Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

Judith Shepelak’s road toward a full-time studio practice came after she’d worked as a paralegal, then a graphic designer, then a landscape designer. In between she raised her children. For the last two decades, her creative focus has been on ideas and subjects that interest her instead of a client; and she executes them all in colored pencil — a labor- and time-intensive medium. “[Creating a drawing with] colored pencil is a very long process,” said Judith, 74. “What I can do in a pastel [painting] in five hours is probably going got take me about 40 hours in colored pencil.”

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

Pictured [left]: Judith Shepelak

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I work most of the time in colored pencil. But I also do pastel work.

What do people need to know about colored pencil to better appreciate work done with it?

[Creating a drawing with] colored pencil is a very long process. What I can do in a pastel [painting] in five hours is probably going got take me about 40 hours in colored pencil. A colored pencil drawing begins by laying down light base layers, then you add and add and add, changing your colors. [The process] can add up to about 15 layers. So, I do my piece about 15 times in order to get the colors I want.

Is there a blending process that takes place with all this additive color?

Colors will blend themselves because of the way the pencil lead is made. But there are also about seven or eight blending tools. A lot of us use gamsol [an odorless mineral spirit used to thin paint] ] — because it dissolves some of the pigment, and you can move it around.

How did you start using colored pencil? 

I was a landscape designer for a period. I would do the landscape drawings, and color them in with colored pencil. I didn’t think a lot about it until one day, I went to somebody’s house, and they showed me that they’d framed my drawing; and I thought maybe I could just do colored pencil drawings. I didn’t have any training in colored pencil. That’s when I started to take workshops. At some point I thought I would do botanical art because I was taking some of my workshops at the Morton Arboretum in Chicago. But then, that was so limited. I was using a magnifying glass — I felt like it was a job, and I just wanted to be free with my art, so I sought out other workshops.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I started out at the American Academy of Art in Chicago. I decided it was costing me as much to go there — I was still living with my parents — so I decided to go to Northern Illinois University in graphic design because I also decided I needed a job after I got out of college. I finished off with a BFA in Graphic Design [1972], but I had other art courses — woodcut [printing], weaving.

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

I’m not sure that my formal training in graphic design helped [me with] what I was going to do later in life. I did have one instructor [Nelson Stevens who taught woodcut printing at Northern Illinois University] who was extremely helpful, who taught me how to think beyond the box. He would sit down and draw with me. He’d add a couple of lines and then say to me, Now I want you to add to this. We’d go back and forth, and I learned this freedom of in drawing — I didn’t have to always draw exactly what I saw. He was just trying to free me up. Graphic design is different from fine art. It’s a job of putting together a visual piece, but you’re not using a tremendous amount of creativity. Everything you do in graphic design is dictated by your client.

Talk your studio space.

When we moved into [a townhouse in suburban Chicago], I fixed up the closet so I’d have all kinds of space to store all my art supplies, and long flat files for paintings. The rest of the studio space: I have a table that I work on, and an easel. I have all sorts of flat workspace where I can lay work out if I’m framing it. And, I have my own desk area where I keep my computer.

The one I have here [in Traverse City/Northern Michigan] is a regular bedroom that’s probably 12 feet x 16 feet. I have my drawing table, and I have areas to put all my tools that I’m working with, but it’s not as elaborate. Anything I need to store, I [store in] a little side room. It’s not the best, but it’s fine. I have the [Grand Traverse] Bay to look out on.

How does your studio space facilitate your work?

Here, in Michigan, I have floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides of the room, so I get to look out on the forest, I get to look out at the Bay. I have plenty of light here. I never feel like I’m missing anything when I come here to work. In Chicago, it’s another story. [The studio is] in a town home. And, I don’t have the same visuals, but I have the space. Anytime I want to do framing, that kind of work, I leave it for Chicago. If I want to work on my website, [maintaining] my files and portfolio [that also takes place in Chicago]. Here [in Northern Michigan] I just work a lot.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

I spend a lot of time on landscapes, on abstracts, and I have done botanical work, but I don’t find that exciting. Lately, I’ve been delving into working with people — not portraiture. There’s a lot to learn, in colored pencil, when you start in a new area. Portraiture [requires] a whole different set of colors than you’re working with in landscaping.

What prompted the introduction of figures into your work?

Most of the work I do comes from photographs I’ve taken. The first time I put a human in, it was in a landscape where my husband and I were hiking, and I had a picture of him in front of me. I started adding people to the landscapes by showing them hiking. And then, I had grand kids. There were so many cute photos that I’d get from my daughter-in-law. I did one during COVID when they were all at their doctor’s office getting shots, and they all had their masks on. I had a watercolor instructor in school who said that once he started putting people into his landscapes, they were more interesting. There was more of a story. So, then I tried that. And I do think it does make a difference. People are very interested when they see a person in the painting because then they can see themselves in the painting.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

Almost anything in my life can be a prompt. I could read a line in a book, and my mind just zooms off into a visual. Or I could see somebody else’s art and think that that’s [an idea for] a picture. And I’m somewhat political. I have several pieces that reflect on what’s happening currently in the world. A lot of those end up as abstracts. They’re more creative.

Why does the political work get abstracted?

Sometimes I’m not expressing a particular event. A lot of times it’s an emotion. I’m expressing how I feel inside about what’s happening. It always comes out in an abstract form. I really can’t draw political characters. That doesn’t interest me. I’m doing this for myself. It’s a way to relieve tension by drawing.

What’s your favorite tool?

The eraser. You can erase half of a piece of art — colored pencil is a pencil medium. There’ll still be a stain in the erased area, but you can rework it. I have all types of erasers, and so do other colored pencil artists. We talk a lot about how we remove things.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

I’ve always done work by hand. When I started out in graphic design, everything was done by hand. There were no illustrations you could buy off the internet. If you had to lay down type, you had to glue it up and lay it down by hand. I am a person who likes to construct. Even as a kid, I’d construct things out of popsicle sticks. I love to bake. I garden a lot. I use my hands more than I use my mind — not that I don’t use it. Everybody, in some way, creates with their hands — whether you’re building a home or painting, you’re always using your hands.

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

There’s a certain reward to doing things with your hands. You’re putting yourself into that piece. And that’s a good feeling. It’s a different feeling than when you read, or write a book. There’s a different feeling there. Some people, including myself, do better when we’re creating with our hands.

When did you commit to working with serious, professional intent?

I worked for about 10 years after college. I worked as a paralegal, then I became a graphic designer. When I had my first child, I still worked freelance in graphic design, and then I was a full-time mom. I spent a lot of time donating time to a lot of organization, but I wasn’t doing anything for myself. When my kids got older, I went back to school for landscape design, and ran my own landscape design business for about 10 years. That’s when I started drawing. Once my kids started going off to college I started drawing more. And the more I drew — suddenly I had 20-25 pieces — I thought, What am I going to do with all these things? I started looking for galleries where I might show [around age 55]. I started out showing work in a framing gallery. Then, I started looking for real galleries. I’m still looking for galleries. When I look back, sometimes I regret that I didn’t start earlier

What role does social media play in your practice?

Having come to Facebook and Instagram late in life — I do have a website — I find I don’t like to spend time doing that. Probably because I don’t have the same versatility that my children do. They seem to understand what everything means, and where to find certain things. [NOTE: Judith adds: When I was referring to my website, I meant that I didn’t like updating it, mostly because half the time it’s a slow process to figure out how to technically achieve what I am trying to do and ultimately it becomes frustrating. My children are better at understanding how to get from point one to the next.

And with Facebook and Instagram, I find them a waste of valuable time. They do serve a purpose for me occasionally, but in my life, if I want to find out how you are or where you’ve been I’ll call you to catch up (which I do, and enjoy the conversations immensely). If I want to know about politics, I’ll watch the news, and for my other interests I go to books and magazines. There is nothing more relaxing than to head to bed with something to read!]

I keep telling myself I should [be more involved with social media], but I just like to draw. I seem to not want to focus on that. I’m 74. I’m already set in life financially, so I’m not desperate to be making money from my art. I could do more if I wanted to. But I don’t have that kind of energy. I’m doing what I want to do in life at this point, and gardening is the other half of what I want to do in life. I use the internet for lots of reasons. I belong to Beechtree Community, a colored pencil group that gets together every Monday. We all chat about our work, different exhibits we’ve seen, new ideas, what kind of new eraser we’ve found. I use it for searching out exhibits, galleries, other people’s art. If I want a little more information about a bird, I’ll use the internet to look it up to see if I’m drawing it correctly. I use it as a reference.

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

It influences the landscape portion. I take a lot of photos around here. It might be a cloud, or the water in the Bay. It could be the beach where there are old piers — I’m fascinated by the wood. I always carry my phone. Sometimes I just stop the car when I’m driving. Over here on the Peninsula there’s so many beautiful areas.

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

No. I knew no one at all. I didn’t have a clue how you’d get into art. After I took my graphic design program, I didn’t know how to get a job. That’s why I ended up as a paralegal. When you don’t have someone, or know someone in the field, you don’t have a clue how to get into it.

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

I mentioned the gentleman I had for my woodcut course. He was very influential because he was so open to teaching, and helping me understand how to open my mind, and use my mind when I’m doing my art. The other person is Georgia O’Keeffe. She was one of the first artists that was a woman who was recognized. I read one or two biographies about her, and you realize she came from an ordinary background. I like what she does, and the way she did very feminine art — so different from what the men were doing. I think women have a different feel when they draw. [NOTE: Judith adds to this thought: Georgia O’Keefe always interested me because one, she was a female artist and two, a large portion of her work centered around nature and the outdoor world, which I relate to, and was created in a modern style. She became a significant female American artist who began life with a very modest beginning on a farm near Sun Prairie, Wisconsin which also seemed relatable to me. When I said I like what she does I meant that I found the way she interpreted the world through art very appealing. I’ve always found it very feminine even if she was using bold colors; her interpretations were gentle often flowing rhythmically. I’ve always felt that men don’t have that tenderness in their art.]

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

Beechtree Community. I do use my daughter sometimes, but she’s not available all the time. But with the Community, we do have a day every month where you can share work. There is one member who works in colored pencil. You can tell her what your problem is, and she posts it. All of us who are on [the site] that particular day can talk about how they’d [address] that particular problem. It’s very helpful. If you’re not working in a studio with a group you don’t have access to criticism and critiquing. I’m always open to it.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

When you exhibit, you get the feeling what you’re doing is valuable. Other people are seeing it’s well done, they think and feel. It encourages you to go on. You go to an exhibit, and sometimes you get inspired by other work that’s there. It helps. It’s not an easy thing to pay attention to exhibits, and send art out, but I do think it’s valuable.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I don’t know if I try to nurture it. It’s there all the time. I have an incessant curiosity about things. I’ve had family members ask me why I ask so many questions all the time? It’s because I’m fascinated by everything. I’m curious all the time, and that kind of curiosity feeds me. I read books on many subjects.

What drives your impulse to make?

I really like to draw. The first 55 years of my life, I didn’t tap into myself. I was always giving to other people and things, and I suddenly decided that I would give up all my community work, and just do what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to do all that I can to encourage my artwork because that’s what I like to do. I feel like I’ve given a lot, but this is my time. I have 10 more years, maybe 20 if I’m lucky.

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Learn more about Judith Shepelak here.

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

Artist Carrie Betlyn-Eder, 68, first visited Leelanau County in 1968, as a child with her siblings and parents. She watched the moon walk from a house in Leland, and got a taste for the place [“It just got under my skin”]. In 2022, Carrie and her husband, Mickey, relocated from St. Paul, Minnesota. Carrie, a native Chicagoian, traded sunrises for sunsets, an urban life for a rural life, and found an abundance of new materials — and ideas — in the woods with which to create her mixed media construction.

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

Pictured: Carrie Betlyn-Eder

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Describe the medium in which you work.

Stuff. I work in things that I see, that grab my fancy: assemblage, papier-mache; pretty much all found, salvaged things I find around. Occasionally I’ll buy something [materials].

You wrote this on your website: My work grows out of an inherent instinct to scavenge, and my fascination with connections, literal and imagined. What does that mean?

That means I like to pick things up when I’m walking — I walk all the time. I used to live in Chicago, where there’s lots of stuff to pick up. As I moved, first to St. Paul, Minnesota, then here [Leelanau County], there was less detritus and more organic materials to work with. It’s how I see things. I’ll look at an object and say, That looks like a breast, or a bird. I’ll put it with the rest of the collection, and I’ll remember it’s there. The next time I’m looking for something like that, I’ll go, Remember that thing you found on 57th Street? That’s there. Let’s go find it. So, when I put the pieces together, there is the thing — an implement, or a piece of rusty metal, or more nowadays, plastic. [Carrie adds that the found object functions on several layers: What it was, what it’s becoming, and what it might say when it goes out into the world and seen by somebody.] How these objects relate to each other appeals to me. Sometimes, when I’m really on my game, it says something about the world, and about me, and my relationship with those things.

Contrast and compare what you might find when you’re on the streets of Chicago versus on the streets of Leelanau County.

Here, my work has been drawn to nature as a result of having more natural objects from which to choose — I have four acres, and there’s all sorts of fascinating, gnarled bits and pieces of flora, predominantly, that are becoming birds. They’re, literally, heads. In the past, particularly where I walked on the [Lake Michigan] lakefront on the south side of Chicago where I lived, things were falling apart: limestone, rebar, live things trying to grow up in between all these dilapidated efforts to try to control the lakefront. I did a lot with rebar for a while — rusted, metal shapes where the storms had changed how they held the limestone or cement in place. I did a piece once that looked like a DNA model because of the way the rebar had been curved. It was this wonderful treble clef with lines running through it.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

Not in visual art. I’m trained as an actor and a dancer. I started [professional] life as a dancer. I left high school, joined a regional ballet company in upstate New York. [After suffering injuries, Carrie moved onto acting.] I’m trained up the wazoo as an actor: I have a BA in Theater from the University of Michigan, and an MFA from the Goodman School of Drama in Chicago. I worked in theater until I had my son [1991]. All during that time I did a lot of collage — as a sort-of therapy. I grew up in the world of art. My grandparents [owned the Guildhall Galleries] in Chicago from the 1950s to the 1980s. A Michigan Avenue gallery. All mid-century European artists. Some Chicago artists. And, I kind of lived there. One of [the gallery’s locations] was in the Fine Arts Building for many years, and I studied dance upstairs, and then I’d come down to the gallery when I was done, and hang out there. It was a really rarified, amazing way to be exposed to art. My mother was a painter. She started doing assemblage work when I was a kid — there was a fire across the street from us, and we’d go salvage remnants from it, bring all these cool things home and she’d make stuff. I wasn’t actually doing assemblage at the time, but it obviously seeped in. I think what my mom taught me was how to look at stuff, and how to see things differently, or with possibilities.

Dance and theater are both creative activities. I don’t see big difference between the practice of those and visual art — it’s all about creative problem solving.

I agree with you entirely. What I discovered in my old age is the thing that has been constant through all these efforts — and I started dancing when I was 4 — is it has always been about composition, and telling a story. [In theater, dance, and visual art making] it was all about taking disparate parts, whether they’re internal or external, and making a whole that was pleasing to me, and could possibly translate what I was trying to say. When I started making visual art seriously, it was so much easier because I didn’t have to worry about 15 other people. It was just me, in a space with my stuff, doing what I wanted to do. There was so much pleasure in it. Certainly, in terms of acting which is what I spent the most time doing seriously, I liked rehearsing. I like doing research, I like thinking about things, and spending days just trying stuff. This allows me to do that in a really safe, comfortable place. And then the scary part is having to put it out [exhibiting].

What you’re talking about is process. On your website, again, you said, I’m fascinated by process. Any process. Why is process such an important thing in your practice?

The biggest thing is the high. When I’m really working, and trying, I get such a great feeling from that — more than from any finished product. The work: It’s an amazing feeling. I’m looking for how things fit together, intellectually and emotionally; how they fit together in terms of beauty and structure. All of those things need to tick off in the process of making whatever it is I’m making. If something is quite right, I definitely get stuck. I need to walk away from it a bit. I need to do something else. That’s why I walk a lot, to think about things. I’ve learned you can’t muscle stuff into place. All of these issues I feel are consistent with day-to-day living.

Describe your studio space.

Moving to Leelanau has given me my first, real studio space that hasn’t been the dining room, kitchen, basement, boxes of stuff everywhere. One of my tenets is that you work with what’s at hand. [Carrie’s studio is a finished outbuilding on her property.] If you need something that isn’t there, then maybe you don’t need it. I’m living the dream now. I can just walk into my space, and I have space [that is organized] and I also have it set up like a little gallery with different bodies of work. I came here so that this last part of my life would be how I wanted it to be — with peace, and creativity. I had high hopes for the potential of finding creative community here. This is heaven. It’s perfect. If I’d dreamed of a place, it would not be much different than this. When we lived in St. Paul, I had part of the kitchen, so I could glue some stuff together then go cook. I learned to make things work for me. And my family was very patient with having my stuff all over the apartment.

What’s your favorite tool?

It’s either my hands or my eyes.

Why is making by hand important to you?

It’s important to me because it’s essential to living. We all have hands. There’s the potential for all of us to use these things [hands] to do something. What I love about art and life — and those things are pretty much the same — is that we can all partake of that. It doesn’t have to be capital “A” Art. But you can make something with almost nothing because you have hands.

When did you commit to working on your visual art with serious professional intent?

Shortly after Sam was born. I’d been given a gift of laboratory glass by my father. I was really taken by these shapes — Frankenstein’s lab kind of stuff, curly cues. The shapes of these things were really evocative to me. I decided it would be fun to stick them together, and making these found object vessels. I would say this was the early 1990s. I made a bunch of these. I stuck them in my car and started driving around to galleries, and a couple galleries said, Oh, these are cool, let’s see if we can sell them. I wanted them to be useable. I bought doll-house sized [water] pitchers so you could fill [the vessels, which held one or two flowers]. It was very minimal. I was influenced by Ikebana. My great aunt was a practitioner. The best class I took in college was on Japanese painting, so that whole aesthetic — the simplicity of line, ornament just really appealed to me. After a few years I was wanting to tell more stories, and I was running out of lab glass, so I started making more narrative pieces.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Other than using it to look at what other people are making, and getting an idea of what’s happening in the real world of art, I would say I don’t use it very much. I have a Facebook page that, for years, I would use to announce shows at the gallery I was at in Chicago. I can’t bring myself to go on Instagram even though everyone says that’s where you should be. I would be very happy to live without a computer except that I totally depend on it for many things.

What is the essential thing about social media that doesn’t make sense in your practice?

One: I don’t think my work translates very well in two dimensions. It’s really hard to photograph. The other is I don’t care. Much. That’s always been the case with all of these things. I just like to please myself — except I want to put [images of work] out there, and you need this [to do that]. That’s a difficult question. As I’m saying this, I’m also thinking that I get a lot of [electronic] newsletters about art, and I’m fascinated by what people are doing. I find it really motivating to see what this woman did with a bunch of plastic bags. It feeds me. It makes me feel good to look at that work. And certainly during the pandemic when we couldn’t go anywhere. It was necessary. Now, when I’m living in the woods, it’s really handy. I can’t live without it. And, I’m sad it is abused, that the great, democratic bringer-together that the internet was supposed to be has become, in many ways, really horrible.

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

The more beauty that can be shared between people, the better. Even if it’s not beautiful, then the more expression of experience, and perceptions of what’s happening all around us, the more we can get that out there in ways that can resonate with lots of different people, I feel that’s the whole point. I used to think that plays could change the world. And, then I thought not-so-much anymore; but it’s important to have them. People have things to say. It shouldn’t be so expensive to go to plays. It shouldn’t be so hard to have any art near you, or part of you. And, that, I think is the most important thing.

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

First and foremost, I’m just happier. I wake up. I see critters. I have Black Trumpet mushrooms growing in my yard. I found living in cities to be more than I could handle anymore. So aggressive. So on top of each other. In my old age I’ve become uncomfortable in crowds, and I was always, very much the urban person. I just wanted to be somewhere where what was around me was feeding me more. There’s something about the way the water meets the land here that just grabs my heart. I knew, if I came here, that would be fed, and that would be good. During the eight years in St. Paul I tried to find creative community, but it is very silo’d. The museums are fantastic. But if you’re a bougie, old lady living in St. Paul trying to connect with the young people living in North Minneapolis, that’s really challenging. I had a sense here there was really a strong creative community hiding here, and I would find it. And, I have. I happened to move to a place where there’s six, really great artists within screaming distance.

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

My parents. My family as a whole. I grew up in such an artistic world. I was given art as birthday gifts. I was taken to the ballet because it was cheaper than getting a babysitter. And I was taken to plays, and exposed to things that I don’t think people, particularly now, get. I was given free rein to try stuff. My mother didn’t want me to become an artist or an actor or a dancer because you couldn’t support yourself, but I always have — with another job. So, there’s that: the little world I grew up in. The artists I’ve love and have impacted me are Joseph Cornell, Louise Bourgeois. There’s an artist in Chicago — Mary Ellen Croteau — who was taking plastic tops and creating these wonderful columns with them. I would see her doing stuff I was doing.

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

That’s been harder since I left Chicago. When I was at Images Gallery, we had a cooperative that met twice a month, and there were eight to 10 people as any time who were happy to tell you what sucked, and what was working, and what you might think about. That was a gift. Now, I’ve gotten to be friends with a couple of artists, here, who have been helpful about how to think about things. My husband. I’ll pretty much ask anybody who’ll look at the work.

What is the role of the exhibiting in your practice?

Ego. I have something to say. I’ve always had something to say, and put it out however I’m working [e.g. dance, theater, et cetera]. That’s one thing. I think it’s also about finding community. I’ve always looked for calls-for-artists that resonate with something I’m doing, whether it’s recycled art, thematic things.

You’re not looking to exhibit anywhere. You’re making specific choices about the exhibition themes so you can find a fit with the work you’re making.

And have made. Having moved here and trying to get the lay of the land … There’s the  beach art, which is all kinds of interesting stuff because this place is so beautiful, and everyone wants to paint it. There’s definitely a whole coterie of people doing really edgy, interesting pieces. But I’ve got the sense, particularly because most of it’s sculpture, my work doesn’t go into galleries per se, unless it’s a show of my work. What I realize now, I need to do two things. I want to create some small works that’s accessible so I can get into a gallery. And then, these bigger pieces, which are conceptual, I feel like I need to write a proposal to some of the larger exhibition spaces, and see how that would fit into the work of other people exhibiting work on the wall.

Is exhibiting about putting your work out there so you can get your ideas out there?

Yes. And see what happens with it. But what I’ve learned every time I’ve put something out there, the whole world sees things differently. I can learn from that. I can get hurt by that. I get excited by that. All sorts of things happen. That’s the theater of it, I guess.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

I walk. I look. When I’m walking, I can stop. I can take in the whole great, giant thing around me; or I can notice that the little knot in the tree over there looks like an eyeball, and what if I did something with that? I can go from the macro to the micro. Things delight my eyes. I get excited about little things. When I’m doing that, I’m not thinking what’s for dinner, how my son’s doing, the world coming to an end. It’s a break from the good and the bad of everyday existence. I also do tai chi. It clears me out, and then I can look at things different. The other things I’ve added to that is I photograph work in process, then look at it in a photograph, which helps me see things I don’t see. I like to feed my sense. That helps keep things at a place where I can work. When life starts getting really difficult, it gets harder to do that.

What drives your impulse to make?

I don’t know. It’s just there. I’ve always needed, from the time I was a very small person, to be able to create some thing, whether it’s a dance, music, I always needed to do that as part of my life. In my adult life, I’ve been able to do that more than anything else. I’ve been pretty lucky in that respect. It’s part of my DNA. It’s like a sensation. It’s under my skin, and I can’t do anything about it. When I don’t do it, it’s not good. I get stuck. One of the things is that it connects me with people. I like my privacy. I like being quiet. The making lets me be alone, and then, what’s made connects me with people.

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Learn more about Carrie Betlyn-Eder here.

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

Leelanau County artist Margo Burian, 61, has carved a niche for herself in the cultural landscape. Her atmospheric paintings of the the locality’s land, sky, water, and historic farmsteads are known and coveted by a wide range of fans and collectors. She began her professional life as a commercial illustrator, and has traveled from depicting Sponge Bob to painting the ephemeral place called liminal space. “I knew I wanted to be an artist since I was five,” she said. In the years that followed, Margo has honed and built on that desire, and sharpened her ability to talk plainly, albeit deeply, about the complexities of her calling.

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

Pictured: Margo Burian

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I work in a couple different mediums. Mostly, my medium of choice for making paintings is oil paint. I also do acrylic paintings, but not with a lot of regularity. My side gig to the oil painting is painted paper collage and mixed media.

How is collage worked into your paintings?

The collage I tend to keep separate from the oil painting. The two don’t go together in a way that makes sense. I will use bits of painted paper as a way to make adjustments to oil paintings. It’s like an un-do edit. If there’s a painting I’m struggling with, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s a particular color or shape, I may cut a piece of collage paper to place it over the painting to see if that’s what makes the difference. Generally, I see collage as a separate entity.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I received a BFA from Kendall College of Art and Design [1992] with a major in Illustration. I was a commercial illustrator for about 20 years [1990 – 2010] before I came to painting. I had a lot of good accounts: Meijer, Scholastic, I was licensed to draw Sponge Bob, and Hollie Hobbie and Dora-the-Explorer through Nickelodeon, a lot of work for American Greetings. When I started painting, I realized I didn’t have enough knowledge. Rather than go to graduate school, I thought I’d do a self-styled MFA, choosing to study with artists who resonated with me, and whose work I appreciated. That led to doing a series of workshops with a mentor, Stuart Shils, and Ken Kewley. I find that taking workshops is a better way for me to get knowledge I don’t have rather than committing to going back to college.

How do workshops address, and advance your need?

I’ve always been someone who’s interested in education. I’ve always been a seeker. The cup is never full; but I keep aspiring to fill the cup up with more knowledge. I really enjoy being in a learning environment with other creative professionals. I like to share ideas, to have exposure to people and ideas I might not otherwise have if I was holed up alone in my studio.

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

Especially with having a degree in illustration, I become proficient in a number of media. I started as a watercolorist, then did pastels. Didn’t do a lot of oil painting in college because I couldn’t afford the paint and the canvases; but having that illustration background was helpful. It solidified my drawing skills, and because I knew from the get-go I wanted to freelance, it helped me foster a sense of being dependable, and developing good studio work habits. When you work for yourself, there’s no one to pick up for you. You have to learn time management. If you don’t learn time management, you either lose your clients or work all the time. I ended up working all the time, which led to me switching to painting. I was working too many nights, weekends, holidays, birthdays, and finding that I wasn’t enjoying the commercial work-for-hire

Describe your studio/work space.

I’m fortunate in the fact I have two studios right now. The studio I have downstate is a bright, well-lighted third stall garage that was converted into finished space. When we built the home in Grand Rapids, we knew I was going to need working space — I’d just moved out of a 1,000 square foot warehouse into a 240-foot garage space. That was a challenge, but the lighting and the fact that space is directly connected to our home is fabulous. When I have the ability to work on premises, i.e. at my own home, I’m more productive. There’s no drive time. I’m someone who wanted to work at 9 o’clock at night, it’s doubtful that I would drive to my rented space [Margo has a second studio space in Leelanau County, where she and her husband have a second home]. When we’re in Grand Rapids, having access to the studio, if I only have an hour, I can spend that hour prepping things, or gluing paper to board, or organizing, or cleaning brushes. I’m less likely to work for an hour if I have to drive somewhere to do it. Having the studio space on site is almost a necessity for me.

Describe the Leelanau County studio you rent?

That is very small. Probably the size of a bedroom, which presents its own challenges. I’m not someone who likes to look at my work all the time, so I don’t have a place to turn the work away there. Being right in the middle of town, especially in mid-summer, can be a challenge as well. I very often have a note on my door asking not to be disturbed. I find that people are interested, but when I only have a short block of time to work, it’s hard having someone knock on your door just to chat. I love interacting with people, but it’s not good for work. I am easily distracted.

Talk about some of the themes and ideas that are the focus of your work?

A big theme for me is connection and intimacy. I tend to make a lot of small work, which is a hangover from my illustration days. If you’re working on tight deadlines, you’re not working 4ft x 4ft. You’re working 12 inches x 12 inches. Or sometimes even less. I’ve always been drawn to small work. It forces the viewer to come closer to look at it, which creates intimacy. As a painter of landscape, it’s about connection to the land, to the people. We’re fortunate to live in an area that is remarkably beautiful. People feel connected — whether they’re local or visiting. There’s an appreciation for the beauty of the area, its people, and the wildlife. For me, that’s the basis of my work.

You’re also known for your paintings of old dock pilings sticking up above the surface of the lake. You’ve done your fair share of depicting some of the historic agricultural structures. Your work allows for human artifact to enter the equation.

When I started painting, I focused on the land exclusively. I’m finding that I’m really interested in how we, as humans, have interjected ourselves into the landscape, and what we’ve done. I’m not saying it’s 100 percent all good; but there is something about the way, especially in this area, that structures interface with the land. In a way, it’s timeless. Especially with the park [Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore], and all the preservation that’s been done with all these old farmsteads, we’re in a liminal space: They’re not really of our time, but they’re holding space between the past and the present. I find that interesting. We’re never in the future, we’re only in the present moment, and we’re never in the past either. So, the space of the present moment is what I’m trying to capture with some of those structure paintings.

One of the things I wonder about is, for people who focused on the landscape — thematically — there is the relentless march of civilization that impacts, and destroys, and has its influence on the landscape. What do you think about that?

It’s tough. I’ve been a Northern Michigan girl practically my whole life in one way or another. I remember Traverse City and Glen Arbor from the lens of 40, 50 years ago. I understand progress can’t be stopped; but I wish it could be more thoughtful. I’m afraid, more people discover the area, that we lose what makes Northern Michigan special. I don’t have an answer. We shouldn’t close the gate; but we need to be very intentional about the way we move through the land, and the way things are developed. We need to have, as a culture, a major shift in our thinking about the land and its resources.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

My work is based in observation. I’m always looking. Throughout the course of the day, I’m looking at light, and shape, looking at my environment. Generally, an idea starts with a flicker of an image. I might be driving somewhere and see how the light is catching. If I don’t have time to stop, I file it in my memory bank, and try to remember to go back and check the same spot to see if it really holds my interest. If it does, I’ll go on site and make some drawings, make some acrylic paintings in my sketch book. I’m not much of a plein air painter. I like my studio. I like to be quick and mobile enough to catch the base information I want. Then I start to develop the work from there. Oftentimes, I like to work small and then scale up. The reason for working small is to see if my first instinct is correct: Is this a painting that has good composition? Is it going to be a painting that has interest for me as a painter? Are there things I can do to strengthen the original drawing; or add something from memory to it. The reason for working small, especially from the beginning, is to build a library of information. As I start to scale up, I’ve got some of the bigger problems figured out. Scaling up comes with its own problems. The tools are different: they’re larger, they react differently, the movement of the arm is different, the stepping back is different. It’s almost like a completely different painting once you begin to scale up.

Let me go back to the conversation about connection and intimacy, and the relationship to small work. You do also paint large. So: What’s “large”? And, how does connection and intimacy continue when you scale up?

For me, “large” is 24” x 30”. I also scale up to 40” x 40”, 40” x 50”. It does change the intimacy. You have this significantly larger thing, which has more presence because of its size. But just because something is big doesn’t mean it’s better. One of my big frustrations is people tend to write off small paintings in search of the holy grail. The work I make is the work I make, and I feel that if someone needs a really big piece, I may not be the person for that. The work I make tends to be smaller in nature. For years, I struggled with that. I’ve decided it’s the work I make, and I’m just going to stand behind it.

 Do you work in a series?

I do. It’s a little bit of an ADHD [adult attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder] series because I tend to jump around sometimes. Thematically, I can leave a series for a long time and come back to it, but the danger in that is that I feel like my work is always evolving. I don’t feel like I’m the same painter I was two years, as I was four years ago, as I was five years ago. I try to avoid getting caught in the trap of stylization. I’m looking to have the work be a direct interpretation of my own emotional state as an artist. I continually take classes and workshops because I don’t want to just make paintings that look the same. If I were working in a series, and completed five paintings right in a row, the danger is they would have all have a similar working method. If I spread it out over a few years, one could look very different than the other but still thematically related.

What’s your favorite tool?

Right now I am super into playing cards that I can cut up into small shapes to manipulate the paint. You can use them to smear. You can use them to push paint around. You can cut tiny shapes out if you need to hit the right highlight, you can also use them as a great straight edge. Just a cheap pack of Bicycle playing cards.

How’d you discover the tool side of playing cards?

I was looking at the work of a friend, Carolyn Fehsenfeld, who’s a brilliant painter. She had just released this whole set of paintings that had been done on playing cards. I’d been working with cold wax and decided I wanted to do a painting-a-day as a warm-up exercise before the studio. In the month of March, I made 31 paintings on playing cards. There was a day when I needed to make a small adjustment to the painting. I needed to slide the paint around, and cardboard — which I also love using — was too thick, mat board was too thick. So, I thought, “What about this playing card?” I just started hacking little pieces off of it, and started moving the paint with the painting card.

Do you use a sketchbook, or a work journal, or some sort of bound thing to record your thoughts and notes as you’re working?

I’ve always worked in a sketch book, and I probably have at least 30 sketchbooks in my studio downstate, from when I was in college all the way up to now. The sketchbook has always been a big part of my process — especially when I discovered I wasn’t much of a plein air painter. The plein air movement is great. It gets people out. You start looking at color, composition; you learn to make quick choices. There’s a lot to be learned from painting from [direct] observation. I use the sketchbook as an information-gathering tool. A lot of times when I’m out, I’ll make drawings in the sketchbook to build a visual reference for myself. It’s almost like a crutch, but I’ll take some photos, but I don’t work a ton from photos. I use photos as a back-up in case I don’t get enough information. Especially in the way I paint, it’s not all about the details. I probably don’t even need the photo, but psychologically I do.

Talk about the role social media plays in your practice.

Oh, cringing. It’s so hard for me. I feel reticent about posting work, and I shouldn’t be, but there’s something that I don’t like about [the pressure] to be continually posting. It’s a way to let people know what you’re working on. A good way to stay connected with people. But I also think it’s so easy to look at hundreds, if not thousands, of images in a single day that we haven’t properly learned how to look at paintings. You can’t really tell what an image looks like on Facebook or Instagram. You don’t get the surface presence. It’s flattened. It’s like there’s another filter between you and the art. I don’t think you can feel the piece as well. When you’re looking at that much art, every day, on social media … I know, for me, it makes me start to second guess what I’m doing, and I don’t want to be in a position of second guessing what I’m doing. I don’t want a lot of influence [into her creative life] that might not necessarily be helpful. The first time I ever saw a Monet painting was most likely in an art history book, or one of the art books my grandmother had given me for a birthday. The first time I stood in front of a Monet painting, I bawled my eyes out. I walked into MOMA, and turned the corner, and there was Monet’s water lilies. The rush I got from that painting was incredible. Opening a textbook — or, in this day and age, opening a screen — you can’t have that same experience. You miss a lot of context with social media. You miss the human experience. You miss the connection.

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

To surprise us. To enlighten us. You show us another way of seeing things, and another way of being. It’s not that life is just about acquisition of things. It’s about experiences.

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

I always say I spent my misspent youth misspending it in Northern Michigan. I spent four summers and a winter on Mackinac Island, in my late teens. Coming from Saginaw, which was flat, there wasn’t water, being at an impressionable age, spending all that time in Northern Michigan, gave me a sense of freedom. I developed this huge love of being near the water, being at the edges, of the ferry rides back and forth from the island. After Mackinac Island, I spent five years in Harbor Springs. Again, I’ve been drawn to areas with these large, flat expanses — i.e. Lake Michigan — and coastal towns, where flatness means edge. When I first started painting that was what really interested me. I think there’s a sensibility about living in Northern Michigan. It seems less hurried, and less harried. Maybe some of that is changing now — I especially notice that with social media. Every time we have to move back downstate, I feel I’m missing something that’s so deeply embedded in my heart. It’s a longing to be back here. There are beautiful places downstate, and in other areas of the state, but this place just resonates most clearly with my heart and my head.

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

No. I didn’t. It wasn’t until I took this community ed life drawing class at the college in Petoskey — which was taught by Doug Melvin. I knew, since I was five years old, that I was an artist; but I never realized that I could have a career in the arts. He was the one who said, “What are you doing waiting tables?” I don’t know. I’m having fun, living in a resort town, working at ski resorts [at age 25]. When I was in high school in Saginaw, career counseling was all about going to work in the [auto] plants. The high school I was attending, they weren’t doing a lot of college prep — maybe for the kids who had math and science aptitude, but I was the art kid. There wasn’t a lot of guidance there. Doug Melvin said I should be going to college, and he said the words, “I’ll help you.” So, it ended up with me being able to get a scholarship, and changed my life as a result of my experience with Doug Melvin.

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

First and foremost, Stuart Shils. I met him in 2009. He’s an internationally known painter from Philadelphia, and remarkable educator. He was my mentor for about 4 years. He opened my eyes to what painting could be, and for that, I am forever grateful. He was also instrumental in facilitating a teaching assistantship — with him — at Haystack Mountain School of Crafts in 2014, as well as referring me to a month-long residency at the Heliker-Lahotan Foundation in Maine. I learned so much from him; but at some time, you have to leave your mentor. You start hearing, especially when you’re mentoring under someone who is as powerful a painter as Stuart, someone else’s voice in your head over your own. Then you have to really look at the role of the teacher-student relationship. For me that meant standing on my own ground. We keep in loose contact, and I can never thank him enough for all his insight.

I’ve also had the good fortune to study multiple times with Ken Kewley. Ken is another East Coast painter, who also teaches and works primarily in acrylic paint and collage. I’ve learned so much from him about color, shape, and letting go of preconceived ideas.

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

I have a group of friends here, and they’re generally my first calls. We’ve all worked together as creative practitioners, and we’ve also worked together collaboratively on art projects. I trust their judgement. I know when we talk about the work, it’s done with genuine care. They can be critical; but within the criticism there is a caring. We all want to see each other succeed.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

It used to have a bigger role. I don’t enter a lot of juried shows anymore. I’ve gotten out of the habit. I often don’t make time to be sure the work can get back and forth [from studio to exhibition site]. I’ve been very fortunate to have successful sales exhibitions, so lots of times I don’t always have a lot of work in the studio I want to send out.

In the beginning of your career, when it was more important, what role did exhibition play then?

It was about validation. I’m my own worst critic of my work. This is a problem when you have a small studio. I don’t have any place to turn it away or store it. It’s fun to come into the studio when I haven’t seen a piece for a while, and be surprised by it. Initially, it was about validation that I was really moving in the direction I wanted to be moving. Now, I don’t feel I need as much external validation as I did. When people come into my studio, they come in and want to make comments about pieces I’m working on, and I ask them not to make comments. Generally, my rule is if it’s in a frame, you can say anything you want about it; but if it’s not in a frame, I ask people to refrain, at least when I’m in earshot.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I know I can go through stages where I’m painting a lot, and then I pull back from it, and then I switch to something else. It might be cooking. It is very often knitting. And those things, when I step away from painting, all recharge my battery. I’m kind of an introvert. I like a lot of quiet. I like a lot of down time. Also, getting together with friends who are painting — going to an art camp or to a workshop. If I’m stuck or struggling with an idea, I find that being with other people who are creative, who are actively engaged in their own practice, being around those people helps me to extend my own creativity. I don’t really need to go to workshops; but I need to go to workshops to have the experiences of being open to new ideas, new materials, and to recharge. I consider myself a life-long learner.

There’s really no end point to learning, is there?

There shouldn’t be. That’s what keeps us young, our brains and our ideas fresh, to always be learning, to always be seeking, to open to surprise. Some of the surprises are better than others.

It’s another one of those process versus product things.

In the switch over from illustration to painting, that was a really hard thing for me. As a commercial illustrator/graphic designer, you were dealing in product. At the end of the day, your client doesn’t care how you get there if you’re delivering something that meets their expectations. There’s no talk about process. It’s always product. In your mind you know you’re always creating a product. That switchover was difficult for me at first, and sometimes even carries over now. I don’t want painting for me to be only a product. I think, when I get into trouble with painting, is when I see it as I have to have X amount of sales — because then, I takes the surprise and the fun out of it. The work I get the most satisfaction from is when I’m experimenting, when I’m learning something, or I’m working with new imagery. I’m kind of a materials weirdo. I like to try a lot of new materials and processes. That helps keep that product issue at bay: I can’t make a product if I don’t know what I’m doing, and I always feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. I remember my mentor saying that to me: The best place to work from is a place where you don’t feel like you know what you’re doing. I understand that now. It’s not always comfortable; but at the end of the day, I’m generally more satisfied with the work.

What drives your impulse to make? 

I’ve always been a maker, and I’m not exaggerating when I said I knew I wanted to be an artist since I was five. I started knitting when I was 10. I had my first, real museum art experience between the age of 8 and 10 at the    — my grandma enrolled me in classes there. She took me over to the Singer store to learn how to sew when I was 13. I don’t know where that drive comes from except that I’ve always had it, and I only feel most connection with myself when I’m making and creating. It’s so deeply embedded in me that I have to be making.

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Learn more about Margo Burian here.

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

The outdoors comes indoors to the Lobby Gallery at the Glen Arbor Arts Center. By The Side Of The Road is a series of abstract, mixed media landscapes out of the imagination of painter Alice Moss, 67. Moss has been watching, and walking, and thinking about the roadside and woodlands of Leelanau County since the early 1960s — when her parents first visited the area. Moss’s ramblings are also a chance to source casts-off and other materials that find their way into her charming paintings. By The Side Of The Road runs September 1 – December 15; or view the exhibit here.

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

Pictured left: Alice Moss

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Describe what you’ll be showing in your Lobby Gallery exhibit.

Abstract landscapes inspired by places I’ve been, and objects I’ve seen. And I’m calling it By The Side Of The Road because I think of that as not just what I find by the side of the road, but what you see on the side of the road when you’re driving around.

Are you working from photographs? Or, from recollections?

It’s right out of my brain. There are no photographs. Just things I see, and the shapes that impress upon me.

Why don’t you work from photographs?

I like to depart from the actual reality of it, and if I work from a photograph, then I’m trying to match the shapes and colors more closely. I want it to be more of an impression of an idea, instead of trying to make it look like what it actually is.

Is the imagery in your work reflective of what you’ve seen in your travels around Northern Michigan?

Yes. And, other places from around the world. But from Northern Michigan, I do get a lot of ideas about the horizon and landscape you’d see — the lakes, the trees, and the hills.

What do you like about the landscape from this particular part of the world?

I find it more calming than something that’s frenetic or jagged. A straight, horizon line is more soothing than something that’s vertical, or jumbled up, or zig-zag-y.

You have a home in Glen Arbor that you have called a home for more than 60 years. What’s your Northern Michigan backstory?

My parents came here when I was four [from Troy, Michigan in the 1960s], and they built a place on Lake Michigan.

You use a lot of recycled and salvaged materials in your paintings. Will these materials show up in your Lobby Gallery exhibit?

Yes. I use found objects — I don’t like to think of it as recycling because I’m not using something and then turning it into something else. It’s salvaged. The wood [in the compositions as well as framing materials] I find, some of it is from post-construction tear-downs. Or, I find it on the beach. The metals I find along the road a lot while I’m out walking. I do find it in the woods, and the forests — old cans that are rusted, and coming apart. I cut or shape or bend them. Some of the metals I use are new. I use raw copper that hasn’t been in something else previously. My daughter, who’s a chemist, has made ground copper for me, and I’ve used that in quite a few paintings.

Recently, I was in conversation with an artist who talked about finding inspiration in the cracks in the parking lot pavement at Meijer. There’s so much creative inspiration and material everywhere — if you keep your head down.

Or, looking around. Your head doesn’t need to be down. Finding things in the woods, you have to be observant because stuff is buried under leaves and things.

What is it about these found materials, and non-paint materials, you like to bring into your paintings?

Some of the scrap metal looks like hills or mountains or a horizon. It sparks my imagination, [trying to figure out] how it could be incorporated into a painting. Like solving a puzzle: How’s this going to go? Sometimes I’ll start the other way. I’ll have a painting, and I’ll [realize] I need something to stick right here. So I’ll look through my stash, and see if I have something. Sometimes I’ll make it work. Sometimes I have the perfect piece. One of the other, weird things I’ve used is road paint — when they stripe a road with that glue-on sticker, well those come off, and crumpled up by the edge of the road. I’ve used some of those because they have a really nice texture. I did a sailboat [composition], and the paint was the sail.

What do you want people to know when they’re looking at your work?

That I’m inspired by landscapes and the objects around us, as well as the interplay of objects and color. Certain objects connote a mood in a color. I like people to think, What could this be? What is this? It will be something different to different people. That’s the thing with abstracts: It’s whatever [the viewer] thinks … That’s why I have a hard time titling things. I don’t want to give preconceived notions. I’d like people to go in with an open mind, and see what they see, like, and think about it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Matt Schlomer, 51, is finishing his 11th year of teaching at Interlochen Academy of Art. He is a conductor, and he is a teacher of saxophone — and, he is the founder of Sound Garden, an out-of-the-box approach to bringing musical performance to people wherever they happen to be. It’s a way of planting musical seeds in unexpected dirt.

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

Pictured left: Matt Schlomer circa 1996.

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What draws you to the saxophone?

I’m probably 80 or 90 percent a conductor now. My main, musical outlet is one of silence rather than saxophone, even though I still teach saxophone. My thought about silence is that conducting is an odd way to be a musician in that you make no audible sounds. You are physically silent though your inner life is thrumming with musical ideas desperate to get out.

Did you start by playing the saxophone — and that led you to conducting?

Yes. But my mom got me playing piano in third grade.

Because she saw great, musical potential in you?

It was the era when, if you were going to be the all-American family, people had a piano in their living room. Everybody took piano — that was part of the deal.

What did you learn about the saxophone — through your own practice and playing it — that took you by surprise.

I think what surprised me, looking back, is how it takes you over when you’re playing. It’s so all-encompassing that you almost disappear. As I look back, I think I was more naturally a visual artist. Because the visual arts were easy, I think I didn’t put as much stock in the fact that I could just do it. So, music and the saxophone were this extra challenge that fascinated me, and the pursuit, the trying to tame the thing, overtook the pursuit of the visual arts.

Do the two art forms complement one another?

They do, but in the later part of the pursuit. During what I call the skills-acquisition phase of the evolution of a musician — the high school/college undergraduate [period] — not so much. But when I went to conducting, I [came to] think of it as a sonic painting.

You compose and arrange music. Can you differentiate the two? What creative opportunities do composing and arranging present?

Arranging is more like a coloring book in that you have these outlines, and you have this autonomy to make coloristic choices, but the main form of the work is already done. Composition is more like a blank sheet of paper or canvas where you really have to put your own parameters on it to keep you going in a direction that will turn into something specific. If an idea is borne in your head, you can’t get it out until it’s realized, if it’s there you have to put it out or it haunts you. I’ve found the more ideas haunt you, the more there’s something to them.

You work with large ensembles when you’re conducting. Talk about that.

As a conductor, you don’t have an instrument until you have people to make the sounds. It’s a bizarre dichotomy. Your internal art making has to be overly vivid — the more details you can create in your imagination, the more likely it is you can get them to happen in reality; but in reality, I’m sending out aural images without making any sound. That’s part of the magic. In some bizarre way, there’s some synergy that happens, where it does transfer [from conductor to musicians]. It’s an ironic way to make art.

NOTE: Watch a short video of Matt conducting here.

Are you describing standing before the musicians, and there’s this Martian mind meld between what you’re hearing in your head, and what they’re playing?

Yes. It does sound Jedi mind trick-y, but it’s true and real, and it does happen. The best way to describe it [is to liken it to those] moments when you’re in a gathering, and somebody will enter, and the whole room changes. I do these challenges — we call them “Duels.” I’ll challenge the [musicians], and say, “You have to watch me, and I dare you to play as loud as you can”; or, as soft as they can. I lay down the challenge, and then I’ll overly focus on creating these sounds that are either super quiet or loud, and send this idea of energy and intent. They can’t play it loud. Or, soft. It’s impossible for them to do.

How does your day job cross-pollinate with your own practice?

Music has existed throughout time because of benefactors. In the last 150 years, right now, we’re in the era where music’s greatest benefactor is educational systems. Of course, there are  orchestras, and they have their own benefactors. But we’re in a time when there are more full-time musicians, and the reason for that is the education system. For musicians, our personal lives and output, and our paid life all seamlessly mix together. It’s a blurred existence.

If we do creative work, it’s hard to know where it begins and ends. Creativity isn’t some isolated phenomena. It invades other aspects of our entire lives.

It’s my “hobby.” It’s my passion. It’s my career. It’s my way of thinking. There’s a fun mind game we play. If you were stranded on a deserted island, and you didn’t have your instrument, would you still be a musician? That [question] asks you to think about what your relationship to music is.

You have collaborated with a wide range of creative people. What is a collaboration?

It’s a really popular word now. What I would love collaborations to be, but I find rare, is there could be an open dialogue between two creators, and our differences and ideas bang up against each other. We learn a new perspective, and take that opportunity to take that perspective into ourselves and really try to understand it, try to adjust our own perspective until something more complex and beautiful happens. What I often see happening — and sometimes there’s not enough time, or people don’t get to know one another — is people who say, I’m going to put some dance to this, and you’re going to do music, and they call that a “collaboration.” The result rarely becomes a cohesive, powerful, new experience.

In your collaborative projects, people come together, and there’s dialog, and conversation — versus people showing up with their pieces and parts, and saying, A ha! We have a new thing!

And, in my mind, there shouldn’t be an expectation that I show up with my art form — [for example] I’m the musician, so I’m the expert, so you have no right to say anything about it. That’s distasteful to me. There are so many different perspectives. A non-musician can listen to music, and I will learn something about what they hear. Those perspectives inevitably enhance the whole work.

Nobody has the market cornered on a good idea, do they? Why do you do collaborative projects?

In my mind, everybody wins because everybody grows. Everybody has an opportunity to broaden their artist palette by hearing people talk about their own processes. It always feels like a more powerful experience as a result.

Does the Sound Garden Project fall under the collaborative umbrella?

I suppose it’s collaborative in that the big question I’m asking with the project is: How do we interact with audiences in a more authentic way? And interact with people who aren’t looking for us, which classical music hasn’t done.

[NOTE: The Sound Garden Project was founded by Schlomer in 2020 through the support of Interlochen Public Radio. He continues to facilitate the project. Over the last three years, he has put together different groupings of conservatory musicians – from soloists to quintets – who, for  two-to-eight weeks in the summer, perform in pop-up and formal concerts at unorthodox, public settings. In 2022 and 2023, the GAAC hosted Sound Garden Project as part of its Manitou Music Series. The PULSE Saxophone Quartet were the GAAC’s Musicians-in-Residents in June. The quartet performed on a pontoon boat in Glen Lake, the GAAC’s Front Porch, Cottage Book Shop, on the Lake Michigan beach, the Glen Arbor Township playground, Glen Lake Community Library, and other places.]

Explain what the Sound Garden project is, and your role in it.

The tag line of the Sound Garden project is: Planting music in unexpected places. The goal of the project is to have an opportunity to hear live performers in a classical music tradition, up close, and experience a sampling of the music so audiences have a first-hand knowledge of what that is like. In practice, we never dummy down the art. What we do is try to meet people in places where they have free time. We try to think where people have time in their lives these days to even have space for something new, and then we try to invade that space, to give people the opportunity to hear that music, and then make sure we create a platform for them to trust their experience.

One of the plagues of classical music is we’ve bred this idea that if you don’t know enough, you won’t get it. I don’t think that’s true. Last year, one of the favorite Sound Garden concerts we did was in [Empire, Michigan] at Grocer’s Daughter Chocolates. They gave us three different samples of chocolate, and we’d approach [customers] and ask them if we could play music for them. They say, Oh, I don’t know classical music. Then we’d say, We have some chocolates for you to sample for free, and then we’ll just play a minute-long piece and ask you a few questions afterward. And, they’d do it. The same people who said they don’t like it, some of them had the strongest answers [about the music and its relationship to the chocolates]. They’d talk about the form of the piece, and the musical elements that made it blossom. There are so many moments like that.

You’re taking classical music out of the context in which most people understand it: a performance space, where you buy a ticket, you find a seat, and you listen. The Sound Garden Project throws all the out the window. With Sound Garden, there is no ticket buying, you go to places where people aren’t there to listen to music, and yet you find ways to have people engage with the music. Why do it?

The tag line — Planting music in unexpected places — insinuates that it’s a seed, and that how anyone’s interest in anything will grow. Sound Garden performances are more like a sampling room. This summer, someone will have their first wine tasting in the Traverse City area. Someone at the winery will tell them how the wine is made. And, from those little samples they’re going to have more interest in wine. Our hope is that people will think what they hear is cool and try some things. One of the barriers we face is the perception that the context in which we play is this high, religious experience where you have to take a large amount of your evening, you have to buy a ticket, you have to go to this hall where you get shut in, and then you sit down and you lose control of what’s happening to you. In this day and age, we don’t do that. That’s an environment, where if you’re going to try something out and you’re not sure if you’re going to like it, you’re already you don’t feel good.

You’re the driving force behind the Sound Garden Project. What was the thing that caused you to think, We’ve got to change the way music is presented to the public.

It’s a lingering question. I’ve wondered about this for a long time, and suddenly there was a canvas to put it on. There’s also a musician side of this. The way that we’re trained does not encourage this kind of thing. We do a detox session with each new [Sound Garden] group that comes into the Sound Garden Project. Not because the conservatories are doing something wrong, but [in the conservatory] there’s a deep-skills acquisition phase, and it’s a crucible of scrutiny. We have musicians who are really accomplished, and people would be thrilled to hear what they could do, but they’re living in this mindset where they think, I’ve got to do all these things, and win competitions before anyone will want to hear me.

Musicians will say, especially with this generation, I want to change the world with my art. But for them to sit down, up close with somebody, to have their instrument in their hand at a gas station or Grocer’s Daughter, to interact with people and give them something meaningful and beautiful that they actually believe in, is such a wildly intimate experience that they’re not prepared to do. They say they want to do it, but they don’t have a context to figure out what that would look like. So, that’s turned out to be a really exciting [part of the Sound Garden Project], and for the musicians. [Sound Garden] gives them a context to put their money where their mouth is, so to speak.

There are some problems from the musician side, too. When musicians come out onto this lit stage, and they can’t see the audience — they’re blinded — and it’s a total atmosphere for judgement from the very beginning. They come out and start playing and supposedly sharing something deep, and they don’t know with whom they’re sharing it. It sanitizes everything. There’s no human element in it. They don’t even meet the audience afterward: They clap. They go off.

What do you believe is the creative practitioner’s role in the world?

I think it’s to help us all to wonder, to keep curiosity alive. I don’t believe that our mission is one of political commentary. There are people who feel motivated, and are rightly informed to do so.

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

It’s just beautiful. I’ve found that an incredible way to re-center. When I’m out in Northern Michigan, I’m able to wonder bigger. When I go for a run in the woods, all of a sudden the ideas are flowing like crazy. What’s magical is there are really great places for us to gather; but then, also places for us to scatter. That’s a special feature.

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

I didn’t. South Dakota was a little confining. I was a little bit of an oddity. I was in the art room all the time, so they let me go into the art class in the high school because I was eating everything up. When I was a freshman, and we went to Milwaukee, it was scary. We went from a town of 1,200 to 1.4 million; but it turned out to be perfect. All of a sudden everything opened up. I’m thankful. South Dakota was a safe place to wonder, and to be a kid. And when I needed more stimulation, and to find kindred spirits, that opportunity came when we moved to Milwaukee: concerts, and museums, and Chicago was really close.

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

I don’t know if there was one person. There’s my conducting mentor, Scott Teeple. There are people like Mary Brennan, she was a professor emerita when I was at the University of Wisconsin getting my minor in dance. She gave me hours of time, where we would discuss the intersection of music and movement, and what I was experiencing, and my questions. It was an incredible gift that she gave to me. I had a philosophy teacher in high school who was amazing — someone with that magic ability to take a teenager who has brain damage, which we all do at that age, and make me feel like he was taking me seriously.

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

For a conductor, that’s a rare thing. It’s challenging. I have another mentor, Alan McMurry, who will be honest with me. Scott Teeple will, too; but we’re both right in the busy-ness of our careers, so there’s not much time for there’s not much time for that.

How do you fuel and nurture your creativity?

Exercise. Running. Hiking. Kayaking. The connection between the body, mind and spirit is so true. And the older I get, the more I have to tend to that. You can’t take it for granted. Also, having new experiences. I like to travel. Collaborations help a lot.

What drives your impulse to make music?

With music, it’s about listening. You can’t make as good of a sound by yourself. That act of joining sound is always better if you’re outside of yourself and putting it with the song of others. Getting to do that, and showing that to younger people that that exists is the thing we’re all looking for.

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Learn more about Matt Scholmer here. And, here.

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