Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

Laura Korch joined the Northwestern Michigan College art department in August 2023. She runs the ceramics and sculpture programs. “I had a very strong pull to [clay] as a child,” said the 43-year-old Traverse City resident. “As my work in pottery began changing into sculpture, I went to grad school [Arizona State] and started painting, and working with wood, and welding with steel. Now, my work can be a lot of different things”: vibrating wooden tubs, and walls of depressed coffee cups for starters. School cross-pollinated with studio work. Studio work cross-pollinates with teaching. It’s all of a piece.

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

Pictured: Laura Korch

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I primarily use clay. I had a very strong pull to that as a child. As my work in pottery began changing into sculpture, I went to grad school and started painting, and working with wood, and welding with steel. Now, my work can be a lot of different things. It mostly lands on clay and ceramics; but sometimes there’s an interdisciplinary approach. Sculptures are wood and metal with glaze and house paint. Or, one of my most ambitious projects was a giant, wood, interactive sound sculpture. People laid into this life-sized sculpture, and there were shakers that would pulse a two-way frequency at 528 hertz. When the person laid down they would insert their arms into these two tunnels that formed the shape of a large hug. The sculpture would then begin to slowly comfort and vibrate them with these frequencies.

I originally came up with the idea, as controversial as it may sound, in 2011. I was in Thailand, and was with a group of people who were living in Southeast Asia. I was going to ride an elephant. I was in this amazing jungle with a 15-year-old tour guide. At one point, we swapped seats, so I got to put my legs around the elephant’s neck. She had just given birth, so she was massive. And, she vibrated. She was rumbling. And, I thought everything in the universe vibrates. It was such an enlightening moment with this creature. Seven years later, this wood sculpture burst out from those travels, and that experience.

When you use clay in a sculptural capacity, there are remnants of its functional personality — but you’ve moved it beyond the functional into something else. Talk about that.

I was always fascinated with the pottery wheel. I thought that in conjunction with learning about clay as a material — there’s endless exploration with that material — I was so rooted in functional making, and wanting to be a full-time potter for more than a decade; by the time I was making sculpture, it was a surprise to me that I could open up enough to step away from the entrenched mud of [function-oriented] pottery. So, what you’re seeing is someone with a strong foothold and passion for functional pottery beginning to explore what it means to un-remember what I’ve learned, and try to approach it in a new way, which sometimes seems impossible. I do branch out, and sometimes I can succeed in making sculpture of various sizes out of clay. It’s most effective when I can combine the clay with another material. It reprograms my mind. It plays tricks on me so that I can’t settle into that habit of working with the material.

You’ve talked about yourself as a sculptor who works in a variety of materials. What draws you to sculpture?

It’s funny. It came about unexpectedly. I found myself working with the material in a different way than I was used to, and challenging the material at its maximum capacity. For example: I’d roll out these thin coils out of porcelain clay, and pinch it, make it into a ring, and I’d made 50 of these. The dry time for porcelain is very short — it goes from being soft to hard very quickly. I chose to stack all these rings with little clay pegs to make these fragile, cage baskets. That was a stepping stone for me. I became fascinated with this new way of working. And, also, from that, began thinking of concepts.

You received a BFA from Eastern Michigan in 2004, and your MFA from Arizona State in 2019. What happened in between?

I apprenticed with John Glick, a master potter, in Farmington Hills [Michigan] for a year. Next, I was hired as a ceramics studio manager for the Ann Arbor Arts Center, and that was when I first started teaching adults, and I had to begin explaining all the nuances of what I was doing with the material. That was a humbling period in my life. In 2007, I moved to North Carolina. There’s so much local clay. There was a low cost of living. And, I began teaching at several different art centers. At one of them, I was able to rent studio space — for pennies — for five years. Clay-makers had a cordoned off studio space there, and it was a very supportive community. Meanwhile, working at Trader Joe’s part-time. I was trying to make it as a potter. I was practicing selling at craft fairs, applying to exhibitions and shows. Finally, I bought a house in 2012 and renovated a garden shed [into a home studio]. Once these rings of sculpture came into my studio work, I took a four-week residency at Alfred University, which is one of the best ceramic schools in the nation and got to work with John Gill. I talked to the grad students there, and was convinced that I needed to go to grad school. That was why there was this gap. I was content with how I was living.

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

It affected everything. I’m definitely a product of academic training. In middle school, there was a ceramics department where I learned to hand build, sculpt and throw. In high school, I was convinced the only reason I was going was to take pottery classes. Our ceramics studio was huge. I felt like I had tons of support from teachers — we were glaze testing, raku firing, we had 12 wheels. When I went to college, I chose EMU because Diana Pancioli was there. She was an Alfred grad, and working very functionally.

Describe your studio/work space.

Here in Traverse City I’m occupying half the basement. We’ve put up a wall with a door. On the other side is a giant window and a door — so I can move things out the door if I can’t shimmy them up the stairs. I’m also occupying the laundry room — in this ground-floor basement. I’m able to have my kilns in there, a sink, and my oversized extruder. I’m storing my raw materials in that room, too. Now, I’ve got spaces to spread out. Originally I thought we’d build a studio off the garage, and I had plans for space where I could do welding. But it’s really hard to combine wood and clay. Currently, with me working for NMC, I’m able to use the welding shop if I need to.

What ideas are the focus of your work?

Usually, it’s whatever has called me to do. I went through a lot of life-changing events at the end of grad school that lead me to mysticism, Kabbalah, meditation. My work became more about these interactive sculptures that branch connection and consciousness. A lot of the time, I move into the work with that intention — whether of not it’s part of it. I’m still trying to embed it into the process of making. Currently, in the last three years, I have an agent. Tim McElligott, who is the owner of Curator Engine, approached me after my grad thesis exhibition, and said he wanted to work with me — whether it was the sculptures for businesses, or [other clay constructions]. He and I have been working for a number of years, and he’s bridged these connections with developers. What has ended up happening is I’ve gotten commissions through Curator Engine. Tim has a portfolio of artists that he takes to developers. There have been times when Tim will show me the color palette. The building has been constructed, here’s the parameters of the scale of the work we’ll need. We’re looking for a sculpture here, we’re looking multiple pieces there. What ideas do you have? I’ve really enjoyed this way of working. I got really burned out after grad school, and felt like I was giving up the rat race. I could never do enough. The artist in America has to be the photographer, the marketer, the maker. I got so tired of running hard with that game. These commissions work great for me. I don’t have to search out to the client. My agent is doing that. I get to stay in my studio and work. I’m not traveling all over the country to do art fairs. Instead, I have a couple gallery shops where I have pottery and sculpture, that sell really great. It keeps me in my space, working and making the way I want to do it.

It sounds like the themes and ideas for your work come out of these commissions.

That first commission, I came up with the idea of what to make; but there were parameters, and parameters can be really helpful.

The clients are saying, I have this space, and I like this, and what can you make of it? You come up with the creative juice?

And, my agent is not an artist. He has his masters in business; but he’s become pretty savvy over the years working with all these different artists [he represents].

What’s your favorite tool?

That’s changed over time. My first thought was my hands. We essentially, as a civilization, built everything with our hands. At different times I would have said [her favorite tool is] a pottery wheel, a kiln. Welding makes me feel like I’m looking into the universe with that light.

At this moment in time, what is your favorite tool?

My intuition. It’s a muscle I like to try to strengthen and flex. It’s learning to trust what I don’t already know. Putting my faith into the [belief] that my gut will tell me that the ideas will come.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

It has been a compulsion for me. It’s what I’ve been destined to do. I was enthrall to the process in elementary school. In fifth grade I had a teacher who let us do pinch pots, and I think that lit a spark for me. I always enjoyed art classes; but clay is grounding. The hands do the thinking. It’s even exciting to think, What’s the proper way to use a hammer? There’s a certain way you hold it. There’s a certain way you swing it; and we’re empowered by using our hands. It’s an extension of ourselves.

Why does working with our hands remain valuable to modern life?

To each their own.There are people working in other mediums who may not be using their hands as much. I think it keeps us human — but I’m not stuck in that either. Back in 2005, we did a throwing day where we put the pottery wheels up on a table and we were throwing with our feet. It was silly and playful; but our feet are a lot like our hands. For me to touch something is for me to understand it.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I was putting a lot of pressure on myself to promote myself and my art work. I did that for a time. I do still have a few things on Etsy; but that’s a hidden closet. So, I would post on Instagram and Facebook, and I found that it drained me. It was not fulfilling. Reflecting on how I wanted to live my life with more intention, I turned away [from social media]. Now, when I finish a big commission, social media becomes a place of celebration for me. To show, and to share with other people what I’m doing.

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

I talk about this question with my modern art history students. I believe artists are here to show that everyone around them is also creative. Maybe that’s not as obvious; but I think that’s what we’re here to do. Art work is another form of communication — just like sound and music are different ways of communicating. If we can demonstrate doing anything in joy and love, that’s the point; and also reminding people of their own creativity.

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

I am a Michigan native. I grew up downstate [in Highland, Michigan]. I moved away in 2007, then moved back to Michigan in 2023. I was part of a huge, vibrant, progressive community in Durham [North Carolina]. My neighborhood was revitalized and thriving; but I lived next to a really loud freeway. Especially during COVID, it was wearing on me. The noise. The street lights were very bright; I had light-dampening curtains. I knew I wasn’t going to be at that house forever; but I was there for 12 years. Because of all the travel I’ve done, the timing was good to want to be near family again. My parents live up here half of the year, and this is the first time I’ve lived near them in 15 years. But, also, I was pining for a healthier environment for my emotional and mental wellness. We’re living in an old 1970s neighborhood [in Traverse City] that’s hilly and wooded, and it’s silent. When we go to bed at night and turn off the lights, we can’t see our hands six inches in front of our faces. I was craving this. I think the influence it has is that I have the capacity to expand. I feel like physically I’m expanding. Mentally I’m expanding. The weather here makes me feel childlike and free. It’s doing all kinds of wonderful things for my artwork. Making art involves a lot of rest. I know what it means to be completely depleted. So I want to be excited with I start a project, and scared, and challenged, and uncomfortable, and then I want to rest. This is the perfect environment.

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

Anyone who was a professional artist wasn’t someone I knew in childhood. My aunt taught me how to meditate. She had projects going on on the sidelines: wood shop, she could work with metals, she even knew how to throw on a wheel. She was very conscious. She’d talk about faith and god and mysticism, so I felt as though she lived her life creatively. She was also different. She was the black sheep of the family. So, I had this hippie aunt who was really creative.

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

This intuition, trusting that I’ll know, this channeling of god creativity has been the biggest influence. Instead of taking all the responsibility, and thinking, These are my ideas. I’m creative; I started thinking, Where is this light bulb, and all these pops of ideas, coming from?  Who’s lining up all these synchronicities? I think it’s this collective consciousness of being these expressions of god that work and move through us.

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

I’m so lucky. I’ve made really great friends from my grad school peers. There’s a handful of them I’ll go to. A few of my professors. On the daily, I’m in touch with my partner, Nick. He’s a musician. It’s fun to show things to my aunt, too, because she’s not fooled by art trends. She’s pretty cut and dry, and can weed out the bullshit. I have a lot of resources, including my new peers at NMC.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

That ties into what I said about the pressure to advance your CV, to work. In general, I do like exhibiting. I love the chance to showcase a body of work that gives me a lot of information about what I’m doing — which I can see when all the pieces are shown together a a group. It’s fun to be part of a group exhibition because now you’re interacting with other pieces, or a theme. Most currently, that my commissioned works are like permanent exhibitions. They’re in these collections, on display.

How does the work of your day job cross-pollinate with your studio practice?

Over the years, my perception has changed a lot on how I view life and my work. First off, grad school has really prepped me for this way of living, being able to juggle a lot of different things at the same time. I’m so relieved to have a full-time art instructor position that I’m also energized from teaching. It’s an invigorating environment. And, because of grad school, I still have the energy to do my own work. You learn structures and schedules in undergrad; but you learn endurance in grad school. Right now I’m in a really good spot.

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Learn more about Laura Korch here.

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

Blankets. Pieces of mirror. A chair that isn’t a chair. Traverse City artist Mike Cotter, 79, has spent a long time thinking about low materials as high art. He went back to art school after moving permanently to Traverse City in 2008, and reignited a dormant studio practice that got sidelined. This is what he thinks about that — including some thoughts from Andy Warhol and Piet Mondrian.

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

Pictured: Mike Cotter in his studio.

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

Multimedia at this time. Probably wall-oriented assemblage. Collages and drawing.

When you say “wall-oriented assemblage,” do you mean 2D?

Some people would say it’s 2D — you can’t walk behind it. But there’s texture on the surface, something sticking out from it.

What draws you to the medium in which you work?

Throughout my career I’ve always been fascinated and inspired by non-art materials.

For instance?

At one time I was into linoleum a lot. Another time I used camp blankets stretched over frames, then went back in a worked in mirrors and rope and string on those pieces.

What is about these kinds of materials that interests you?

I like the idea of making what was called, in art school, “high art” from non-traditional materials. Some people might say that’s more like crafting; but I don’t see it as crafting.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I got a BFA in 1968 from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in painting. I got an MFA in 1970 from Yale University in painting, but I did mostly sculpture; but it wasn’t traditional sculpture. A lot of pieces were furniture-oriented; but they couldn’t be used as furniture.

When you got your MFA, did you plunge into a studio practice? Or, other?

That was 1970: Let’s tune in and drop out. I went from New Haven to San Francisco. When I first moved there I had a studio space in the living room of a flat that I used. I was in some shows, but not a lot. In 1973 I moved to New York, and I did have a loft in New York. Then I moved to Brooklyn. I was doing work that was more like what’s in the [GAAC’s] HAPPY show [January 12 – March 21,  2024].

Was there a point at which you felt as though you needed to get a “regular job”?

In California, it only cost $28-a-month to live in the commune, so I didn’t need a lot of money; but I was working as a pizza delivery guy. When I moved to New York, I did get a job with the Department of Social Services. I guided senior citizens with their art in a couple different senior centers in Brooklyn. When I left New York in 1977 I’d just gotten accepted to be represented by the Holly Solomon Gallery in New York. That was a big deal; but I’d made the decision to move back to Chicago, so for 30 years I dropped out of [his art practice]. When I first moved back to Chicago, I had a studio for a year. I did one more piece, a drawing that got into the Chicago and Vicinity show at the Art Institute. I think Jasper Johns was the juror of the show, and I thought that was pretty cool. For 30 years, I worked in the corporate world — I had a corporate travel agency. When I retired, my biggest client hired me to be their director of operations, and I did that for 10 years. I always wanted to do more art, rather than buy art, so I went back to Northwestern Michigan College [in Traverse City, Michigan] for two years, and took drawing classes [2009-2010].

How did your formal training affect your development as a creative practitioner? What did you carry from school into your practice?

I think it honed and trained and educated the artist’s eye. I used all kinds of things I learned. They gave you a tool box to use.

Describe your studio space.

It’s a room in the house, on the lower level, and I share it with Irene [his wife, a fellow student at the School of the Art Institute ,who he met in 1964]. We don’t have conflicts as far as who’s using it at what time. We don’t ever work at the same time. We respect one another’s need for creative space. There’s one window, and it looks out onto a window well. So, there’s light.

How do you like having a studio in your home — as opposed to having a place you need to travel to?

It’s fine. It’s a space where you can close the door. You don’t have to neaten-it-up. At times, when you’re at home, and you’re working and want to give it a break — and think, What am I going to make for dinner — it can be distracting. You have your library, your garden, cooking. But if I go in and close the door, I’m pretty in-the-moment with the work.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

Sometimes I tend to be more attracted to something that’s not non-representational, but are objects that are abstracted from the real world — like when I did all the furniture pieces that were not furniture. Some people look at my work and say, Oh, it’s all so different; but I see connections between things.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

Well lately, it’s [the GAAC’s] themed shows. Again, I think it goes back to interest in materials. [Speaking hypothetically], I love how these hooks in the screen door work. I’m going to do something that’s related to that. To not just stay with the thing as it is. Piet Mondrian, wrote, and I love this quote: The interior of things shows through the surface. Thus as we look at the surface, the inner image is formed in our soul. It is this inner image that should be represented. For the natural surface of things is beautiful; but the imitation of it is without life. Things give us everything; but the representation of things gives us nothing. I like other artists’ work that has soul to it. It has to evoke a feeling in your soul.

So, springboard off of that: If you come across an object you like, is it accurate to say it could be the starting place for looking for its soul? Versus just representing the physical form of the object?

Or, give it a soul. I look at a fellow Art Institute guy, Claes Oldenburg, and the objects he made — the lipsticks, the hamburger, the clothespin. It wasn’t just a clothespin. There was other meaning to that.

What’s your favorite tool?

My eyes. If you don’t have the eye to see, to create, you don’t have anything. But more traditionally, I would say vine charcoal. I love the grittiness, and the softness, and being able to manipulate it with your hand or an eraser.

Do you use a sketchbook?

As an art student, I was joined at the hip with my sketchbook, and filled many of them. Write notes, put leaves in them. Now, I use the sketchbook in the studio to work out ideas for a final piece.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

Because I like doing it, and I’m pretty good at it. It’s probably generational — as opposed to a lot of work being made now.

Talk more about what you mean by “generational”?

I like touching and reading a book rather than an E-book. There’s something about smelling the book and touching the pages and leafing back and forth in a book as opposed to [reading from] a flat screen with a light behind it. That relates to doing work by hand. Like I said, there’s something about vine charcoal: There’s something about the texture, and the feel, and getting your hands dirty. In all of that, it adds to the soul of a piece.

Why does working with our hands remain valuable and vital to modern life? Or, not?

I think it slows you down to be more human.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

When I was a senior in high school, and then, being at the Art Institute. Going on from there. Some people might think, Well, gee. You weren’t that serious if you dropped out for 30 years. To have Holly Solomon want to represent my work was amazing. The offer came just as I want got the offer from the travel business, and I was thinking of moving back to Chicago — and not having to deliver pizzas or work with senior citizens to make money.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Not much.

What’s its influence on the work you make?

Very little. The only time I’m connected to social media is through what a gallery or museum would do to promote a show I’m in.

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

The artist acts as vehicle to viewers, to open up a dialogue between people. Say two people walk into [a gallery] and look at one of my pieces. They may not know one another; but they could be standing next to one another and a comment might start them discussing it.  Anything that opens up a dialogue among people is a good thing. I think there’s very little dialogue between people [today]. If you’re able to create any, that’s a good thing. Just look at today: You don’t have telephone calls, you have texts. That’s not bad; but it’s all one way.

There’s a lack of direct engagement with another human being.

Right. You can think it. And you’re not confronted.

What part or parts of the world find their way into your work?

It can be anything from color to cobblestones. Andy Warhol said, The world fascinates me. I have that quote up on my studio wall. I’m interested in most all of it.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your work?

Living here gives my brain room to breathe — as opposed to suburban Chicago, or the city of Chicago. Some people can work in chaos. I wouldn’t say my studio space is neat; but if I don’t have things where they should be, my brain won’t work properly. The environment here — it’s so physically beautiful. I could see where it’d be very easy to not do any work.

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

My father was a very creative person. In the town where I grew up [Evanston, Illinois], there was only one art supply store, and it was run by this artist — Walter Burt Adams. He was kind of a Hopper-esque Regionalist. In fact, I own two of his paintings now. His day job was running an art supply store; but he’d go out and do plein air painting all around the city of Evanston [Illinois]. He was very rough, and curmudgeonly. He didn’t have phone in the store. He didn’t have a car. He was unique. [And] in my mind, he was a serious artist.

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

I would say, number one, would be my teacher and mentor at the School of the Art Institute: Ray Yoshida. Ray was the key influencer of the Chicago Imagists. They all kneeled before him: the Hairy Who, Jim Nutt, Gladys Nilsson. He was an amazing artist himself. All of the stuff from his house and studio is relocated into the [John Michael Kohler Arts Center]. Ray was probably the most influential as it regards how I would look at the world. In the classical sense, two artists [also influenced Mike]: Henri Matisse, and Marsden Hartley. When I was at Yale, the person who had the most influence on me was Lucas Samaras [who Mike invited to speak at Yale]. We just clicked. At one time, he did this mirrored room [now at the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo]. You walk in, and everything is covered in mirrors — the chairs, the furniture. At times, I would go and visit his apartment in New York.

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

My wife, Irene [they have been married 40 years]. I still have a close friend from the Art Institute, Gloria Brush, who was the head of the art school at the University of Minnesota at Duluth. She’s a photographer. Someone I met in California, Ford Wheeler , and he’s a Hollywood production designer. Locally, I would say Howard and Nancy Crisp.

You’ve just named five people. What do they have in common? Why do you turn to them for feedback?

First of all, I like what they do as artists. If you don’t have respect for someone else’s work, you can’t expect them to tell you anything of value about your work. You trust them because they’re friends.

 What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

It’s important. You can’t be a hermit artist. It enriches the artist to know you’re showing your work. It’s like music. I don’t think somebody wants to play the piano for themselves forever. It’s important to validate what you’re doing.

Does the validation come from the fact that an institution says, This guy made the grade.

You don’t have to sell it. It would be nice if it sold; but again, it’s about people coming in and having a dialogue about the work. The artist doesn’t always hear it.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

It goes back to the artist’s eye. You have to not only see your surroundings, but look at them. There was this woman north of Chicago who ran this mid-century modern gallery, old stuff she sold from the 1950s and 60s. When I’d visit the gallery, we’d talk about art. She said, To have an artist’s eye is a gift and a curse at the same time. 

An artist’s “eye” doesn’t allow your brain to say, Oh! There’s a tree! It says, Oh! There’s a tree. And now I’m going to look at the pattern in the bark, and the colors and values. It’s a full-body experience.

It can be exhausting; but I’m always so grateful I’m an artist. I can’t imagine not. It’s a gift.

What drives your impulse to make?

Whether it’s working to be in a show or exhibit, it’s innate. It’s there. You want to fulfill that desire to create. I can’t imagine not doing it. It’s not just my work. It’s a way of being. Whether it’s making a beautiful meal for someone, or knowing how you’re going to plant a garden. There are many ways that an artist lives. A true artist is not in the studio alone. It’s not just what they make, their work, and then the rest of their life is not creative.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

Traverse City painter Justin Shull “knew, even in high school, that I really wanted to be making visual art in some capacity.” And, that’s the course the 41-year-old artist set: a 2004 BA in Studio Art from Dartmouth College [Hanover, New Hampshire], followed by a 2009 MFA in Visual Arts from Rutgers University [New Brunswick, New Jersey]. But road blocks, and side roads, and other impediments got between him and total studio immersion. Now, he’s free to practice, and this is what he has learned.

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

Pictured: Justin Shull

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What is your work?

For the past three years I’ve worked full-time as a fine artist. Prior to that, my last role was product manager for a video company, Riot Games.

Any male, age 12 – 25 has heard of the game [he worked on]. It’s called League of Legends. It’s an online multi-player game, kind of a fantasy-based capture the flag with very deep strategy. I joined the company in 2011 when they were small — about 100 employees — and the company grew to about 3,500 employees world-wide, and had about 350 million monthly players at one point. Quite a large game. Very popular.

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

I knew, even in high school, that I really wanted to be making visual art in some capacity. But I thought then it was something I did along side or parallel to whatever profession I’d choose. At the time I was in engineering, then pre-med. I explored a lot of different directions and ended up studying studio art [undergraduate studies], and then going back after some time in the work force to do my MFA. I thought I wanted to teach, and be in higher education, and surrounded by that environment and be part of that community. What I enjoyed about undergrad, graduate school and teaching was the ability to explore visually, wherever your creative sensibility took you — there’s no market pressures in that. A good portion of my creative journey has been within that context, and it has only been in recent time that I’ve been trying to make work that connects more directly with a market.

What did you take away from school that you now see is part of the way you practice in your studio?

One of the dominant mindsets coming out of the academic environment is to focus narrowly, and in a very rational, research-based approach. I’m still deciding if that’s the right way for me to work. Very often, it doesn’t seem like the right way to work because I have found I tend to work on multiple series in parallel, that are only tangentially related, and that actually have to develop on their own over time. Having to describe them up front as [an academic] thesis is not the right way to arrive at the best work. That’s one thing that has taken me years to figure out in terms of what was the dominant framework for working in academia — versus creating a work flow and an approach that works in the studio. That was really important because how you structure your approach to work, and how you constrain or not constrain yourself, has a big impact on outcomes over time. I want to say I received a lot of technical, hands-on education around how to use the media, and I did not. Most of the programs are much more focused on the conceptual side, and they leave it to the students to figure out the medium.

Why do you think that is?

I think it’s a pendulum-swing reaction to the over-emphasis on a singular approach to the medium, which defined academies for centuries. There was a really strong reaction to that through Abstract Expressionism [to the present time]. There are programs that really stress how to, for instance, develop your facility with oil paint. But a lot of programs do not.

Do you work in oil, or acrylic, or both?

In undergraduate I worked primarily in oil paint until I developed a severe sensitivity. I’ve been limited in my ability to use oil paint since then. I only work with it outdoors now. But there are a couple of painting that I’m working on [in the studio] that are going to require some oil paint. As a medium there are certain things I can do with it optically that I can’t with acrylic. I tend to look at whether I’m using acrylic paint, or oil paint, or another medium in part [determined by] what that medium allows me to do visually, and in part what’s contained in that medium from an historical context.

Give me one example of what you can do with oil paint.

Because oil paint has a longer working time, you can use soft brushes to achieve very subtle gradations and blends that you cannot with acrylic. There are more recent developments with the open [acrylic] paints that let you begin to approximate that; but there is something about the way the oil blends materially and optically that lends itself to certain applications.

Describe your studio.

I work in a live-work space in the Tru Fit Trouser Building in Traverse City. In total, it’s about 1,300 square feet. I have about 700 square feet of that set up as a studio. I’ve been in this space for two year, and I specifically wanted to work out of this space because of its tall, white walls. There’s really a flexible track lighting system with high CRI [color rendering index] lights so I can approximate what larger work would look like hanging in a gallery. For me, that was part of the process of working up in scale, and developing studio work — not just landscapes rooted in outdoor observation.

You’re able to bring the landscape ideas inside, and complete them in the studio — as opposed to confining yourself to plein air painting.

Yes. Plein air painting is a great exercise in staying calm, collected, and focused on translating my experience of the space around me in real-time, navigating changing light and sometimes challenging weather conditions, and maintaining the mindset that my primary objective is to observe and translate spontaneously in a way that ultimately will be inviting to re-discover later (both for me and any other viewer) versus falling into the trap of going out to “make a good painting” or to “make a painting that will sell.”  Everything I learn while painting en plein air filters into my studio work, but for me the studio is a place where ideas can unfold at a much slower pace, sometimes even over the course of years. I might develop a digital sketch over the course of a few weeks and then return to that idea a few years later to make a painting based on that sketch and the painting is then able to unfold into its own self and perhaps push some of those ideas even further. And more recently in the past year, branch out from landscape altogether into a more figurative, allegorical series.

You have been known as a “landscape painter.” You exhibited a piece in the GAAC’s 2023 Swimming exhibition that suggested you were trying to get out of the landscape silo, to explore other themes and subjects. How hard is it, when one is known as one thing, to start moving in other directions?

I’m still learning that. There’s a couple of different axes on which you can answer. One: It can be quite easy, if you’re just talking about making work. I can go into the studio and make something completely different. That part is easy. But then there’s the question of how it’s received? How do meet expectations, or not meet expectations, and how do people respond. That’s the part I’m still figuring out. Much of work from the last year I have available on the web through a couple of private viewing rooms, but I haven’t posted it my website yet. That’s one of my big project this year, to decide how I want to integrate, or not, those different bodies of work. There’s value in looking at historical examples of how people had multiple, diverse bodies of work versus a singular body of work. But then, I can decide that even if that didn’t work for someone, I’m going to make it work this way.

You paint landscapes in lots of lovely, luscious color. You’re also painting landscape in winter in a primarily black and white palette. Usually, when people paint the landscape that do that when it’s sunny, 70 degrees, and the world is in bloom. You, however, are finding something very paintable in a starker landscape. Talk about that.

The root  of that is I don’t actually see myself as painting the landscape. What I see myself doing is painting my response, my representation of my experience of the world, which manifests in different ways. One is interaction with a landscape. One is interaction with various media, technologies. I always look at the landscapes I paint as metaphors for some other state of being, or mindset, or philosophy, and that creates a lot of space for working with different [seasonal] lighting conditions, subject matter within the landscape that might not be there to celebrate the sunny day, but be there to speak to our human experience as we move through the world. That’s how I come to the landscape. And then, of course, the audience will take different things away as well. That’s the beauty of it — there’s always room for a range of interpretation once the artwork is out in the world.

What’s your favorite tool?

My favorite tool is my projector. It allows me to accomplish a lot more than I would otherwise accomplish. In the history of larger-scale public painting there’s always the question of transfer, and how one scales their design — work at a small scale to work at a public scale. Digital projectors are amazing. I can make a drawing, a collage, an iPad drawing. I can combine them all. I can take that to an 8 ft. x 8 ft. canvas. I don’t have to sit there and grid out — for hours and hours and hours. In that way, it’s a productivity tool. It also helps you see things in a new way very quickly. And, I try to be really upfront that I use a projector in my work. When you start to talk about tools and methods, artists can very quickly start to splinter into ideological camps. I like to have that conversation with people who might not like to embrace photography as a source, or certain technologies. I’m happy to talk with anyone — especially people working in the Western traditions, the centuries of utilizing optical tools in the studio.

The distinction I hear you making is this: The machine isn’t doing the heavy creative lifting. It’s helping facilitate your expression of your original work. I think that’s where the conversation begins to get into “explain yourself” territory.

To our point, the bigger theme is the conscious choice as to which technologies we use, and to what extent efficiency is the goal. There are times when efficiency gains are really useful. And there are times when being in the middle of something, and having to make a decision with your hands is very useful.

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

I have a couple spiral bound sketchbooks. One of them I use to do color tests with paints. One of them I use to sketch out ideas. Then, I also will physically collage materials together — one-off pieces — that I collect and put into a photo portfolio at the end of the year. And, I also have a digital sketch pad.

You’ve created murals. You’ve worked as part of a video game start-up, and you’ve taught visual art at a number of universities. When did you decide to jettison these kinds of work, and commit to working with serious intent as a studio artist?

Coming out of undergrad I already felt that, if I had the choice, my priority would be maintaining a studio practice as a primary pursuit. It was a question of financial practicality, which it wasn’t [for Justin] for a good 15 years. After a few years of teaching through the financial crisis in 2008, 2009, my mentors [at Southern Methodist University (SMU) and Texas Christian University (SMU)] who were going to be retiring, chose not to retire, and they gave the feedback that if I couldn’t sustain myself [as an adjunct instructor], I should do something else. That got me out of teaching. As far as working in the video games goes, it’s difficult to work at a start-up part-time. It was really, for many years, all or nothing. I [eventually] tapered off to a part-time consulting role [with Riot Games], and then was able to paint. I’d stopped making art. It around 2017 I started painting again, and I knew it was going to be a few years, minimum, before I could produce work that I could bring to gallery. Coming out of the financial crisis, a lot of institutions decided to lean more heavily on adjunct instructors, and begin tapering back and eliminating tenured [positions]. The whole model and ecosystem of tenured-track positions changed dramatically.

How did teaching cross-pollinate with making your own work? And, how did teaching get in the way of you making your own work?

What I like about teaching is you have the opportunity to always be learning something new about some method or software or conceptual approach — if you want to. There’s this ongoing embrace of curiosity and learning that can cross-pollinate, between students and educators. There is an atmosphere of possibility in the classroom, with younger students. Those are things I really enjoyed. In reality, the world of an adjunct instructor is pretty difficult. You’re teaching two-three times the course load of an associate or tenured professor, and very often trying to find additional income — just from a practical standpoint — on top of teaching. When I was teaching, I was teaching six classes a semester, and also had a part-time job. As you can image, if you want to be making work, or if you have any aspirations to have a family life, those things can quickly come in conflict. The practical application of the current [teaching] model is that it does not create space or time or ideal energy to make the best work. That’s just the reality.

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

There are different roles the visual arts play in our lives, as creators and as audiences, and a lot of people can engage with the visual arts and benefit from the creative process and how it affects their day-to-day approach to navigating their lives. And then there’s the question of: What role the visual artist plays in attempting to reach a broader audience, and be part of a broader conversation. That’s always up for debate, and always evolving. In the best scenarios, those individuals help us to understand what it means to be human, and to understand what our value systems and belief constructs are; and help us think about how we’re navigating the world. That’s pretty lofty, but I think, at best, what the visual arts, what other arts, can do.

You’re not creating work that attempts to be photographic in its precision. You’re creating work that provides people with a visual of how you’re interpreting the world. Lots of times, people who work in the visual arts see things differently, or see different things, and give viewers an opportunity to think about, for instance, the start beauty of a black-and-white landscape in the winter.

There is a certain satisfaction or joy that comes from being able to replicate a photograph. My goal is not to replicate a photograph. Photography and optical image projection, for me, are all tools. The image I ultimately create is a personal reflection.

What parts of the world find their way into your work?

Personally, one of the principles guiding my choice of colors, is the physiological effect color can have on us. Very often, the reactions a viewer is having to the colors in my work are connected to the types of experiences I’m trying to reference in the first experience of a location or a place. It might not be initially evident. Another thing that comes into a number of my landscapes is this idea of the intersection or interaction of our ordering of the world around us, and the natural logo or structure it pushes back with, and the dynamic balance — or lack of balance — between those two. There’s so many different ways to get at that.

On your website, you talked about direct observation: “ … my studies with Stanley Lewis at Dartmouth College and Chautauqua School of Art instilled in me the importance of direct observation, and introduced me to the amazing range of potential expression within this tradition.” Elucidate.

We can create space, and a sense of place completely from our imagination. Or, through strict adherence to shapes and colors that we observe directly. One of things I appreciated about Stanley was his commitment to going outside every day and working on a painting for two months straight, through changing weather and light conditions, and attempting to bring that experience into a single image — that was this condensation of time. My first exposure to folks going outdoors to paint was the Impressionists, and a lot of that work was really quick. To see this range of folks going out to experience the landscape directly, to capture their experience of it directly, for me that was a real revelation.

Why is there benefit in directly experiencing something?

I see value in personal, authentic, individual processing of then world around us rather than consuming what we’re told to consume.

How does Northern Michigan inform and/or find its way into your work?

I moved to Northern Michigan in 2018 from Los Angeles, and I arrived here with really fresh eyes. I wasn’t familiar with the landscape. I wasn’t familiar with the light. I wasn’t familiar with the history of [the place] and how the space had built up. It was a real joy, and it has been a real joy, being here, responding to that, taking it in for the first time. I’m actually noticing now, as I become more familiar with it, that’s become harder to do; and I’m going to have to change my approach in some way to keep the work, or the way I respond to it, fresh. But that took a good five years or so before I began to feel that. One of the things I’ve enjoyed about moving to different parts of the country, and seeing different parts of the world over the past 20 year, each time you land somewhere, you’re able to look at it with fresh eyes. I’ve found that that’s really important to learning how to look honestly. For me, it’s about true discovery, and authentically analyzing, thinking about, and interpreting in a way that is often unexpected, [as opposed to] digesting something in way you’re told to digest it.

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

Oddly, or not oddly, Frank Stella. I discovered his work in high school. His work, formally, I admired; but also, the lasting impression comes from the very dramatic way his work evolved into different pursuits over time — starting as a formal minimalist working his way into something of a maximalist and working from very flat images to 3D sculptural work. Just as a role model, with the variety of work an individual’s career over time can embody — that’s stuck with me. That ties back to the question of: What do you do when somebody knows you as doing this thing, and you start doing that thing? There are some people, from an early age, I admired in their ability to follow their pursuits authentically even if it meant confusing expectations.

To whom do you go when you need honest feedback?

I’m always trying to expand the range of people I can get honest feedback from. I tend to lean on the friends I went to grad school with, and mentors who I studied with, and close friends. Those tend to be the people I can ask, Take a look at this, what do you think? Ask me some tough questions. Or, let me know when you think something is not working. I enjoy when a good friend will call out that they don’t like what I’m doing, or it doesn’t work. I usually respond to that better. It’s a challenge to articulate why I made the decisions I made, and to figure out if I’m going to push further into that until it’s doing what I want it to do. Or, abandon something.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

In the ideal world exhibiting artwork is, selfishly, a way for me to get real-world feedback from people about how they’re reacting to the work, and what they get from it. Sometimes that happens. I get the best feedback when I’m in-person with the work, doing a gallery walk-through and giving people additional context about the work. You really only get that through an exhibition space. I have my studio set up partially like an exhibition space, but there’s a lot more variables having your work out in the real world not knowing whose going to come into the gallery or art center and see it.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I try to expose myself constantly to other people’s work, and keep it dialed in so I’m not overwhelmed, but able to challenge myself through other people’s work as much as possible. The other thing I’ve found is really important is making sure I make time for other things — physical activity, athletics, just getting outside and wandering and giving myself time to not have to talk to other people. Just being in your head and letting yourself wander are important aspects of being able to foster creativity.

What drives your impulse to make?

I think it’s to find shared meaning and shared understanding. At it’s core, that’s the impulse to make — which is to put something out into the world, and find someone who says, Oh yeah! Or: I didn’t see it that way. At the end of the day, it’s a social activity, even if done in isolation.

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Learn more about Justin Shull here.

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

Carolyn Swift, 66, is the visual art version of living [well, making] large. Her collages — a melange of materials, and techniques — can measure as wide as 60″. And across all that surface is a feast of marks, color, texture, raised elements that explore collage beyond its humble cut-and-paste foundations. It has been “a long journey” for Swift, out of an urban life, onto Northern Michigan, and into the “world’s best studio” where she contemplates the sound of the wind, and tries to figure out a way to make it visible with paper, colored pencil, paint and glue.

This interview was conducted in November 2023 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Carolyn Swift

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

I make large-scale works on paper. They are collage and relief. The collage pieces are made from a combination of things: painting, from prints — that would include old prints of mine, and other people’s I know.

Talk about why you make your own materials — as opposed to, for instance, shopping for commercially-produced papers.

It’s about control. When I make these pieces, I’m looking for a particular mark making. If I find some [commercially-produced paper], I’ll buy it and build on it. For example, I use some Japanese papers that have fibers in them, and that has a particular movement to it, which I’ll build on with painting and printing.

Using materials you’ve created allows you to bring a distinctive visual signature to the work.

Yes. I have a good friend who has a printmaking and painting background. She was getting rid of a huge stash of her old prints, which have a very different quality than my own — as far as the color and the layering. A whole different feel to them. It’s fun to explore adding my “signature” to her “signature” and see what comes up from that. I’ve loved that process.

How are you making your prints?

I am using old woodcut boards that I’ve had since the 1980s. When I got out of grad school, and moved to the Detroit area, I was doing a series of large-scale woodcut prints, and I still have all those boards. I print off of sections of those. I’ve enjoyed this. I see threads that have run between then and now, things that I’m intrigued with, or mark making I have been using.

You work in a large format.

Yes. And I’m going to do that as long as I can. The pieces I have been working on for a while now are shaped, not on a rectangular base. When I frame [work] the largest piece is 40” tall by 60” wide.

Why do you work at such a large scale?

I have chosen a large format because the scale creates a particular relationship between the piece and the viewer, different than, say, something small that one could hold in one’s hands, or larger, like a wall-sized piece or installation. I think of the scale as almost 1:1, our size to an object that while not exactly the same size, has a “presence” that feels almost the same. I think it is more apparent in the vertical pieces, as opposed to the horizontal pieces.

And by “shaped” you mean what? 

The edge of the piece is not a rectangle. The shapes themselves create the edge of the piece.

What does working in collage allow you to do that you can’t do in other media?

It has opened up a huge world for me, and that world has primarily been being able to experiment without committing. When I make these pieces, I start off on a large piece of paper and I draw a tentative composition. Then I’ll make pattern pieces using transparent paper. I’ll then pull out a printed piece set it on that spot and block it off.

Are you a scissors or X-acto Knife person?

Generally scissors, but it depends. I did a whole piece that was based on the breakup of ice in Grand Traverse Bay — when it used to freeze. They were very intricate pieces cut with an X-acto Knife. But generally, I use scissors or a mat knife.

And, adhesive of choice?

Acrylic gel medium. It’s a tremendous adhesive, and it’s waterproof. The downside of that is because it’s water-based, and the base paper I’m using is unsized printmaking [paper], it will buckle. I’ve solved that by taping my paper to a wooden board. It dries flat.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I have a BFA from Albion College [1980] with a focus on drawing and printmaking. Then I received an MFA in printmaking from Indiana University [1983].

How has your formal training influenced or informed your practice?

There was a foundation of knowledge that I got at the undergrad level, from two professors, regarding formal elements — composition, line, shape. From both of them, there was such an emphasis on nuance. I drew easily. I didn’t have any problem drawing things representationally, but to take it to the next level, and think about the nuances of the relationships — that was the huge one, as well as the passion for art. In my schooling I really learned much, technically (representational drawing skills particularly). What has taken me much longer to learn is how to convey qualities about something or some experience, and that involves nuance. For example, how does one convey the power of a thunderstorm? For me it involves very particular colors, shapes, rhythms, etc that are different from trying to convey, say, the power of a blizzard. Being able to keep searching for the particulars, that is what I learned really well through my schooling in drawing and printmaking.

The graduate world was more of a negative experience. Without going into a long rant, I didn’t find a whole lot of support from the professors. The professors were more neglectful. I went from being really supported in undergraduate school to being dropped off into the deep end in grad school. There were things I was struggling with in the work, and I got no guidance. If anything, from graduate school, I learned a lot from the art history classes I took.

What ways did all this schooling prepare you for being a practicing artist?

Being well-prepared visually, and motivated by things other than grades. [Those factors] give one the [chance to ask], Why are you doing this at all? The other piece that is a challenge for anybody in the arts is, when you need time to do artwork, how do you reconcile that with everything else: making a living, if you have a partner or kids. It’s a real challenge to find that balance.

How did you reconcile it in your own life?

It was a long journey. Needing to be financially self-sufficient, I stumbled into teaching. I didn’t get an art education degree. And I really enjoyed teaching. That was two-birds-with-one-stone for me: being able to teach and stay in art that way. It wasn’t until I left teaching 12 years ago that I had the unfettered time I needed to devote to the work. I’d never experienced that.

[Another strategy was to keep] an art journal. Whatever I’d notice, I’d jot down, and that has been invaluable — to see [for instance] that something I was thinking about 15 years ago, I’m still thinking about.

When did you teach, and whom did you teach?

My first 10 years out of graduate school, and this was in the Detroit area, I did a whole host of part-time gigs — from college teaching at the Center for Creative Studies [now College for Creative Studies], I taught in their extension program, both adults and kids. I got certified to teach in public school, and I ended up for 17 years teaching in Clarkson [Michigan]. I was hired along with two other people to form an elementary art program [pre-kindergarten through fifth grade] because they did not have one. I left in the fall of 2012. I moved from metro Detroit and moved up here.

Describe your studio.

The best studio I’ve ever had. [Located in her Traverse City, Michigan home], it’s a lower level walk out. There’s some daylight. The biggest thing is that there’s space. I need oodles of space. When I’m making these pieces, I lay out all the possibilities from my collage [papers] stash. It looks like an explosion in there. It’s a finished space, a heated space, a lit space. There’s a storage space. And when I go to move these pieces, I can walk outside as opposed to trying to angle a 40” x 60” frame up the stairs and around the corners.

What themes are the focus of your work?

It all stems from nature. To be more specific, my relationship with nature. It’s not just a portrayal with nature. It’s the transitory nature of things, ephemeral qualities — predictable changes like seasons, but also unpredictable ones. I would like someone looking at the work to feel, even though it’s a static image, that if you turned away and turned back, something would have changed. Changing light, changing temperature, clouds, I’ve always been deeply affected by that.

Your work is not representational.

It’s a mix. There are elements that are very concrete. Then there are others that suggest that quality. It isn’t about the exact look of things. It’s about their qualities. For example: There are woods behind this house, so the wind in the leaves is this incredible sound. I’m trying to figure out how to represent that. But to make it also, so a viewer could pick up on the fact [what they’re seeing] is a sound that comes from leaves in trees. It’s a hybrid, tricky territory that’s fun to explore the options — not having the leaves be green, for example; but exploring what other colors might show the qualities.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

It’s always about an event, something I’ve experienced. This piece I’m working on now, about the wind in the trees, was prompted by my windows open at night, and this incredibly beautiful sound and feel. I’ll write that down. It takes me a while to make these pieces, so I’ll sit with that for a while and see if that intensity of an experience fades, or stays, and keeps coming back and nagging me to remember this. I walk a lot, and when I walk some ideas will grab my attention. I’m not consciously looking for something.

The making part of your process is also slow?

Yes. Increasingly. For two reasons. One is that what I’m doing now is not just using colored, collage pieces, but a relief aspect. I build up the surface on various levels with foam core, or two layers of mat board, so that surface shifts. Technically, on the scale I’m working, and in my 60s, having the endurance in my hand to cut mat board in the intricate way takes a while. The other thing is I spend a lot of time in the process: I put down a piece, I block it, I lift the pattern piece, I look at it. I might spend a whole day just doing that; and, then all the steps [of assembling the composition]. Generally, not always, I end up drawing on them.

Is the process as important as the product to you?

Hugely. For me, it’s not just about making a thing. It also shapes how I interact with the world. I’m hoping to transfer that in the pieces, so they don’t look like a static view of one thing. The pieces are an event that are in the process of changing.

Do you work on more than one project at a time?

No. One reason is I just don’t have the space — it would take a warehouse. The other reason is once I’m hooked into an idea, my brain is really just into that mode until I resolve that piece, and then I can move on. I was a huge multi-tasker when I was teaching — I had to be — and it wore me down to a nub. The process, if I’m really paying attention to it, forces me to be present with it as it is. I encountered this in teaching. I think it’s important to impart this to students, who naturally are about the process. I encountered huge resistance from the powers-that-be in public school because they really just wanted to see nice projects. It’s important for kids to explore in a validated way the process: try this, try that, we’ve made mistakes, what can we do? I don’t think they have a whole lot of room to do that anymore.

What’s your favorite tool?

Prismacolor pencils. They’re such a minimal part of my work. My first love is drawing. What you can do with the nuances and subtlety of color layering that you can do with Prismacolor pencils, especially on top of an already colored surface, is pretty amazing.

Why is making by hand important to you?

When I look at artwork, I’m always looking for who is the artist? Why did they go to the time and trouble of making something? What is their visual signature? Can you get that digitally? Yes. That is a form of hand making, but I like the direct connection between something in your hand and the marks that are made from it, which can only be made by a hand directly into the material. I’ve always like the physicality of it. There’s no substitute for that experience for me.

Do you think that working by hand remains valuable in modern life?

More than ever. The digital world, the AI world can duplicate things. The handmade and the experience of it — not just the product of it — is about humanity. It’s really easy for individuals and humanity to get lost. I’m really looking for things that have always been there, that we’re hardwired for. That hand connection to material is always going to be there. It’s a deep part of us.

Working with your hands is a direct experience. Tapping a keyboard and telling a machine to do something is an abstracted experience.

Yes. There’s a separation. We are in trouble in this world in part because of that lack of a direct connection. We need physicality. Someone asked me once if I thought you could have as strong a connection with nature by looking at Google Images? It’s not a substitute. There’s no substitute for all the sense being involved, so I think it crucial, more than ever: If we don’t have that full, rich sensory connection to the world, then it’s diminished. And when it’s diminished, it’s not valued, and then there’s no stewardship.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

Right after I got out grad school. There I was, without having to produce [school assignments], and that was my moment of, Do I want to keep doing this, and what does that mean? It was a very conscious choice for me.

Talk about the role social media plays in your practice.

I don’t do any social media. So, zero. I have a website, and that’s as far as I’m willing to go. For me, it’s a bigger picture of social media. Could more people see my work? Yes, that’s true; but, in general, even if I wasn’t an artist, I wouldn’t do much social media. I’m really troubled by much of it, as far as the companies who run it, and the data gathering. I’m really leery. I’ve not gone down that path. It’s a question of who’s benefiting from my use of social media.

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

That’s a challenge these days. I think the visual artist’s role is to bear witness: Here I am in the world, here’s what I value, and I want to see if others can connect with that. When I think about the role of painting and sculpture and photography 150 years ago, they were the social media. Think about when [Igor] Stravinski’s Rite of Spring was performed, it caused a riot. The idea of a piece of art moving people that strongly, I think that day has passed. At the same time, art’s function is still huge. It’s easy for people to get lost in this world. To say, I made this thing, I want to be a connector with the people — it’s not just about me expressing but connection with other people as well. That’s a deep human need that, I hope, won’t go away.

What parts of the world find their way into your work?

I would connect that to a bigger picture of trying to show that these experiences are crucial to well being; that these connections provide us with a primordial grounding. I think that’s a message that needs to continuously go out there.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your work?

I’ve always had this connection with the place, the physicality of it, the energy of it. I was in metro Detroit for 29 years, and that was always a challenge for me. The work that I did then showed that. I did a piece called In Search Of A Horizon. I felt so blocked-in downstate. Back to bearing witness: Here’s my place, here’s my connection with it. I was searching for wider, open spaces. I have family and friends up here. I needed a place that was quiet, where I could see stars, not have to commute 45 minutes each way with crazy drivers and traffic. Northern Michigan checked off all the boxes for me. And, seasonally. I wanted a place with more winter, but that’s starting to change.

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

Before college, no. My family was very supportive. There was always great support of the arts. My mother was an amateur musician. My father went to the University of Michigan on the GI Bill, and studied English literature. It was striking to me that before the war he was preparing to be an engineer. I speculate that he thought, My time on this earth is limited, what do I really want to do?

Who has had the greatest, and most lasting influence on your creativity?

My printmaking/drawing professor Richard Brunkuis. He set me on a path, and it was life altering. The way he approached the complexity and nuance of a piece, that has stayed with me forever.

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

There are two artist friends of mine, one in particular — we were in undergrad together. She’s a painter. We’ve always shared work.

Talk about the role exhibiting plays in your practice.

It’s a critical role for me. I really want to share my pieces in person. There’s such a different experience in-person than online. First of all, because of scale. Especially looking at them on a phone. I have not gone the commercial gallery route. I’ve really gone the route of a lot of art centers. They play a huge role in connecting general populations with artwork. That has been one of my primary motivations. Especially, having taught in the public schools for 17 years, and seeing how little art plays a role in the vast majority of peoples’ lives.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

The biggest thing for me is having time. When I moved up here, I fully intended to substitute teach. But when I started to work [in her studio] full-time, I’d never experienced that in the absence of other obligations. So I taught a little bit, and then I retired. Time is like having oxygen. And having time to set the work aside, and go for a walk on the beach. It’s about being in a place, and being able to know the place in all of its aspects.

What drives your impulse to make?

That’s a mystery. I don’t have the words for that. All I can say is that it’s present. The process is about joy and connection, and I’m really happy it’s still there.

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Learn more about Carolyn Swift here.

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

Northern Michigan is painter Randi Ford’s subject, from Sleeping Bear Dunes to Pictured Rocks. Her work is inspired by these natural places — so much so that the 34-year-old artist moved to Benzie County last summer so she could live and practice where she find artistic and spiritual nourishment. You may already know her work: One of her paintings, Path Through Time, was selected for the Glen Arbor Arts Center’s 2023 Manitou Music poster. Take a look at it here. With her husband, artist Ben Ripley, Randi has merged a last name [she’s Randi RipleyFord] and a life. “Life is art,” she said.

Pictured: Randi Ford

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

I currently work with acrylic paint. I’ve been acrylic painting for the past eight years. I was using gouache, and I also experimented with oil painting. I really loved gouache, but I wanted to paint larger, and not on paper but on canvas. I enjoy acrylic because I can layer, and blend, and create a lot of line work. I figured out how to make it flow well using a flow release.

Define flow release paint.

It’s an additive to mix into the paint, but I put it in a spray bottle.

It makes it easier to move the paint around?

Yes. It keeps it wet longer. A lot of people struggle with acrylic because it dries too quickly. I can also get longer, smoother brush strokes.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

Yes. I first studied art in high school — I didn’t do it until my senior year, and all my classes senior year were art classes. We had a good program there. It’s a small school in Sturgis, Michigan. I went to Grand Valley [State University] and received my BFA in Illustration [2012], but I also touched on painting. For my senior show I did a combination of illustrative landscapes themed on the seasons of Michigan; and a series of abstract landscapes in oil.

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

I think college helped with creating work — we had to do so many different assignments that pushed us to develop our skills. And then, executing your vision and completing the projects helped me be able to do that on my own after I graduated. I learned how to lay out timelines, and set deadlines.

Describe your studio.

Right now I don’t have a full studio. It’s in process because we just moved up North. I have been working out of my home studio for 10 years in Grand Rapids. I had it in the basement. Then I moved into a room upstairs. In my studio I have an easel, a paint station, speakers for music, plants, stones, art objects, a few of my paintings as well — I like to create a peaceful, beautiful space. My computer and my iPad are there. I use my iPad to develop paintings, and I work from that developed image when I’m not painting outdoors.

When did you move North?

I live now in Beulah [Randi and her husband, hand engraver Ben Ripley, moved in August 2023]. I’ve been wanting to live in Northern Michigan since I started coming up here [to paint] in 2014. I’ve been getting inspiration up here, and in the Upper Peninsula. My work is inspired by these natural places. We found a home in Beulah surrounded by state land. My studio is a walk-out from the basement that overlooks the woods and the front yard. We’re putting in a slider with windows, so I’ll have a lot of natural light. His studio will be in the garage.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

I was first drawn to nature, to paint it — I had an innate desire to replicate it, to show its beauty and wonder. Then I started working with different nature conservancies in West Michigan to create art for their [fundraising]. They [the Land Conservancy of West Michigan] have an art show called Preserved! to raise money for the nature conservancies [including Flower Creek Dunes Nature Preserve, The Highlands and Saul Lake Bog, all preserves in the Grand Rapids area]. My work allows people to appreciate the natural landscape, and hopefully want to restore their landscape or protect natural areas. That was part of my mission for my work — bringing the beauty of the landscape, and to help move forward people’s mindset of what a landscape should be. There’s also a spiritual part to the work. The desire to paint was a spiritual pulling. I feel that I’m called to bring beauty and light to others through my work.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

First, it’s prompted by my different hikes in nature. It starts with the subject matter and the awe I feel, and trying to replicate that in the composition. I’ll go through my photos [taken during the hike], and find the images that create the most honest spirit to paint.

Your process involves being out in the natural world. Do you feel that directly experiencing these things comes through your paintings?

Yes. Part of it is the feeling I have when I’m in those spaces. There was only one time I referenced an image online. All the rest of the work is done from my own experience. Whatever drew me to capture that through my photograph, that’s what I want to express. I’ll try to show the spirit of the life in the plants in nature, making them feel more alive than just [representing them on canvas].

What’s your favorite tool?

The camera. But I also like to use Photoshop — I’ll it to design the scenes a little more, and edit the photos before I start painting. For painting, I use only two brush styles: the flat brush, which is squared [for line work], and round brushes to do tiny details.

Before Photoshop was invented, how would you develop the composition? Has Photoshop always been a part of your practice?

It has. Sometimes I don’t [run the photo through Photoshop]. I’ll just take the photograph, and start painting directly on the canvas. Sometimes I’ll sketch things out — I used to draw a lot for my illustrations, which I stopped doing when I got more into my painting. Sometimes I’ll do that to get the composition down. I don’t take my iPad out there.

You came of age when computerization was taking over hand work.

I was in high school when all this digital stuff was happening.

Do you have any thoughts on why making things by hand is important? 

I do think that making things by hand is very important, and that’s why I won’t fully go into digital art. I use that as a tool to make my paintings better. Digital things separate people. [The connection] isn’t real life. It’s in the digital world. I can’t use the computer too much. I get hand pain in my nerves. So, I’ve made it a practice not to be on my phone or computer too much. I take breaks. I think handmade art work has more spirit in the piece. It comes to life more. There’s more of spiritual essence to the piece. If you printed out a painting online, there’s not life or emotion that you can feel. The emotive energy that is put into the piece is actually felt more in the handmade process.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

I did that right after I graduated. I didn’t want to get a “normal” job. If I get a “normal” job, I’m going to be giving up my time and energy, and putting that into a job I’m going to leave. I’ll have to catch up. So, it’s now or never to pursue my art career. Right after, I started creating as much as I could. I had a few part-time jobs where I was balancing that side-by-side, but, eventually I was able to let go of the part-time jobs that were preventing me from doing what I wanted to do with my art. I’ve been full-time since 2017.

What kinds of part-time jobs were you working? 

I worked at Jared’s, the [national chain] jewelry store. I was interested in jewelry making, and I learned how to connect with clients. I almost wanted to work as a bench jeweler, but I worked there seasonally and learned how to work with clients. I was kind of shy, and that helped me open up to strangers. And then I worked at LaFontsee Galleries [closed in 2022] in Grand Rapids in an internship. That got me more familiar with the gallery side of things, and I was using my digital skills to help them. They started carrying my work after I’d worked there for three months. I showed with them for a few years, and I was also showing in art festivals, which I wanted to do more — as well as [find representation] in galleries up North since I was painting up North. I also taught at Grand Valley for a year-and-a-half, teaching 2-D design. That was a great learning opportunity for me to teach students directly, and helped me to learn more about what I was doing by teaching that to students. I gave that up. It was a lot of work for not much money. I could make one painting in less time, and make about the same amount of money as an adjunct professor.

What’s the role of social media in your practice?

I’m not the best at social media. I wanted to use it to connect with people and gain followers who wanted to see my work. Now I use it as a gallery space. When I have something new, I’ll post it to keep people updated. I don’t want to post all the time. It distracts me from my art. It’s a trap. You have to be learning all the new things all the time. That’s a whole other job, social media.

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

The goal with living up here was to live among the places I paint. I’ve lived in the city since I graduated from college, and moved to Grand Rapids [Michigan]. I was coming up North all the time. I lived down there, but I’d be up here for showings, to get inspiration. Once a relationship I had ended there, I decided I wasn’t going to stay in Grand Rapids anymore. There wasn’t any point to it. My family’s not [in Grand Rapids]. A lot of my friends moved away. I’ve had a lot of signs [telling her] to move up here. When I moved up here, everything fell into place. I’m hoping to connect more with other plein air painters; to get more inspiration to make stronger pieces.

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

My grandmother wasn’t a professional artist, but she did create art her whole life. She was beautiful gardener. Cooking was an art for her. Her house was very colorful. She like to collect antiques. She didn’t paint landscapes, but did more expressive things. My dad is an industrial designer — he designs finials, the decorative end pieces for curtain rods. One of my mom’s friends made copper fountains, and sold them at art fairs. She’s how I learned about art fairs. My mom had a booth at the Shipshewana Flea Market selling antiques. I helped her, when I was young, to set up her booth.

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

[Randi mentions a number of teacher she studied with in college, as well as Northern Michigan painter] Margo Burian — I went to her, and she mentored and encouraged me, and talked to me about the art business.

Talk about the role of creating a body of work.

Creating a body of work means I’m creating a series of paintings. Each time I create a body of work it will be a little different than the last. The way I paint it changes.

So, you’re creating a group of paintings that have some relationship to one another? And when you show them, they all hold together as a unified idea?

Yes. The paintings will have the same kind of look because I create them in the same time frame.

To whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

I go to Ben. I have a problem reaching out to people and asking for help. A lot of times, I critique myself; but then I’ll go to Ben. My dad’s a good critique-er. He has critiqued me throughout my lifetime, and pushed me to do better.

You exhibit your work at art fairs. When I was a more frequent visitor and exhibitor at art fairs, the exhibitors generally seemed to be older. I wondered why there weren’t more young people going this route. Talk about your experience.

Yes. I’ve been doing a combination of that and showing at art galleries. [Randi and Ben will] have a space in the future, in the barn down the road from the house, where we’ll have a gallery space. [Exhibiting at] art fairs is a way I can connect with people and share my work directly. Through galleries, you give your work to [the gallerist], and you really don’t have any way to connect with the people who are seeing the work. I like to know the people who are collecting my art work. It’s important for me.

When you’re standing in your art fair booth, you’re directly connected with the people who are looking at your work.

That’s part of it. I used to interact with people more, but now I sit off on the sideline to allow them to look at the work. I pay attention to [detect] if they want to communicate with me about the work. Or, if they’re looking at it, I’ll give them my message. I’ll have longer, deeper conversations with anyone who is looking my work, to make a deeper connection. I continue to have a relationship with them afterward through my newsletter.

Do you feel like an anomaly? Are you usually the youngest exhibitor at an art fair? 

I have been the youngest for a long time. I think there are more younger artists who are starting to show. But mostly it’s older people. I’ve overheard people talking about that at art fairs. They want younger people to start coming in. They were saying that art fairs might die if we don’t get the younger generation involved. A lot of [older exhibitors] are starting to retire. But it’s harder for younger artists to get in because the art work needs to be of high quality to get into art fairs, and younger artist might not have the body of art.

How did you learn the ins and out of being an art fair exhibitor?

I started exhibited at church craft shows. And then I moved onto the [Fulton Street] farmers market in Grand Rapids. They have a craft show every Sunday. I slowly started learning about other art fairs from exhibitors there. I looked at other artists’ booths that I thought were strong. I used to have an E-Z Up tent, and then I invested in a Light Dome, and it looks more professional. Now, Ben and I are going to be showing together.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

Listening to music. I listen to music a lot when I paint. I also hike, and go on nature walks. That clears my mind. Nature inspires me, and then I get inspired to painting. Painting [brings on] a peaceful state for me, where I feel connected to spirit.

What is in in the world that drives your impulse to make?

It’s my nature. I just want to create beauty: a beautiful space, a beautiful life. Life is art.

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Learn more about Randi Ford here.

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