The Artist's Mental Rolodex
Amber Lelli on Memory, Material, and Making
In Amber Lelli’s world it seems that sculpture is a conversation—between idea and material, intention and accident, solitude and community. Her works, whether monumental, public
commissions or smaller studio pieces, are grounded in a keen sensitivity to form and the stories materials carry. A Tennessee native, and graduate of MTSU, Lelli has spent nearly a decade shaping metal, concrete, and light into works that invite reflection rather than demand interpretation. She approaches her art as both discipline and discovery, following ideas that live in her mind for years until the right moment arrives. In this interview with The Music City Review, Lelli discusses how her creative process unfolds, the balance between control and surrender, and the evolving artistic ecosystem that continues to shape her practice in Music City.
MCR: How do your ideas typically begin—what first sparks a new piece or body of work?
Amber Lelli (AL): My ideas usually live in my head for a long time before they take shape. I think of them like a mental rolodex; I’m always adding to it and circling back when something still feels alive years later. I have a very visual brain, so I tend to see a piece almost instantly when the idea hits, which often means too many ideas at once. The ones that linger are the ones I eventually make when the timing feels right.
What sparks a piece really depends. Sometimes it’s a subject I want to explore more deeply; other times it’s something I notice in passing, like the way an extension cord coils on the floor or the composition of an ancient scroll in a museum. I photograph those visual moments, and they often resurface later as starting points. I try to stay curious about the everyday because that’s where I find my compositions, and through that curiosity, the ideas start to take shape.
MCR: Can you describe your creative process from concept to completion? What decisions or experiments shape the result?
AL: My creative process really depends on what I’m making and who it’s for, but when it comes to my studio work, it usually begins with something I want to explore. That could be an aesthetic idea or a conceptual one. I’ll jot it down, and then almost immediately start thinking through every possible version in my head. I tend to live with the idea for a while, turning it over constantly until a clear visual forms. Once I can see it, I get to work. I don’t sketch much these days, but I do write about what I want the piece to feel like. From there, I move into production mode, sourcing materials, sculpting, and manipulating them through whatever processes the piece requires. Because I’ve been doing this for nearly ten years, I’ve reached a point where I can create what I envision, but that predictability can sometimes feel limiting. Somewhere along the way, something unexpected always happens, a composition shift, a surface finish, a new form, and I chase it.
That discovery is the most exciting part for me. I might start with a clear vision, but I’ve learned to listen to the piece as it develops. Instead of forcing it to match the image in my head, I follow where it leads. It becomes a mix of control and surrender, of making and discovering.
MCR: How do your materials, techniques, or textures help convey meaning in your art?
AL: They help a great deal. I believe materials have their own language and choosing them should always be intentional. Every material carries its own history and associations, and I try to use that to help communicate meaning. The same is true for techniques and textures, they are visual words that speak directly to the viewer.
I think about this constantly, both in my own work and when I encounter the work of others. It’s how we “read” a piece, whether through what the artist intended or what we interpret ourselves. The materials, techniques, and textures will always communicate something; it’s up to the artist to decide how to shape that language.
This idea is at the core of my practice. I feel strongly that a work should be able to speak for itself without explanation or written text. If used with intention, the materials and processes become the voice of the piece.
MCR: In what ways has Nashville’s artistic energy or landscape influenced how you work?
AL: I’ve lived in the suburbs of Nashville since middle school, so I’ve seen the city through every stage of change. I knew it long before the boom, and like a lot of artists, I have mixed feelings about what it’s becoming. I wouldn’t say Nashville directly shapes the content of my work, but it’s definitely shaped how I work and who I’ve become as a maker.
So much of what I’ve accomplished has been possible because of the generosity of others here. Makers, welders, and industry fabricators who’ve shared their knowledge and taught me how to do things. Places like The Forge Makerspace have also played a big role by providing access to facilities and tools I rely on, like the metal shop I still use sometimes. There’s a real sense of community in that, and it’s something I don’t take for granted.
What’s harder to see is how quickly those creative spaces are disappearing. Artists have been pushed from one neighborhood to the next as development spreads, and it’s getting harder and harder to find affordable places to make work. Nashville has always had a resourceful, collaborative energy, and I think that spirit is what’s kept us all going, even as the landscape keeps changing.
MCR: Do you see collaboration or community dialogue as part of your process, or does that connection happen after the work is complete?
AL: For public art commissions, collaboration and community dialogue are absolutely essential. I see public art as a service to the community it’s created for, so it’s vital to listen first, to understand what people value about their neighborhood, their culture, and their sense of place. Community engagement is a big part of that process, helping to shape designs that are informed by the people who will live with the work.
At that scale, collaboration with other artists, engineers, and fabricators also becomes a necessity, and one of the most enjoyable parts. I love sharing the studio and bringing together different skills to create something larger than any one of us could do alone.
When it comes to my fine art or studio practice, the process is more internal. That work tends to be personal, so the connection happens after the piece is complete, through how it’s experienced. Occasionally I’ll bring in an assistant, and collaboration happens in a different way then, but it’s not a central part of my studio practice.
MCR: How do you hope viewers engage with your work—what kind of experience or reflection do you want to invite?
AL: What I want most is for people to linger with the work. We live in a world built on quick reactions and three-second attention spans, so when someone actually stops and spends time with a piece, that feels like a huge success to me. It’s easy to scroll past art online or glance at it in person, think “that’s cool,” and move on. We all do it. But when someone pauses, when the work makes them look twice, that’s where the real connection happens.
I want my work to create a moment of reflection, whatever that looks like for each person. Maybe they’re wondering how it was made, or maybe it stirs a feeling they can’t quite name. I don’t need them to see it the way I do; I just want it to make them feel something enough to ask their own questions. I’d rather the work start a conversation than finish one.
MCR: Has community feedback ever changed the way you think about your art or the stories you want to tell?
AL: Community feedback definitely influences my public art. I believe in community-informed design, so for those projects it’s essential to listen and understand the people the work is meant to represent. It’s a challenge to create something that stays true to both the community and to myself as an artist, but I love that challenge, finding the balance between those two voices and blending them into something meaningful for everyone involved.
My fine art practice is different. That work is very private for me, and I usually make it alone. I rarely share it until it’s finished. That quiet space in my studio is important because it lets me reconnect with why I make things in the first place. It gives me time to experiment, to listen to materials, and to rediscover my own perspective before stepping back into larger, more collaborative projects. In that way, my private work ends up feeding the public work. They keep each other balanced.
MCR: What challenges or discoveries have pushed your work in new directions recently?
AL: I was recently challenged to create a series of small works inspired by Celestial Falls, my two-story suspended sculpture in the Donelson Library. I wanted to honor both the aesthetic and the process behind that piece, but I also knew that Celestial Falls is its own thing, something that can’t and shouldn’t be recreated. So, I began thinking about how to translate its spirit into smaller, more personal works that still felt true to my practice.
That process led to Rest in Pieces, a solo show I had earlier this year at LeQuire Gallery. The series featured floral compositions that explored grief and new beginnings through the language of floriography, the Victorian-era method of communicating emotions through flowers. It opened up a completely new direction for me, bringing floral forms into my studio practice and expanding my material language to include more steel and concrete.
MCR: How do you balance personal expression with asense of social or communal purpose?
AL: I think my main social or communal purpose as an artist is to be honest, honest about what I see, what I feel, and what I’m processing. My work is a way of reflecting those things back to the world. If people connect with it, that’s wonderful. If they don’t, that’s okay too. The act of making is something I need to do either way; it’s how I move through life.
I create more out of necessity than intention, but if the work can also inspire or bring something positive to others, that’s a gift that comes out of that process. Rest in Pieces exhibited relatively close to the election, and as a Hispanic woman, I felt deeply about what was happening to my people and to immigrants in general. I felt helpless, but creating was how I could use my skills to help. We were able to donate a portion of the sales to The Belonging Fund, and I was really proud to be able to do that. In that way, I can use my work to support a larger communal purpose in a tangible way.
MCR: Looking ahead, what upcoming projects or ideas are you most eager to explore?
AL: I have a solo exhibition at the Nashville International Airport next year that I’m really excited about. It’s a great opportunity to connect with people from all over and share my work with a broader audience.
In the studio, I’m also developing a new body of work that’s been sitting in my mental rolodex for years. I’m finally bringing it to life, which has been really fun. It explores the intersection of sculpture and print, combining the two into compositions and narratives inspired by that ancient scroll I mentioned earlier.
Outside of my personal work, I also run a fabrication business that helps bring large-scale projects to life for other artists and organizations. We handle everything from project management to fabrication and installation. If any of your readers are looking for support on a project, we’d love to collaborate in the year ahead.
Inquiries: https://www.amberlelliart.com/
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