When I arrived at Elizabeth’s studio, I realized I had brought with me a very specific image of what an artist’s workspace should look like: large windows, perfect light, the romantic idea of a studio.
Instead, Elizabeth welcomed me into her turquoise studio, converted from her daughters’ bedroom.
It wasn’t what I had imagined — and that made the conversation even more interesting.
Thank you, Elizabeth, for having me today. I’m trying to understand how artists reconnect with their creativity when they feel stuck. What do you do? How do you approach it?
I can answer that right away. I’m hardly ever stuck. I find stimulation in everything. For example, I was walking today when I passed a thin white line spray-painted on the road by a construction worker. That line was a language meant for someone other than myself. It made me question language, forms of communication, and sparked creative thoughts.
How can I ever be stuck when everything stimulates my creativity?
If I find myself unable to put brush to canvas, that doesn’t mean I’m stuck. I am continually searching, exploring, and living in my art. I am never stuck in my art because I am not stuck in my life. There is no separation.
I’m very impressed by your productivity. You’re extremely productive.
I am multifaceted. I am a creative explorer. I use many materials. I write, teach, and am involved in several projects. I am awake around 5 a.m. and get a lot accomplished.
I am organized. It helps me tremendously. Having structure balances my time, ideas, and processes, and enables me to feel better when I am working in my studio. I live better when I feel balanced.
You also teach students here?
I’ve been a teacher for a long time — not necessarily in the traditional sense, but by sharing my enthusiasm and my personal fulfillment as an artist.
I teach privately here in my studio a few days each week. When I studied at the School of Visual Arts, in between my own classes, I taught drawing to kids in my apartment. I was always interested in sharing what I learned.
I was also a waitress in Greenwich Village for ten years. That’s how I paid for my bachelor’s and master’s degrees — no student loans. I had my own apartment, I traveled through Europe, I met many celebrities. I didn’t save a dime either! All my money went to rent and education, but I lived an incredible life as an artist!
Living in the East Village, going to clubs for free, gallery hopping in vintage dresses, riding my bike up and down the avenues, and eating in tiny downtown spots — all of these experiences show up in my work and what I teach.
Many artists feel they need a dedicated studio to create. What advice would you give someone who is just starting and trying to find a space for their practice?
A studio is a workshop, but a space to practice can be anywhere. I consider my entire environment my studio. I observe my surroundings because I paint from life.
Yes, I return to a room to record my experiences on paper, but this connects back to your question about being “stuck.” Four walls can’t define my working space.
That said, having a place where I am set up with materials and don’t have to start over every day is vital. Establishing your own area and being able to visually “record” is the purpose of a studio.
But making work isn’t always indoors. I am observing all the time — landscapes, people, museums, construction sites, farms. I can pick up energy anywhere. The studio helps me transform that energy into form.
I notice that many of your paintings include nature and animals. Do you think the Hudson Valley has shaped your work?
That’s a good question. I am a Regionalist by nature.
When I lived in Manhattan, my work felt urban. I made abstract, textural pieces that resembled facades, bridges, and cityscapes. I collected paper, stone, and metal from the streets and incorporated them into my work to connect with my environment.
Here in the Hudson Valley, I have a different environment to draw from, but I am still pursuing the “feeling” in my work.
A teacher of mine, Jackie Windsor, used to ask whether our work was felt in the gut or in the head. I want my work to be felt in the gut. I am not interested in over-intellectualizing. I want my work to be intimate, grounded in real life, and accessible.
I have a mystery box with questions from different people. Questions they have always wanted to ask an artist. Can you pick one?
What is the last thing you quietly whispered to your work?
I am intimate with all my work. I can’t say I whisper — people from the Bronx don’t whisper!
There is a painting of my sister’s dog, Dixie. My brother-in-law passed away, and their longtime dog died shortly after. There was great loss in my sister’s home. Dixie came into her life during that time — and in a way, they rescued each other.
As I painted Dixie, I thought about how her role became greater than that of a pet. She carried emotional weight, protection, and purpose. That is what I was “whispering” as I painted.
It’s your turn to add a question to the mystery box. What question would you like to ask another artist?
What feeling do you want your work to express? Something felt in the gut, or something understood in the head?
Elizabeth Dama is a prolific acrylic painter whose work moves between landscape, portraiture, and scenes from everyday life. Her paintings begin from personal photographs, which she describes as “ordinary people living ordinary lives.” She transforms these captured moments into suspended fragments of time.
She lived and worked in Manhattan before moving to the Hudson Valley in 1989, where she has continued her practice ever since.
Follow Elizabeth’s work :
Instagram : poveromodama