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Inside the Studio: Emma Boykin
- Art Dealer Street
- 3 days ago
- 8 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
Emma Boykin is a New York-based artist whose work seamlessly blends abstraction with emotional depth. With a foundation in textile design, Emma brings a unique perspective to her art, often incorporating natural fibers and handmade paper into her pieces. Her abstract works are deeply personal, each one unfolding through a process of intuition, tactile exploration, and emotional release.
In her studio, she creates complex, layered compositions that reflect both the chaos and beauty of life. Her art not only conveys her personal journey but also invites viewers to connect with their own emotions and experiences. The process of creation for Emma is just as important as the finished work, with each piece being an expression of both inner turmoil and calm. Emma’s practice is grounded in a deep respect for materiality and an ongoing exploration of texture, color, and form. In this exclusive interview, Emma opens up about her approach to abstraction, the role of material in her work, and the invaluable lessons she’s learned as an emerging artist.
Read on to learn more in an exclusive interview with Emma Boykin :
1. Emma, your works blend abstraction with representation in such a captivating way. How do you decide when to allow the abstract and figurative elements to coexist in your paintings?
As a predominantly abstract artist right now, I don’t usually approach a piece with a strict plan. I often begin with a feeling or an experience that serves as inspiration, but from there, I allow the process to unfold naturally. The balance between abstraction and representation isn’t something I consciously control, it just emerges as I respond to the work in the moment. What I find most compelling is how a single piece can evoke entirely different responses depending on who's viewing it. I want my art to create space for personal interpretation, where viewers can connect with it in their own way, separate from my original intent.
2. In your biography, you mention a deep connection with the human experience. How do you translate this into the visual language of your work?
Like so many people, I’ve had my share of dark times, but I’ve also been incredibly lucky and blessed in a lot of ways. That mix of struggle and gratitude is a big part of what I try to express through my art. For me, the human experience isn’t just a theme, it’s embedded in both the visual language and the physical process of making each piece.
If you’re not familiar with how I work, I make my canvases out of natural fibers like cotton or abaca. I beat them down by hand with water until they turn into this thick, sludgy pulp that honestly looks a bit like a big vat of oatmeal. (Not exactly glamorous, I know.) Most papermakers would press this pulp flat to make traditional sheets of paper—but I like to let it do its own thing. I pour it onto something called a string grid and let it dry in its natural form. That dried pulp becomes the base for my work, my version of a canvas. From there, I might dye it, paint on it, or just leave it raw.
One question I get a lot is: why do I beat the pulp by hand? Two reasons. First, I genuinely love the physicality of it. It’s labor-intensive, meditative, grounding—and it makes me feel more connected to what I’m creating. I work full-time as a textile designer, so having that tactile relationship with my materials is really important to me. Second... I don’t actually have space for a giant machine beater. I do most of my work out of my parents’ garage, so hand-beating is as practical as it is personal (thank you Mom and Dad).
The process is long. I make the pulp, build the string grids, pour and layer the pulp, then wait for each layer to dry before adding the next. That can take several days. And even then, I never really know how it’s going to dry, or what it’ll look like once I take it off the grid. That lack of control? It's honestly one of the most human aspects of it all.
There’s something powerful and humbling about pouring so much time and effort into something, knowing it might not turn out the way you imagined. It requires patience, trust, and a willingness to embrace imperfections. That, to me, is the human experience: messy, unpredictable, and sometimes frustrating, but also incredibly rewarding.
3. Your color choices often evoke strong emotions. Could you tell us more about how you approach color theory in your art?
Color theory has always fascinated me. I actually took a color theory class back in college while studying for my B.S. in Textile Design, and honestly, it was one of my favorite classes ever. There’s something so interesting about how color connects to emotion in ways we often don’t even notice. It’s subtle, but it’s powerful.
In my own work, color plays a huge role, especially in my most recent collection that I am showing at Clio. The palette is mostly lavender and varying shades of green. Purple, to me, has always carried this really calming and joyful energy. It makes me feel at ease. And green, it’s such a grounding color. It reminds me of nature, of being outside, of feeling alive and present. Based on that palette, you could probably guess I’ve been in a pretty good place lately! There are some really special people in my life right now who’ve made me feel deeply happy and loved.
That said, like all of my pieces, even the bright ones hold space for contrast. You’ll find moments of shadow, darker spots, gaps, areas of rawness, because nothing in life is ever entirely perfect. I try to let that duality exist in the work: the joy and the melancholy, the fullness and the absence. That, to me, is where the emotional honesty lives.
4. How has your personal history and cultural influences shaped the themes and motifs that appear in your work?
When I first started creating pieces like the ones I make now, I was drawn to how intricate they could become, and, maybe more importantly, how they weren’t entirely whole. That felt deeply relatable at the time. I was working through past traumas and facing some inner demons, and the fragmented, layered nature of my work became a reflection of that process.
Those early pieces were dark, heavy, and emotionally complex. But they were honest. They helped me make sense of what I was feeling when I didn’t have the words for it. In a way, the act of creating became a form of healing, an alternative language for processing pain, and for reconnecting with parts of myself I hadn’t fully faced.
Art has given me the space to better understand who I am. It’s helped me move through some of the darker chapters of my life while honouring the complexity of the experiences that shaped me. The layers, the gaps, the rawness, they all represent something real, and I think that’s what gives my work its emotional core.
5. Your compositions seem to move between order and chaos. How do you decide when a piece feels 'finished'?
Honestly, that’s such a tough question, and one I still struggle to answer. Sometimes it feels like certain pieces will never truly be finished. I’ve got more than a few works just hanging around my apartment and “studio” that I stare at from time to time, still unsure whether they’re complete or just paused.
There was a recent piece I sold to some friends, and every time I visit their place and see it on the wall, I find myself thinking about all the ways I would change it now. It’s not that I regret the piece, it’s just that my perspective keeps shifting, and so does my relationship with the work.
That said, there have been moments when I’ve looked at a piece and felt a clear sense of finality like, “Yep, this is it.” One that stands out to me is Subway Summer. For whatever reason, that one just clicked. It felt resolved, whole, and emotionally complete in a way I didn’t question.
But more often than not, I think the line between order and chaos in my compositions mirrors how I feel internally—sometimes clear, sometimes messy, sometimes unfinished... and that’s okay. I’m learning to sit with that uncertainty and let it be part of the process.
6. You’ve experimented with a variety of materials and techniques. How important is innovation to you in your practice?
Innovation is a huge part of my practice. I love experimenting! Trying out new materials, techniques, and ways of creating. Some of my best work has come from moments where I was just messing around, testing something unfamiliar, or following a totally spontaneous idea.
A lot of my process has involved making things up as I go. That might not sound like the most refined approach especially since papermaking is a pretty technical craft, but for me, it’s about having fun and staying curious. I try not to overthink it. If something feels exciting or meaningful in the moment, I follow that instinct.
At the end of the day, I’m just out here expressing myself. That’s what matters most. The learning, the play, the freedom to explore; those are the things that keep me coming back to the studio.
7. As an artist, how do you balance staying true to your voice while adapting to the ever-changing art world?
It’s definitely a challenge. When I first started making work like this, it was purely for myself. There was no pressure, no audience, just me processing things and exploring ideas. But now that I’m creating with the intention to exhibit and sell, there’s naturally been a shift in mindset.
Oftentimes now I’ll find myself thinking more about what might sell or what others might respond to, and that can get in my head if I’m not careful. To stay grounded, I lean heavily on music while I work, it helps me tune out the noise of the outside world and reconnect with my own emotions. It puts me back in that personal space where I can just feel what I’m making rather than overanalyze it.
There’s always going to be that push and pull, but at the end of the day, this is my work. I want it to reflect something real. Staying true to myself, even while navigating the demands of the art world, is something I have to be intentional about. But I think that honesty comes through in the work, and that’s what really matters.
8. For those beginning their artistic careers, especially those experimenting with abstract art, what advice would you give them?
I’m at the beginning of my own artistic career, so it feels a little funny giving advice. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned so far, it’s the importance of actually enjoying what you do. That sounds simple, but it’s huge.
I chose a creative path, and while it’s not always the most stable or predictable, it gives me purpose. I get to make things that mean something to me, and that’s incredibly fulfilling. Work takes up so much of our lives, and life is unpredictable, so doing something that brings you joy, or at the very least feels meaningful, really matters.
So whether you’re just starting out or deep into your journey, especially in abstract art where there’s so much room for interpretation, my advice would be: don’t get too caught up in what it “should” be. Let yourself play, experiment, and feel it out. If you can find joy in the process, you’re already on the right track.
Emma Boykin’s creative process is a blend of patience, intuition, and material-driven exploration. Through her art, she has navigated personal growth, transforming moments of chaos and uncertainty into expressions of beauty and emotion. Her advice to young artists—to stay true to their voice, embrace experimentation, and find joy in the process—serves as a reminder that art is not just about the end result but the journey itself. Emma’s work continues to evolve, inviting both herself and her viewers to explore the infinite possibilities of form, color, and meaning.
You can learn more about Emma Boykin and her work via these links: Instagram: @emmalineboykin Artsy: https://www.artsy.net/artist/emma-boykin