Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

Deep Wood Press is situated on four acres in Antrim County, surrounded by 450 acres of land under the protection and stewardship of the Michigan Nature Association. This is Chad Pastotnik’s home, backyard, place of work, and shelter from the storm of contemporary life. This maker of hand-built, hand-crafted fine press books, age 56, bought the property in 1992, built a book bindery, and began creating a life and vocation focused on making beautiful things. “Nobody knows who I am in the region,” he said. But in the arcane world of fine press books, it’s another story.

This interview was conducted in October 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Chad Pastotnik

Describe the medium in which you work. What is your work?

Private press books. The medium encompasses several disciplines: printmaking, bookbinding, designer bindings; the graphic arts of layout and design, and planning such things as books. It’s all done in-house, here [Deep Wood Press]. The type is cast on my linotype machine, in a separate building; brought over, proofed, corrected, printed onto fine, handmade papers from around the world, or specially made for the project at hand; the inclusion of original artwork; and then onto the bindery here. Basically, the only things that aren’t done here are making the paper and skinning the goats: That’s the primary leather we use for fine bindings. It’s traditional. Goat or calf [skin] are often used.

Is this a one-person operation? Or, do you have people who work with you?

It’s primarily me. I do take apprentices and students on occasion. On Tuesday, I have three of my former students and apprentices showing up to sew 60 copies of a book.

In your cosmos, is creating 60 books a big project?

It’s medium. My editions top out at 100 [books] these days. That’s primarily to expedite things. The bindery is the slowest process. Just staying under a certain number of books keeps me moving onto the next one.

Could you define what a fine press book is.

In modern meaning, it probably has its origins with the Arts and Crafts Movement. They brought back beautiful objects, and books were one of those things. Printing had become pretty well automated at that point, and book design was suffering greatly. Some interested individuals began promoting books beautiful once again, and presenting these kinds of editions — mostly classics on beautiful paper and well designed. So that tradition has carried forward into the 21st Century; but letterpress printing is no longer a viable, commercial entity, supplanted by computers and offset printing, and ink jet on-demand. Now it has become an even more specialized form of making books. I make books using pretty much the same practices as they did 150 years ago, and, essentially, the same forms as 500 years ago. Not much has changed here at Deep Wood.

I would imagine that when a fine press book is created, it’s usually not something like a Nancy Drew mystery; that the contents between the two covers have some special qualities, or are precious for some reason. Talk about that.

All the books I do speak to me in some way. Some of the books are definitely produced with some commercial ideas. All the books I do are on speculation. I don’t do much commission work. So if I commit two years of my life to a project, I have to have a pretty good idea that it’s going to sell. At the same time, for some of the smaller projects, I take on regional writers who aren’t necessarily known outside of my markets; but I still make the book because it has more meaning for me than a financial concern; the books I’ve done with Mike Delp, Jerry Dennis and Anne-Marie Oomen are all pure speculation. Most of my books are sold out pretty quickly, and they go to private collections around the world. As much as I love my regional writer friends, they’re not necessarily known outside of Michigan, the Midwest. So, name recognition with a book I’m pitching in England goes a long way. I’m at that happy point now where if I make it, they generally buy it.

Why do you think that’s true?

I’ve been doing this for 30 years, and I’m pretty good at it. I’m just lucky, I guess.

I can’t imagine there’s a lot of you doing fine press books.

Not a lot, no. I probably know most of them. We have a series of shows around the world that a lot of us travel to, giving the special and private collections people an opportunity to come to one place and do the hands-on thing. It’s an interesting group of people. There’s a lot of craft-centric parts to [bookmaking], so there’s a lot of people on that end. [On the other end of the spectrum] the book arts are now purely conceptual, and there are a lot of objects that sort of resemble a book.

When, and how, were you first introduced to this discipline?

Probably as an undergrad. I went to Grand Valley. And, [in the late 1980s] my professor [Delles Henke] had come from the University of Iowa, which has a long tradition of books arts. [Henke] showed us a couple of books he had done; but I wasn’t particularly interested in fine press then; The bookbinding part really intrigued me. At the time, I was doing really small engravings in copper, and they lent themselves to the book form. It wasn’t I until I got to be a better bookbinder that I wanted to introduce words. I found an old printer who was closing up shop on the northwest side of Grand Rapids, and he taught me some basics.

What draws you to the creation of fine press books?

I like being unique. There aren’t too many people who do it. I love the process — I’m a total junky for the process, the history, everything about books. The typefaces. The equipment. It’s the ultimate vehicle for information — or was for millennia. It’s all just beautiful. And the possibilities are unlimited. I could live five lifetimes, and still have things to learn.

What formal training did you have, specifically, for creating a fine press book?

None. I’ve done plenty of workshops through the Guild of Bookworkers, which is a national organization. So, if I want to learn a certain binding style, or leather tool technique, I can take a workshop. On the letterpress end of things, I did find myself in Iowa, not in a degree capacity; but I became friends with the people who were teaching the books arts there. Basically, I got a free education just for showing up. I got educated; but in indirect ways.

Describe your studio/work space you occupy.

There are 1 1/2 buildings devoted to it. The big intaglio press, and the typecasting are in a building 50 feet from here. The main studio is a building in two parts: half is the press room, the other half is the bindery, my office. It’s just full of stuff. In the early 90s, when I built the bindery part of the studio, print shops were giving away all the old letterpress stuff. They were making way for the new Xerox color printers and other things. Most of the stuff I got was free, for the cost of moving. It was the perfect time to get into letterpress because I was able to secure so much of this valuable equipment for little or nothing, and mostly from the region. The linotype machine came from Charlevoix where it used to make ballots, and newspapers. The only equipment I brought from a distance was a Little Giant [printing press] from a Carmelite Monastery in New Jersey.

I wonder if some of the people from whom you obtained your equipment scratched their heads and wondered, What’s up with this guy? He wants this old hunk of metal?

Certainly. The linotype machine guy said he’d deliver it to make sure he could get it out of his building.

Who typically comes to you wanting you to create a hand-printed, hand-bound book? And why?

Most of them are totally ignorant of the process. They don’t understand the costs involved. The other end of that spectrum is someone who does understand, and is still very interested in having their work produced. I’m finishing up a commission job at the moment. It’s 60 books, and it’s [the customer’s] second, fine press book. He’s got no wife, no kids, so he wants this to be his legacy. I don’t usually take this kind of commission work; but [the customer] was an exception. And, of course, anything Glenn [Wolff] and Jerry [Dennis] bring to me is instantly considered because it’s just so much fun.

People’s understanding of how books are created is now defined by different forces. You can push a button now, and have Amazon create, on-demand, 100 books in no time. Does that kind of understanding follow people when they come to you? 

Even when you do books on-demand, you have to use their tools to do a little bit of formatting. I think there’s a big disconnect — I see this with a lot of young graphic designers; they don’t understand the process after it leaves their screen.

What’s your favorite tool?

Maybe my Vandercook press. There’s so little I ever need to do to it. It always gives me the results I’m looking for.

What tools do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I wish I were more organized; but usually it’s whatever scrap of paper is conveniently near. I’m organized enough that all those notes make it into one folder for each project — both for my own benefit, and I have places approaching me for my archive. I want things to make sense down the road.

Is this a personal archive? Or has the Smithsonian come knocking on your door?

U of M [University of Michigan].

Do they want your papers? And stuff?

Yes.

Did they tell you why?

I’m a Michigan Cultural Asset [a designation that comes out of the Michigan State University Michigan Traditional Arts Program.]

That must have blown your mind.

It’s nice to be recognized. I grew up in Cadillac. I’ve lived in Michigan my entire life; but nobody knows who I am in the region. Michigan’s institutions do collect me, so I’m grateful for that.

How often, in this day and age, are people recognized for doing hand work?

There’s the Traditional Arts Program at Michigan State. It’s geared toward craft — basketweaving, native dance, traditional instrument making; but they did award me a grant [in 2016]. Fine press books is one of those things that happily transcends both art and craft, or are equally represented in the end result.

When did you commit to working with serious intent? What were the circumstances?

Pretty much right away, when I bought the property and built the studio in 1992, and immediately began filling it with presses. That’s when I put the shingle out. A lot of the early work wasn’t fine books, but wedding invitations, and corporate print jobs. Soul-crushing work. They paid the bills. You pay your dues.

What made that work soul crushing?

Inevitably, working with people who don’t understand the process. Trying to make everybody happy. It wasn’t creative in any way. I was just a printer. I was also trying to sell my own art work; but at that time I was trying to sell locally. Engravings don’t sell very well in Northern Michigan. Not my stuff anyway. Focusing on book forms is what ultimately got me on the track I’m on. There aren’t any book shows in Michigan, so that forced me to go outside the state, and start taking workshops, and teaching.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I wish more; but I’m terrible at that stuff. My partner, Madeline, is the one who comes into the studio and takes pictures. Yes. I’m on Facebook, but I’m there for the friends’ kids. I don’t look at that stuff. I know it’s a powerful tool; but I guess, if I were hungrier, I’d exploit those tools more.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

I think the role of the visual artist is probably a purely selfish one. I think the role is just to make [the work]. That’s about it. It’s somebody else’s role to interpret it.

Not everyone agrees that the arts are an important part of being human, so the arts get scattershot support. You’re not turning out 2,500 widgets every day. You’re doing work that doesn’t necessarily yield a huge presence on the world. You’re living back in the woods in obscurity, and yet you have the audacity to think you should be doing, and you are entitled to do, creative work. With all that, how do you think about your role in the world as a visual practitioner?

I have a hard time with the commercial, established “fine art” world. Having achieved success [on his own terms, the fine art world] is a crock of shit. It really is. Most people don’t understand the processes anymore. That generation of people are dying, who grew up understanding this work. I struggle with this. I have a peer group, and I’m considered the socialist of the group. I’m the one who’s welcoming in the new people, trying to organize dinners, and group accommodations. That doesn’t go over well with the establishment sometimes, where they want to pick and choose who’s coming up.

To what degree do you feel that the creative work you do makes the world a better place?

The books are exquisite, if I do say so myself. A recent edition I did of The Winds In The Willows — I’d argue that that’s a book everybody should read. It’s not a kid’s book. And, our edition is exquisite. This is a book that will be around in 500 years; probably longer if taken care of. That’s a legacy. Books are something that tend to stick around. There’s more than one copy, so there’s a chance there’ll be a copy somewhere, in some collection, at some point. To whatever value that will have for the person pulling it from the stacks in 100 years, who knows? Each book I make — the subject matter and treatment — can vary widely. My collectors do appreciate the fact each book is a new exploration of a different process I know well. Keeping it fresh is important to me, as well. If I did the same thing for each book, it would no longer be art. That’s the fun part, coming up with the ideas, the artwork, and the design.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

A lot of my books have to do with the natural world. Trees. Conservation. Water. Trout. Growing up and living in Northern Michigan has defined the work I do, and the projects I choose. The potential projects on the horizon — the Jim Harrison stuff, some more Hemingway perhaps — it’s all Michigania, the exploded version.

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice?

Not really. We had a good work ethic [in his family]. We were always helping somebody build a house. There was always a project at hand; but no musicians or artists to influence that kind of creative direction. From the time I was a kid, I knew that was what I wanted to do.

Why is making by hand important to you?

The craft aspect of the books, and in all art, has been neglected for 60 – 80 years in American art movements. I don’t think you can have successful art without successful craft. Craft just means you know your process, your materials, and you have a deft hand. I can show somebody how to make a book; but that’s just superficial — it’s just a blank book without contents. Right now, the emphasis in a lot of the arts is conceptual. It has a lot less to do with craft. It’s all about the idea part of it. As I alluded, the book arts have embraced that. You’re at a show, and the guy next to you has cranked out a book in a week on the ink jet [printer], and it’s selling for the same price point as something I’ve spent two years doing.

Your process is a hand process, and by design, it’s slow, it’s deliberate, it’s mindful. Why has it not been crushed by a world that is obsessed by speed?

Because books, whether or not you read them, are still revered by a lot of people. There is an undeniable history there that has shaped our world. Books are part of the public consciousness. In my case, it’s unique to make books the way that it used to be done, and I think people still value that. When they see the physical object, when they handle the book, and feel the materials, and see the presentation, it evokes a completely different reaction than you’d experience opening up a modern book in a book store. To open a book is intentional. Unlike a painting on the wall, the book is there on the shelf or the table, and to engage with it, you have to engage and use at least three of your senses to make that happen. I can’t imagine a world without books.

Do you have a library card?

Of course. Three. Two, local village cards, and one for the Traverse City library.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

That’s easy. I walk out the backdoor, and there’s every reason to be here in Northern Michigan. That’s one reason. The other end of it: I get to travel a fair amount now for work. My partner and I have a home in Avignon, in Provence, and I’m active with a foundation [the Foundation Louis Jou] over there. I get to see a lot of books, art, and beautiful places. I filter out the bad stuff, and keep all the good. Louis Jou is private press practitioner. In his lifetime, he produced 140 books, 90 of which were done on his iron hand presses, which I’ve now restored over there. My main connection with Jou is that he designed his own typefaces, which are exquisite. His studio was turned into a foundation, and I’m on that board, creating awareness of Louis Jou. I do projects when I’m over there, and bring in people to teach wood engraving, linocuts.

Read more about Chad Pastotnik here.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

Frankfort artist L.C. Lim feels her way through her work. “Once I get a feeling from a place, then I’ll use whatever medium will make that feeling [visible],” she said. “That’s how I always go about it. I never think about the medium.” Instead, she think-feels the places that bring her joy: the view through her studio window; her muse, Northern Michigan. “The view outside my window is a view of Lake Michigan through trees. On the other side it’s a forest. In all four seasons, I look out, and I see different things, and I get different feelings…. [I]f something looks good out the window, that’s where my easel’s set up,” she said.

This interview was conducted in August 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: L.C. Lim

Describe the medium in which you work.

I think about this question in terms of what I’m trying to do. I like to look at nature, and capture the feeling it creates in me. I spend a lot of time looking at things, and wait for something to talk to me — I try to get the feeling from the thing that’s talking to me. And then, it turns into my art. I’m all about feelings; not about painting a place. People think they can see a place in my work, which makes me very happy; but usually it’s not [the place they’re thinking of]. Usually they’re getting the feeling, and they’re feeling it.

Once I get a feeling from a place, then I’ll use whatever medium will make that feeling [visible]. That’s how I always go about it. I never think about the medium. I think about: Does this make me happy? Does this make me calm? Does this make me feel stoic or colorful? And then, I use my mediums. My mediums are a broad range of things that I’ve come to be expert in — not because I try to be; but because I use them to create my feelings.

What are those mediums?

Pastel, watercolor, printmaking, etching, acrylics, collage, pen and ink. There’s quite a few of them.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I have a certificate from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts [PAFA, 2004]. It’s a four-year studio degree where, you’re literally in the studio from 8 in the morning until 5 at night.   In the last two years you have weekly critiques from very accomplished artists/teachers.

How did your formal training affect your development as a creative practitioner?

You learn composition, line, space, color, materials, all the fundamentals. And then, you find that you use them later when you least expect it. It was an intense four years. There was a lot of homework, so it really wasn’t 8 am – 5 pm. It was 8 am – 9 pm. There were a whole lot of talented young people, and I was catching up.

What had you been doing before that?

I went to engineering school at U of M [University of Michigan] and a few years later I went to business school there. 20 years later I was running a half-billion dollar division of Honeywell when I left the corporate world.

You went to the PAFA after you’d had an entire adult life.

Yes.

What prompted your departure from the corporate world?

I always wanted to be an artist. I went to [elementary and middle school] at Greenfield Village. I benefitted from all the arts and crafts of the Village. It was amazing. We were weaving, and making candles, and there was a lot of independent study. Class size was 12 people or less. Greenfield Village school closed when I was in high school so I started taking classes at Pewabic Pottery in Detroit.

I was able to leave the corporate world because I was financially secure and could do what I wanted to do. And, I was young enough. I had been accepted to PAFA before I left corporate America.

And then you went on to become an instructor at PAFA.

I teach at PAFA, at Woodmere Museum in Philadelphia, and at community art centers in Northern Michigan. As long as it doesn’t get to be full-time, I really love teaching, and I feel that it enhances my art. You can learn a lot from people of all different levels.  My classes have an intellectual component to them. I try to take about 15 minutes and do — we’ll call it “art history” — a 15-minute vignette called “What Can You Learn From This Artist?” I feature lesser-known women artists who, actually, should be famous. A lot of them are now getting museum shows, and I can actually see the work I’ve been presenting for years in person.

Are you able to springboard from something you’ve highlighted in the vignette to something that’s taught in the classroom?

I teach two different courses, Realism to Abstraction and East meets West – How Western artists were influenced by the East. In Realism to Abstraction I look at how art is actually a continuum, and [the artwork] is likely somewhere on the continuum. So, for instance, when I talk about trying to get a feeling from a place, the viewer isn’t going to know what that place is; but you’re going to [experience] a feeling [from looking at it]. As [the artist] goes farther and farther toward abstraction, you get more and more feelings, and less of a “Oh, I just saw that out the window” response. So, what I do is feature various artists who are on the continuum that lets students think about their work in a different way.

Describe your studio/work space.

My [Frankfort, Michigan] studio is organized by stations. I have a place for etching, pastels, and painting/drawing. The view outside my window is a view of Lake Michigan through trees. On the other side it’s a forest. In all four seasons, I look out, and I see different things, and I get different feelings.

I have a workspace in [her home in] Pennsylvania, which is actually an extra bedroom. The house in Pennsylvania is an entire studio because if something looks good out the window, that’s where my easel’s set up. We back up to a nature preserve in Philly, and a creek runs through the backyard. It’s an ordinary house with extraordinary views.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

Northern Michigan is everything. Literally. It’s my muse. My spot [home] in Philly is very nice; but this is my muse. There are four seasons, and I’m here in four seasons. I like winter as much as I like summer. It’s calm. It has a different rhythm to it. Autumn is gorgeous and colorful. I frequently drive around, aimlessly, looking for “that spot.” You can find me pulled over on the side of the road. I’ve been coming up here, first with friends, for 40 years. Northern Michigan is completely the thing for me. And, my husband, he loves it.

What’s your favorite tool? 

I would say it’s either my etching press, or my fingers. I like work you can touch.

Talk about your etching press.

It is a wonderful tool. It enables you to do etching, monotypes, and woodcuts. Hand printmaking is fun; but you can get more crisp lines and images with a press

Do you use a sketchbook? Work journal? What tool do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I almost always do a sketch, lots of sketches. And then I take photographs. I rely heavily on photographs — after the sketch.

What role does the photograph play in your process?

This could be old, academy training: You never paint from a photograph without having done a sketch. A photograph flattens everything out — no matter what you do; but a photograph can be very helpful when you are back in the studio to remember details if you are trying to create space, if you’re trying to create the tree, if you’re trying to create roundness.

When did you commit to working with serious intent? 

The minute I left my corporate job.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Actually, it plays almost none. Now, the internet: That’s different. The internet I use to research my classes, to research artists. I have a website. Once in a while I’ll post a class; but the places where I teach already do it. I would probably be better known if I used social media more but I’m just more focused on creating.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

I think the visual artist’s role is to be true to themselves, to put out whatever their creative intent is — meaning if it’s political, or, in my case, creating feelings and beauty — and let the recipient take what they want from it. I really appreciate people who are making a political statement [through their creative work]; but that’s not me. I think part of the artist’s role is to be who they are. It’s unbelievably important. It’s really good for people who think they’re not creative, even though they probably are, to be able to interact with people they perceive as creative. I think that’s really good for the whole world.

I often think of people who do creative work as translators of the world. You’re translating how you feel as you’re responding to a certain thing. All the arts give us powerful tools for talking about the world.

I agree. Maybe somebody looks at my landscapes, and thinks, Wow. Maybe I shouldn’t cut down all those trees. I’ve had people say to me, I’ve never seen snow that looks so good.

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice?

No. I would say it was Greenfield Village. It was unbelievable. To this day I think of how lucky I was to be amongst creative, super intelligent, left-brain/right-brain people. I felt like I was in a candy store. You were given a lot of different avenues to learn. And we went to museums; we went to the Detroit Institute of Art. I learned to play the piano. There was also math and science instruction.

Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?

I have favorite artists— Morris Graves, Helen Frankenthaler. And then, I have a teacher at PAFA who became a mentor; her name is Elizabeth Osborne. She had the most direct impact. She’s amazing. She doesn’t tell you how to do something. I have a couple of friends from art school who are good peer critique-ers. We have an informal, what-do-you-think-about-this group with honest feedback. And, I still take classes, Zoom classes. It’s good for continuous, adult learning.

Let’s go back to Elizabeth Osborne. How did she impact you?

She doesn’t tell you how to do something; she gives you ideas. A lot of the instructors at the Academy, they’re going to tell you how to draw, what palette you should have. She’ll look at what you’ve done and say, Have you ever thought about working in a square? It’s an interesting shape. Her approach is that of a mentor rather than an instructor. And she’s an amazing colorist. She would always come to my shows. She’d look around, pick something out, and say, That’s so interesting. It got you thinking: That’s interesting? You’re doing the work. She’s just pointing it out. That’s what I hope to do with my students. I try not to tell them how to do it. I try to get them to think: What do they think? Liz was the first, female teacher at the Academy.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice?

I have a regular solo show in Philadelphia at F.A.N. Gallery and have exhibited in Michigan extensively. The owner at F.A.N. actually cares about artists. [Exhibiting] gives you a deadline. People have been collecting my work for many years, and it makes me ask, Is this [new work] worthy of being one of those pieces in the show? Unfortunately, it’s a tough time for artists. Galleries are going out of business. Exhibitions are important; but I think people can get overly focused on exhibiting. I can make art that sells; but it doesn’t mean it’s good. And, it doesn’t make me happy when I get up in the morning thinking, Oh, I have to make this. I have the luxury of making what I want. Once you get in with a gallery, they know their market and want the same type of art. Maybe you’ve moved on; but they want the same thing. Showing in a gallery can be very positive, and there can be some negatives with it. I try to explain that to my students. You want to be true to yourself. If you want to try something new, try it.

Does having an exhibition on the books help you to structure your time? Or, how you think about what you want to make?

I get up every morning and go into my studio. I don’t need much motivation. It is fun to see what people react to your work. I’ve created these feelings and once the work is out there, it’s out of your hands. My favorite thing to do at an opening is to hear what people say. You have to be prepared. It might not be what you feel; but it’s really interesting to hear what people think. I like that about exhibitions.

When you have an opportunity to hear what people are saying, how does that get synthesized into your practice?

It doesn’t. I try to let it be separate. I try to just be me.

How do you feed/fuel your creativity?

I wander around a lot. Drive around. Now I can look out the window a lot. I bird watch and play the piano. The other thing I do is buy a lot of art books. I used to think it was funny when I’d see the PAFA students in the library — they weren’t reading the art books; they were looking at the pictures. At the time, I didn’t understand it but that’s what I do now. I read about the artist so I can talk about them in my classes; but I’m looking at the pictures. I go to museums shows.

What’s going through your mind when you’re looking at the pictures?

Sometimes you get ideas for color. Sometimes you get ideas for composition. Sometimes you just think you like it, or you don’t like it, and you think why?

What drives your impulse to make?

I’ve always had it. I don’t know. It’s almost like what else would you do? I was making Christmas cards when I was seven, and sending them to people. My mother has saved a lot of this stuff, and I asked her, Really? I was doing that? And she said, Yeah. You’ve been like this forever. 

Read more about L.C. Lim here.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

Fleda Brown, 80, is so much more than her resume: author of 12 poetry books, and four memoirs; Professor Emerita at the University of Delaware; recipient of many awards including a Pushcart Prize. This plain-spoken writer is a fan of Elvis, and wrote a book of poems about him. Water recurs [“There’s so much water you could drown in my writing”]. And then there’s the poetic missive to Pablo Picasso about Guernica. The Traverse City resident came to poetry through her father, and without benefit of a formal plan of study. She just wrote. And read. And made it her job, the work of a long life.

This interview was conducted in July 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Fleda Brown

How did you come to poetry? What was your route?

I guess the route was my father [Phillips Brown], more than anything. When he was in high school, he belonged to a recitation group. They put on robes, and traveled around to other schools and other places, and recited poems. He learned so many poems by heart. My young years were full of listening to him recite poems at the drop of a hat.

Did you receive any formal training? 

Yes. When I was an undergraduate at the University of Arkansas [late 1960s] they offered the first-ever creative writing class. That was the only formal training that I got. I was writing poems all the time. When I first started teaching at the University of Delaware [ late 1970s], W.D. Snodgrass was there, and his office was right across the hall from mine. I asked him if could sit in on his poetry workshop, and I did. I guess you’d have to say that’s the only formal training in poetry I got.

I don’t suppose they asked Homer if he got a degree in poetry.

I think it’s totally unnecessary. It’s unnecessary to take a workshop; but you do have to have read a lot. Carefully. Thoughtfully.

What does reading teach one about poetry?

It’s like reading a lot of anything. You begin to get a sense. You begin to get smart about what’s good and what’s not just by the sheer force of all the reading you’re doing. You finally begin to get bored with things that aren’t very good, and then you begin to set your own standards; but that can only happen if the things you’re reading are worthy.

In 2021 Writers Digest published a list of 168 poetic forms. Which of the many poetic forms do you use to build a poem, and structure your writing?

I have, in the past, written a few villanelles, a few sonnets, some rhyming poems. More than anything, I write free verse. These days, I’m not the slightest bit concerned about form. I just write. Lately, I’ve written a lot of what’s called prose poems, which is just a little block of prose that reads like a poem.

Can you identify a characteristic in a prose poem that makes it read like a poem?

Density. The use of metaphor. I think the language needs to be very rich and compressed in a way that an ordinary piece of prose isn’t.

Visual artists – painters, for instance – can send off an order to the Dick Blick company when they need more tubes of paint, especially in certain colors. Writers do not have a word store. How do you approach developing and nurturing your word reservoir so that you have the greatest and best choices — the most color — for your work?

I have a lot of words in my head. Something that helped me a lot — I taught high school for a while [1970-1975] — and I taught a course in word roots. It not only expanded their vocabularies, it was very helpful for me. When I ran across a word I didn’t know I could look at the roots and figure it out. I read a lot, so my vocabulary is pretty big.

Describe your studio/work space.

I just wrote a blog about it [#294]. I’ve just had two books sent off to the publisher, and we’re starting to work on getting them formatted. And because of that, I think I wanted to change my work space. That made me want to clean house, and rearrange. If you read my blog, it’s pretty funny. I ordered three different chairs before I came up with a chair that I liked. And I ordered an ottoman, several of those, trying to get it just right. The way I write: I’m sitting here at a desk right now; but, basically, when I’m sitting at a desk I feel like an accountant. I haven’t used a desk in years. I sit in a comfortable chair with my feet propped up. That means everything has to be at the right height. I have to have a lap desk that gets my computer at the right height. I have to have the right cushion. I have to have the height I need on my foot stool. Other than that, I feel really comfortable having a bunch of books around me; but that’s it. When we’re gone, I just take my lap desk and sit any old place.

What subjects or issues or themes recur in your writing? For instance: Elvis gets an entire volume [The Women Who Loved Elvis All Their Lives, 2004]. Elvis also appears in the 2010 collection of poems, Loon Cry [“Elvis At The End Of History”].

I was working on another book at the time when I started the Elvis book. The other book was harder, and darker, and denser. I don’t know. I just got in the mood. I was a tremendously passionate Elvis fan when I was 15. I thought I’d like to do a book on Elvis. The book is not a praising of Elvis. In fact, I wanted to use a picture of Elvis on the cover, so I wrote to the Elvis Presley estate, and somebody bothered to read it. They said, No, it’s not praising enough of Elvis, so I couldn’t put him on the cover. Elvis is an incredibly fascinating person to me. I’m fascinated by people whose whole lives are devoted to something to the point they become it. He was all music. There was almost nothing outside of music for him. That’s not just interesting; it’s deeply inspiring. Actually, it pretty much killed him; but in a lot of cases, that’s where our best work comes from — when people give themselves to it, entirely.

Beyond Elvis, are there any other themes or topics you find yourself returning to in your writing?

Oh, yeah. There’s so much water you could drown in my writing. I’m always writing about the water because we’re at the lake [north of Traverse City, Michigan] a good part of the summer. And, I just love water. I swim as much as I can. So, the water’s always there. Animals are always there. Flowers, wild flowers in particular.

In returning to many of these subjects, is it because you haven’t exhausted your thoughts on them? Or, is it not even a matter of exhausting thoughts, that they’re things that are alive, and keep on giving you interesting ideas?

Sometimes I feel that I’ve exhausted something; but I’ve written three poems about milkweed, and you’d think that one poem about milkweed would have covered it; but I always come at it from a different angle.

What prompts the beginning of a poem or composition?

Nothing is harder than that for poets. It’s not like writing a novel, where you go back into it, and you already have a place to pick up and move on with. It’s terrifying to sit down, and to find the screen blank, and you have to figure out what you’re doing next. A lot of times I feel blank, so I look out the window, or I go for a walk, and I find something that I can start playing with.

What you described made me wonder if you think, Today’s the day I have to write a poem, and then you sit down and write a poem?

It’s not today’s-the-day because I write every day. A lot of times I sit down to write, and there’s nothing. So I say, OK. This is my job. What I do is write, and I’m going to write something. And, of course, that means I end up writing a lot of junk, a lot of trash; but if I do that for a while, I’ll see a phrase, or a line, or something I can pull out and begin working on writing that matters. It’s like being a visual artist. You do a bunch of pieces, and you’re not happy with any of them, then suddenly one is perfect, or really good. And, the only reason you got the one that is really good is because you did all the others. I think it’s a matter of discipline. You just stay at it, and you trust that something good’s going to come out of that.

What do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I used to do that a lot more than I do now. Sometimes, I turn on the recorder on my phone, and say a few things into it so I remember. I’ve been writing a long time so I’ve gotten really lazy about that. I see young people at poetry readings, and they sit there busily writing little phrases, and I’m just sitting there listening. I guess, after all this time, I just trust that enough is being absorbed. When I need it, it will be there.

When did you commit to working with serious, professional intent? What were the circumstances?

The circumstances were when I started getting published. I didn’t think about it as a hobby; but I did think about it as something I did on the side. I was getting my Ph.D, and I assumed I was going to be a scholar of some sort; but it was great to write poetry. I never liked scholarly research half as much as I liked poetry. After I was at the University of Delaware, I started publishing a few poems in some good places. The first or second poem I published was in the Kenyon Review, and I thought, Wow! Somebody likes what I’m doing. It took over more and more of my life when I realized I could do this. When my first book came out [Fishing With Blood, 1988] I basically said I’m chucking everything else. This is what I do. Fortunately, the University of Delaware was completely fine with it, as long as I was publishing anything that mattered, in good places.

Talk about that motivation to publish, and the support for publishing that comes from universities. The publish-or-perish thing.

I was at a publish-or-perish university. I know that when I’ve gone to do readings at smaller schools, they turn their noses up — I’ve been told, We’re a teaching institution. We don’t do that. I’ve always been a little offended by that. What I’ve found is people who publish are also splendid teachers. I never thought that publishing, or the requirement to publish, ever got in my way at all. It was probably helpful because it kept spurring me on. I just knew I had to get a modicum of work published. Actually, I always thought of the university as my patron. They were taking care of me so I could do this work. And, if taking care of me required that I turn in some [published writing], then fine. I needed taking care of. I needed my salary. I like teaching, too, I have to say.

It’s easy to teach the components of how to write; but it’s a different thing to put your writing into action, go about the process of submitting it, getting the rejections, learning how to deal with that, having success. As a teacher, if you have that experience under your belt, I’m wondering if that gives you another tool?

Oh yes, definitely. It gives you a confidence in what you’re saying to your students. Your students understand that this is coming from your own experience. And, if you have published work out there, it gives your students confidence in what you’re saying to them about how to do it. It’s really important.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I probably wouldn’t do any of that social media stuff — except that it seems like I need to, that it’s important. If you’re writing, part of your job — whether you like it or not — is marketing, which I don’t like, and I’m not very good at, and I do the best I can. So, I use Facebook to let people know if a book’s coming out. And, I have a blog. I do these things because I have to keep people aware of what I’m doing. I wish I were younger. Young people are so savvy about how to do this. I don’t even understand Instagram very well much less the other media that kids use. If I did, I could get the word out better.

In that prehistoric time before social media, how did you get the word out?

It was harder. All I could do was get in touch, personally, with people who might invite me to read. The press [publisher] would ask for a list of people that they could inform I had a book coming out. That was about all I could do back then.

I want to talk with you about your poem “Dear Pablo Picasso re: Guernica,” from the 2021 book Flying Through A Hole In the Storm, 2021. There is a line in it that really snagged me: “… Did you think you could redeem anything by art …” Guernica is Picasso’s depiction of the Nazis bombing the Spanish village of Guernica, and the horrific results. I’ve wondered if, over time, this painting has done anything to give people pause for thought. So, extrapolating from that: How does creative work redeem anything?

I’ve talked about that in my brain for many, many years. Sometimes there are people out doing things that have more obvious value, and sometimes I think, What am I doing? I’m sitting here writing these poems. There are so many things that need to be done in the world, and I should be doing them instead. Not that I’ve moved past that. Take Guernica for example: This is what art has to do. It has to show us to ourselves. That’s the redeeming thing: This is what we are; this is what we’ve done. And if we don’t show us to ourselves in a way that wakes up us, makes us take notice, it’s no use. Picasso just took that story, and turned it into a strange and interesting piece. You can’t help but pay attention to it. I don’t know if [art] changes anybody’s heart or mind. It’s there in front of us like a mirror: This is what we’ve done. This is what we do with our art. And if we’ve created something beautiful, then we — at least — can see that this is what beauty looks like. Or, if it’s a portrait of something ugly, then this is also what people are like.

I believe that the arts, all of them, give us powerful tools of expression. I’ve thought a lot about the role of the arts in translating the world in ways that only the arts can do: through interpretation, or abstraction. We’re not there as reporters; but we’re there to masticate, and digest, and shoot out a response. When the planes flew into the Twin Towers, I received a letter from a friend who is a hand weaver, and in it she wrote, Why am I doing this work when stuff like that is happening? My immediate response was she is doing something life affirming. I see that as inherent to all the arts. 

I agree. Any time an event or an image goes through another person, it becomes a translation. We learn so much about what we’ve just seen. Back to the Twin Towers. When that event runs through the mind or intellect of an artist, then whatever is written or painted becomes another thing. It’s a connection between the event, and the artist, or the observer, or the reader. It’s a deeper, and another, connection.

How do you negotiate, translate, and explore the world through your writing? Your 2016 book, The Wobbly Bicycle, is one example. In the introduction you wrote: “How does a writer deal with her cancer? By writing, of course.” Talk about this.

That book is unusual for me. I’ve never written a book quite like it before. I wrote it, week by week, and I wrote it as blog posts. When I decided to turn it into a book, I had to do a little tinkering. It was my way of making it through. I would sometimes lie in bed at night, feeling horrible, and think about what my next post would be? How am I going to talk about this moment? And how I’m feeling? And what this is like? It pulled me through that event, those six months, that year. It made it useful to me. It made the experience useful in another way.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

I love living here. It was a choice, and kind of a scary choice because we’d been on the East Coast for over 30 years, and I had to give up being Poet Laureate of Delaware to move here. I wondered, What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Of course, I knew why we were doing this. We’ve had a cottage north of [Traverse City, Michigan], that we’ve had for 100 years. It feels more like my home. So, Michigan became my place. It’s very much where I want to be. Everything about being in Michigan fits me better than being in Delaware, and I’m sorry to say that.

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice? Did you have any role models?

Nope. I didn’t. Not any. The only role model I had was my father. Once in a while he’d write silly poems. That was it. I didn’t know a poet.

Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?

I can’t think of just one person. It’s an accumulation of reading poets I admire. There’s nobody who stands out because each one has given me something different. All those things have melded together. A lot of people who do an MFA program, for example, will look for the rest of their lives to a beloved teacher in the MFA program. That’s wonderful, and I’m sorry I didn’t have that. I was just all on my own the whole time. I did teach in an MFA program, so maybe there’s an MFA person out there thinking of me, which would be nice.

Where or to whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

My husband, Jerry Beasley [professor emeritus and former department chair of English at the University of Delaware, and author]. He has a Ph.D in 18th Century literature, and is a very good reader, and scholar. He’s not a poet. He reads my things, and reads them from the point of view of an intelligent reader. So, I don’t need a poet reading my work, and advising me, although I have a group of poet friends who do that for each other. What I really need is, first of all, is to hear from Jerry, and have him say, This works for me. He’s not always right. Sometimes I don’t agree with him. Most of the time, he’s smart about what I’m doing.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I’m unable to walk past something in print without looking at it. I read crummy novels, and I read good novels, and poetry, and magazines. I read everything.

One doesn’t usually have on the tip of their tongue the name of a poet who has become fabulously successful. Poetry doesn’t seem to enjoy the same kind of public awareness and embrace that other art forms do. When Edgar Allen Poe published his poem “The Raven,” people were waiting breathlessly to read it. When it came out there was all sorts of conversation about it. People used to pay attention to these things. Can you reflect on why contemporary poets don’t get enough love? 

I think it was Louise Gluck who said winning a big prize didn’t change her sales that much. She never sold many books, and no poet sells many books. This is a different time. It’s a very visual time, and people are watching tons of movies, and reading other things. Poetry requires slowing down, and being very quiet with the poem no matter what kind of poem it is. Not many people slow down anymore. Some poets and some poems have gotten very esoteric, and that doesn’t work for ordinary people. By “ordinary,” all I mean is people who don’t often read poetry, or who haven’t studied it. I think that’s been a problem. If you look at some of the 19th Century poets, the point was to write for ordinary people who just like poetry. Those poems still work. [Some of contemporary poetry] has turned internal. I would compare it to is painting. Painting used to reproduce what you see in front of you. And then, it went inside and pulled at what you’re feeling, and turn that into part of the image. When poetry did that, people lost interest. It felt like something they didn’t know how to read. They couldn’t get hold of it. If it happen to be something like Alfred Noyes’s “The Highwayman” — a good story that was told in a rhythmical way that rhymes at the end — people get into that; but we’ve lost ordinary people. Poems have become too esoteric for ordinary people, and by that I mean people who aren’t used to ready poetry.

I think, generally, many people believe they won’t “get” a poem. It makes me wonder: Do we value the things that poetry can do, and does do, enough that we make it a priority to provide people with more experience with poetry? To be exposed to it so they can begin sorting things out for themselves?

I’ve spent a lot of effort on that. When I was at the University of Delaware, I got a grant. For one whole year, I wasn’t teaching, and went around to the secondary schools and talked to teachers about teaching poetry. I tried to help because what I’ve seen is secondary school teachers are scared of poetry, so they don’t teach much of it. They haven’t been trained. Now, I write a poetry column [On Poetry] every month in the Traverse City Record-Eagle. For me, that little column is like teaching Poetry 101. I pick poems that ordinary people who aren’t used to reading poetry can get hold of. And, I talk about it. The way that we can influence people is to constantly keep poems in front of them, and talk about them, and start with ones that are not so hard to understand. It’s like anything else. It’s like reading. You don’t automatically know how to read a difficult novel; you work up to it.

What drives your impulse to make?

I don’t have the slightest idea. It’s what I do. Outside my house there are some roses that just keep blooming. I don’t think they have any other impulse except to bloom; it’s just built in to do that. Apparently, writing poetry is just built in. I don’t think I could easily quit. [Poet] James Wright was still organizing his last book, lying on his death bed. And my friend, Sydney Lea, with whom I’ve written a book, he’s 81, and he’s writing more poems than he did 20 years ago. And, he just wrote a novel. It’s like it just comes out of him. It’s what you do.

While still with the University of Delaware English Department, you served as Poet Laureate of Delaware from 2001-2007. What’s the Poet Laureate’s job description?

I’ve been asked that a bunch of times. I think it depends upon what the poet laureate wants to do. I had the strong support of the Division of the Arts in Delaware, and they got me readings at lots of different places all over the state; but I consider that my role was to encourage poetry. If you have a poet laureate the reason is to bring visibility to poetry where it otherwise might not be. My favorite project was to ask people to submit poems. I picked 12 people based on their submissions, and I took them down to what was then called the Biden Center, a retreat facility on the beach in Lewes, Delaware, to spend a long weekend.”  We did workshops and read poems, and a bunch of those people have published books. It pleases me so much to see the success of some of those people.

Read more about Fleda Brown here. She also publishes a monthly column in the Traverse City Record-Eagle. On Poetry, a commentary, appears in the Northern Living section.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

Mercedes Bowyer, 44, has had a seat on both sides of the arts table. For more than a decade, she lead the Oliver Arts Center, a community arts center in Frankfort, Michigan. After leaving the Oliver, she found herself making the art. A series of life changes pointed her back to an old familiar practice: needlepoint. And in the course of doing it, she discovered a path forward for her inner creative.

This interview was conducted in June 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Mercedes Bowyer

How did you come to needlepoint?

I used to spend my summers with my grandparents down in Florida. As a way to give me something to do so I wouldn’t constantly ask to go to the beach, my grandmother taught me knitting and needlepoint. She prepped a little canvas, and taught me the basic basketweave stitch. For knitting, I think I got as far as knitting a sweater for my Barbie, and that was the last of that. That didn’t stick. I was in middle school, and I did not keep up with the needlepoint. Fast forward to 2020, right before the Pandemic, I decided to quit smoking. Anytime I craved a cigarette I would sit down and work on a jigsaw puzzle, and I did all the puzzles in the house. I found I still needed something to occupy my hands, my time. My grandmother [Jane Moore Black] had made me a work bag, and I still had that [needlepoint] project. I pulled that out, and tried to re-teach myself the basic stitch, and finished that project. That’s how it started. The Pandemic came at a time when I could explore needlepoint further, and I could sit and focus on it.

When you came back to needlepoint, you had an epiphany — that you could create your own canvases, and they would be more satisfying to work on than the ones you could purchase.

As I think about it further, the canvas my grandmother gave me she drew [the imagery] freehand that was very Mondrian. She graduated from Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri. She had a career in fashion design. She was a very creative person. So, that’s what I came back to: an original piece drawn by my grandmother. It was the middle of the Pandemic, and there are no local needlepoint stores near me. My husband ordered me a small kit. It was a really pretty, abstracted image of a flower. The threads were part of the kit. It didn’t tell you what stitch to use because it was a beginner kit: You were supposed to use one stitch. It was a painted canvas — sort of like paint-by-numbers — so you knew exactly where to sew the blue thread, exactly where to put the yellow thread. Halfway through, where I was supposed to put the white thread, I decided to deviate and use a sparkly white thread. It hit me, before I even finished the piece, I didn’t find it challenging. I didn’t like them telling me where to put the blue thread.

So, I thought, I could do these, but I could do them in my own colors. I could do my own stitch; but why am I spending money on this [pre-fab] painted canvas that some other artist painted if I’m not going to follow their direction, and what they intended for the piece? That’s when I started getting into my own designs. They were very linear, with lots of rows and grids, just trying out new stitches. I was scrolling through social media one day, and saw this pretty image of Sleeping Bear Dunes, and thought that it would be cool if I could recreate that in thread. And, yes: Shame on me. I took the image off of Google. I could not find who owned the image, and I thought that this was going to be just for me. This might not even work. That was the first time I adapted a photo to an original piece. After that, I was so guilt-ridden because I didn’t know who the photographer was, I started to use only my own photos, and my husband’s photos, or photos that I could identify the maker.

At this point, we should clarify that you were still the executive director of the Oliver Art Center. So, you probably had a keen sense of how important it is to credit creative work.

Yes. That’s true. There were many voices in my head going, “Now, now, now.”

When you decided to move from taking someone else’s image and adapting it to your canvas, what was the bridge for you using your original work?

In the early pieces, I tried to do my research and find existing, named needlepoint stitches that would mimic what was in the photograph. So, if I was doing water, I would try to find a stitch that mimicked waves. Since then, a lot of the visual effects I try to achieve, there aren’t existing stitches. Now, more likely, I’m taking an existing stitch, and editing the stitch to fit my needs.

Talk about the imagery you have been migrating toward as you get deeper into your practice.

It started with the Pandemic. We weren’t going anywhere except, maybe, a few drives during the day to get out of the house. A lot of the imagery is hyperlocal: Point Betsie, and the Frankfort lighthouses; and Pierce Stocking Drive — the usual haunts around the area. I did surprise a friend. I stitched her a log cabin, and I really enjoyed the process of [depicting] the architecture, recreating the building, the sidewalk, the log planks. I find myself drawn to buildings, and the built environment that’s nestled in Northern Michigan.

You’re taking you own photographs, and transferring them to the canvas.

When I got serious about it, I invested in a light box [which enables her to be able to] trace the main elements directly onto the canvas. So, if I’m doing the Pierce Stocking Bridge, I do the outline of the covered bridge, the outline of the road, but the rest of it I fill in from there. It’s not like I’m doing a full, painted canvas like you’d seen in retail stores.

How much latitude do you allow yourself to interpret what may, or may not, be there in the image you’re using?

I give myself quite a bit. I’ll use the Pierce Stocking Bridge as an example. The picture I took was after a rain storm, so you could clearly see that part of the wood on the bridge was wet. I decided to depict the change the colors in the piece from summer to fall.

What made you think needlepoint could be a creative practice?

I was enjoying the process of it. In a way, I was connecting with my grandmother. She needlepointed well into her 90s. I did get a little worried when I was halfway through that painted canvas and realized I didn’t like this. So, I thought, I enjoy the practice of this. I don’t like being told what to do. So, how can I flip this around and make it something I like to do? I was so drawn and connected to the practice that I just needed to find my own way for it to make me happy.

What is the difference between embroidery and needlepoint?

The main difference between needlepoint and embroidery is what the stitches are applied to — usually with needlepoint, it is canvas [not like painters use, though].

Talk about the training you’ve gotten in needlework outside of what your grandmother taught you.

I did complete the American Needlepoint Guild’s Master Needle Artist. It’s a two-year program, and the application was more strenuous than the actual program. I was asked questions about composition, color theory — basics that people would be taught in art school, that I never learned. I had to do some really quick learning in order to answer the questions on the test. Once that test was accepted, I spent a year writing a thesis. And in the second year, I had to do an original composition based on that thesis. It had to go in front of a committee for review. Come September, when they have their annual conference [in Missouri], I’ll receive my certificate and pin.

What was your thesis?

The role of needlework samplers in early American women’s education. It blew my mind as I was doing the research. You’d think that samplers were used to perfect your skills; but the reason you created a sampler and your parents hung it in their living room was so that potential suitors could see that you’d make a good wife.

There was a lot of moralizing expressed in samplers.

Right. A lot of the topics of those samplers were bible verses, statements about social mores of that day. Some of it was education. [The maker] would stitch numbers and the alphabet. Sometimes buildings were incorporated to represent the family home. There are [historic examples of] samplers done by children age 5; but your don’t see much work done past age 14 — at that point, most women were married. They stopped doing needlework for pleasure, and started using needlework to mark their household linens or repair clothing.

How did your training affect your creative practice?

One major takeaway was all the information on color theory: hue, saturation, complementary color. I only use DMC [brand] six-strand floss. Mostly, that’s because it’s the most available in a rural region. You can get it at a fine art store. Heck. I can get it at Walmart. DMC makes thousands of colors. I was working on a piece, and I could not find the right red I wanted: brick red. In doing all the color theory research I did, that’s how I started to mix my thread colors. For example, out of the six strands, I’d pull two out and and put in a different shade of red to get the look I wanted. It was either that, or I was going to have to begin dying my own thread, and I didn’t want to get into that.

Describe your studio/work space.

Primarily where I work is in the living room. I hunted around and found a really cool mid-century sewing table. It sits next to a chair with a really strong light. That where a majority of my current projects live. My home office space is also my work space [where she keeps thread, canvas, and other tools].

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

Currently, my focus is Northern Michigan sites. That’s everything from the State Hospital [now the Village at Grand Traverse Commons] to the Grand Hotel on Mackinaw Island. I like to have a connection to places — my husband can send me all the photos he’s taken; but if I don’t have a connection to it, I don’t feel I have much buy-in, which is another reason I don’t do commissions.

What kind of pre-planning do you do in advance of beginning a new project or composition?

Typically, once I’ve selected my subject matter, I try to make sure I have multiple images — even if it’s different than the image I’m going to recreate. I prep the canvas — I have to cut it down — and then I usually bind the sides with masking tape because when you cut the canvas it gets sharp, and will snag your threads. I trace the image onto the canvas. And I swear by stretcher bars. I can’t just freehand sew it. I have the full booklet of DMC threads, so I can look at the picture and determine which threads I want to use. Because I live an hour away from the nearest thread store, I have to pre-plan. I’m finishing up a piece right now, and my mind’s already on my next one [thinking about] what colors am I going to need, how am I going to do this — it’s usually one right after another.

What’s your favorite tool?

I have two. One is my stand. I promised myself if I juried into a show I’d entered, I was going to let myself buy this floor stand. It’s about $400. It’s not cheap. But it’s well worth it. I use it with almost every piece I create. It holds the stretcher bars so that my hands are free for stitching. Some of the intricate stitches require two hands. Or, if I’m getting really detailed, I use my second favorite tool, which is a set of dental tools. The hooks and picks the dentist uses, I use to move threads out of the way.

Do you use a sketchbook? Work journal? What tool do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I have blank journal that’s gridded paper, that matches a needlepoint canvas. I subscribe to a few magazines, and if I see and interesting stitch I’ll cut that out and put that in the journal, and make a few notes about how I could use it. If stumble across a stitch I’ve edited, and used in a piece, I’ll record what I did so if I want to duplicate what I did, I have a record of it. I don’t do a lot of lettering, but to work that out on the grid is an important process. My thesis piece I did an abstracted view of the different depths of the Great Lakes. I really had to map out the stitches I was going to use on that one. It was a tight grid. It was worked out well in advance on graph paper.

Let’s talk about the 800 lb. gorilla in the closet. Needlepoint is a creative form that goes back to the Egyptians. Contemporary needlepoint, however, is generally thought of as a hobby activity, sometimes disparagingly. 

I attended an opening last week, and a woman was commenting on my work, and she said, “Wouldn’t that look great on a tote bag.” I thought: “It’s not a patch. It’s a piece of art, and you want to sew it on a tote bag?”

How do you talk to people when they say things like that? How have you evolved what you want to say to people?

At first, I didn’t put any thought into it. When I’m entering a show and am asked on the application what the medium is, I put “needlepoint.” That’s what it is. But, then, I was getting a lot of rejections. My husband said, “Do you think people think you’re stitching a painted [commercially-produced] canvas?” They’re not seeing it as original work, and that set me back a little bit. I just assumed people would know it was original work. Right now, I go back and forth about what I call it. For a long time, I’ve stuck with “fiber art.” Maybe I should re-think this and go back to “original needlepoint.” But when I talk to people about it, in the instance I mentioned, it was in passing, and I kind of nodded, and joked that, for the cost of it, “You can do whatever you want.” That’s why, whenever I get asked to speak about my work, my practice is to just engage in conversation about it. I try to get people to understand that, yes, I use needlepoint canvas and thread; but that’s pretty much where [the similarity between Mercedes’s work and commerically-produced needlepoint projects] ends. Some stitches will appear familiar. Others I’ll make up. And, I think that’s what frustrates some of the forum I’m a member of online. I keep on trying to get into shows, so I can put the work out there, and word’s getting out, and people are understanding that “needlepoint” is one descriptor; but it talks about a wide range of what people are doing.

What role does social media play in your practice?

It should probably play a large role. I have my personal Facebook page, and decided to create an Instagram page where I share all my needlepoint. But then I discovered as I expanded what I was doing into the Master Needle Artist program, and I was doing more talks, the need for a website reared its ugly head. I don’t spend as much time updating my website as I should. Sometimes I’ll do three Instagram posts in a week; sometimes you won’t hear from me for three months. I’ve reached a large audience through Instagram. I tagged this international podcast, and they reached out and we did an interview. I could be using it better; but I also have a day job, and a family, and find sitting down to take an Instagram tutorial akin to pulling out my toenails. I’d rather disappear from social media.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

It’s twofold. What I do, I do for my personal satisfaction, to see if I can do. The piece I’m working on right now is of the Tahquamenon Falls in the Upper Peninsula. I wanted to see if I could replicate the foam in the water at the base of the falls. What drives me is, “I wonder if I can do that, and how well can I do that?” I’m not one of those people who believes they’re putting it out there for the betterment of mankind, or to make the world more beautiful. I’m driven by what I want to see out there.

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice?

Definitely, my grandmother [a fashion designer for a Chicago department store]. She created my paper doll. She hand painted it in my likeness, and created a template for making her clothes. At the same time, my grandfather was an architect. I remember conversations with him — he spent one afternoon talking about keystones, and their role in architecture, and all the different kinds of keystones you’d find in a building. I never really thought about that as a creative practice until I started depicting buildings. One of the other things was my education. I grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, and we had a program where we spent six weeks, once a week, going to the Saint Louis Art Museum. We’d be met by a docent, and given a tour of a different branch of the museum, and we would do a project. I vividly remember those projects, and being in that museum. That’s always been around me as I was growing up.

Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?

My grandmother. I saw her [doing needlepoint], and she did it well into her 90s and was very proud of it.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

In some aspects, that’s the end game: I want to have a piece for the [Oliver Center’s] annual members show, or the annual fiber show; but I don’t think that dictates what I do: I don’t do a lot of themed shows just because I don’t have anything that fits the theme.  I see exhibiting as the endgame when I’m working on a piece: Where can it show? Who can see it? It’s another tool for me to get the work out there. I don’t care about awards. I don’t care if it sells. I don’t do it for that. I do it to try and spread the word that this is art, too.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

I do it every day. Just doing the work. I subscribed to a bunch of periodicals when I got started. I wanted to see what was out there, and what other people were doing. I enjoy going to other exhibits and finding other artists [working in needlepoint] and try to connect with them. I’m always on the lookout for fiber shows — whether it’s basketwork or quilting, I’m drawn to it.

What drives your impulse to make?

I’m not sure what does; but I have the impulse daily. Some days I’d really love to call [into work] sick because I’ve hit my stride on one part of the canvas, and I want to see it to the end. And, there are other days it’s the last thing I want to do. The piece I’m working on now, I’m not liking how it’s turning out. Just not happy with it, and want to get it done. I’m not one to do more than one project at a time. If I start one and get  tired off it, I just work through the block and get it done. That’s my drive with this one. Overall, I just want to see if I can do it, test myself. The last piece, I did a lot of color mixing. I wanted to mimic sun rise, reflection on water, figures. I’d never done figures before.

You have a day job — as Donor Engagement Director for the Grand Traverse Regional Community Foundation. How do you juggle the demands of working your day job, and your studio practice? How do you make the two talk nicely to one another?

One pays for my ability to do the other. I view my creative practice as my break, my after-work decompression: I don’t come home and have a drink at 5 o’clock; I come home and I stitch. If I’m overwhelmed and not having a great day, I sit down and I stitch. That’s how they work well together. One involves a lot of head space, a lot of people-ing. As an introvert, it’s draining. I’m one of those introverts who can fake it, and be good with people; but it exhausts me. I find that the creative practice recharges me.

Read more about Mercedes here.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.

Antrim County painter Wendy McWhorter, 68, is a late bloomer, self-described. But after retiring in 2013 she blossomed — a verb that applies to her creative practice, and her subject matter. Wendy is passionate about flowers. They meet so many needs: color, shape, their brightening presence in the landscape and the front yard. But it’s not all florals. Northern Michigan’s landscape speaks to her. Loudly. And, year-round. Once blossomed, this painter does not seem capable of wilting.

This interview was conducted in April 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Wendy McWhorter

What is the medium in which you work.

Oils. Occasionally I do watercolor when I can’t take oils; but oils are my preferred medium.

Why?

Because I love the saturation of the colors, and — as one instructor said — the “juicy-ness” of the medium.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

Yes I did. “Formal,” back then, would be instruction in abstract art. All the professors in the the 70s were teaching abstract. My first two years were at Northwestern Michigan College [1973-75], and the instructor I got the most out of was Jack Ozegovic, the printmaker. I really enjoyed printmaking, and thought that that was what I was going to do. He encouraged me, so I went to Indiana University for a year [1975-76]. Although I really liked printmaking, I didn’t think I could make a living as an artist. I changed my journey, and went on to become an art teacher. [Before that, however] I went to Michigan State University to get a degree in advertising — all my credentials just seemed to fit that. I graduated from MSU in 1979. I [worked in advertising] until 1985 at the Traverse City Record-Eagle. I enrolled at Eastern Michigan University and got my certification in art ed, and started teaching in 1988. The only time I was able to do my own art was in the summertime, and that wasn’t conducive to a good practice. I retired in 2013, and became more dedicated to painting. I started painting every day.

When you were studying printmaking, you said you didn’t feel like you could earn a living in visual art. Why?

I didn’t have the dedication to push myself to create a body of work back then. At 21 years of age, I didn’t have the maturity to know that. I didn’t have the tenacity. I didn’t have the hunger to do it. When you’re young, you have to make a living. I didn’t see how I could do that unless I had a 9-to-5 job; but then I would not have the energy to do art at the same time. I didn’t want to be a starving artist. I love New York City now, as an adult; but as a 21-year-old, it would have eaten me up. I was a late bloomer, a real late bloomer. I didn’t realize the tenacity and hunger part of being an artist until I was 58.

Is New York City the place you imagined one went to to seriously practice visual art?

Yes. That was my experience with everything I’d read about being an artist. The internet has changed that [perception]. You can live in rural Michigan, and if you want to, you can be shown in New York City. Or, you don’t have to be in a gallery anymore. People can see your artwork on Instagram, and bypass the whole gallery scene — if that’s what you want. [Wendy uses Instagram and Facebook in her practice.]

For me, being a regional artist, the people who are interested in my art are local to this area. My interest [subject] is in the geography, the topography of the northwest area — Leelanau County, Antrim County, Old Mission, Charlevoix, and Petoskey. When people are looking at art, they want to see something that reflects the beauty they see, and why they’re there. Artwork in their home, if it’s of a place they’re familiar with, that they have a memory of, that’s one of the reasons why they buy my work.

Describe your studio.

It is a 10 ft. x 10 ft. space I carved out of the lower level [of her home]. I had a wall put up, with a barn door in it. I have two light sources. I have a nice, big window, and door with a window. I can walk out from it [under the upper patio], so I have a sheltered place where I can work outside. That’s nice. When people want to come see my work, they don’t have to come into the house. We can walk right to my studio.

As we’re talking, you’re preparing work for Bloom, an exhibit of floral paintings at the Botanic Gardens/Historic Barns Park in Traverse City, Michigan. Bloom is a continuation of work you did last year for another exhibition, Lost and Found Gardens — exhibited at Center Gallery in Glen Arbor, Michigan. In Lost and Found Gardens, you imagined the flowers planted by early settlers at Port Oneida. How did you research the flora that existed in Port Oneida?

I went to the Leelanau Historical Museum, and did some research there. I also looked online, and read a book by a woman [Rita Hadra Rusco] who lived on North Manitou Island for a long time. What I discovered was that a lot of lilacs were planted, wild roses, and when the boats would come to Glen Haven and different ports along the way, they’d sell bulbs, so people had daffodils, tulips. The most common native flowers were Coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans.

How do you feel about people wanting to come visit you at your studio?

It’s by appointment. I don’t have a sign up. I’ve never had a drop-in. I only got the studio two years ago, and it was still quite clean then. Now, I’d have to stop everything I’m doing if someone wants to come visit, and clean up. I don’t mind. It’s always interesting. Visitors might have come to look at one painting, then see something else they like. That’s the good thing about a studio visit: They can see all the work in person.

What themes are the focus of your work?

Incorporating nature — flowers and gardens and blooming trees — with the vernacular architecture of the area — the farmhouses, the barns. I like to put the two together. One is geometric, and one is organic. If it makes sense, I put the flowers in the foreground. Sometimes I focus on the farm; sometimes I focus on the flowers.

It sounds like you don’t take dictation from the scene. You give yourself the latitude and the freedom to arrange the components as you want them to appear in the composition.

Exactly. I take artistic license. The series I did last summer, there weren’t any flower there [when she was painting]. Through my research, I put them in.

What’s your favorite tool?

It has got to be the paint brush. The larger the paintbrush the better. That’s a life-long struggle for artists, to use a larger brush so you have a looser painting; and not using a smaller brush that will get you into the tightness of the details.

Do you use a sketchbook, or a work journal?

In my studio I have a vision board with a lot of photographs on it, of what I want to do. When I’m out in the field, I’ll take out my viewfinder, zero in on what I want to paint, do a rough sketch, and figure out my colors.

Explain the vision board.

It’s a bulletin board. I have it divided up into paintings I’m focused on [if she’s preparing for a show]; the other is work that I submit to exhibitions and galleries. I divide it up among the venues that I have. The Torch Blue Gallery [in Alden] want scenes of Torch Lake. [Another gallery in] Charlevoix wants paintings of sail boats, still lives. I have photographs of gardens, photographs of interesting barns and homes I like. I use [the vision board] to come up with my ideas. It’s there for me to look at all the time. I have on it a calendar of what I want to accomplish. I also have different pictures of artists’ whose work I like.

Earlier in our conversation you said that you can live in Northern Michigan, and have a shot at earning a living, because of social media. It allows people farther away to see your work. Is there any other role that social media plays in your work?

You get instant feedback from it. It’s a way to connect with people. They follow you. They make comments. Maybe a couple months later, they decide they really like a painting they’ve been looking at, and they buy it. I really appreciated it during COVID. It was a way to interact with people and market myself. There were no gallery shows. It created a new venue for people to look at art.

What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

As an educator, I had that nailed down. As a visual artist, I’m still formulating [an answer]. I’m not a social justice artist. My artwork does not resonate with different things going on in the world. I appreciate artists [whose work falls under the social justice umbrella]; their role is clearly defined: They’re shining a light on what’s happening in our world, whether it’s war, climate change, racial disparity. Artists who are speaking to those issues are making a change. My artwork is simply for someone who wants to appreciate my vision of what I see out there in the world — paintings of the environment in Northwest Michigan, the hills, the lakes, the dunes. Appreciating nature. It’s ephemeral. It comes and goes. A record of what was, and let’s not forget it.

People have told you they purchase your paintings as a way to have a reminder of what they love. Is the role you play in the world that of creating a touchstone for people?

It’s a comfort. For three years in a row, [a client] who is a jewelry designer who lives in New York City, whose family has a cottage on Lake Michigan [in Leelanau County] has bought a painting from me each summer at the [GAAC’s] Paint Out. She said that these paintings, in her home in Brooklyn, remind her of her summer memories. And, I like to think of that — that I’ve got paintings in Brooklyn, which is a juxtaposition from a very busy area to a very relaxing memory of summer.

It’s one of the reasons why I moved back here from our little stint in Florida. Florida is flat. It’s extremely humid. It’s not very varied in topography. I have been up here, this past fall, for 50 years: going to NMC; my parents had a place in Glen Arbor; moving here after MSU. I’ve decided this is where home is. I’m much more inspired to paint here than anywhere else. It’s a connection. It’s a familiarity. But there’s also the unknown. In February, there was a really nice day, and I was going to paint near these orchards I always go to — I wanted to see what it was like to paint in the winter when there wasn’t any foliage. I was looking in my rearview mirror, and said, Wow. I’ve never seen that view before. So, I turned around. It was a farm. It looked like a Wolf Kahn painting, like a Grant Wood painting. With the bay, and the farm, and the fields: It was a perfect painting. And it’s a place I drive by every week; but because I looked in my rear-view mirror, I saw it differently. There are surprises every day. This is what I want to paint.

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice? 

No I didn’t. However, having proximity to the Flint Institute of Arts was huge inspiration for me [Wendy grew up about 12 miles south of Flint]. I was lucky enough that my father appreciated culture. He’d drop me off at the FIA on Saturdays to take classes, so that’s what informed my early art practice — and then going into the FIA’s fabulous galleries. It’s a world-class museum. When I was teaching [at a Lansing, Michigan magnet school in 2010], I took students there.

Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?

I’ve always loved Wolf Kahn’s work. In 2004 I was going to a workshop in New Hampshire, and I went through Vermont, where there was a gallery that had his work. To see it large and up close was a fabulous feeling. This is exactly the kind of painting I can do in Northern Michigan. I like how simple the shapes are. That was a beginning for me in my thinking about landscape painting. I also like the work of Fairfield Porter. Similar reasons. Subject matter is what drew me to those two: the geography of places that are similar to here, water, hills, dunes, forests. Also: Nell Blaine. I liked her story. She was an artist who was struck by polio in 1932. They told her she’d never paint again, and she just fought through it. Eventually, she was in a wheelchair; but she wheeled herself outside, and continued to be a plein air painter. When she could not do that, she brought the outdoors indoors. She had flowers brought into her home, she painted those, and incorporated that with what was outside. That struck me. Somebody who had a lot of obstacles and worked through it.

You said you’d had such a profound experience looking directly at Wolf Kahn’s work — as opposed to looking at it on a screen. Talk about the importance of having people look at your work, directly.

It’s important to look at things directly because the screen does not show the work accurately. It does not show brush strokes — if you’re an oil painter it’s important for viewers to see how the artist has created with the brush. And size. When you’re looking at something on the screen, even though it might say something is 36” x 48”, you just can’t imagine that until you can back up and sit with it. That’s why I like benches in museums.

Where or to whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

I have a good friend who has bought many of my paintings. She has a good eye for what’s missing. And, she’ll tell me. That began a couple years ago. When I’m struggling with something, I send it to her, and she pinpoints it. She’s a non-artist, which, to me, is very helpful. She’s a true critic. She’s not kind. She’s objective, too.

You’ve been doing a lot of exhibiting in the last few years. Talk about the importance of exhibiting in your practice.

It’s important. It gives me an impetus for creating series of paintings. And, series of paintings let you explore a subject. The other reason is it gives you an opportunity to interact with people, like at an opening. For someone to say, Where is this at? It looks familiar; I can explain where I painted it, otherwise, you don’t interact in person. Some galleries have a following, and those people are looking for a particular kind of art, so that becomes an excellent place for the artist and the collector to meet.

You raise the not-so-glamorous issue of the practicing artist’s need to do R+D: finding your niche, where your work is a good fit. Not everybody is going to come to an exhibition because you’ve put something up on the wall. That’s the business part of having a creative practice.

The show I’m going to have [in the Botanic Gardens], they have a following. So, I did a lot of press releases. I also targeted a lot of local garden clubs. You have to do your own marketing. It takes time. But I’ve created a list, which I can plug in for future shows.

You don’t strike me as someone who paints what you think people might like to see.

Right. I paint what I like to paint. That’s why I rarely do commissions. Most of the time, that meets with what other people are interested in. I’m not commercially oriented. I’m not making a living on my art. I’m appreciative of what it takes to make a living. That’s a 24/7 job. I’m not a working artist. I’m practicing; but it’s not my bread and butter.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I look at a lot of artists’ books. It’s amazing how expensive they are. So, luckily, with MEL Cat, I’ll go to my local library and ask them to get it for me. If I can, I find something at an estate sale. I do a lot of that. And, I went to New York City for three days. I went to the Metropolitan, to the Neuw Galerie. A month ago, I went to the Birmingham Art Center. I go to local art openings to see what other artists are doing. I have a network of artists who I talk to.

What drives your impulse to make?

I enjoy going out and painting plein air: Being outside is a big drive. I like to be outdoors as much as I can; but when the weather’s not great, I like to be in my studio. It my happy place. It’s a state of being. It’s mentally a good place.

Read more about Wendy McWhorter here.

Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.