let my ego restrict what I want to say when I type! I have a passion (read: obsession) for sentence structure, and rhythm composure in general, which I think filters into how I approach my practice. What I've been doing with these letters is actually writing, stream-of-consciousness style, first by hand, then transferring it to the screen — where I feel I have more of a command over phrases — then back to handwriting the letter as a fluid object. This may sound like a pain, but it comes with its immense satisfactions.

Thank you also for mentioning Anne Carson — I had never read a word of hers before now! I was only aware of her by name; years ago a friend of mine was reading a book of hers, poetry I think. Loosely looking into her work, she definitely sounds like my kind of woman. That quote of hers you read is so pertinent, not only to writing, but also to making art. Interesting that she identifies with mush in relation to consciousness/thinking too — sometimes there’s just no better way to put it. Also it could have something to do with the brain being a physically soft thing on the inside to begin with, so it’s somewhat easy to imagine it melting, turning to liquid... 

I have such an affinity with the way writers speak about writing, the poetics and the mechanics of it — I find so many parallels between what a writer does and what a painter does. I think both disciplines operate in that space between consciousness and the physical really well, like you say. Reading over your letters, I was reminded of Joan Didion’s words in Why I Write, where she talks about a ‘shimmer’ in things, in certain images she sees, that for her, can mark the beginning of a story. Although she was referring to the process of writing fiction, to me, it's relevant for all artists — it’s that same kind of awareness, there all the time, lying low, waiting to be located.  

The physicality of painting, for me, rarely feels heavy or arduous. In the studio, I find there’s a great build-up to it; it’s the final event in a slow-burning process, or the dessert at the end of an evening. More often than not, it’s over too quickly, so I try to savour it. This isn’t to say I never struggle with it, or find it difficult. It can be the most exhausting part, mentally, but that’s also why it’s the most rewarding. Something I believe is shared by many painters is an enduring fascination with the material of paint itself — what it does to a surface, its alchemical, transformational qualities. It’s a very particular feeling, which I first encountered through smell. There’s nothing like it. Usually, I will do many things before getting to the painting bit — composing shapes from various pieces, gluing, priming, sanding, more priming, maybe some drawing and thought collecting on the side. Over the last few months in particular, I have prioritised taking a slower approach to making work, and this has included mixing my own gesso/primer by hand, experimenting with its components, seeing what works and what doesn’t. With this, I try to reach the consistency of yoghurt, but of the low-fat kind. Something else I've been doing is using a scalpel knife to cut out shapes from large strips of masking tape, as a way of drawing, marking compositional elements, akin to islands, on the surface of the wood. 

Each thing I do, the outcome of it, usually informs what I do next, even if it is a failure. Although very recently, I decided to take a breather from making more things and have tried instead to engage in some reflection on what I've been doing this past year. With all that has happened, the best we can do is take it day by day, as you say. The pandemic has made us more acutely aware of how we feel, how things affect us, and the sensations we miss that were once taken for granted. It has really forced people to engage in the present tense, to take stock and re-prioritise what’s important to them. I was incredibly lucky throughout the various lockdowns — I was still able to work in my home studio, at my own pace. I also loved doing nothing. It’s a really underrated activity. And while being deeply connected but also productive is still probably the most desirable state to be in, I think the definition of ‘productivity’ itself has changed for the better. Which bodes well for artists!   

Learning how to ask for and accept help is also something I’ve been grappling with this past year. Being at home and working online actually made this a bit easier — it gave me more of an incentive to be proactive, to reach out to other artists and curators, for conversation or virtual studio visits. In a way, I felt more connected than I would have otherwise. I’m based in a rural location, so I really appreciated having access to online events, talks, webinars and such — things that would normally not have been easily accessible for me. 

That’s a good idea, to keep a list of potential titles on your phone. I have words and phrases floating around my head a lot; if something sticks, I'll eventually write it down. My titles tend to be thought of during and after the work is done. I think they veer between vague one word descriptions, suggestive thoughts of bodily processes, or just nonsensical daftness, depending on the mood of the work. Keeping things playful is sometimes the hardest part of the process, something I frequently forget is essential in what I do. Assigning words to things is a strange business. Even stranger in abstract painting, which so often tries to reach that space beyond the realm of language. I do struggle occasionally with naming a work; sometimes nothing will come at all, and it has to be left aside for a while for thoughts to brew. Anything is better than ‘Untitled’ though. 

Looking forward to hearing more about your dreams project and collaborations. I’d also love to know why on earth you were drawn to a course on coding? Maybe there’s something in that…

Talk soon and all the best,

Sorcha

Sorcha,

Your letters are such a treat to read. They always give me much to think about in relation to both my practice and just being, how I operate in the world both in and outside of this nook that feels like a home. It’s also been so interesting to not just respond to your thoughts but also to read your response to mine. This documented dialogue feels so refreshing in a time where nearly everything seems to exist in the air (or ‘the cloud’). As a painter, I appreciate some grounding. 

I really understand your affection for a ‘handheld’ size. There is something intriguing that happens when you get lost in such an everyday sized object. It is not such an immediate effect as a large painting historically deems, or pronounces. But when you find something in these smaller works it feels so precious, like a symbiotic relationship. Holding something, cradling it, caring for it so it can take you somewhere new, unlocking something within you. I might argue that this is harder to do with a smaller work, despite the inherent accolades that big paintings often hold. I really like to work between large and small scales. Each feels like a breath of fresh air after working with its opposite for a while.  

I love what you said about inspiration. It being there all the time. Lately, I've been making it more of a priority to come to my studio every day, dedicating at least three hours to my practice - even when I’m not feeling particularly lit up with flares of inspiration in the way I think many non-artists imagine it does. There is something about this consistency though, I feel it changing things, re-invigorating my practice. Simply showing up is important. And this was something I knew I valued in my other relationships - friends, family, movement etc. but applying it back to my studio feels like a statement of love to my work, myself. Giving my inherent inspiration space to reveal itself. What a mysterious and exciting and haunting job we have chosen! (I don't know if ‘chosen’ is really the word actually…) 

Emery

Hi Emery,

Is ‘chosen’ the right word? I think probably. But I would say it was a choice that involved very little questioning or deliberation, almost a given. Something innately known, that we would go down this path, and stay on it. At the same time though, there are a number of other paths I believe I could have chosen. Sometimes I wonder about taking a career break and doing something else for a while, like radio production or library science - then coming back to the art world with some kind of renewed ‘insight’ or another. I love hearing stories of artists who were once in a different profession, or who have a background in a completely contrasting field.

Interesting too, calling this path a ‘job’: this is something I’m still getting used to. A profession, an occupation, or a way of life, yes, but a job? To me the word job, with its vowel sounds, still bears too many negative connotations, like burden, or stress, or general un-excitement. Maybe I should just change how I hear it! It’s funny though — I have no problem saying ‘I’m an artist’ if I’m speaking with other artists, but with the majority of people I use the phrase ‘I work as an artist’, which feels a bit imposter-y and also as if I have to validate (even to myself) that what I do qualifies as work. Recently though, I was awarded some funding from the Arts Council here, so that does help with the validation thing. I also think I have to trust that this uneasiness will lessen as time goes by... 

You’re so right about simply showing up — it’s vital. Your senses are always working on their own time, always perceiving, taking things in — that may eventually manifest as thoughts later, whether through writing or making, or something else entirely. In this job, we’re both always working, and yet never working at all! A large part of my process involves keeping my 

Letter 7. Leg-up/Minty, 2021. Sorcha McNamara

eyes open, training them, in a way, to see the possibilities of things, within things. I’m specifically referring to the parts of my work where I indulge in the ‘found’; in the collecting, gathering, assembling, reclaiming, stealing, of material that I see to be worthy of something. It’s a practice I’ve been engaging in for six years now, and intend to continue doing so. At PADA, there was such an abundance of tasty material to be had, it was almost overwhelming. Oftentimes, there was very little of my own artistic intervention in the material, due to the already present history of its own marks, or the interestingness of the marks left by others. I’m very interested in what other people throw away, or disregard. In the studios, I  was like a rat in the bin, eating the leftovers. Working in this way though, it opened up questions of ownership and authorship of a work, if anything really belongs to anyone once it’s left out in the open, which is an intriguing thought, and something that I’m still questioning. The importance, the relevance, of the artist’s touch — how it can integrate, and also interrupt.

Speaking on scale, I think what I like most about small paintings is how close you can get to them, yet still being able to see the thing as a whole. Where it takes a greater amount of effort to notice the details. Having said that, I have been working on larger scale paintings in the recent past — 60 x 70cm, 50 x 100cm — and it is so enjoyable to observe them alongside the smaller pieces. There’s a pleasurable give and take between them, as with any good relationship. 

Sorcha

Sorcha, 

This was such a pleasure to read! And thank you for sharing your process/thoughts about sentence structure and rhythm. I love that your process is a bit of a conversation in itself, a journey even. These letters really do feel like precious objects. There’s something about seeing a person’s handwriting and holding the same piece of paper they once held that makes me feel so much more present and connected than other forms of communication, despite the distance time creates. Maybe that also makes it more real. The wait reminding us of the physical places in which we both are. 

And yes! To the Joan Didion quote! Seeing the shimmer in things. I was thinking about that this morning while doing dishes, watching the soap become foamy and iridescent in the morning light. I was so transfixed. So present, yet it felt like a different world and it made me wonder why we aren't more commonly taught to see in this way. It felt like a moment of deep connection and wonderment that I am sure many artists can relate to. But it feels like we are groomed to rush through our days in a way that makes it easy to miss these moments of wonder. I keep reminding myself that artists (and honestly, everyone) need time to do nothing. I’m pretty good at doing the nothing, but not being hard on myself for it is a work in progress. It’s in these spaces of doing nothing that I find the most. It’s all there, just waiting. And that feels so important! I’ll keep going. 

I just finished the biggest painting I’ve ever done. And it was such a joy. It felt so good to enjoy the delicious pleasure of putting paint on canvas again. This painting looks more like my drawing than past works. It’s more figurative, less layered. There is still a cyclical conversation between gesture and void, but I think this painting has a bit more for the viewer to grab onto. Of course I do have a temptation to wash over the whole thing with my favourite mystical blue. Maybe I will, but not for a while at least. 

This past week and a half has been a bit blurry. New Orleans, not my hometown, but the city I feel I am from, got hit by a major hurricane. There’s no flooding, but major wind destruction within New Orleans. The surrounding areas closer to the (quickly disappearing) swampland are quite destroyed. These lands are home to not just the shrimpers and fishermen who provide the seafood that New Orleans is so famous for, but also many indigenous tribes. Much of the state is without power, but despite all of this, New Orleanians are coming together and offering care in whatever way they can. Restaurants are providing free meals, those with generators are gladly opening their doors, and artists are auctioning work to give to various mutual aid groups who are providing direct and immediate resources to whoever needs them. It is such a special place and really reminds me of the importance and power of true community. The intensity of the hurricane is directly related to climate change, creating a particularly warm gulf for the hurricane to grow in, plus the fossil fuel industry’s dredging and exploitation of the swampland - that has served as a natural barrier against hurricanes for centuries. I really want to make work about this. About destruction and the importance of shifting what we destroy. Systems, rather than land and lives. I’ve been experimenting with ice and food to create a large ice ‘altar’. A sculpture of large blocks of ice with various items floating within, maybe food on top and ‘inside’? I have a lot of thoughts about this but I am running out of space and I just realised this is my last sheet of paper! So going to have to cut myself off here <3  

Emery

Thank you to Emery Gluck and Sorcha McNamara for discussing about their experience at PADA.

Sorcha was a PADA Resident in 2020 and Emery in 2021.