In Conversation with Jane Reilly
In this conversation, Jane Reilly reflects on the personal histories, materials and quiet transformations that shape On a Clear Day, her upcoming exhibition collection grounded in memory, resilience and the poetic language of form. Here, we have the pleasure to delve deeper into Reilly’s history, both personal and artistic, that have influenced and shaped this compelling collection soon to be reveal, exclusively at e.g.etal.
On a Clear Day centres on the recurring motifs of the window and the vessel. Can you share what drew you back to these forms and what they reveal for you at this moment?
I didn’t come from a traditional art background; my early creative experiences were rooted in craft and play. My mother was a wool spinner, and much of my childhood was spent outdoors, making with our hands. In high school, I found solace in the basement pottery studio – a quiet, grounding space that led me to pursue a degree in ceramics, graduating in 2000.
Over six years, I built my own kiln and explored the vessel form through raw salt glazing and mark-making, guided by readings on home, memory and identity – particularly The Poetics of Space, with its reflections on the window, the inside, and the outside. In Bachelard’s philosophy, the vessel embodies intimate interiority, the enclosed, protective space of the self, while the window serves as a doorway between inner life and outer world, offering both perspective and possibility.
The concept of the vessel and the window remain central to my practice. Both are recurring motifs, anchored in material and metaphor. This has moved from clay to metal, drawn by the immediacy and tactility of the process. The vessel holds presence, the window holds perspective. It is a threshold, both literal and symbolic, through which I reflect on the past and envision the self emerging.
“This year marks a shift. After years shaped by grief and loss, I feel an exhale.”
The familiar forms of vessel and window have become a language for that release – quiet, enduring structures through which breath, memory and transformation move.
You describe this collection as both a reflection of self and a quiet nod to those who have taught you how to see. Who or what has shaped your way of looking at the world?
It’s a big, beautiful question that I will attempt to answer. In the context of this exhibition, I return to the idea that every action invites a response. With age and through the lens of grief comes a deepened capacity to see, to reflect. This body of work is, in many ways, a quiet tribute to those I’ve encountered along the way, whose presence, words or absence have shaped my path.
Abstraction continues to underpin much of my practice. This work carries with it a gentle homage to those whose language has informed my own: Robert Motherwell, Miró, Antoni Tàpies, Gordon Baldwin, Tony Tuckson and Rosalie Gascoigne, to name a few.
How did artists like Motherwell, Miró and Tàpies influence your understanding of the abstract and inspire you to embrace it?
I came to the art world later in life, searching for a sense of place; an understanding of where I belonged. I returned to ceramics, the one subject that had held me in high school.
But it was through art history and philosophy that a door opened. I found myself asking: Where am I from? Why am I drawn to these images, these materials, this language I feel but cannot name?
At 23, I bought my first piece of abstract art. I didn’t fully understand why, I just knew I loved it. I still have it on my wall. That intuitive pull led me into the world of abstraction.
Miró’s colour and playfulness captivated me when I visited his gallery in Barcelona in 1990. Tàpies’ textured surfaces layered with raw materials felt tactile and immediate. Gordon Baldwin’s vessels, some with hidden hollows, spoke of inner space and quiet contemplation; they felt like whispered prayers to the self. Rosalie Gascoigne’s use of the Australian landscape as both form and memory resonated deeply.
And then, Robert Motherwell his words, his gestures, his process. I watched a video of him laying down ink spots on copper, letting it exist, only then to wipe parts away. It was storytelling through removal, presence through absence.
“I am trying to represent not the object itself but the effect which the object produces. It’s a self-search… Don’t think too much—invite intuition.”
– Robert Motherwell
That line changed everything.
I had been told I couldn’t draw, but I could feel. And I could translate that feeling. My intuition, once suppressed in the rigid structures of a Catholic school system, was slowly returning.
“Through abstraction, I was finding freedom, an acceptance of self through the act of making. It wasn’t just expression; it was a reclamation.”
You mention that this body of work carries your recent experiences of grief, loss and abandonment. How do these emotions take form through jewellery?
Alongside the windows, I’ve created three vessel forms, rings, each representing myself and my two younger sisters. We shared a room for much of our childhood, a space of closeness, of chaos and comfort. In some ways, these rings may carry echoes of all twelve of my siblings and the layered, complex upbringing we shared. They speak to the lifelong work of locating oneself within family, within memory, a process I continue to untangle through my practice.
“My pieces are made to be worn or placed on the wall. To be seen matters. They are small sculptural works, fragments of narrative, physical expressions of what I cannot always say in words.”
The window, as a form, holds space for grief, hope, love, and the imprint of a family life lived across decades. The vessel, ever present, is the body, the self, both container and contained. To wear these works is to activate them, to carry them forward. They are my talismans of resilience, made in the wake of loss and in the quiet pursuit of light.
What does the act of making mean to you in times of transition or reflection?
There is always something stirring beneath the surface; my mind is often restless, moving quickly. It’s simply how I move through the world. The solitude of the studio, and the quiet labour of making, offer a place to slow down, to sift through emotion, to make sense of what lingers.
“Every piece I create holds meaning. Each one is tethered to a past moment, a feeling, a shift. Whether it’s a pair of apron earrings or a sculpture informed by the washing line, the titles I give are small acknowledgements, markers of what I felt in the making.”
I’ve come to understand that my practice is one of play, of healing, and of gently uncovering the self. The work holds that process, it always has. Through the act of making, I find a way back to myself.
You’ve spoken of your studio as a meditative space where your hands, heart and intuition take over. How does this process unfold when you begin a piece?
Sometimes an idea comes in a dream, sometimes I see it in the world around me and sometimes, it’s simply a need to release a story.
“The studio is where I speak, not in words, but through my hands, through the material and the tools. It’s how I let myself be.”
In that space, I enter a kind of imaginative quiet, part calm, part chaos. It’s the process that carries me. I begin with shapes, cut and formed from metal, often many at once. Occasionally I sketch, in a kind of naïve shorthand, but the real seeing happens in the making, when the form becomes tangible.
Copper allows me that freedom. Like clay, it invites play, without the weight of cost. It’s generous in that way. I work to music, usually classical or Spanish, instrumental, without words. Just a wash of sound, steady and soft. A background hum of calm.
“These days, I make with more acceptance. There is no right or wrong—only the honest search for what lives beneath the surface. The work only speaks when it comes from that place, when it comes from something true, something deeply felt.”
Can you tell us about your relationship with mark making and how these gestures translate into the forms of your pieces?
In 1987, I stood in Hiroshima and saw the shadow, the flash, left by a human on the path when the bomb fell. This was the first mark on a footpath that I witnessed with both horror and awe, which I have carried with me ever since.
During my studies, I was still searching, trying to understand my path, my place. I began to look down, quite literally, at footpaths. I noticed the marks left by people, by weather, by time. These impressions became my first abstract language, the beginning of a quiet inquiry: Who am I? Why do certain forms speak to me? Why does this pull me toward certain textures, lines and surfaces?
“Marks became my words. They are how I speak to my work and how my work speaks to others. They reflect what’s unfolding in my world. I see them everywhere: in landscapes, in architecture, in the domestic.”
In this series, the marks are closely tied to the window form, its shape, its edge. But I also draw on the presence of the blind cord: that simple gesture of opening or closing, of choosing what to let in or hold at bay. The mark, like the window, is a frame. A pause. A way of seeing.
Are there materials you’ve utilised in this collection that particularly embody the ideas of reflection and passage?
Copper has always given me permission to play. The process of heating and shaping it allows for extraordinary movement, there’s a responsiveness in the material that feels alive. Cutting, forming, hammering, watching it take on colour, it’s a kind of alchemy.
When I was studying jewellery, copper was accessible. It wasn’t precious like silver or gold, and that freedom mattered. I could explore without restraint, make large-scale pieces, push ideas to their limits. There was space to invent. To fail. To begin again.
Today, it feels precious in a different way. It has become the surface I write on, the material through which I express myself.
Copper also holds layers of meaning. Known for its healing properties, it feels especially resonant now. And its deep historical and geographical ties to Ireland bring me closer to my own heritage. The material holds both memory and possibility.
In addition to the main body of work I have created, there is an actual window display in-gallery at e.g.etal consisting of 3 forms made of brass and thread. This brass lay on my footpath between studio and home. I walked everyday over the metal implanting the days’ memories and thoughts when making the major body of work. The thread is a link of thoughts and feelings flowing from the object to the space around.
What do you hope someone carries with them after exploring On a Clear Day?
I hope that those who encounter my work will connect with a sense of self—a positive outlook infused with playfulness and colour.
“My intention is for viewers to surrender to that spirit of play, to lean into the memories and emotions that surface when they engage with my pieces.”
