On a cold and windy Sunday morning in January, around fifty people are gathered in the bright gallery building of Galerie Onrust in Amsterdam. Within the high-ceiling space of the gallery, the exhibition Spaceship Earth (Plant Your Seeds of Hope) by Emma Talbot is on display. Various works from Talbot's 21st Century Herbal series are included; large paintings on silk that float freely and lightly in the space. In addition, the walls are adorned with small framed drawings featuring cyclical line patterns and traveling figures, created on handmade paper. It also includes a sculpture resembling a branch, made from 3D-printed yarn. The exhibition is the center stage for a conversation between Emma Talbot and curators Heske ten Cate and Laurie Cluitmans, which takes place in front of one of the the big herbals by Talbot depicting the magical powers of rosemary and sage.
Heske ten Cate Emma, we are sitting in front of a part of your 21st Century Herbal series, which is actually part of a very large installation that was part of Frieze London last year. Could you explain to us what a herbal is?
Emma Talbot A herbal was originally a manuscript from the Middle Ages onwards. These compendiums provided descriptive accounts of plants, illustrating their appearances, properties, and potential medicinal or toxic uses. Herbals, depending on their author, encompassed a structured format featuring images for plant identification alongside detailed information about their properties. This historical approach of documenting plant knowledge fascinated me, particularly in our present efforts to redefine our connections with nature. When I was invited to do a Frieze Special Project at the entrance space – a lengthy corridor of around 28 meters – I envisioned a hanging installation above that allowed visitors to walk through. Originally designed with painted plants cut out from silk, suspended as if growing into the space, the work embodied the idea of nature reclaiming and rewilding, echoing the resilience of a small weed breaking through concrete.
Initially, I presented the silk paintings as an overarching horizontal entity through which one could walk underneath, with these portals serving as spaces that evoke endless possibilities. This allowed visitors to gather information from the herbals as they walked beneath the ceiling, providing a path with a clear beginning and end and a wide range of plants from which people could select their own information. The herbal featured various plants, and at the center, a double hanging created an opening reminiscent of a natural world—a circular shape inspired by the ideas of Buckminster Fuller. When the canvases were later dismantled for another exhibition, I began displaying them in pairs, its current hanging position, which is akin to having two pages of a herbal.
Laurie Cluitmans You have described this exhibition as departing from these two references: the medieval herbal and Buckminster Fuller’s idea of the Spaceship Earth. Fuller was an American architect, systems theorist, author, designer, and inventor, living from 1895 to 1983. He developed the concept of ‘Spaceship Earth,’ which is the idea that Earth, with its limited resources, should be viewed as a spaceship hurtling through space. He advocated for responsible stewardship of the planet and emphasized the need for comprehensive, sustainable approaches to managing Earth's resources. Could you tell us a bit more about how this idea has influenced your work?
Emma Talbot I am really interested in Fuller’s ideas–not only the Spaceship Earth, but also his design for the geodesic dome. He was a bit discredited in his time and he wasn't always regarded as someone that people would take that seriously. In the late 50s, early 60s, he proposed the idea that Earth is like a spaceship, and that on Earth there is everything that we need to survive. So if we protect everything that is natural on Earth, we will be able to continue our survival. Nowadays, when we look at the state of our Earth, we can see how much has been depleted and the big effect this has on our environment. It is also a reminder of these magical, incredible properties of nature that we live within, that we are a part of. The idea of reintroducing the herbals is therefore a way of re-engaging with our living environment. There's so much magic around us, and we are also dependent on it.
Laurie Cluitmans This also made me think about Robin Wall Kimmerer’s writing on plants as teachers. In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Kimmerer weaves together personal narratives, scientific insights, and indigenous wisdom to present a compelling argument for reimagining our relationship with the Earth. She suggests that plants can be powerful teachers, offering valuable lessons that can guide us toward a more harmonious and sustainable coexistence with the environment. What can it bring us to not look at the human-made world as the solution to prevent our extinction, but to go back in time and think about what we can learn from plants? We could for instance look at mosses, which have been around for millions of years and experienced extinctions before, and have a very specific way of grouping together to survive and deal with hardship. Kimmerer is telling us to pay more attention to the tiny details of plants, in contrast to Western science leading us away from this mode of thinking.
Emma Talbot The idea of working with nature instead of against nature really resonates with me–I stayed on a permaculture site on Mount Etna for a while and while I was there, I followed a course on microbiology and composting. One of the main principles of permaculture is the interconnectedness of everything. I was also taught there that this was not immediately a very hospitable kind of terrain, some parts of it were really ashy. The instructor explained how micro-biological nets are formed through weather movement, creating a system for plants to grow in seemingly inhospitable places. These questions resonate in our times, and my work reflects my attempt to explore and understand these concerns, moving through various aspects and expressing them through my art.
Heske ten Cate Talking about these concerns, and moving through them and sharing them through your work–how does this tie into the text bulbs that you use in your work? If the plants are trying to teach us something, how do the texts relate to what is being taught?
Emma Talbot It was really important for me to do thorough research for the 21st Century Herbal- series. I dived into all the plants and discovered fascinating things: toxic plants that were used as hallucinogenics, how they were used and how they became part of a cultural understanding beyond the literal plant understanding. With the texts, I am aiming to share this researched information. I am trying to be very accurate about each plant, but at the same time I only use the properties that really fascinated me. With this mix of biological, historical and cultural bits of knowledge that I find personally interesting, I also stress the idea of different layers of information coexisting. There are always lots of different types of knowledges or knowledge systems that coexist. And while the information on the works is formed by research, I always use my own words: it’s not quoted text, but my own vocalization of the research on the plants.
Heske ten Cate How did you begin with painting on silk? It's a beautiful and fascinating technique, yet at the same time, very direct: the moment the brush touches the silk, the brushstroke becomes definitive.
Emma Talbot I started off with drawing as a result of a grieving process. I was grieving and I wanted to make drawings as an outlet for a whole load of thoughts that were part of this personal crisis I was facing. At this point, I just wanted to make pathetic things because I was feeling very weak. Instead of resisting that feeling, I gave into it and was embracing this state of being. I reduced my usage of colors down to seven watercolors and a very intense black, which was the color of the person I was grieving, my husband. He was a sculptor, and he used this black paint in his work, and it was left over from his studio. While using his black paint, I started with small pieces of paper, appreciating the intimate space they provided for my thoughts. As I sought to expand my work beyond individual drawings, I experimented with raw canvas. However, I found it to be rigid and heavy. It dawned on me one day that silk could be a suitable alternative–light, resilient, and versatile. The excitement of being able to paint on silk, cut it, and sew it together opened up a world of possibilities for my artistic exploration. And it is indeed a very direct technique: it resembles the act of drawing. When you draw on paper, especially using a brush and watercolors, you can’t erase or undo it. You create what you create, and upon reflection, you accept it for what it is. The beauty of drawing lies in the freedom to express without dwelling on correctness; instead, the focus is on the personal expression. When working with silk, I found a liberating feeling similar to drawing–a sense of natural and confident expression. However, mastering this technique required time and experimentation. Selecting the right paint, learning how to control the process: these aspects demand a level of precision. Despite the need for control, painting on silk aligns well with the essence of my work. It imparts a lightness to even large pieces, avoiding a burdensome, monumental feel. I aimed to create art that is as weightless as a conversation or a moment of contemplation–something as light as thought itself.
Laurie Cluitmans Can we also view your usage of materials as anti-authoritative? Stepping away from the modernist thoughts of the big heavy sculptures, or the stretched canvas?
Heske ten Cate Or the oil paint, where you can go on and on forever?
Emma Talbot I have an issue with oil paint not just because of the smell, but also due to its constant changeability. The fact that you can always alter it introduces doubt, and I'm not comfortable with that constant uncertainty. When you have a canvas stretched and primed with gesso, you essentially start with a white rectangle. It's like someone else made all these decisions for me before I even begin to paint. This idea comes from modernist thinking, where there's a clear space, and you create something onto it. However, for me, this felt it was too limiting. When I reached the edge it felt too confining, and I didn’t like that. In line with this idea, early on I also resisted calling my works ‘sculptures,’ because I found it too much of a big claim to make. I therefore refer to them as ‘intangible things,’ because they have always been ideas of something that doesn't physically exist, like a ghost, for instance, brought into a tangible form. It's like transforming an intangible concept into something physical. Initially, I started calling them ‘3D-things’–you know, 3D-paintings, but not paintings in the traditional sense; I saw them more as drawings in three dimensions. I still view them that way. When I create a drawing, I ask myself, ‘What am I going to do?’ and then I simply follow my ideas. This approach extends to the materials in my three-dimensional work, often using fabrics that I paint, alter, and combine with various materials. In some instances, I design the fabric digitally, knitting it to achieve the desired stretchiness. This allows me to create forms that I frequently stuff, resembling tree bark or elderly skin. The materiality of the physical work always feels very hands-on, shaped by my hands and within reach. Additionally, I create animations–a more lengthy process, perhaps, but they are obviously digital. I see them as a way to immerse oneself in the world of the drawings, walking around in them with accompanying sounds that I've crafted.
Laurie Cluitmans The figures in your work always have long hair, just like you. Could we interpret them as self-portraits?
Emma Talbot The figures are certainly representations of myself, but it's an internal depiction, reflecting how I envision myself. The figure is always in a state of exploration, and that figure, exploring the ideas, is me. It may have multiple limbs at times, symbolizing the varied activities I engage in. It's akin to how we imagine ourselves in dreams or reflection, unable to perceive ourselves from an external viewpoint or see our own faces. So the figure remains faceless, mirroring my inability to see my own face. I can see an open portal, I can see you, but this serves as a way to illustrate my personal experience and portray myself within the realm of experience as if from within. The figure embodies attributes that represent an idea of myself, yet not an objective view of my physical body. It's more about the human experience, acknowledging that we exist in a body. It is how I am in myself– it's my way of expressing that.
Heske ten Cate We are looking at two drawings that are in front of us, both depicting figures that seem to be in a state of birth, or death, or maybe both? It made me think about the cycle of life, beginnings and endings.