A native of New York’s Hudson River Valley, Laura Moriarty makes process-driven works with pigmented beeswax whose forms, colors, textures and patterns result from processes similar to those that shape and reshape the earth.

I first came across Laura Moraiarty's work at Ravenwood, where we both have pieces on display. Ravenwood is a beautiful old barn restored by Dana McClure and Chris Lanier in Kerhonkson, New York. Dana curates an inspiring selection of artists, and Chris creates food that’s as beautiful as it is delicious — the whole place feels like an experience really unique to upstate New York.

Laura’s work immediately drew me in. Seeing it displayed on Ravenwood's antique wood walls, I felt an emotional response to the colors- they touched me in the way I am touched by nature, deeply and profoundly. The shapes reminded me of agate and rocks, and the deep, natural tones held my attention and fascination. I found myself wanting to know more.

I was lucky to meet Laura at Ravenwood one summer evening, where I discovered she is locally based in Rosendale NY. We quickly arranged for me to visit her studio. There, she shared a piece still in progress, giving me the chance to watch her mid-creation, an exciting and rare glimpse into her process. Our conversation began in the studio and has continued over email since, below is our talk in full:

You’ve said that “Taking poetic license with geology, I compare processes of the studio with processes of the earth. Layers of color form the strata of a methodology in which the immediacy of the hand can translate a sense of deep time.” Can you talk more about this process of creating the wax sculptures that become a medium for you to create two dimensional work?

I have always been driven by curiosity when it comes to working with molten wax, and I've been working with it for a long time, so I've accumulated a vast collection of hunks and bits, fragments, shards, things that look like they were dug from the earth, along with architectonic pieces that were built in moulds, and textural objects that could possibly be mistaken for actual mold.

None of them look like 'paintings', but they are to me. There is a section of my studio that is kind of a cabinet of curiosities collected over time, so in a sense the objects are like journals for me because they contain embedded bits that tell me a story about passing time. But they're also experiments with color palettes. The objects only become articulated forms after lots of eroding, revealing what's buried in them, softening the edges, shaving and shaping.

So, first I build the piece up, then I work on it, slowly over time, and while I'm doing that I simultaneously make works on paper that are offsets of the spillways and trails of paint that are left behind as I whittle away the form. It's like the studio is demonstrating its own cycle; layers of color are amassing, enfolding, and mountain-making on one hand, being made in tandem with fluid, pull-outs and flood zones captured on paper. Both records of time.

Are there other ways that nature and the earth inform what you do?

I consider myself a religious naturalist, and I quietly think about my work as part of that endeavor to respect nature. One of the ways I practice is by walking in nature, thinking about how I connect with the earth, the rocks, the trees, the moon and tides and stars. I remind myself that I am not an observer; I'm enmeshed in it.

When you shift between making three-dimensional sculptures and two-dimensional works on paper, what changes in your process or mindset? And are you thinking about the final two dimensional piece when you are making the sculpture or is it unexpected?

Honestly, I move between the two very fluidly, but that's gotten easier over time. As a process junkie the first concern for me is usually set-up. For instance, making a new moulded sculptural form requires lots of materials and makes a big mess and totally consumes the space. The forms themselves are what compel me to shift to work on paper - the way they look when I draw them out. But then I have to tidy-up for the next stage of work, and restrict the melting wax to the surface of my hotplate only. But other than the neatness factor, the two processes bleed into each other pretty well.

Can you talk about creating color families, and how that informs your process?

I have to admit, I kind of anthropomorphize my paint palettes. Coming up with palettes is really foundational to my work, and one of my favorite frameworks for this is the family. For instance, I might make a 9-color palette comprised of 3 families, each with 3 members. Each family will contain a DARK member, a BRIGHT member, and a QUIET member, so there are overlapping relationships between family member types as well as the direct ones. 

How much of your palette-building is intuitive, and how much is something you plan or study in advance? I found myself deeply moved by the colours and forms in your work, and wonder if you're thinking about expressing a mood or energy with the shapes and palettes and movement on paper?

It's mostly intuitive, but I regularly get stumped. And sometimes even a really cool-looking palette combines to make ugly colors. I do a lot of research, and say prayers to Pantone. I've also been playing around with color advice from AI recently - just asking questions about what colors create harmony with the colors I'm stumped by. Interesting.

Is there a moment in your process when you know a work is “complete,” and if so, how do you know?

With the work on paper, it's really just a formal evaluation. I aim to make them quickly because the colors and layers stay fresh that way. With the objects, nothing is ever complete. These days I aim for a level of 'finish' that comes from craft, something being well-worked. That's enough for me. I used to continually re-work pieces and considered them always in-process. It was very freeing for me to recently acknowledge them as tools that help me make other works. Somehow giving them a name/assigning them a role, made them complete enough for me.

What feels most inspiring for you right now in the studio—are there new directions you’re experimenting with in color, scale, or material?

I am enjoying a nice, slow, daydreamy time in the studio these days. I am working toward an exhibition in January at Kenise Barnes Fine Art in Connecticut, and I have collaborations going with a couple of fashion brands. And it's Autumn.