In Dialogue
(LAC19)
I am happy to speak with Lauriston Avery following his successful recent exhibition at Dutton. Avery is an artist whose work challenges traditional notions of material and space. Through an intuitive and deeply personal process, he transforms unconventional materials—often those found in everyday life—into evocative, textured works that feel both raw and, at times, meditative. His practice blurs the lines between structure and spontaneity, embracing limitations as a source of discovery rather than restriction. In this conversation, we discuss Avery’s approach to materiality, the role of intuition and experimentation in his work, and how the idea of space has become a vital element in his practice. His work invites us to reconsider what we see and feel in our environments.
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Riad Miah: Your work features some unique and unconventional materials. Can you walk us through your process and explain how you arrived at using the materials you incorporate in your practice?
Lauriston Avery: I like that you phrased it as an arrival because that’s how it feels to me. My process is more about creating a condition in space—my studio—in which I behave. I interject elements into that space: audio, psychic, and material. Together, they create an atmosphere. That atmosphere has a quality to it. It’s that quality, that sense, those vibrations that I interact with.
Forms appear and recede, as does my attention… eventually, it all harmonizes. So, yes, it’s more of an arrival than an illustration of thought, per se.
My history with materials can be seen the same way, though more reductively. I can’t help but wonder about it. Sometimes, it feels like I use what’s left over or what I live with.
I’ve worked blue-collar jobs most of my life, so I’ve come to understand the inner logic of construction adhesive with an intuition that wasn’t trying to be intuitive, if that makes sense. I think what I’m trying to get at is that in the effort to understand a material, the effort itself can get in the way. Conversely, when it’s just around in one’s daily life, there is a sneaky intelligence within its DNA that can be surprising. The same goes for shop rags, bath towels, fur carpets, plywood, dish sponges, etc.
RM: You mention this intuitive relationship with materials that are simply “around” you in daily life. Are there any materials you’ve encountered unexpectedly that have dramatically shifted the direction of your work?
LA: I’m not trying to be mysterious when I say this, but space. Not theoretical space or outer space, but the stuff around us. At some point, there was a shift in my understanding of it—or, rather, my relation to it. I began to appreciate it as a living thing with properties that are in continual correspondence with the objects it surrounds—meaning things that can cast shadows or distort light.
I started playing with it through questions and experiments: Is there such a thing as an object in space? Are they not the same? Is it invisible only because I’m convinced it is? What if I’m wrong, and would it matter? It’s a trick of the eye, maybe. Is this just my imagination? Then, I tried seeing if I could feel it intuitively and get along with it. Does it have a face? Things like that. Along the way, I started to notice the internal movements these contemplations stirred up, especially as I was working.
Like my interactions with solid or liquid material, the studio would take on a charge that connected with those internal movements, which, for me, in this game, is essentially what material should be doing.
Romantic notion or not, over time, I’ve come to accept space as a material and have invited it to stay as such.
RM: Can you talk about how you decided to use non-conventional materials? Was it a need that grew out of studio practice or some other underlying factors?
LA: Let’s see. There is a recurring element of desperation that has shadowed the history of my work. There have been times when, either for personal life reasons or professional emptiness within the studio, the meaningfulness of the work poured onto the floor and evaporated. I just couldn’t believe in it anymore…
In hindsight, these deserts revealed my limitations. But, at the same time, they freed me from them. So, to myself, I’d say, “forget what you were trying to do and just use that caulk gun over there, that white acrylic… none of it matters anymore. Light, shadow, line, construction adhesive, white paint—this is all I have now. Screw the rest.”
There’s a bit of an exhilarating, defiant “fuck you” to it all. Still, underneath it, within the limitations, there is a vitality, a playfulness of curiosity—something to be explored without the hang-ups.
RM: It’s interesting to hear you say that limitations are both restricting and freeing. Do you find that imposing new constraints—whether material, conceptual, or procedural—helps guide your process in a productive way?
LA: I do. There is depth to my deficits if I’m able to accept them as they are rather than how they might be otherwise. It takes the heat off myself when I’m able. But I’m not so sure I actively go around imposing restrictions. They show up pretty consistently if I’m staying open to stuff and taking risks. Plus, it allows the material to have its voice, too.
A bead of construction adhesive doesn’t necessarily want to be fine lace by its nature. But within its capabilities, it can make a pretty exciting interpretation, even if it looks more like blast netting.
RM: Is there a moment in your process when you recognize a piece as “finished,” or do you rely on instinct to determine when to stop?
LA: Instinct plays a big part in finishing, as does surprise. It’s always hard to know and sometimes to let go. A lot of work finishes when I least expect it. For me, those tend to be the best ones. That’s when I like to say it finished just fine without me—it feels fresher.
Then there are times when I simply run out of road. Some works, especially the wall pieces, can take months to finish. There have been times when the work stalemates for the hundredth time, and I’m too repelled by it to keep going, so I start putting a positive spin on defeat— laughing.
RM: When looking at your exhibition at Dutton, I noticed your work bears a resemblance to Jean Dubuffet and his interest in Art Brut. What is your interest in outsider art, and how does it inform your process?
LA: The outsider artist is a vital informer. They remind me that ultimately, there are no rules in this game—that honesty, wonder, and freedom are our currency.
I try not to attach myself to what’s happening out there, especially in the studio. This isn’t to say it doesn’t make its way in… into the condition. I’m always bringing in the vapors of a painting I experienced, a song I heard, or an attractive personality. Yeah, that’s me, too. I’ll think… or can I be that?
But when it lands in my space, I become self-conscious that I’m playing with someone else’s toys. I don’t like that feeling. It crowds me, and I get into defensive posturing that bugs the energies.
However, I’ve always felt a kinship to anything nontraditional. If I’m honest, it’s partially rooted in my own neurotic insecurities and self-esteem rituals. I admire the outcast as much as I secretly feel like I don’t belong.
RM: You mention identity and the feeling of being an outsider. Do you see your work as a way to navigate or redefine belonging, personally or in a broader cultural context?
LA: My practice has always been there for me, and I find a necessary connection when I’m engaged with it.
I would hope, whether operationally, supernaturally, or in form, that the work finds a wider connection once it’s out there. That it’s able to express the intimate connection I have with it… and I hope the work listens as much as it tells.
But who’s to say? I’m not sure belonging is the best mediator for such things—it can feel so damn permanent.
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About the writer: Riad Miah was born in Trinidad and currently lives and works in New York City. His work has been exhibited at the Baltimore Museum of Contemporary Art, Sperone Westwater, White Box Gallery, Deluxe Projects, Rooster Contemporary Art, Simon Gallery, and Lesley Heller Workshop. He has received fellowships nationally and internationally. His works are included in private, university, and corporate collections. He contributes to Two Coats of Paint, the Brooklyn Rail, and Whitehot Magazine.