Leyla Mott Draws the Same View from an Unreliable Memory

Leyla Mott returns to a stretch of shoreline with a small board and paper that will fit inside a bag. The view is familiar, but familiarity does not make its proportions easy to retain. Her field drawings and later studio versions differ in deliberate ways. We discuss how she chooses a position, why she redraws without a reference and what an inaccurate memory can contribute to a careful observation.

Bea Harker asks: What determines where you stop to draw? Leyla Mott replies: I look for a relationship I can describe simply, such as the height of a wall against a strip of water. A spectacular view can be difficult because everything asks for attention at once. I prefer a position with a near edge that gives the distance a measure. Once I have chosen it, I mark where I am standing on a rough plan. That sounds fussy, but a few steps to one side can change the overlap completely. Returning to the same place lets me distinguish a change in the view from a change I have introduced by moving.

The memory drawing shows me what I carried away, which is a different question from what was there.

Leyla Mott

Bea asks: What goes into the first drawing? Leyla replies: Usually less than I think I need. I establish a few intervals and then notice which one refuses to sit comfortably with the others. It may be the width of a gap or the slope of a distant roof. I work on that relation instead of collecting every visible detail. Written notes help with things the line cannot hold: the water was brighter than the sky, or the nearest surface kept catching my attention. I do not use those notes as instructions to recover an exact scene later. They describe the conditions of the looking, which are part of why this drawing differs from yesterday’s.

Bea asks: Why draw it again without looking at the field sheet? Leyla replies: Memory edits with a confidence I do not entirely trust, and that makes it interesting. A small interruption may become enormous because it caught me at the right moment. A whole building can disappear. I make the memory drawing before opening the bag, so I cannot quietly correct those changes. Then I put the two sheets together. I am not scoring them for accuracy. I want to see which relationships survived and which depended on the immediate presence of the place. The gap between them can suggest a new composition that neither a faithful copy nor an entirely invented view would have produced.

Bea asks: When do those differences become formal decisions? Leyla replies: I might retain the broad proportion of the field drawing and use the memory sheet to decide where to interrupt it. A line can stop before it describes a whole object. A patch of colour can occupy the space where I remember brightness rather than where a particular surface stood. I make these moves slowly because an omission needs a reason. Otherwise the work merely looks economical. The aim is to give the viewer enough structure to feel a distance, while keeping them aware that someone has selected and arranged it. A drawing is a position taken towards a place, even when that position is provisional.

Bea asks: What would you suggest to someone trying this approach? Leyla replies: Choose a view you can revisit without turning the exercise into an expedition. Draw one relation for a short, manageable period, then make a second version later with the first sheet out of sight. Date both and write down where you stood. When you compare them, describe a difference before deciding whether you like it. You may discover that memory consistently raises the horizon or compresses the foreground. That is useful knowledge about your attention. You can work with the tendency or resist it, but either choice becomes more deliberate once you can see it recurring.