For sculptor Lisa Snook, clay is more than a material. It is a means of exploring memory, emotion and the experiences held within the body. Drawing on her background in fine art and art psychotherapy, Snook creates expressive, often figurative works that explore grief, vulnerability and the relationship between physical form and psychological experience.
Working from her studio in a converted barn in Suffolk, Snook approaches sculpture through an intuitive and deeply personal process. Her figures emerge through touch, with the pushing, pulling and manipulation of clay becoming an essential part of their meaning. Whether left raw, fired in porcelain or cast in bronze, each piece undergoes a transformation that reflects her interest in the body’s capacity to carry memory.
In this interview, Snook discusses the experiences that have shaped her practice, the influence of Louise Bourgeois, and the importance of storytelling, symbolism and embodied memory. She also reflects on her evolving relationship with clay and her plans to explore larger-scale sculpture and community projects.
Are you self-taught, or did you undertake formal artistic training?
I trained at Chelsea School of Art for my foundation course and then went on to complete a BA in Fine Art and Art History at Goldsmiths. I later trained as an art psychotherapist and received my MA in 2018.
How would you define your visual language or conceptual approach?
I would say my visual language is a form of expressionism, rooted within a conceptual framework of phenomenological psychology. Basically, I pay attention to what I feel and transform that information into a visual language.
Can you describe your creative process from conception to completion?
My creative process doesn’t have a linear trajectory. My drive, or creative impulse, comes from a need to self-regulate and tell a story. This is what pulls me into the studio. I bring my whole self into the creative process: my body, my memory, my lived experience. Sometimes grief is all I have to offer, so that will be the starting point.
All my work begins in clay. It’s the only material I’ve used that has the capacity to transform feeling into form. I think it quite literally carries memory, in a similar way to our bodies. I spend a good deal of time manipulating the clay, pushing, pulling, tearing, clawing and smoothing. This part of the process is dreamlike. I’m in what is called a theta state.
Slowly, a form will begin to emerge. This can be figurative or more abstract. Once there is a form that I’m happy with, the piece is either left raw, fired or cast in bronze. Another kind of transformation occurs at this stage in the process. Drying the clay can mean that cracks appear as its qualities change. The pieces become fragile, and their sense of impermanence is heightened. If the piece is fired, anything can happen!
If I’m using porcelain, the firing process turns the clay into an object with bone-like opacity. The work is now calcified and holds its form like a fossil. The most significant transformation occurs when the pieces are cast in bronze. The metal gives weight and substance to the work, whilst the patina adds a layer of colour, depth and iridescence.
The final stage in the process is bringing the pieces together with found objects, old furniture, antique mirrors or marble. I see this as a layering of historical narrative.
Does narrative, symbolism or storytelling play a role within your work?
Absolutely. Storytelling is very important in the work. I recognise the human body as a collector of memory, and my work is a retelling of those memories. It is the story of unconscious memory that I’m telling.
The titles of my pieces are often drawn from characters in fairy tales and myths. These tales speak in metaphors and archetypes, symbolic of human traits and the Jungian concept of the collective unconscious.
Which artists have most influenced you, historically or contemporarily, and why?
When I was at college, I saw a Louise Bourgeois sculpture in an art history lecture. I never forgot the gut-wrenching sensation that I felt. I remember not wanting to analyse or even articulate what we were looking at. I just wanted to stay with that sensation.
This way of responding to work feels more pertinent than ever, especially with the advent of AI. Remaining attuned to an embodied reality is so important.
What personal, cultural or environmental influences shape your practice?
I always have this self-dialogue around how personal to go. I made a new body of work for the recent Clay-in-Vivo show, which was about how growing up with domestic violence caused emotional turmoil. The clay for this collection was both healer and storyteller.
Clay became my primary material 12 years ago, after my brother lost his battle with depression and addiction. My practice was solely about grief, and clay became the medium through which I could process these deep emotions. This was also the time I began my training to become an art psychotherapist. I was using the clay to self-regulate.
Figures, predominantly female, often pregnant, multi-breasted and with distorted bodies, began to emerge from the clay. I had been working with found objects up until this point. I stuck with the process and allowed these figures to come. There were hundreds of them! I had no idea what I was doing, really, but having my hands in the clay helped.
Now, after twelve years, the figure has remained the primary form in my work. I layer these pieces with found objects, sometimes domestic, like old furniture and antique mirrors, and sometimes natural materials, like marble.
It’s a return to how I used to work, but with the added momentum of personal story, emotion and resonance.
Where is your studio based, and how does the space inform your creativity?
My studio is in Suffolk, in a converted barn next to where I live. It’s a beautiful building, with a pantiled roof that looks like an old horse’s back. Having a studio that’s already imbued with memory from the passage of time feels like a perfect home for making my work. Having lots of space and light is pretty nice too.
Do you have any rituals or rhythms that anchor your studio practice?
There’s a small step down into my studio, and when I go in, it feels like crossing a threshold. I leave the outside world behind, put on my apron and get my hands in the clay.
What bodies of work or projects are you currently developing?
Now that I have more space, I’m developing larger-scale work. I’m curious about how scale will impact both my experience of making the work and the viewers’ responses.
The sense of touch is so important in my work, and with that, there is an intimacy that occurs in the making and in the marks left behind in the clay.
I’m fascinated by how physical human touch impacts the brain, and working with clay has measurable neurobiological responses. So, alongside the larger work, I’d like to develop a community-based project exploring embodied memory and shared stories, told through clay.
Where can collectors encounter or acquire your work?
Collectors are welcome to get in touch with me directly at lisa@lisasnookartist.com.
My work can also be viewed on Instagram @lisasnook and on my website lisasnook.co.uk.
