Since the beginning of the Decorating Dissidence project in 2017, we’ve been inspired by Erin M. Riley’s daring approach to weaving, which goes beyond the binaries of craft versus the digital or versus fine art to create tapestries that shift our perspective on navigating life in the twenty-first century. The announcement that Riley’s first solo exhibition would take place at London’s mother’s tankstation had us buzzing with excitement, and we were thrilled to have the opportunity to speak with Riley about the show and her practice, which examines the raw experiences of living through trauma one thread at a time...
Brooklyn-based artist Erin M. Riley pushes weaving to its limit, positioning the loom as a radical, urgent, and powerful tool in a world of webcams, smart phones, and social media. Riley’s tapestries navigate the contradictions of twenty-first century life, drawing specifically on the experience of being a woman in the internet age: they are large-scale, public art works shot through with intimacy and tenderness; the personal and the communal merge; violence and vulnerability mixes with the power of self-expression. In the process, Riley brings new meaning to craft’s place in a world where the digital is dominant, a world that we typically experience as hyper-present yet disconnected subjects.
Riley’s technique brings together the slow, tactile processes of craft with the the frantic digital visual language that we are all bombarded with. She hand-dyes yarns (which are sourced from obsolete textile mills) to achieve a colour palette that evokes pixelised images and works on a floor loom; this tender, gentle process contrasts with the violence that sometimes surface in the tapestry’s imagery. By working through these contrasts, the artist gestures towards - if not healing - a process of understanding and reclaiming the self, in the face of trauma and abuse. Through Riley’s act of weaving, the digital interface becomes a tactile, considered space, where the labour of making (art, self, meaning) and surviving is made visible.
DD: Your work blends traditional craft techniques with a digital visual language to powerful effect. How do you see the relationship between the digital realm and craft? How do you navigate the tension between the immediacy and mass-production of digital images versus the slow nature of craft?
EMR: Besides the very obvious connections between the loom and binary, weaving operates on a grid of sorts, so that pixels, resolution and image quality is all determined by the setup. When I first started weaving imagery that I found online, I was interested in slowing everything down and appreciating the effort that is made to exist and document that existence. Now that my work is made using mostly images I have taken of my own body, I am reminded of just how labor-intensive existing has become. As we became more aware of being seen, so too does the urge to actively “see”, critique objects, messes, the bodies of those whose worlds we’re not even peripherally involved in. The slowness of weaving tapestry makes every moment deliberate, considered, anticipating any feedback that likely would arise.
Our relationship to the digital world and its influence on real-world events is complex (to say the least). It’s sparked huge shifts in how we imagine and shape sexuality, intimacy, and gender. Can you tell us about your relationship with the virtual world? How has it changed over the course of your career?
It has changed quite a bit, perhaps in a “chicken or the egg scenario”. In the very early days of the internet you could be anonymous and explore worlds far beyond the reaches of your reality. As I grew up I became determined to push against the fears that were ingrained in me regarding my body. This led me to take photographs of myself that could never be used against me a la “revenge porn” (better referred to as intimate image abuse or non-consensual pornography); this mindset allowed me to explore and relate both online and in real life. But as my experiences irl became more painful, my ability to express my desires digitally became more conspicuous, safer. Sorting through the aftermath of sexual trauma, childhood sexual abuse and abusive relationships I have become a person far removed from reality: a body documented, observed by no one, desirable only in theory. The images of my body are no longer remnants of relationships and interactions, but my own musings and explorations of self, disassociated and compartmentalized. Although finally, a glimmer of power comes from the enduring spirit of Gisèle Pelicot. After years of the imagery and the action of naming the trespasses against us being used to silence and destroy, Gisèle has stood bravely, revealing all that was done to her, including the images. I’ve seen and heard of so many people who have been bullied, harassed, shamed and pushed to the darkest of depths for the abuses of intimacy. It is incredibly inspiring to see someone prevail against that and has reinvigorated me within my work and self.
Tapestries have a rich history as luxury objects and as a form used to mythologise aspects of culture and history; how do you understand your work in relation to these traditions?
When I was learning about tapestries it was all about castles and huge commissions, woven by nameless artisans, many of whom’s skills can never be matched. I wanted to make my tapestries, [but] I couldn’t afford yarn. Through those basic requirements it allowed me to create anything I wanted with tapestry, being the voice and hands. I used materials of all kinds; at first, they were mostly found and then sourced through more affordable means of production excess, the cast offs of industry waste. I don’t think I’ll ever be interested much by those historical tapestries besides the deeply human energy they hold, imbued with countless hours of labor and seen only in the subtle journeys a weaver makes when building imagery.
Your first solo show, at London’s mother’s tankstation, is called Look Back At It, where did this title come from?
Look Back At It has many meanings: looking back at one’s history and reflecting on a life lived, as well as a reference to the words used during performative sex, a remark I’ve only heard by people with no interest in my autonomy. It also explicitly applies to my personal experience with rape, being moved around and controlled, not having any power to stop anything only watching; and while the experience itself was incredibly physically painful, looking back at “it” watching him remove the condom I begged him to wear is the part that continues to haunt me. The piece named ‘Look Back At It’ includes images of my butt, images that many know require uncomfortable contortions of the body, as well as signs that say “do not enter” and a rear view mirror, which reminds us that everything is closer than it appears. The work is never done, working ourselves out of the places we’ve been; looking back is hard, [but] ignoring them only causes more harm.
Social media is becoming a darker and more lawless space. As someone who works with digital imagery and as an artist whose work speaks to themes of women’s experiences, agency, and sexuality how do you stay hopeful, motivated, and inspired in this climate?
I don’t think hope has ever motivated me, I learned very early on that life is incredibly disappointing and to not be derailed every time reality smacks you in the face you need to see things as they are. I developed a nature of hypervigilance, constantly trying to be present in the struggle to evolve, trying to connect and avoid the repetition that so naturally occurs when not seeing things as they are. It is this very repetition (which I haven’t been immune to) that propels me in the fight to understand myself and the world around me.