"What if plant knowledge, intention and ritual were still part of daily life? What would our world look like if that shared folk knowledge and culture hadn’t been obliterated? I came to the conclusion we would be using it, amongst other things, to fix our cars."
Libby's Instagram: @libby.bove.arts
How and when did you know you wanted to be an artist?
Creativity has always been a big part of who I am, and as long as I can remember I’ve been a maker of things. I used to sketch almost constantly, filling book after book with moody, inky drawings of moody people, usually, but not always, eating cooked breakfasts. After the sulky breakfast era had run its course, I went on to work in the festival and events scene, making sets, masks, puppets, costumes, writing and performing. Over this period of time, I was involved in numerous collaborative projects which spanned theatre, visual arts and something a little more absurd: A handcart-drawn potato shy, An automaton performance depicting the dancing plague, and A post-apocalyptic slingshot slideshow. At 27, I launched my own organic folk-inspired textile and home range, which has ran alongside, supporting my fine art practice since. So I guess that I feel like I’ve always been an artist, but until recently, it didn’t feel like It was something I could do full-time. That’s where art school has changed things.
What was your experience of art school?
I came to art school quite late, at 29, in the midst of the pandemic. My work as an events refuse driver had dried up overnight due to the lockdown, and to be brutally honest I needed some income. I didn’t really know what to expect at all, but within a week It felt clear that It was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. The tutors and technical staff were all incredibly supportive, and there was so much encouragement to explore every medium, take risks and play. I studied two years of creative arts practice, where I built up a foundation of craft-based skills, working predominantly in ceramics, print and textiles. Then I decided to change direction and moved to the Fine Art Program, as my practice was changing and began to incorporate more performative and photographic elements. Before starting uni, I had thought that the course would require me to specialise and focus on just one medium, something I wasn’t particularly looking forward to, how to choose? However, I was encouraged to see the interdisciplinary nature of my practice as its strength. The work presented for my final show celebrated the diversity of practices explored throughout my time studying. The finished piece incorporated sculpture, sound, textiles, print, sound, text, photography and film. Combined they created the Travelling Museum of Roadside Magic., an exhibition set within a Luton van, with a gift shop trailer towing behind.
Can you tell us more about the ideas and inspiration behind your work?
Most of my work, in some way , explores the repositioning of folk custom and magical practices back into daily life.
Central to my practice is Roadside Magic, in brief, this is an imagined construct where plant knowledge, magic and ritual play essential roles in the repair and maintenance of vehicles. Roadside Magic started life when I asked the question - What if the witch crazes never happened? What if plant knowledge, intention and ritual were still part of daily life? What would our world look like if that shared folk knowledge and culture hadn’t been obliterated? I came to the conclusion we would be using it, amongst other things, to fix our cars. At first glance, the concept of treating mechanical issues in this way may seem preposterous, however, looking back just a few generations, such practices and rites were an intrinsic aspect of agricultural life. From ‘Burning the Bush’ in the West Midlands to Wassailing orchards in the West Country, folk rituals for a healthy harvest are numerous, diverse and often bizarre. With this in mind, then, is it that strange to think that we might molly dance for an M.O.T. test? Or parade the streets with coagulating herbs to ward off gasket leakages?
Drawing on archival methodologies and documentary formats, my work slips between fact and fiction. By employing traditional craft processes, plausibility is woven into constructed myths.
Are there other artists or movements that have inspired your work?
Cannupa Hanska Luger's work is incredible, in particular his work Future Ancestral Technologies which depicts a postcolonial speculative future, with vibrant sculptural costumes that speak of indigenous craft and sci-fi fantasy. Another favourite is Lucy Wright, who reimagines British folk traditions for a contemporary world, centring marginalised identities and conducting folk rituals through the digital ether. Also, Matthew Cowan, whose practice draws from European harvest rituals. Working closely with archives, his works manifest as uncanny lifesize figures, films, performances and sculptures.
Can you describe a typical day in the studio? How do you approach your work?
As I work across so many different mediums, my typical day has the tendency to fluctuate quite a bit. When I’m working in ceramics, sculpture and textiles, while the processes are all quite different, my approach to all is similar. Before getting started, I sometimes do a few quick watercolour sketches to visualise the work better, but pretty soon I’ll need to get making. Works develop through a fairly manic and chaotic making process, I’ll often have a few things on the go at once…the studio a wash with fabric, clay and foraged plants…It’s in no way methodical, but it does work. The next stage - after everything is safely back from the kiln, involves photographing the works, and embedding them into their imagined historic, or futuristic context. Sometimes I am lucky enough to have models, but quite often it is just me, by a derelict garage, in costume, with a camera and tripod.
The lore-making, the constructing of the fictional histories which tie the work together, happens throughout all of these processes… sometimes it emerges fully formed, right at the start, and the rest of the processes is a response to it. But more often than not, it’s a conversation which weaves its way through my making, turning itself over in my head, snowballing, gaining veracity, as it slowly becomes a form of fact.