Emily Lisker is a freelance illustrator and painter. Her award-winning illustrations for magazines and newspapers have appeared across the country in publications including The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The New Yorker. She has illustrated over a dozen books, many of them for children. Her artwork has been used for theater sets and programs, posters, book covers, calendars, T shirts, and even milk bottles. She has had numerous shows of her paintings and illustrations in exhibitions, galleries, theaters, and restaurants. Emily received a degree in painting from the Rhode Island School of Design, and has made Rhode Island her home.
Current Statement
What drives my work is the joy of life, a search for truth, a love of color and line, a love of paint, an active imagination, and a huge desire to communicate! I paint, I write, I dance, I play music, I bake bread.
My paintings and drawings are dream narratives. They are not meant to have any particular meaning, or tell any particular story, and the stories are not predetermined by me. I am just the dreamer. I present these stories as a drama, as if on a stage, complete with characters, costumes, props, and lighting. Such is the mind's compulsion to make a story that it tries to create meaning from each image, just as it does when we dream. I count on my audience to come up with their own thoughts about what they find.
I think of painting as a strange, visceral, intuitive, painful game of chess. Here is how the chess game goes: I begin with a sienna sketch, treating my canvas like a chalkboard, sketching and wiping away until I get an image that I feel is strong enough to develop. Then I add color and confirm the elements. Certain themes recur in batches; a character, a color scheme, or a certain shape, whatever my subconscious is generating. Other elements are complete surprises. I have to sink in and listen to what the characters and objects want to say inside these theatrical dreamscapes, as if I were a novelist. The painting and I will wrestle and argue and sometimes reach a standoff. Then the painting sits facing the wall for weeks or months or years.
I love the way patterns and characters emerge in my work, and re-emerge. A subconscious visual language develops and reveals itself, and it can be as much a surprise and delight to me as it is to my audience. I am fascinated by bright color, patterns and shapes, and certain objects which tend to show up repeatedly in my paintings. All of the elements in my paintings are characters of sorts. Painting, for me, is like a game of chess: I try to assess and exploit the dramatic relationships that arise between the characters. In manipulating the graphic elements, I explore the emotion and psychology that develop, for the viewer, among those elements.
I am particularly fascinated by the relationship between male and female. My paintings often celebrate the drama between men and women. In my most recent work, the men appear to be angular and aloof, the women rounded and pensive. The male element approaches the robotic, and the female element harks to a romantic past.
I am obsessed with the idea of robots, but my robots tend to defy the usual interpretation. They are much too human, as if their designers couldn’t help but duplicate themselves in all their glorious inconsistency and neurosis. Thus the robots tend to appear in my narratives as emotionally fragile, yet happy to be alive, as it were.
The painters who inspire me are the surrealists; Remedios Varo, Frida Kahlo, Rene Magritte, Balthus, Georgio di Chirico, Felix Kelly. The writers that most inspire me are poets; Jane Shore, Jimmy Santiago Baca, Amy Bloom, and Mary Oliver. I am drawn to artists who paint, draw, and write from their inner worlds in the most honest and clear way. And I am also inspired by honest and original music, like that of Brave Combo.
I have been a working commercial artist since I graduated from art school years ago, first as an illustrator for magazines and newspapers nationwide. Then, for thirteen years, I illustrated books, mostly childrens books. I decided recently to stop illustrating books and to make and sell my own paintings. The book illustrations were paintings on canvas, but much smaller than I wanted, and because oil paint was impractical, I had used acrylic paint. Now that I am making my own imagery without art directors and editors, I have returned to oil paint.
I have been slowly developing a repertoire of my own drawings and paintings over the last ten years. I launched two web sites; one for my drawings, a project I call Planet Emily, and one for my paintings, new and old, personal and commercial. I’m having success in selling the work. I also work freelance for local businesses and organizations as an illustrator, writer, musician, designer, creative director, and teacher. In October 2006 I started publishing my writing in a blog, and I have received an enthusiastic and devoted audience of readers. In December 2007 I launched a painting blog; having an audience completes the creative circle, and provides sustenance for both audience and artist.
The hardest part of artmaking is living your life so the work gets done, over and over - and that means among other things, finding a host of practices that are just plain useful. A piece of art is the surface expression of a life lived within productive patterns. Over time, the life of a productive artist becomes filled with useful conventions and practical methods, so that a string of finished pieces continues to appear at the surface.
- Bayles & Orlando, "Art and Fear"
I have enjoyed my work as a commercial artist but now I am mature enough to trust my own vision and to proceed with my painting. I am never lacking in ideas or in support from both my peers and my audience, and I will do this no matter what. Having a painting laboratory, as it were, to try things out, to express what no one has hired me to express, to work on a technique or in a medium of my choosing is wonderful and important, and frightening and difficult. I am itching to work much larger, as large as I did years ago for some of my commercial jobs. This is a goal that needs time.
Make something that is yours, that comes from within. Do today's work; keep the pilot light lit.
I had a running start on this painting and then it sat unresolved for 10 months. Eventually I decided I had two choices – paint white over it and start from scratch, or try to make something happen. I took the painting from its hiding place (facing the wall) and asked myself, what happens next here?
Recently a friend had said to me, "Your shadows are always wrong!" And I said they are supposed to be, they are theatrical shadows. Have you ever seen the shadows on a stage with many lights shining from many angles? So first I played with the shadows. Then I asked the painting, what next?
The answer: paint a butcher block standing inside the coffin with a hunk of ham and a cleaver. I trembled at the thought, but I decided to try it, and, strangely enough, I liked it. I lived with that for a few weeks and then asked again, now what? A ribbon, the painting said. Okay, I added the ribbon on the dress form, and finally felt like I had solved the puzzle. What to call it? Because I felt like I had dressed a theater set, I called it Prop Master.
About Trio
Trio features a character who haunts my paintings – the headless woman – and a costume that my female characters seem to like wearing, the table dress. Three of these characters arrived to perform a pas de trois in what looks like an ice-cream parlor.
Statement from the PAC members juried show "Water" (2010)
About Black Stockings
This painting was started a while back. It needed something off in the distance. The land mass I had originally painted wasn't working. When the Arts Collaborative proposed the theme of water, the painting came back to life. I changed the land mass to a sea of turquoise water. Then the painting gave me an actress who wanted to star in this play, and the character brought the setting to life. I felt lucky that the elements came together.
I’m not sure what the woman with the black stockings is up to, or where, exactly, she is. I imagined that she was at a hotel, or a villa, and that maybe she was a mistress. But I don’t know. I only pose questions and scenarios, and invite the viewer to respond. The viewer's perception completes the chess match.
Statement from the AS220 show "Three's a Crowd" (2009)
The Recent Paintings of Emily Lisker
I think of painting as a strange, visceral, intuitive, painful game of chess. With the larger canvases the game got even more frightening! My characters had started to seem cramped in the smaller canvases, as if trying to push beyond the edges. But working with a larger canvas increased the complexity. I noticed my tendency toward triangular shapes became even more pronounced. I had room to have three main characters or elements, creating triangular relationships. Even when there were more than three elements, the picture spoke to me as a trio.
I continue to be intrigued with robotic men and curvy women but now I have a broader landscape to work with. The larger canvas gives me an opportunity to expand my invented landscapes and theaterscapes, to elaborate on the context that my characters inhabit. I am hoping to continue moving, incrementally, to larger canvases over time to see what happens.
Here is how the chess game goes (or maybe it's visual songwriting): I begin with a sienna sketch, treating my canvas like a chalkboard, sketching and wiping away until I get an image that I feel is strong enough to develop. Then I add color and confirm the elements. Certain themes recur in batches; a character, a color scheme, or a certain shape, whatever my subconscious is generating. Other elements are complete surprises. I have to sink in and listen to what the characters and objects want to say inside these theatrical dreamscapes, as if I were a novelist. I only pose questions and scenarios, and invite the viewer to respond. The viewer's perception completes the chess match.
As an illustrator I had a lot of fun with short-term two-day deadlines for magazine work and newspaper work. When that work dried up I illustrated kids books. The illustrations were paintings on canvas, but much smaller than I wanted (they had to fit on a scanner), and because oil paint was impractical, I used acrylic paint. Now that I am making my own imagery without art directors and editors, I can go back to my first love, oil paint.
A while back I bought a case of 11x14 Frederick's brand canvases at Job Lot and started sketching in burnt sienna oil paint. I was surprised to find myself enjoying the intimacy of a small canvas. Patterns and characters emerged, and re-emerged. The small canvas allowed me to focus on just one or two characters. Some of the paintings were completed quickly, reminding me of my newspaper days. I have had to push myself to complete the pictures though, since I often love the sienna "sepia" sketch stage just as it is. These little paintings found a receptive audience right away, and I have been very happy and lucky to have sold a few.
Ironically I am still involved with painting a story, a narrative. The stories are not predetermined by me. I am just the dreamer. You as the viewer will certainly come up with your own thoughts about what you find. Feel free to let me know. I am always interested.
Statement from the AS220 show "Planet Emily" (2005)
The Surreal Line Art of Emily Lisker
When I'm not doing illustration assignments I like to let my imagination loose by drawing a continuous line. I just try to keep the line flowing by being a channel and letting it all flow through me.
My work is surreal imagery, using a surreal process. Sometimes I look at various ephemera to get me started. There is no planning the page ahead or erasing, or judging, just a commitment to keep drawing and looking and engaging in the challenges and surprises that arise. It is visual improvisation, keeping my imagination open and my hand limber.
These drawings are not meant to have any particular meaning, or tell any particular story. Nor have I arranged the drawings in any particular order. Such is the mind's compulsion to make a story that it tries anyway to create meaning from each image, just as it does when we dream.
In the slideshow, each image is held still just long enough to allow your mind to try to figure it out, but the next image begins to intrude, and blend, forcing you to change or abandon your story, and to start over with a new image. Eventually, a subconscious visual language begins to reveal itself.
The slideshow is my attempt to duplicate the experience of leafing through the sketchbooks that hold the original images.
Statement from a 1997 RISD workshop about art and business
How I Came Into Business
Basically, I had to make a living, and the only thing I was qualified to do was draw and paint (I couldn't even waitress). I started with painted furniture, T-shirts, postcards, eventually found editorial illustration, and now illustrate books.
Commercial is not a bad word to me - my identity is based as much on commerce as on art. And commercial art is not an oxymoron - I love some of it: circus posters, photo postcards, package design, produce boxes, painted storefronts and signs.
Being an illustrator is being a collaborator. It's like being a performer. You work with a team of people - editors, writers, art directors, designers - so the art is in the collaboration and the final completed project. At its best, rather than compromise, there is collaborative freedom. Of course, at its worst, your collaboration is not welcome, and you're meant to be a kind of drawing machine. I usually say "no, thanks" to that if I see it coming, and I have killed jobs in process because I didn't like how I was being treated.
RISD certainly didn't teach me all the skills I need to survive. I'm not sure who can teach you how to have a good business head. Other professionals have taught me the most (sometimes as counter-examples) but basically you figure it out as you go. Finding the appropriate medium and learning to use it well can be difficult. Approaching agents is tricky. Arranging portfolios is a pain. Discovering that you need to master a particular technique can be embarassing. Trying to judge how much artistry or work is appropriate in a given situation is treacherous, but it makes the difference between an amateur and a professional.
The most dreaded question is: Do you do your own work? My gut response is: Who's work have I been doing? But it is true that having a laboratory, as it were, to try things out, to express what no one has hired me to express, to work on a technique or in a medium inappropriate to my current job, is wonderful and important. And difficult to actually do. But beware the art myth: that art is about always creating the most sublime perfection in the pure solitude of zero context. Bullshit. Creativity is always guided and hemmed in by context, whether you're aware of it or not. The point is not to fight or avoid or eliminate the context, but to adapt and therefore learn.
From Tibor de Nagy, "The Integrity of the Artist, Dealer and Gallery," from "The Business of Art," edited by Lee Evan Caplin
Art is a personal expression no matter how much or how little it covers of the universe. Whatever it encompasses, it has to be a sincere vision. The technical skill with which it is created is essential for its success. I see, in every artist, a priest of his own religion who wants to deliver his sermon in order to collect his believers. The places where he exposes his beliefs are art institutions and galleries. There are many priests but hardly any saints within a given epoch.
I believe in complete freedom of expression. You have to choose your own god and interpret him in your own way. But you have to be sincere about it if you want your prayers to be appreciated and remembered.
The brilliant mechanisms built in our heads are glorified computers. The creator must have constructed a great variety of such computers to try them out on so many animals. They registered only what was needed for their survival and reproduction. It was only when he attached to the computer a channel that had a direct spiritual contact with him that the human brain was completed and he announced, "Ecce Homo!"
Once this computer is fed with the history of art and absorbs the influences of numerous works of art, soaks in beauty and horror, past and present circumstances and experiences, the result may be a mixture that is an intellectual production - or there may be only a copy of something that has been done before. When the artist is capable of associating with the spirituality of the universe - that is to say when his soul feeds the computer as well - then the miracle happens. A striking balance of intellectual and emotional experience makes a great artwork. An original artwork will delight the responsive viewer.
What separates artists from ex-artists is that those who challenge their fears continue; those who don't, quit. Each step in the artmaking process puts that issue to the test.
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. . . in truly happy moments those artistic gestures move beyond simple procedure, and acquire an inherent aesthetic all their own. They are your artistic hearth and home, the working-places-to-be that link form and feeling. They become like the dark colors and the asymmetrical lilt of the Mazurka - inseparable from the life of their maker . . . They allow confidence and concentration. They allow not knowing. They allow the automatic and unarticulated to remain so. Once you have found the work you are meant to do, the particulars of any single piece don't matter all that much.
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Simply put, making art is chancy - it doesn't mix well with predictability. Uncertainty is the essential, inevitable, and all-pervasive companion to your desire to make art. And tolerance for uncertainty is the prerequisite to succeeding.
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The hardest part of artmaking is living your life so the work gets done, over and over - and that means, among other things, finding a host of practices that are just plain useful. A piece of art is the surface expression of a life lived within productive patterns. Over time, the life of a productive artist becomes filled with useful conventions and practical methods, so that a string of finished pieces continues to appear at the surface.
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You make good work by (among other things) making lots of work that isn't very good, and gradually weeding out the parts that aren't good, the parts that aren't yours. It's called feedback, and it's the most direct route to learning about your own vision. It's also called doing your work. After all, someone has to do your work, and you're the closest person around.
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In the end it all comes down to this: you have a choice (or more accurately a rolling tangle of choices) between giving your work your best shot and risking that it will not make you happy, or not giving it your best shot - and thereby guaranteeing that it will not make you happy. It becomes a choice between certainty and uncertainty. And curiously, uncertainty is the comforting choice.
Be regular and orderly in your life, so that you may be violent and original in your work.
- Gustave Flaubert
One of the most destructive forces, psychologically speaking, is unused creative power. If someone has a creative gift and out of fear* or for some other reason, doesn't use it, the psychic energy turns to sheer poison. That's why we often diagnose neuroses and psychotic diseases as not-lived higher possibilities.
- Marie-Louise Von Frantz
(*I prefer the word fear here; she used the word laziness. - EL)
I decided, "I am going to write out of myself." Once I made the decision, all inhibition was gone. It was like accepting my accent.
- Irini Spanidou
To commit to writing what you uniquely have to write is a step toward liberation. We don't always like the stories we are given to tell. We don't always like the subjects that choose us.
- Susan Shaughnessy
When Matisse was working hard he used the most appalling language. "What a goddamn way to earn a living!" he would say over and over, and you can believe me that that was the least of it.