Becoming an Island: Practicing Time-Sharing
A conversation with Amsterdam-based artist Emily Bates on the changing rhythms of blossoms, spiritual relationships with nature, remote landscapes and her process-based photography practice.
By Anastasia Nefedova
While I’m sitting in Emily Bates’s studio, located in the former Wilhelmina Gasthuis hospital, built in 1891, I begin to notice how intuitively nature becomes part of her space. Her table is covered with branches of the foxglove tree, collected, I imagine, for her recent essay on seeds at DAISYWORLD CAL. The last time I was at her studio, chestnut petals were drying in the same place, waiting to be exposed in the darkroom and transformed into new silver gelatin prints.
For more than twenty years, Bates has worked with remote landscapes and island communities, developing an artistic practice deeply engaged with rituals, ecological knowledge and the biological life cycles of flowers. These days Bates’s selected photographs from ‘Love Scenes’ are exhibited in the group exhibition ‘Le Regard éloigné’ at MACS (Musée des Arts Contemporains du Grand-Hornu), giving a glimpse into her approach.
Originally shown as a series of photographs and video installation, ‘Love Series’ holds different intersecting temporalities: the ancestral origins of the love song tradition in Yunnan, its transmission across generations, contemporary interpretation and questions of future preservation. The fact that time is never singular in Bates’s practice allows one to see and feel from the perspectives of a crack in the wall, pitch-black bushes or even the trunk of a cherry tree. Paying attention not only to human perspective, but also to deep time, her work invites viewers to pause, to linger with what is often overlooked, and, perhaps, to practise what Anna Tsing calls “the art of noticing.” And yet, Bates’s noticing goes beyond observation. For her, it is also a question of responsibility: what does it mean for an artist to enter a place, to learn from it, and give something back?
AN: Before the interview, I was curious to revisit your graduation work, which you created in the 1990s as part of your research on textiles, sexuality and commercial beauty standards. Knitting garments from human hair sounds like quite a provocation for the Textile Department at the Glasgow School of Art, where you studied. Looking back at this very 90s feminist work, how do you see its relationship to your practice today?
Emily Bartes, Sibilla, 1997. Human hair dress, spun and knitted, with steel hanger, 260 cm high. Courtesy of the artist.
EB: While I was studying within a textile department, the possibilities of working more broadly existed within the art school. It was the early 90s, when a strong thread of artistic practice was related to the body, identity and the extremes of the beauty and fashion industry. I was also inspired by the raw and direct use of the body in early performance and video works from the 60s and 70s, like performances by Vito Acconci, where he plucks the hairs out of his navel or burns his chest hair, or later contemporary explorations such as ORLAN using surgical procedures to give herself the chin of Botticelli’s Venus to challenge historical ideals imposed on women’s bodies.
For me, it was interesting to address the heritage of textiles and making, and the symbolism of processes like spinning and knitting, where the process becomes a ritual in itself. It helped me to relate it back to the body in a new way, and to my personal narrative. The dresses I made from spun and knitted hair had a very elongated form. Using human hair as my medium allowed me to join the broader artistic conversation, reference Victorian memorial jewellery and different forms of iconography associated with the distortion of the body and the changing ideals of the body at that time. Progressively, I moved away from the textile object as the final piece, by making works in a way that it could return to the body and be photographed. Photography eventually became a more dominant tool and practice.
AN: Textile art has often been positioned differently from other artistic practices within the art world. Did you encounter any stereotypes or challenges at the beginning of your career?
EB: I was very fortunate to be offered exhibitions within a sculpture context immediately after graduation, so it was never really an issue. Being at the art school during that period introduced me to so much beyond my own course. Glasgow itself was incredibly dynamic at the time with many now highly successful artists (the list of Turner Prize winners and nominees from Glasgow is quite extensive!), and artist-led exhibition spaces. There was a real sense of energy and community, and the transition was very smooth.
A few years later, I was invited to exhibit at art institutions like the National Museum of Modern Art Kyoto, the Barbican Centre and the Hayward Gallery in London, where art, fashion and craft were being presented together. At the same time, there was a broader campaign to give textile art greater recognition and validity, and I completely understood the importance of these changes. But I also didn’t want to become caught up in the fight for recognition. My view was that if the work is good, the work is good, whether it’s shown in the context of art, fashion or design.
Emily Bates, Hanami Blossom, 2023–ongoing. Archival pigment print, edition from unique silver gelatin baryta prints. Courtesy of the artist.
Emily Bates in her studio, 2026. Courtesy MUROLO®
AN: Seeing your continued attention to natural materials and textures, I feel a strong continuation of this sensitivity within your photography. In one of your recent projects ‘Hanami Blossom’ you worked with cherry blossom petals. How does the interest in flowers relate to your analog photography practice?
EB: Flower symbolism in my work dates back to Glasgow, and my first commission for the Royal Music and Drama school depicting Ophelia and the Lady of Shalott. But particularly in the ‘Hanami Blossom’ series, the photographic process brought me back to the act of making itself, through experimenting in the darkroom with alternative analog processes. I think that was a very strong attraction for me because travelling and photographing landscapes or portraits is a very different kind of interaction with the medium and moment. In the darkroom, I was working directly with the elements I had: light, paper, chemicals, flowers and time. I could extend and shift time in new ways in this multi-layering of elements and processes. I think I still approach photography quite sculpturally, rather than only through a photographic conversation. With this series, it was more about the gesture and about recording a sense of time and flow. Photography is a still image, but I think many of my works hold a sense of movement. They have stillness and silence, but they also suggest a gesture, a sound, an atmosphere or a moment unfolding.
It became a different kind of recipe, one where I was allowing things to happen and learning to recognise something when it appeared and experiment. Noticing something, even if I don’t fully understand why, and giving time to edit, are a large part of my photographic practice. It’s almost as if the image is calling me, saying, “this is the one.” I don’t necessarily analyse why; I trust my intuition.
AN: I was thinking about “hanami” as the practice of “viewing” flowers. Danh Võ once reflected in one of his interviews that in art we often know the names of artists, gallerists and curators, but have no idea about the flowers or birds outside our own windows. Since in ‘Lost Spring’ you work with flowers, gathering them from the places around your neighbourhood and studio, does it open a different way of seeing for you?
EB: During the lockdown, ‘Lost Spring’ evolved as a form of daily meditation, a reason to leave the house, to slow down and to shift my attention: a conversation started that kept my eye on the ground and the trees. Many of us were living in isolation and anxiety. By sharing the self-portrait images, with blooms creating a face mask, on social media with friends, a new connection and solidarity evolved. Some days were playful, others very emotional and challenging to share, hence my eyes remained closed. I mourned a dear Swedish friend and artist who passed, with blue and yellow flowers I had seen in the park, and later made these available as special postage stamp editions, with funds offered in support of Ukraine. My knowledge of plant species has definitely evolved. The works by Robert Macfarlane are also great companions and inspiration. His observation and research that led to the creation of ‘The Lost Words’, a book of poems or spells, as he refers to them, has been a powerful reminder of our disconnect to our natural environment.
Over the following years, as we remained in this strange suspended sense of time, I became increasingly aware of the changes and distortions in the blossoms and blooms around me, and how they were connected to climate change. The shifts in blossoming times, sometimes by a couple of weeks, reveal and register these ecological changes. The cherry blossoms were important to me because I had been working in Asia during many previous years, and suddenly I could no longer travel there. They carried a strong symbolism for me, but at the same time, I became aware of how their blooming patterns were being affected by ecological changes. With ‘Hanami Blossom’, I wanted to continue to explore and acknowledge this shift.
Emily Bates, The Sky is glowing with the setting sun, 2012. Colour hand prints on aluminium. Courtesy of the artist.
Emily Bates, The Sky is glowing with the setting sun, 2012. Installation view. Courtesy of the artist and Mudam Luxembourg. Photo: Aurélien Mole.
AN: In your major solo exhibition, ‘The sky is glowing with the setting sun’ at Mudam Luxembourg, you presented intimate portraits of an ageing community of women from the Amami Islands alongside large-scale landscapes, creating a dialogue between human presence and the island itself. What drew you to this juxtaposition and what relationship were you hoping to create between these two bodies of photographs?
EB: I’ve been there several times and spent a long time on Amami Ōshima. It sits in a vulnerable location being exposed to tsunamis, mudslides, storms and typhoons. Traditional life is sustained by farming and fishing as was the case with similar geographically isolated island communities where people live in a very direct relationship with the elements. In the smaller villages I went to, there were many elderly women living there, and I was fortunate enough to work with them and they welcomed me into their homes. They often outlived the men and became the carriers of shamanistic practices, nature worship, and many of the rituals connected to the harvest.
I’m not an anthropologist, so I come with my own experience, interests and interpretation. It is a humbling experience to work closely with these communities. I was drawn to the symbolism of plants and landscapes that decorated their homes. Many of the buildings were empty or falling into disrepair, some abandoned, and nature was always finding its way back in. Some of the photographs I made show damaged interiors where nature is slowly reclaiming the space.
The island has many places that are considered sacred, so I tried to understand and respect that through my explorations and photographs. And to experience it myself, feeling an energy or connection with a particular place. The black-and-white silver gelatin prints of the sub-tropical forests have a more timeless, enduring quality. You can’t quite place them in time. Made on analog film, they look like they could have been made at any moment. Meanwhile, I kept the portraits of women in colour and printed them to a smaller intimate scale, so that the landscape could remain the larger, more powerful presence. Both contain a version of nature, but they ask different questions. Much of nature worship is about respect, preservation, gratitude and understanding how to live in harmony with a place.
AN: When you work with subjects or traditions that are considered sacred or traditionally performed away from public view, how do you position yourself as an artist? I’m addressing the ‘Love Scenes’ project.
The sacred and the intimate customs I have been fortunate to witness or document, reflect a long commitment and process of dialogue, building trust and establishing consent, working closely with local guides and interpreters. It is a fragile balance and raises important ethical considerations. My work and approach is essentially about the poetic and fragility, leaving space or creating absence, so much remains unseen or indirectly present, untranslated or ambiguous, rather than a documentary revealing all. The loss of the traditions and the landscape itself, are central themes of the work in ‘Love Scenes.’ The act of recording the traditional antiphonal courtship songs for this project stimulated renewed value in them by the participants and local community. I hope they continue to sing.
AN: You’ve spent extended periods working closely with different communities, from the mentioned community in Japan to the Naxi community in Yunnan, Gaelic-speaking communities in Scotland and the Tammurriata communities in Southern Italy. How has working with these different communities changed your own approach?
EB: It is important to remember that we live in a fragile balance. In these communities, you feel that very strongly, and yet they have developed very beautiful ways of supporting and caring for one another. It also made me think more about the question of intention and extraction. That is one of my interests in returning to the Amami Islands next year. I find it meaningful that my work can have value and be useful and supportive to the island, not only by bringing it to art spaces, but by giving something back to the community…
Emily Bates, The Nurturing Island, 2010. Silver gelatin baryta prints on aluminium with an audio track. Courtesy of the artist.
AN: While you have been living and working in Amsterdam for many years, islands continue to call you back. You also founded in your studio the art and cultural space isle_amsterdam. What keeps drawing you back to islands?
EB: That idea was inspired by some of my experiences of residencies and projects on islands, but also by time spent in remote mountain regions. For me, an island or an isle, represents a refuge, but also a place of gathering, acceptance and care.
There is something comforting about the image of being washed up on an island shore. Even when you feel adrift, an island can become a place of refuge. Island communities (and remote rural communities more broadly) are fascinating social structures in themselves. I’ve been fortunate to be welcomed into some of them with great generosity and openness.
In a way, isle_amsterdam became my own gesture towards offering that experience: creating a space where people can gather, share and feel part of a community, even if only for an evening. I’m an artist, I make things, but sharing time, learning from each other, being open to each other, that is actually what perhaps remains deeply meaningful to me.
Notes:
- Emily Bates, “paulownia trees produce seeds,” Daisyworld Cal (2026), https://daisyworldcal.substack.com/p/emily-bates-paulownia-trees-produce.
- MACS, “Le Regard éloigné,” 06 September – 01 November 2026, https://www.mac-s.be/nl/tentoonstellingen/le-regard-eloigne.
- Jan Kedves, “Danh Vo: Gardening with art’s great appropriator,” Fantastic Man no. 33 (2021), https://www.fantasticman.com/articles/danh-vo/.
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Emily Bates studied at Glasgow School of Art and became recognised for a body of work developed during the 1990s, including her ‘impossible’ dresses constructed from knitted human hair: Dress, Depilator, and Sibilla. In 1997, she was awarded a Scottish Arts Council residency in Amsterdam, where she remains based. Her research and practice have been supported by further residency and fellowship awards, notably at the Pier Arts Centre, Orkney (2000); Nordiska Akvarellmuseet, Sweden (2000); S-Air, Sapporo, Japan (2002–03); Lijiang Studio, China (2006–07); as the Dutch Affiliated Visual Arts Fellow at the American Academy in Rome (2008); as the Mondriaan Fonds artist in residence at MMCA in Seoul (2017); and at the Vincent van GoghHuis Museum in Noord-Brabant (2021). She has exhibited extensively, and her work is held in numerous private and public collections, including the Vincent van GoghHuis Museum, Zundert, the Netherlands; FRAC Poitou-Charentes, France; MAC’s, Grand-Hornu, Belgium; Paisley Museum, Scotland; MUDAM, Luxembourg; and Arendt & Medernach, Luxembourg.
Anastasia Nefedova is a curator and researcher based in Amsterdam. She holds an MA in Fine Art and Design (Dutch Art Institute) and an MA in Curating Arts (RSUH). Working with photography, video and text, she rethinks the role of exhibition-making and curating. Among her research and group projects ‘Collecting I: Bridges,’ The Merchant House (TMH), Amsterdam (2025), ‘Assembling Land: Rehearsals Towards Place-making’ with the Dutch Art Institute (DAI) and De Appel, Amsterdam (2023-24); ‘Curating Positions: A Cut Through the Screen’ with Bulegoa z/b, Bilbao (2022-23); and Artists’ Film International (AFI) with Whitechapel Gallery, Moscow Museum of Modern Art (2021). Her writing on art has appeared in NERO Editions and Metropolis M, among other publications.