Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

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

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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.

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

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.

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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.

 

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.