THE POSE, THEN THE EMOTION: IN CONVERSATION WITH ELSA ROUY

I was picked up by a gallery that had also just started at around 19, I think, maybe 20 years old, and the initial years helped me grow and feel more confident with making and sticking by my creative decisions. The feeling of being backed by a gallery gave me security to explore themes and techniques that felt out of my comfort zone without the fear that it would greatly affect my livelihood. I was having group and solo shows with them; this allowed me to experiment with audience reactions to new works and have a platform. The gallery didn’t survive, and I realised having a gallery wasn't as secure as I had believed. The decline of the gallery was unfortunate and sad, but again, I’m glad this happened at a young age, as it taught me new lessons and became something that has actually given me a lot more confidence in myself and my capabilities outside of painting that I would have never thought of myself when represented.

I never have an experience and think, “Ok, I will paint this.” My paintings are more a continuous diary or world-building of ideas. When I begin a painting, I usually start with a feeling; sometimes it’s quite ambiguous, but I know what it is because I feel it. Trying to describe the feeling would be a bit like a riddle, so I start to think and gather imagery that best represents what I’m trying to express. I suppose the images I make become fictionalised enactments of the feeling. The paint, the process, the redactions and additions when the artwork is being made, become an experience with other emotions involved. The result is always a mixed bag of decisions that end in a singular image. Because of this, I think each artwork is multiple confessionals or thought processes at once.

When coming up with the idea, it’s the emotion, then the pose.
When painting, it’s the pose, then the emotion.
The situation they’re in is last for both, as I think this is very reliant on the viewer’s interpretation.

This leads onto the second reason, which is, in my experience, having a mind and body feels completely bounded and boundless, predictable and unpredictable. We are encased, but our insides constantly move; we can be opened and we can leak. Life, in some ways, feels eternal, but we die. My mind feels expansive, but it only exists with myself. I can go on with my ideas of the push and pull of existence forever. Then what I find interesting is combining this personal contradiction with another person/body existing in the same way, and the results and outcomes of that, and viewing it from a sympathetic and unbiased lens.

Yeah, the responses have variations; there’s an overall tone that people get it, but I notice slight nuances. In the US, it seems more political than in Europe, and probably the same with London. It’s hard to tell, as I think it varies more person to person than place to place. As for when a painting is finished, I have no control over that. The painting is done when it says it’s done! The more ambiguity, the better, I think. Who wants to be told what to think and see? The viewer will always have their own interpretation anyway.

I think I’m more comfortable with my body now, or at least I think about it less. I sometimes have to use crude photos of myself or mirrors to get a body position or facial expression how I want it; something that is pretty or attractive isn’t generally fun to paint, so they’re usually unflattering. This form of self-objectification is quite good, as it removes me from viewing myself objectively from a desire perspective and more as a means to an end to get the right image. The studio changes depending on how far along a series I am; sometimes it’s an empty shell, sometimes I feel like I know all my paintings personally.

Yes, especially if I have an idea in mind that is bigger than my painting ability. Poetry has opened up new ways of expressing, as I can form the image with words instead of being hindered by myself; however, my goal is to get myself to a point where I can paint exactly what I want to express every time.

The narrative always emerges afterwards. I have ideas like I want people to be grouped on this side of the canvas and empty space here. I want a figure emerging from behind another figure; how can I do that? They can be choking them. The space in this canvas is too empty; how can I fill it? I will make her pregnant. Most of the time, there is no planned narrative, just compositional decisions. When I create series, I will want them to have an overriding emotion that creates dialogue between the works. What is going on in the paintings isn’t particularly important, as long as it has the feeling.

Most of the time, it’s a mix of visual and emotional decisions. When the painting feels just right. Pushing past this feeling seems pointless, as I usually ruin the painting, and I can always start another one.

They have both opened now. I’ve had a break, and I’m going back today, asking, what do I do now? I always feel pressure to make better and better works, but I think I just need to continue on what I was doing, and the practice will head where it’s meant to. I guess what I’m trying to do is refine an idea, but this idea constantly changes as I change. Honestly, I only feel like I’ve just started learning how to paint in the last two years or so, and this is my starting point. I feel more confident about not having so many answers about where I want my work to go. Also, I am much more confident about making work and imagery I want to make without too much explanation about why; it feels right to me.