Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

“I’ve always built things. I’ve been a maker since I was a little kid,” said Leelanau County artist Larry Fox, 69. And the things he has built — sculptural constructions in Poplar and Baltic Birch — have found their way into homes and corporate settings across the US. A veteran of the art fair circuit, Fox has traveled far and wide with his trailer full of work inspired by architectural shapes, cracks in the parking lot pavement, and what he discovers when he falls into a creative pothole. Fox’s work is all about dimensional shape. “I’m attracted to dimension,” he said. And it was dimension that brought him and his family to Northern MIchigan in 1989.

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

Pictured left: Larry Fox

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You work in a sculptural form using wood.

Yes. Three-dimensional forms that are constructed out of wood, and primarily painted — as the finish.

And there are always lots of interesting marks on the surfaces of your sculptures.

A lot of that is a painting technique called dry brushing. I learned that from working on movie sets. It’s a loose type of painting. I also use colored pencils to enhance [the surface design] a little bit.

When did you work on movie sets, and where?

Mostly in Detroit. Small independents. Then I worked on a few big features around the country [including The Abyss, Tiger Town, and Stardust]. I was doing fine woodworking at the time — making furniture and building additions. This was in the 80s and 90s.

What draws you to working in wood , and working with wood in a sculptural way?

I can manipulate wood to satisfy my curiosity. My father had a shop, and as a young kid I was in the shop all the time. He was very giving about me playing around in there. That’s where [his interest in] wood came from — and the fact that it’s a natural material — as opposed to metal. I don’t find other materials attractive. Wood is warm. It’s growing. I love trees. The three-dimensional aspect: I’ve always been attracted to dimension. I grew up in Detroit, and it was totally flat. That’s one reason why I’m in Leelanau County: There’s some dimension to [the landscape]. I’ve been thinking about transitioning to painting as I get older, and I haven’t made that leap yet — because of the dimensional aspect …

It’s flat.

It’s flat!

What physical effects are you feeling that makes you consider leaping ship, and going to painting?

Getting out of bed every day. My body’s starting to hurt. I used to do a lot of really-big work [e.g. a 50 foot-long installation for GE Medical, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in 2006]. I’ve curtailed that. I’m doing more bench work. I still have the desire [to work large], but not the energy.

Did your dad let you run power tools?

Oh, yeah. I was lucky I never did anything really bad. I would always take the tools, and try to push them: What can I do with this as opposed to just doing what you’re supposed to do? I would always push. I do that with my work.

You don’t allow yourself to be hemmed in by either the materials or the tools, or the conventional expectations of what both of those things can do.

To a degree, I do. You have to respect the materials and the tools. Every time you approach a power tool you have to be on your game. I appreciate that aspect of it. At the same time, the other side of my brain is going, What can you do with this that’s different? 

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I studied architecture for two years at Lawrence Tech. And then I went to the College For Creative Studies in industrial design. And then I got a degree from Wayne State in art education [1979]. I also went to Penland, and Haystack, which are craft schools. And an internship out in Canada at the Banff Art Center.

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

It definitely contributed to my ability to use my talents.

It sounds like you may have learned a lot in the doing.

Yes. I would say mostly in the doing.

Describe your studio/work space.

It’s in a pole barn, and is a 24 feet by 24 feet. I have a room for painting and drawing. It’s 150 feet from my house. Half of it’s heated. When I first moved in, it did not have windows. I remember coming back from a funeral [25 years ago], and I said, I’ve got to put a window in that shop. So, I got a big window from somebody who was ripping down a big house. It overlooks all these pine trees, and it’s beautiful.

How does your studio/work space facilitate your work?

I’ve had six or seven studios in my life, everything from a garage to a studio in Suttons Bay [Michigan]. It can make it easier; but the actual work? It really doesn’t matter. You’ve got to have natural light. You’ve got to be relatively comfortable. But you can adapt to anything. 

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

A primary idea is one based on observation, [observing] form, pattern. If I see something — let’s say it’s a crack in the sidewalk, and I’ll say, That’s amazing. I’ll eventually interpret that [observation] into a piece. Sometimes I’ll want to tell a story, whether it’s political or human relations. There’s an architectural interest. I get ideas walking in the woods. There’s natural phenomena. There’s man-made phenomena. Pretty much everything.

It’s like you’re always punched in.

You are. It’s amazing. The key is, as soon as you see something, you’ve got to jot it down. You’ve got to sketch it on a piece of paper or wood. Then you put it away, and say, Someday I’ll make that.

I’m interested that you jot down inspirations. Cameras are ever present these days. Are you still a pencil-and-paper guy?

Oh yeah. Give me a legal pad and a Sharpie, and I’m happy. The pencil issue: I’ve always loved drawing. Even now, I don’t spend a lot of time drawing; but I do sketch out my work. Loosely. I’ve always loved that physicality of the pencil on the paper, and that texture of the paper is important. There’s a great joy to sit down and just draw some ideas down: That’s one of my favorite things to do.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

First you have to have the idea, the concept [and ask yourself] How am I going to interpret that concept in a physical form? You have to ask yourself what you want to say. What is this piece about? Is this a form piece? Or does it mean something? What is it? You take that thought pattern, and interpret into the shapes. I draw the piece as I build it. I see the piece graphically as I’m making it. And, sometimes I build and see that it’s not working, so I cut it in half, and now it works: You can’t always see it right away.

You work in wood. It takes a little courage to chop things up. Wood is a lot harder to put back together than a couple pieces of paper or fabric.

Not really. There is a little bit of a [psychologic] barrier. You try to talk yourself into [settling for a composition that doesn’t work by saying]: That’s OK. That looks pretty good. But you keep coming back to: That’s not OK. And so you go: I gotta do it. But you don’t want to do it because you’ve already put the time and effort into building it, and you know it’s not right.

Sometimes I see that as an opportunity to have a new creative thought. It ejects you from the path you were on, which is saying, You’re going in this direction. But then you hit a pothole.

And, sometimes, those potholes are fantastic. They make the piece. Sometimes your initial concept of the piece doesn’t quite work. It’s always about: How am I going to make this piece work? It’s not a black and white thing.

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

Rarely. I can’t multitask very well — unless it’s a process I have to let sit, and then I’ll go onto something else.

What’s your favorite tool?

Bandsaw.

Why’s that?

The freedom of it.

It’s a scary tool, with a band of sharp, fast-moving metal.

You always have to have your hands away from the blade. What that tool can do is incredible. It’s a blade and you can play with it. A lot of things I work on aren’t perfectly straight. There was time when that was different, but now my work is a lot looser.

Why is making things by hand important to you?

It’s key. Every time you make something, you’re creating something — whether it’s a chair or a table or a house. You had this idea, and you process it, and you make the thing. It’s an over-and-over cycle of burden. Here’s this new thing. It’s incredible.

Why does making by-hand remain valuable and vital to modern life?

From the beginning of time, it’s a human thing to use your hands — whether you’re gathering food, or you’re making a piece of art. I think a lot of people lose it, forget about it. But I think every human has that desire to make things.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

I did my student teaching, and I thought, I like making things better than teaching. As far as committing to it, after college I thought about being a self-employed woodworker. There was no [precipitating] event, but I had to make money, so I was going to do what I loved to do. I always dabbled in other things — film, film sets — but the other side of that, I was always making something — whether it was with 20 people or by myself.

 What role does social media play in your practice?

A website is the beginning of that. You have to have a website. The website connects people with your work that would never see it, and is a reference once they have an interest in it. Other than that, if I’m doing a show, my social media director — who is my daughter [Lindsey, 31, also a visual artist] — she does all the [social media promotional] stuff on Instagram.

Do you use social media to tell the world about your work, or look for inspiration?

No. I try to stay off it. I have to admit that I’m as curious as the next person, and sometimes you see stuff that’s really cool. But I don’t like going there.

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

People who make things, artists, they can show me things I might not even think of. [They] broaden your view of the world, and [they] open up a bigger picture.

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

Living up here allows me to have a lot of time to pursue the work I want to do, uninterrupted, and a low-key, very low-key, lifestyle. It [allows him] to clear my head, and have a clean palette to work with. Lots of times, you end up living where you went on vacation as a kid. I came up north on vacation when I was a kid. I grew up in Detroit, so I also have a big-city fix I have to satisfy every so often. When I did more [art fairs] I used to get that satisfied. Now, [his life] is a little isolated as I get older. It’s very quiet up here in the winter. I gotta get out more.

You’ve shown your work on the air fair circuit for decades. What kind of job is that for a guy to have?

The beauty of that whole [art fair] world is it allows you to do what you love to do. Now, traveling to the shows and selling the work — I’ve never liked that. I’m introverted. I have to get into my extrovert mode to do that. As a general thing, it’s not my favorite part of the business. 

You get a lot of immediate feedback about your work on the air fair circuit. You come face-to-face with a lot of human beings who are looking at your work.

You have to put on your sales-person hat, and it’s really important what you say and how you present yourself. I can do it occasionally. I like the idea that the work sells itself, but that’s not really true: You have to engage and say the right thing. That’s the part of the business I’m not really crazy about. I’ve struggled with it. I’ve been [working the art fair circuit] for about 30 years now.

Do you exhibit at art fairs year-round? Do you do that trek to Florida to do all the shows in that state?

I used to do it every year, but I’m kind-of done with Florida. I did that for 20 years.

When you were growing up, did you know anyone with a serious, creative practice?

My dad loved making things, but everything was by-the-book. My mom was a Sunday painter. Most people asked me, What are you doing? You can’t be an artist. When are you going to get a real job. I heard that a lot.

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

My heroes, in the historical sense, are Frank Lloyd Wright, Louise Nevelson, the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava. 

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

At this point, my daughter, Martha [his wife], and my son Jesse [27]. He’s really good with proportion and forms.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice? Do you ever exhibit your work in museum or gallery shows?

Yes. It’s getting eyes on your work.

Tell me how you fuel and nurture your creativity.

I do it by taking hikes, going skiing, reading.

Walking in parking lots looking for cracks in the pavement?

Exactly. I don’t directly try to nurture my creativity. I’ve never had to. It’s hard to answer that. You go through hills and valleys of creativity. Sometimes, when I’m in a valley, I go, I haven’t really thought of any good ideas in the last month. But I don’t go, I’ve gotta do something to nurture it. All of a sudden, there will be another wave. I can’t tell you what promotes that.

You work, mostly, in a non-representational fashion. Why is that the best way for you to execute ideas — as opposed to trying to make something that someone will say, A-ha! That’s a chair!

Whenever I was in drawing class, there were compositions or human forms, and you’re supposed to capture that — the proportions, the feelings. When I make stuff, I don’t want to be tied to [its realism]: That’s a horse, or that’s a hill. I just want to make an interpretation of [an object or subject]. It frees you up. It’s partially due to my limited technical abilities — that’s why I switched from fine woodworking to what I do now. Technically, it’s not that challenging, but artistically, it’s more challenging. It’s a lot more fun. Harder to sell, but it’s a lot more fun.

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Read more about Larry Fox here.

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

Royce Deans’s creative life has been a “crooked trail” of work in graphic design, and illustration — a not-so-straight path toward a process-driven practice focused on painting and printmaking. “I’ve identified as a painter even before I got out of art school,” Royce, 66, said. He lives in Traverse City, Michigan, and is a well-known maker and teacher in the region’s creative community; but it wasn’t always that way. “I was almost 30 when I figured out that you could be an artist. That that exists,” Royce said. He was, he said, a “late bloomer.” This interview was conducted in February 2023 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

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You work in many media.

I am a multi-disciplinary artist. I’ve been a painter exclusively for the past 35 years. About five years ago, I picked up printmaking. And since August, I’ve only been printmaking — as well as developing into a burgeoning poet. But  I don’t consider printmaking a different discipline than painting. It’s just another way of making visual art.

Talk about the transition from being, primarily, a painter to making visual art through printmaking.

It’s something I think about a lot — in my own work and when I’m teaching — solving creative issues by coming at it all from a different perspective. If I come at the same subject through printmaking, it pushes my brain to find new solutions that I wasn’t expecting. It’s like the exercise of writing or drawing with your non-dominant hand.

Is it the tools? That materials? The end result that has that effect of pushing your brain into a different place?

When I started making these monotypes, I started working on Plexiglass plates, and trying to do my paintings on the Plexiglass plates. That alone was enough to be interesting because of the different types of marks I could get. There’s a whole, new set of marks you can get with printmaking. It’s something I can’t achieve with painting.

Another thing that intrigues me about printmaking is I can work for hours on a plate — whether inking a mono type plate or cutting and inking a linoleum block — repeating the same process over and over, and there’s still so many variables left to explore: pressure of the press, what paper I’m using, humidity of the studio, or maybe I’m not paying attention and you print something upside down. There are so many things that could happen. Working without a net is exciting.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I went to the American Academy of Art in Chicago [1980-83]. In some ways it was good. There was a lot of time spent on fundamentals of design and composition, which play into the way I approach a painting. I think most of the great painters throughout history have been great designers, too. I received an Associate’s Degree in Design and Illustration. After that I hit the pavement and started doing design work for agencies in Chicago.

Tell me about your studio.

My studio is located south of Cedar [Michigan]. It’s in a big 40 ft. x 50 ft pole building on a [50-acre compound and residential-farm collective]. I have a space where I can spread out and work. There are expansive views outside my windows, and I do look out of them.

How does this space facilitate your creative work?

The whole environment on this compound is super good for me. Nature is everywhere. The place feels nurturing to me every time I walk in the door. A studio is so important for artists, to have a place to make your mess and be able to come back to your mess the next day, and know it’s not going to be bothered. The owners of the place are wonderful patrons of the arts and good friends too.

That’s a lot of square footage. I’d imagine there’s a correlation between how much space you have and what kind of work you do.

Yes. It’s got a big, overhead, 10-foot door. I could drive a semi into it. I can do big work work if I want in the space.

What are the themes/ideas that you focus on in your work?

I’m an observationalist. The end result of my work may be abstracted or stylized, but none of it comes out of my imagination. It’s all from observation of nature, the landscape, the figure. The place we live in here is a huge inspiration to me. The texture of the water’s surface, or the bottom of the lake or the contours of the hills, they all play into the motifs that I find myself returning to over and over again. I’ve always had a strong interest in incorporating the figure into my work.

Why is the figure a subject of so much interest to you?

I’m fascinated with the shapes and forms and balance and composition possibilities that the human form gives us. I’m really interested in people, and people all have bodies, and it all weaves together to hold my interest.

You’ve been running figure drawing sessions in your studios for years.

With the advent of COVID and the pandemic, I switched over to doing them online for the last three years.

The model is there in your studio?

No. The model is somewhere else, in their own home or studio.

.And anyone who takes the class draws from their computer screen?

Again, coming for the illustration background where all you work from is photographs — when I started doing what I’m doing as a fine artist, working from photographs … It’s such a thing for me to be in close proximity to the three-dimensional experience, so working from photographs and the screen: I had my doubts; but it has ended up being fabulous. Socially, during the pandemic, it was good to bring people together on a weekly basis. For me, I got used to the idea. What helped my drawing was everybody works with some sort of different computer or phone. All these have a different camera, and all the models have different set-ups. I realized the nature of what I’m providing is, in many ways, distorted by the lens, and once I just drew what I saw — not what I think I know — I got better. After doing that for a couple years, when I did draw from the figure live again, I was a little bit nervous that I’d ruined myself working from the computer screen. And, I found that I could draw better. It was an interesting surprise I was really pleased about.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

I’m process driven — that’s another reason I really like printmaking. There is such a specific process you have to go through; including the preliminary work of thinking about it. I usually have a very loose concept of layers of shapes or colors that may, or may not be, rectangles with designs in them. It’s usually not more than a wisp of smoke. When it comes down to the doing, I leave myself open for opportunities to change lanes, really quickly. As an illustrator, I always had to have the clients wishes in mind. So, from the very beginning, I had to know what [the outcome of the project] was going to be at the end, and I’d work and work until it got to that place. When I started doing more paintings for Royce, I was thinking in that way — I became the client, and I was making myself unhappy working that way. [Now] I put one brushstroke down, and respond to it. I might have thought I was going off here and there in one direction, but by just responding to what I put down [on the canvas], I may [find] I’m going 180 degrees in the other direction.

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

I try to keep a couple paintings going, but it’s hard for me to keep close tabs on them. In the printmaking studios, it’s a little easier easier to do that, especially when I’m working on bigger pieces because they need to dry.

What’s your favorite tool?

I think right now, my favorite tools are an etching press and a brayer. It’s what I find myself using most. I do love the carving of a linoleum block, but I think that the magic happens in the application of ink, and transferring that to paper.

Do you use a sketchbook?

Absolutely. I try to map out my jumping-on place with drawing. I draw a lot. It’s important for me to figure out what I’m doing in a pencil sketch. That said, the body of paintings I have at my studio now, they’re as improvisational as the prints I’m doing. It would be impossible for me to put them in a sketch book ahead of time. Ninety-nine percent of the time, my sketch book is for me. It’s really personal, and I’m probably the only one who could understand it — even if you could say, Oh, that’s a tree, or a person. It represents me making sense to myself of form.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

About 30 years ago. As far as the direction I’m going now, I realized I had to put the time in instead of fitting the work in between other stuff. I consider myself fortunate to have crafted the other projects I’ve done have always been art-centered, whether I was the art director or the graphic designer, that sort of thing. I was always on the art side of things. I’ve been fortunate to have work outside of painting. I did realize that some of those things were a distraction [from his studio practice]. So I put them aside.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I share my work often on social media. I’m careful though to not post too much work that’s not finished or is only half-way there — the reason I put it out there maybe because I think it’s cool, and I get positive reinforcement, but then it can be really hard to work on it more. It derails me somehow.

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

I know there’s a lot of ugliness out there, and it can be depressing, but I’m an optimist. There is so much beautiful stuff, and peacefulness that’s overlooked, not seen by anybody. If I can bring some of that peace and beauty that I purposely search for, and bring that into this other realm — the gallery, somebody’s home — I think that’s what my goal, my calling might be.  A lot of artists have a narrative that’s obvious — it’s religious, it’s political, whatever that might be — I’ve struggled with that thing over the last few years — wondering if I ought to have a more cohesive narrative for my work, which isn’t one that’s so easy to verbalize, but it’s one that resonates with people when they see it.

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

No. I had really supportive and creative parents. My mother painted a lot, and my father played music, and they took us to lots of museums and symphonies. So, I had this exposure; but at the same time, I never knew that being an artist in my day and age was possible.

How did you figure that out?

I kept drawing and drawing. I was 26 or something, and was drawing at my house, when a friend of the family came over — she was designer who worked on Michigan Avenue in Chicago — and she said, You should go to art school, and I said, What? Really? I was almost 30 when I figured out that you could be an artist. That that even exists. And you don’t have to be this troubled soul that cuts your ear off [as did the 19th Century, Dutch painter Vincent van Gogh]. You don’t have to do that. When I look back at my sketch books from high school, I can see why no one ever encouraged me. I was a super late bloomer. I was always drawing, but it took me a long time where I got to the place where I could actually execute [an idea].

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

Tenacity.

Is that a guy?

No. It’s me. Not Tenacious D. I have this really strong desire to make, and that’s what drives me.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s a problem to solve, and the problem is to see something brand new. I just want to see something I’ve never seen before. . It’s really exciting when I can see a glimmer of that. I’m not always successful.  I’m not interested in trying to paint like whomever I saw in a museum or gallery. I’ve been having this discussion because in November I started knitting. And that’s making. I’m so fascinated by the simplicity of these two stitches  — knit and purl — and I can make a hat, or hand warmers, and a scarf. It’s so simple: two sticks and yarn, and you can make something.

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

In general terms, everybody should find someone who knows their work that will be objective with them. Your mom will tell you it’s great regardless. When it comes down to honest feedback, I need to turn to other artist who I trust, I admire, who don’t really gain from telling me it’s good when it’s not.

What’s the role of exhibiting in your practice?

While I’m a non-performative person, I am relatively comfortable talking to people and being in front of a group — but I recognize the need to have my work seen. It’s super important to have that feedback — not the feedback of [social media] a thumbs up or likes; but having somebody respond to it in a personal way — my work made them think of something they hadn’t thought of. Then, I know I’m communicating. It’s nice to sell work, too.

Talk about the ways your teaching activities cross-pollinate with your studio practice. Do the two feed one another?

A lot. Definitely. The way that I teach is not technique-based. If somebody wants to know how to mix colors or how do I paint a bird, we can talk about the technical aspects of it; but I’m a big believer in the want to make, and then the necessary facility will come. . What I needed more, and how I give my students a new way to see, or a new in-road to a problem. It’s much more about feeding your creativity, and what you need to do to have ideas flow. What do you need to be told to give yourself permission to go for it? So many people I work with want to, and keep telling themselves they can’t. One-hundred percent of the time there’s something in what they did that’s better than admirable, but they can’t see it. There’s one part of it that’s wrong, and they’re right that it’s wrong, but they don’t see the other 80 percent of it that is pretty terrific, so let’s focus on that.

Do those questions come out of your own practice?

Yes. If I was going to give away the secrets to my teaching technique it’s that I don’t tell my students anything I don’t do on a daily basis. Exactly how I go about it, from the very beginning seed of an idea. And that sometimes I go sit on the beach for a couple hours and just look. It isn’t always best to beat-yourself-up-in-the studio. Everything is inspiring and everywhere.

You’d don’t close yourself off to possibilities.

No. I’m probably a little too open. I run into a lot of walls, but I do tend to run after ideas and whims. Sometimes when you do that you find a cool little trail nobody ever knew about.

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Read more about Royce Deans here.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Leelanau County, Michigan, artist Cynthia Marks, 71, has been “making art for 50+ years, a startling and comforting thought,” she said. “I am consumed by using clay to conceptualize most any thought in a form or surface, generally drawing from my everyday life, art history, and nature.” Cynthia hand-builds vessels and pots from terra cotta and white stoneware clay, into which she carves, stamps, and draws to create highly decorative surfaces; “experimenting with different clay bodies and always searching for that huge, new thought.” And it all begins with a coil of clay. This interview was conducted in January 2023 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured left: Cynthia Marks

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What is your process for making vessels?

I build using coils. I roll coils. I score and slip in-between. I often use a template to get the form. If it’s a large piece, I always use a template that I’ve made out of tag board.

The scoring of the coils is to create two, rough surfaces. You lightly score the coil, then score the preceding coil, which is affixed to a base. That allows you to get a better bond. Some potters will leave their coils showing on the outside; I do not. I’m quick at rolling coils. I find that when I build with slabs, I spend more time getting rid of the slab mark, and sometimes they come back when subjected to heat. I use coils to build about 90 percent of the time. Once in a while I’ll get on a jag and throw but I’ve tried throwing vases and doing my surface technique that I’ve adapted or invented, but people prefer hand building — as far as selling my work in galleries goes.

Does hand building give you different kinds of freedoms that throwing does not?

Yes. And, I’m better at it. I lived in an area, most of my life, where there were many potters. Goshen College was right up the road, and at the helm was Marvin Bartel, and no one could throw better than Marvin and all of his students. And some of them, especially big brawny men, stayed in the area. In the other direction, to the west, we had Bill Kremer at Notre Dame, and he had a following and a flock that stayed in South Bend [Indiana]. So there were a lot of these young, brawny men who could throw. And even when I was young, I couldn’t throw as well as they did, and I didn’t have time to perfect the skill because I was teaching [high school art] full-time and raising a family.

Were you trying to differentiate yourself from the herd of throwers?

I taught throwing for a long, long time. I taught it every semester. I had six wheels. But for my own personal work I felt more satisfied when I hand built. You can experiment more.

[NOTE: Cynthia taught visual art in the Indiana Public School system from 1975 – 2008.]

Why do you like working in clay?

I came to clay as a means of expression because it was what the schools [she attended] could afford to buy. My degree is actually in jewelry design and metal smithing. But I had also taken a good amount of hours in ceramics in undergrad, and I liked it. I was good at it, so I did it.

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

I wouldn’t be where I am today. I always say it’s the power of an IU degree.

[NOTE: Cynthia attended Indiana University/Bloomington from 1970-74, receiving a Bachelors of Science/Education; and a Masters of Science/Education from Indiana University, 1976-79.]

People say, Oh, you’re so talented. And I say, No. I’m highly educated. I was so fortunate to work with and be mentored by famous people. Alma Eikerman, the head of metal smithing and jewelry design at IU, was my friend. We had a long relationship, long after I graduated. And the same with Karl Martz and John Goodheart in ceramics. They were huge in the field. I didn’t know it until later, but for a public university their art program was sixth in the nation. For a little girl from Mishawaka [Indiana], who was first generation [college student in her immediate family], it was a pretty big deal.

Describe your studio/work space.

My work space is probably why I live here. We [husband David] built our little cottage in 2015. It was just to be a weekend place. When we got tired of going back and forth after four years, I said that I can’t live here without a studio. There’s no way. So, over the course of a week, my husband and my son-in-law’s father framed out half of our basement — about 600 square feet, but it’s more than adequate. It has an easement window, so birds hop along the edge, and once in a while a frog or snake gets down in there. I go down there, and I just smile. I used to laugh. Before we remodeled, the most expensive thing in the house was my kiln. My husband insisted I couldn’t buy a used one. So I bought a brand new Skutt. Great big, beautiful Skutt.

Why did your husband insist on a brand new kiln?

He likes me to be happy. I wasn’t keen on this idea of moving here. I thought of myself as a city girl. His grandparents had a cherry farm in Arcadia, so he spent his whole life coming here every summer, and then we started vacationing [in Leelanau County].

How does your studio facilitate your work?

I think artists are very much into their tools and equipment, at least I am. I’m also old school: I have to have a book shelf because I still use books. I have a big bench and wedging board. I have an array of glazes. I have everything I need, and more. It’s the biggest room in our house.

Tell me about the books.

I have jewelry books. I have animal books. I have pattern books. I have textile history books. I tend to not look at other people’s pots. Marvin Bartel taught me that. He advised his students to look at jewelry, painting, sculpture, art history. We can borrow; we don’t need to copy someone else’s pots. And, I took that to heart. I had an extensive library when I was growing up. We used to laugh about going to the Church of Borders on Sunday mornings. I used to buy the newest, latest [ideas], boxes of books to take to my classroom, and I kept a lot of them when we moved here.

Many people use the internet in the way you use books.

I do that, too. I’ve been on the internet all week trying to get my thoughts together for my next show [a group show proposed for 2024] — as well as making my work for my spring gallery orders.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

I always start with form. It’s like putting lipstick on a pig if you put a beautiful design on a sloppy pot. There are rules. At least there were rules for the people I studied with. A pot’s top and foot should differ, they should not be the same. The fullest point should not be the top or the base. A pot needs a shoulder. A pot needs a neck. To have some interest, it should look like there’s a life inside trying to get out.

Your pots are very decorative. Talk about your approach to surface design.

I do brighter colors in the winter. When it’s cold, I want warm. And I tend to do cooler, more landscape-y colors in  the summer. We do some hiking and foraging for mushrooms, and I love the palette in the spring. I generally make about 12 pots at a time. I start with pinch pots, in varied sizes, then I coil them shut. And then I have spout day. I might make 25 spouts. I do all kinds of crazy things. I roll them up and down the woodwork in my studio, or the metal shelves. I do things to get striations and texture. I’ll let them harden, and then go back down and try to figure which spout goes with which pot. And then I’ll decide: Do they need a handle? Or a little cape [IMAGE?] on the top. I do a lot of trial-and-error, and a lot of experimenting. I don’t have completed drawings of each pot before I begin.

Talk about all the flowers and vegetation that you add to the surfaces of your pots.

Our whole yard is flowers. We don’t have grass. And, I’ve gardened all my life. I suppose, if we’re talking about our histories and our pasts, and our stories, and our lives, spending time in my grandmother’s garden was certainly why I do what I do. I spend a couple hours in my garden two or three days a week, and then I go down to my studio.

I might do five or six pieces from nature, and five or six pieces from art history. Those are my two loves. That’s what I’m interested in. If someone says to me, Would you make me a pot with a picture of my dog on it?, chances are good I would say, I love that you love your dog, but there are other people who can do that better. 

If you focus on art history, what themes or visual references are you pulling from that for your own work?

It isn’t usually themes as much as it is individuals. I have certain artists I’ve always been drawn to. I’ve been into Paul Klee since I was 10-years-old. I’ve always loved Kandinsky, and Caravaggio. Right now, I’m sort of learning toward American artists for this next body of work. I’ve spent all my time in the past 30 or 40 years worrying about the Europeans or the Africans. We’re planning on taking a trip to the Hudson Valley. We had a great Wyeth experience a couple of years ago, and we’ve been trying to get to Chadds Ford.

What’s your favorite tool?

An expired card from the subway in London. I brought it back when I went to the Chelsea Flower Show [in 2019]. That’s my smoothing device. I have a whole bowl of different expired credit cards, and driver’s licenses, and ID. They are all different. They come in different weights and grades, and some work better for some things than others. I use a clay body that has a fair amount of grog in it. When I rake that credit card across the body of the pot, it creates a mark. I sometimes think I’m a frustrated printmaker because I love mark making, texture. Maybe that’s why I’m not so much into throwing [pots on the wheel]. I don’t like things that are smooth.

I also paddle a lot. That comes my background in metalsmithing: the hammer against the metal against the stake, which stretches it. And so, I stretch the clay. I build with a coil of clay that is the size of my index finger. As I paddle I’m stretching the clay, thinner and thinner, higher and higher. I like the sound. It’s just fun.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

I’ve never not. I’ve said to my family — I have macular degeneration, but it’s under control — when and if I go blind, and I can’t make work, then I can’t see much point in being. I’ve never done anything but make art. What I like about being an artist and using my hands is the solitariness of it. I’m never bored.

Why do you think hand work needs to remain a vital part of human life?

My daughter and I talk about this all the time. I think about the satisfaction we get from creating. I figured out one time I saw 20,000 kids over 35 year, and so many of them are still using the [hand-making] skills I taught them. It’s a pleasure to them. It balances their families. I look at people, and I don’t know what they do all day — if you don’t sew or knit or make art or go out and take photographs. I can’t imagine how you fill your days if you’re not creating.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

I was 10-years-old. In Indiana, in the fourth grade you study Indiana history, and I made a Native American sculpture on a bottle of dish washing soap [with modeling clay, and papier mache]. I can see her today. I just always thought I could keep doing it. A lot of it might have been the teachers, who were so encouraging. But I never wanted to do anything else.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I have a network of former students I stay in touch with through Instagram and Facebook. I like [for friends and family] to see the old gal is still doing the work. Walking the walk. I don’t sell or have a website. [Conversely] I do a lot of gallery visits through social media. I use it that way.

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

As an educator, I was constantly pointing out the role of art in our lives, and how much nicer it would be to have a spoon that feels good in your hand, or have a cup that’s made by an individual.

How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your practice, and what you make?

I don’t think it does. I’ve always said, I try to optimistically bloom where I’m planted. Wherever I am, I try to do my best, and help others, and make art. I really did not want to live here. It’s too rural for me. I do [however] like the quiet, and I like the light. I like the colors here. I’m not a big beach person. But my flowers do better here [than in Indiana].

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who was a serious, creative practitioner?

My high school art teacher. Her name was Rosa Weikel who taught at Mishawaka High School. She was a wonderful watercolor painter, and sold work in a little framing store downtown. That said to me she must be good! She painted very traditional themes. She was very quiet, and stern, and tiny. And, she paid a lot of attention to me.

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

Alma Eikermann. She was the head of metals at I.U. A phenomenal artist and teacher. She brought the idea of Danish holloware to America. She was a really colorful woman. She’d show up at the studio at 11:30 pm after having gone to the opera. She had us to her home. She owned a Chagall. I mean, God … I’d never met anyone like that.

Where or to whom do you go when you want honest feedback about what you’re making?

My daughter [Brooke Marks Swanson]. I was fortunate, when I was teaching, one of my colleagues was my best friend, and we’d critique each other. He was honest. And, my husband — he has a degree, too [in graphic design].

What role does exhibiting play in your practice?

When I began teaching, and my daughter was young, I didn’t feel like I had the time to give a piece my full attention. But when she was about 10, I entered a show in a Midwest Museum of American Art show, and they had a juried regional annually. I’d enter, and almost always got in, but I didn’t win awards. I kept at it, and started winning awards. It felt good. It gave my life validity — i.e. she knows what she’s doing. I enjoyed the process. And I enjoy working thematically. If [a gallery] gives me a theme, a title, an idea, man … I’m off and running. That’s half the problem solved. I know what I have to make. I like being a conceptual artists. When I started working, that [idea] was just beginning, in the ‘60s. I was raised on formalism — all we worried about was craftsmanship. It wasn’t very often we thought how your day was going and could we work it out in some clay? I love the idea of 50 different people use a theme [to direct their making]. How exciting.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

We travel quite a bit. And we always go to museums. We plan trips around shows, museums.

What drives your impulse to make?

This sounds trite: I like to keep busy. I just love making things. I wouldn’t matter if someone said, We’re going to take away all your clay. Clay is no longer being made. I would probably go back to collage. Or, I could paint. I love making jewelry. I just like art.

What were the challenges of trying to teach and practice your own work?

For me, it wasn’t challenging at all. My [students] knew I had a theme — that I wouldn’t ask them to do anything I wouldn’t do myself. I had this marvelous classroom, with this great big counter in the back, and I’d always have something going. Especially in the beginning [of her teaching career], I’d always do the project first. That’s where I made my entries for the juried regionals. One of our banks held a Christmas card contest, I’d make a Christmas card for the competition. I walk every morning with a [former] art teacher. I was working in the back of my classroom, and a principal I didn’t enjoy came in, and I jumped when he got up beside me, and told him I hadn’t heard him. And he said, Oh, a bomb could have gone off here and you wouldn’t have noticed. I looked him right in the eye, and I said, Well, for an art teacher, I think that’s a compliment. I was engaged in what I was doing, and I was making art. There were some art teachers, over time, that never make another art piece after they graduated. I always did. I continued making art throughout my entire career. I always felt like I was an artist who taught.

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Cynthia Marks is represented by Sleeping Bear Gallery, Empire, Michigan; and Higher Art Gallery, Traverse City, Michigan.

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

It was never a question of IF Laura Hood would play an instrument, but WHICH instrument she would end up playing. It was all in her genes, and part of her familial inheritance. Hood, 61, makes a wide range of music with her horn and guitar. She performs and teaches — at The Leelanau School for the last 30+ years. She writes and composes. And she believes that making music is good for the soul and the brain.

This interview was conducted in November 2022 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured left: Laura Hood

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What draws you to the horn and guitar?

Almost opposite things. I love playing the horn with other people. And, I love being able to play some of the finest music ever composed by Mozart and Beethoven, Tchaikovsky. To be a part of performing the big, standard musical works in history.

On the opposite side of it, I love playing the guitar because it’s my voice, and my guitar. I’m a whole “thing.” It doesn’t take a whole group to create something. I can create it all by myself in my little room, and sound good. With the horn, I can play by myself, but where it gets really fun is playing with other people.

Did you receive any formal training? 

I grew up in a family of musicians. In our family the question was not: “Would you like to play an instrument?” It was always: “What instrument do you want to play?”  From the time before I could remember, I played piano. I can’t remember learning how to read music. I was so young.

Were the piano lessons with Mrs. Smith down the block?

Yes. And I took private lessons on the horn and the guitar. Actually, on the guitar, I started learning from a class at the [Grand Haven, Michigan] YMCA in sixth grade. I have a Bachelors of Music in horn performance from Michigan State University [received in 1985]. While I was there, I took classical guitar lessons as well.

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

I can’t imagine being able to do what I do without it. It’s invaluable. It teaches you the discipline of your skill. A lot of artists think that it’s this free-flowing, creative process all of the time. Depending on your art, maybe it is. But to be a symphonic musician, there’s a lot of [technical] skill building and knowledge that are necessary. You have to understand the historic context of the pieces you’re playing, and have the chops to play it. That takes a lot of discipline. You have to play your scales, and your arpeggios, learn how to practice. And, you do that every single day.

Describe your studio.

At home, I have a small music room [at The Leelanau School]. I have a piano, shelves that have all of my instruments stacked on them, there’s a beautiful window. It’s just big enough to put two chairs and a music stand.

I spend much more time creating, playing the guitar at school. My classroom is super cool – I’ve hung guitars on the classroom walls. With my horn, a lot of the inspiration comes from the other people I’m playing with. My own studio is so small that I can’t have other people play in it.

With whom do you play?

Manitou Winds. And, I also play in the Benzie Area Symphony Orchestra. The orchestra is the midst of a growth spurt. It’s becoming a really good orchestra, able to play the standard works that are written for symphony orchestra. I don’t really think of myself as an “artist.” Or, somebody who spends a lot of time in a creative endeavor. I think of myself, much more, as a teacher.

You bring a great deal of creativity to the way you approach teaching kids. Your own music making isn’t divorced from that. And, I think it informs what you do as a teacher.

I’m glad that people can recognize that in me. After doing this for 30 years [at The Leelanau School], some days I feel like I’m just the teacher up there going, “Wah-wah, wah-wah.”

[Laura also taught at Pathfinder School in the 1990s, and has taught private lessons since she was a girl.]

You compose music.

Yes, but I think of myself more as a songwriter.

Define what a songwriter is.

A song is a piece of music that has lyrics. Whereas a composition would be a piece of music that is all musical instruments. It also has to do with my approach to writing music. My approach is very much guitar-centered, thinking of melody in my head. That’s the way I’ve written almost every song I’ve ever written. However, Manitou Winds has inspired me to explode some of my songs into guitar-plus-harp-plus-woodwinds.

You write for yourself, and you are also orchestrating for other instruments?

That’s right. When I write a song, I write it in chord. But when I write for other instruments, I use a software called Sebelius, which notates everything. The first piece I composed on Sebelius, I wrote for woodwind quintet during the COVID lockdown. I had so much time at home, so I finally took on that project. But I didn’t save it correctly, and my computer died, so I lost the whole thing: six weeks’ worth of work. I haven’t written anything since that. I feel like I’m still grieving for losing all that work.

You just told a very sad story that involved computers croaking and your creative work is lost. Both of these things are interesting because, in a time before computers, all this work was done by hand. How do you reflect on the role of computerized machinery in your creative work?

I don’t think I would be able to compose as much as I have been without the computer. It enables me to try things — and have the computer play it back for me so I can hear what it is I’ve invented. I’m not a trained composer. Whereas with songwriting, I don’t use a computer ever. I use a pencil, and a piece of paper, and my guitar in my hands. The way my brain is working is totally different between writing a song with my guitar, with lyrics — that feels very creative, intuitive. When I’m writing for Manitou Winds, that is much more analytical, intellectual, and that I do on the computer.

What are the themes you explore in your music making?

In my songwriting, I’m much more of a guitar player than a singer so I always emphasize my guitar playing over being fancy with my voice. Stylistically: My music is much more folk with a classical or jazz flair. I’ve written songs about motherhood, relationships, and sprinkled in all of my songs is a sense of Leelanau County and the lakes.

How does Northern Michigan find its way into your work, and inform it?

Constantly. One of the songs I wrote was all about Glen Arbor, in September, when the leaves start to fall. You can feel Glen Arbor start to take a deep breath. Everybody’s gone. And, then the magic of Glen Arbor comes forth during that time. If you only stay here in the summer, you never see the magic. I’ve written songs about the Manitou Islands, and the Sleeping Bear story. When my son Ian graduated from high school, I wrote a song about him, but it was about the way he skis, and climbs trees, the way he is in water. I don’t think I can ever separate myself from this place.

When you teach songwriting to your students, how do you distill it down?

We work on three different aspects of writing a song. One is the lyrics. The other is the chords. And the third one is the melody that lies in your voice. It’s like braiding together these three different abilities and talents. To be a really good songwriter, you have to be able to do all three of those things. Writing lyrics can be a very creative process. Coming up with a melody is tricky if you’re not a great singer, but that’s more intuitive. Coming up with the chord progression is more theoretical. You’ve got to have the chops on your instrument to do that. So, writing a song combines a lot of different skills and abilities into one thing, and then you have to be able to perform it.

What tools do you use to make and record thoughts that go into your work?

My phone. I’ve always got a list of thoughts and ideas on my phone. That can be written or recorded. If I’m playing around on the piano, and I come up with something I like, I always make sure I record it. In my mind I’m thinking, “Oh, I’ll never forget this,” but I never remember it at all. The software Sebelius is pretty important, and pencil and paper, too. I never write lyrics on the computer. I don’t really like computers. I’m not good at it. I don’t do it naturally. It doesn’t feel very creative to me at all. But I don’t think I could write for Manitou Winds without a computer. It’s a love-hate relationship, I guess.

What role does social media play in your practice?

None — except when Manitou Winds is going to have a concert. They’re publicized [on Facebook], snippets of our rehearsals are put up, which I think helps to get us a great audience. I don’t watch any YouTube videos, or take inspiration from other people or Tik Tok.

Another thing I’d like to say about the internet with music: For instance, I love Sarah Jaroz. A great, young musician who uses Spotify, and Instagram in such wonderful ways. She has promoted herself beautifully on line with class, and grace. I do think it can happen, but you have to sort through all the crap first to get to the good stuff.

We live in a time when we can all be consumers of music, but not as many people play and make music themselves. Your thoughts?

I feel concerned about that. In a couple different ways. First of all: Not as many people are making music. I think back to when I was in school, there were so many kids in the school band and orchestra program. I see fewer and fewer young people being really involved with learning musical instruments. It’s just so easy to plug into their technology. Practicing, as a young person, is hard. Nobody likes to practice when you’re distracted by video games, and social media. There are so many distractions now-a-days.

What is it about making one’s own music  — from blowing air through a tissue-paper covered comb to strumming a guitar — that’s good thing for humans?

I’ve read quite a bit about the difference between just listening to music, and feeling the music go into you. Playing an instrument lights up neurons in your brain that nothing else does. If you are a life-time musician, your brain actually develops physically different than somebody who is not. It’s like when your brain is in the zone, playing music is all consuming. Music takes you there, and it takes you there quickly through the rhythms, the melodies, the lyrics; the feeling of you’re using your own voice as an instrument; when you’re harmonizing — all those pieces fit together is pretty inspirational.

Making your own music is about being human, about tapping into your human-ness.

And connecting with others in a really deep and intimate way. Back to playing with Manitou Winds, the way that there’s the give-and-take, the absolute listening to the way somebody else is playing, and then trying to imitate or match that. Those are the subtleties that make groups really good, away and beyond hitting all the notes at the right time.

When you were growing up, did you know anyone who had a serious creative/musical practice?

Yes. My family. My grandfather [Bob Warnaar] was a composer.He wrote for big bands. He spent his whole life writing and arranging big band music, and has a good band of his own. So when Woody Herman and Duke Ellington came through town [Grand Haven/Muskegon area], it was always my grandfather’s band that they would hire to back up their main musicians. There were a lot of jazz people who came through Fruitport back in the day. There was a big pavilion that many of these jazz musicians performed at. It was right on the Grand River. People would come up in their boats for an evening of jazz and dancing. I have file cabinets of all of his big band music. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. It’s all handwritten, beautiful manuscript.

My father [Don Warnaar], his son, was a classical trumpet player who played in the West Shore Symphony for 30 years [Muskegon]. He was a band director. My mother [Gail Warnaar] was a double reed specialist who played double bassoon. She still runs a music business where she sells specialize music and reed-making equipment for double reed players. I came from a family of three girls. My older sister is a violinist. My younger sister teaches music, plays percussion, guitar, and sings.

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

For the horn: Doug Campbell, who was the professor at MSU. I met him at Interlochen one summer, and then ended up transferring to MSU to study with him. I loved the way he approached the horn, which was very gentle. He understood that I didn’t have blinders on, that I didn’t just want to study the horn. I always had a lot of different things happening in my life. He understood that, and wasn’t frustrated by it. My father was a very good brass player, and got me started thinking like a brass player.

On the guitar: I’ve gone to the John Lamb songwriting retreat in Harbor Springs. I’ve gone to that for a couple of years, and met some really neat songwriters. Another big inspiration is [Leelanau County musician and teacher] Pat Niemisto. Patrick is so versatile, and he gives the gift of music to so many people in this area. He’s so professional, and humble.

How do you nurture your creativity?

Playing in Manitou Winds, and the symphony.

[NOTE: Watch a short video here of Manitou Winds and The Benzie Area Symphony Orchestra performing Laura Hood’s composition Happy Feet.]

Performance is a fuel for your creativity?

Yes, but so is rehearsing with other people. I probably enjoy that more than performing. I don’t have to worry about being nervous. I can completely immerse in the moment, and not have to worry about an audience.

I’d imagine, with rehearsal, there’s opportunities to discover things that aren’t on the notated page.

Absolutely. And, to laugh with others, and try different things. There’s more creativity happening in rehearsal. By the time you’re performing something, there’s the moving forward, and the gift of giving your music. But it’s not a super creative thing.

So, we’re talking about process versus product.

Absolutely. It’s interesting. In an orchestra, it’s the conductor who is really being the most creative. We’re just following what he wants us to do, and using our knowledge of and skill with our instruments to put that forth. It’s not a woo-woo, creative process. It’s more technical, and intellectual.

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

There’s a lot more going on in the other direction.

What do you bring to teaching young students that comes out of your own practice?

I encourage a lot of free-flowing, creative, guitar playing in my classes, but I think I’m able to balance that. I want my students to know their scales, some music theory, so that they’re musicians beyond what you can learn on YouTube. I think a lot of that comes from my background as a musician. When I’m playing a concert, I try to get my students to come and listen, and really observe: How does a group play when there’s no conductor? I talk to them about what is proper rehearsal etiquette; How do you have a group of four people where they all have equal leadership in the group; how do you work together as a group? We work on that a lot. That all comes from my experience playing in an orchestra, or with Manitou Winds.

What’s your favorite tool?

My horn and my guitar.

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Read about Laura, and her composition First Flight here. And, listen to it here, and here.

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

 

 

Mark Mehaffey relocated to Leelanau County five years ago. He lives in a house that bumps up against the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore — a fitting locale: A large portion of Mark’s work focuses on the landscape, although like so many things in this artist’s life, Mark is a guy whose creative work refuses to be shoehorned into tidy boxes. He moves fluidly between representing the visible world, and working with not-so-representational subjects: marks, lines, scratches, color stories. His practice is less focused on “subjects” than it is on ideas, the “what-if” of them that can take one down a wide range of creative avenues. On Christmas Day this year, Mark will turn 72. “Inside my own head I’m still somewhere between 24 and 26,” he said. Also inside his head are more ideas than he can explore in a single lifetime, he added. It’s a good problem for a visual artist to have.This interview was conducted in October 2022 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured left: Mark Mehaffey

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What’s the medium in which you work. 

Mixed water media. Occasionally collage, but most of the time watercolor, gouache, and acrylic.

Do you consider yourself a painter?

I am a painter who uses watercolor, not a watercolorist.

That’s an interesting distinction. A “watercolorist” is what?

Somebody who relies on what gravity, paint, water, and paper will do all on its own accord.

Is watercolor just another technique/material?

Not just another material, but a material that’s available to me when that’s the best material for any given concept. Rather than allow the media or material to dictate to me what it does, I impose my will upon it.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I have Bachelor of Fine Arts degree with Honors [1973] from Michigan State University. And a teaching certificate for arts, crafts and psychology.

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

Technically, hardly at all. Psychologically, it was an affirmation that making art, thinking about the arts, staying in [arts-related] education was important.

Describe your studio/work space.

It’s somewhere in the vicinity of 300 or 400 square feet. It’s essentially the whole upstairs of this house. I had a contractor open up the attic space above the main bedroom, and then I took the whole space above the garage as a studio space. It has two sky lights, one window, and enough lighting to make it daylight at night. It’s adequate for what I need to do, maybe a little cramped for large work: I’m currently working on a 48” x 48” collage, and it’s not the same as my previous studio [in Williamston, Michigan, where he resided for 31 years], which was 500 square feet and vaulted ceilings, but it works.

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

I have a current motto based on the way I feel, and listen: Talk less, listen more. My interests, especially when it concerns painting, are broad. What I consider to be valid ideas and concepts for painting, equally broad. I explore lots of different roads, lots of different compartments, and if a tangent occurs to me, I take the time to follow the tangent because you never know where that might lead. If you saw the entire body of my work, and you didn’t know me, you’d probably think it was three or four different artists. Let us not even discuss “subject.” I really don’t approach [his work] as subject. I approach it as content: What is the idea behind the work, or elicits the work? That’s way more important than subject. Subject can be anything: meat, a tree, the sun, it can be sand dunes, right? It’s the idea that drives that work that’s more important. I take any subject and show you the effects of light — light, that’s the content.

Would you like to give an example of an idea you’ve tackled?

Let’s just take “meat” for example. My whole life revolves around my next meal. People who know me know I love to eat. Food is always paramount. Quite a few years ago, as my [late] wife Rosie and I were traveling the world — Europe, Asia, China specifically — and I needed to eat. Other people could avoid food that was too strange or tasted not the way they wanted it to taste. I avoided nothing. I became enamored with the idea of food as a messenger for what we are. I started a whole series of paintings — 12, huge, oversized transparent watercolors in the vicinity of 25” x 37” that visually describes what we eat, trying to make people think why. They range from a close-up of a meat counter, to  barbecued pig hocks, to Atomic FireBalls, the jaw breaker candy, and everything in between.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

An idea. A “what if?” Or, can I say something about this that is unique to the way I do things? Not something that has been said visually before. Or, can I make people think about something they probably should think about? Or, can I tilt the entire world in the direction it needs to be tilted?

How much pre-planning do you do in advance of beginning a new project or composition?

I have two separate approaches [dependent upon whether the work is representational or non-objective]. Let’s just go to the landscape, because of where we live. My house sits right in the middle of the [72,000 acre] Sleeping Bear Dunes Lakeshore. My side yard is part of the lakeshore. I can step out of my house, and be in the woods in about 10 steps. A lot of landscape forms appear in my work. By necessity, time being a factor, some of that’s based on photographic references. If I work from photographic references, then that photograph is distilled in a number of ways to simplify, and get to what I want to say. The photograph is taken with painting in mind. So when I bring the camera up, and look through the view finder, I’m already seeing a rectangular, picture space. That photograph is printed out, and distilled in my sketch book: Forms and shapes are eliminated; I get to the essence of what I really want to say. It’s simplified, and then I make a contour drawing of where I want the shapes to be, and then I — the artist — assign values [the lights and darks] to each of those shapes. Sometimes it’s based on the photograph. Often, it’s based on the way I think it should be rather than the way it is. Once I assign value, then I evaluate that value plan in my sketchbook. If I think it might make an interesting painting, then I might do the painting based on the plan in my sketch book, and I seldom revert to the photograph again.

About half of my work, I don’t start with a plan. I start with an idea. So I jump into the surface, maybe with mark making, maybe with scratchy brush strokes, maybe with a big, overall dominance of one color or value, and then I make the next mark based on that mark, and the next mark based on those two, and the next mark based on those three. It’s more of an intuitive approach, but it’s intuition based on 60-plus years of  painting.

This second way of working is not the route you take when you’re working representationally.

Occasionally, recognizable subject may enter into this work, but most of the time [it’s] non-objective — although I’ve been known to hide social commentary in some of this work, or political messages, or other ideas I’d like people to perceive or think about. Sometimes they’re pure design.

If they’re hidden, how does the viewer perceive them?

Sometimes the viewer will pick up on the hidden messages. Those people who know my work will often look for them, and sometimes they don’t, and I don’t care one way or another because I’m the one getting a chuckle out of it.

You specifically referred to your photographs as “reference.” That indicates that your photographs are another way of gathering information; you’re not taking dictation from the photograph.

The last time I looked, there’s about 57,000 photographs on [his computer’s hard drive]. And, then I have a couple external hard drives that are also full. Each of those photographs was taken for a specific reason at that time. Sometimes it was the effects of light. Sometimes it was how shapes are put together. Sometimes it was the dramatic color or mood. That concept recurs to me as I look at those photographs. Once I have the idea that drives what I want to say visually, then I can expound on that idea — and it’s better for me if I can explore that idea in a smaller sketch book before I attack a painting. I made some decisions, prior to beginning a painting, that are very helpful.

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

Yes I do. My studio’s a trash pit right now. I took some small collages, and did some more, and now I’m blowing these up into 48” x 48”, 40” x 40”, and 48” x 60” giant collages that mimic the 6” x 6” and 6” x 8” collages. That’s been great fun. In addition to that, I’ve just ordered eight, 20” x 20” panels because I have an idea for a landscape series I want to execute in acrylic. Also, laying [in his studio], are five, totally nonobjective paintings that are transparent watercolor and gouache, and I go from one project to the next to the next based on what captures me when I walk in, or what’s in my head when I wake up in the morning.

Do you work in a series?

I do. And the series continues in my head for years, and years, and years. We’ll go back to the food series. That’s been ongoing for 13 years, and I only do two a year. My nonobjective work, think totally abstract — the two terms have become interchangeable recently — that’s pure design. That’s an ongoing project. I usually work on those paintings — eight, 10, 12 paintings at a time. They all get laid out on my two drafting tables, my two work tables, and the floor, and I cycle from one painting to the next, and the next. Eventually one or two might reach some sort of conclusion, and they get separated out, all the rest go back in the flat file until I feel like doing that again.

Clarify the distinctions between “abstract” and “nonobjective.”

Abstract implies that something has been abstracted. This is sometimes based on a recognizable image. Depending on how much the artist distorts – abstracts — this image, it may or may not be recognizable. Once that occurs it pushes into nonobjective (no subject) territory: [There is] no object. My work wanders back and forth, over and around this line. To most people these days, abstract has become the term that covers both.

The purpose of going back and forth between works is that you’ve found another idea to work on in the series to continue the idea forward — true or false?

Yes. It sits there in the small part of my brain, in the background, and will eventually go, Oooh! I can paint this. I can make a series that will make people think about food, and what we eat, and why we eat food. 

What’s your favorite tool?

Brushes. Counting brushes dedicated for watercolor and gouache, and brushes dedicated for acrylic, and brushes dedicated to be abused, the last time I counted it was pushing 400. How many do I actually use? The same seven or eight.

Then, someone might ask why you have so many? 

Every now and again, a specific brush will bring up a past idea, or elicit a future idea, and the what-if happens: What if I did this with this brush instead of that brush? Or, what if I held the brush this way instead of that way? Or, what if I were very delicate with this brush instead of heavy handed? I like brushstrokes, mark making with brushes.

This collection of brushes goes back how far?

To the beginning of time. They probably go back to my late teens, early 20s. I’m hard on brushes. They’re a tool. Just like a computer is a tool. A hammer is tool. A pencil is a tool. They allow you to accomplish what you need to accomplish. Eventually, if you use the tools, you wear out the tools. Very, very old brushes have a tendency to go under the sink as glue brushes. Eventually glue brushes fall apart, and need to be trashed, and then other brushes take their place. It’s a constant recycling of brushes and uses.

Do you use a sketchbook?

Yes. I use a white page, drawing paper, 5 1/2” x 8” sketchbook because it’s easy to carry around and work out of. My idea drawings in the sketchbook are small — 3 1/2” x 4 1/2, or 5”. They don’t take that long, and I can decide if this is [an idea] worth painting by seeing it. Once a sketchbook is finished, it goes on the shelf, but I do take it to a printer, and have a booklet made of my sketchbook. I blow it up a little bit so they’re easily seen, and print and bind a copy of my sketchbook. That way, when I travel and teach, or want to share with somebody, I can pull out that book, and thumb through it, and not smudge the pencil.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

I was 10 or 11 years old. Psychologists have studied what makes people an artist, and one of the ways is this flash moment. So, when I was 10, I was hanging out with this friend of mine. We walked through his house — his dad was an artist — and on this big drafting table was a watercolor painting in progress, and all of his paints laid out, and brushes in containers, and paintings above him, and I just stopped dead, and was mesmerized by everything that was going on there. Visually. I vowed at that moment I would continue to figure that out. I got for Christmas that year, a little Prang set of watercolors, and I started with that and never stopped. The next Christmas I got the [Prang set with] 16 colors, including the black and white, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. For years, I’d sit in my room, and try to match the colors in my room — match the wall color, the book bindings, the wood work. I’d go out into the middle of the street, and try to paint the street in perspective to figure out how that worked. A couple years later, somebody told me there were actually books on perspective. All that occurred as a kid for me. Learning on my own, a lot of what I did because I just made watercolor do what I needed it to do, held me in good stead in later years.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Less now than it used to, although I’m still “on” both Facebook, and Instagram. I think Instagram makes more sense for visual artists — it’s shorter, to the point, and more visual.  As I age I’m less into posting on social media as I am getting to work in my studio. [Social media] is a way to sell paintings, and I have sold paintings on Facebook and Instagram. It’s not my major focus, if it ever was. I prefer to deal with real people in brick and mortar galleries.

What’s its influence on the work you make?

I make what I make, and let the chips fall where they may. I paint for myself. I do what I do, and go to the next do-what-I-do.

What’s social media’s influence on how you let the world know about the work you make?

Less these days. I’ve come back as a supporter. I have a lot of friends that are deep into marketing on social media — by necessity. Some of us need to sell work to pay our bills, or to afford our habit. And, so, I’m fully supportive of their efforts. Do I need [to use social media for marketing]? Probably not. Most of the work I make goes to the five galleries [that represent him]. They do a good job of marketing, and take that off of my shoulders.

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

Don’t you wish visual artists ran the world? I’ve found that creative people seem to be a lot more accepting of different, and divergent ideas, and a lot more open to the flow of both ideas and discussion of those ideas. Some folks dig their heels in because that’s the way it has always been — even if the research indicated that a change would make it better, they still want to stay stuck in the past. Creative people, and artists, are a little more open to change.

So, is the answer to the question of the visual artist’s role in the world that of “changemaker”?

Often we deal with what could be, rather than what is or what has been. It’s the what-could-be, and the always looking forward that artists seem to be more aware of than non-artists.

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

The woods. I grew up in the woods. At age of five I was let loose on two square miles of Northern Michigan woods with a trout stream that ran right through it. When you let a five-year-old loose on that kind of expanse, results can be profound and very interesting. I learned to find my way in the woods. I learned all of the animals of the woods. I learned what you need to do to see in the woods. So, I continue to spend time in the woods. Since I live in the middle of the Sleeping Bear Lakeshore, what I do is drive, park, and hike right into the woods off-trail, and then go, and go, and go, and go. With my visual memory, I can remember that hike forever.

When you’re walking in the woods, is it fair to say you’re not only doing it for your soul, but you’re also taking things in visually that get catalogued for future use?

I see paintings. I see them in terms of shape, color, value, texture, and how I might manipulate all those into an interesting painting. We all carry cameras now, in the form of a cell phone. I carry a point-and-shoot with good capabilities. If I see a “painting,” I might snap a photograph of it. That’s why there’s 30,000-plus images on my cell phone.

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

Hugely. I prefer late fall and winter because of the lack of people. It becomes a matter of simplicity and complexity. In my head, I prefer simplicity, so the starkness of winter feeds that simplicity. I lean more and more, even in plein air painting, toward painting in the winter for the simplified landscape form. Complexity enters into it also, especially when we’re dealing with this riot of glorious, fall color, and the myriad shapes in the woods. I was sitting in the woods last night, with the light shining through, and staring into the woods. A painting of that complexity would take lots of hours to include it all.

Is the work you create a reflection of this place?

Yes. Specifically, most of my landscapes are based on where I live, and the surrounding area. There’s a lot of interesting farm land between Empire, and Traverse City, and a lot that is interesting beside the lakeshore, and a lot of lakes that need to be fished. You add the rivers, and the dunes, and everything on top of that: I’m going to need three lifetimes to incorporate all the forms, and shapes I see daily.

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

Remember my earlier story about flash beginnings? That gentleman was middle age at the time when I walked through [his home]. Years, and years later, we had a show together. So, I was in my mid-20s, and he was probably 50, 60 at the time. Because of that beginning, he and I have talked through the years. We decided to have a show together. It was a lot of fun, and made the circle come round. His name was Pat McCarthy.

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

My wife Rosie. First and last critic, confidant, marketer, and partner. We lost Rosie to metastatic lung cancer [in June 2022]. It was devastating.  Rosie was the biggest influence. I’m learning life alone, let’s put it that way. [Mark and Rosie were married for 51 years at the time of her death.]

Who’s the critic, confidant, and marketer now?

That is a huge hole. To be determined. Probably me. It’s going to be a hybrid. I don’t have the time to do all of that. That’s part of the reason my brick-and-mortar galleries have become so important. They’ve taken over a lot of the role of marketing. I paint, and paint, and paint, and feed them. Some of the work is wildly popular. Some of it, not so much. My job is to create. They do the marketing. All of the owners/directors of the galleries that represent me: I’m proud to call them friend.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice? In this case, I’m differentiating between showing work in a sales gallery, and showing work at a nonprofit arts center.

If I have work that fits a curated exhibit, I often will put a piece in the show. I will, fairly often, enter pieces in juried exhibits. I do less of that than I used to — it was a promotional tool for me. It worked. Got me lots of teaching jobs, accolades, and that kind of thing. I pick three or four large water-media shows, and most of the time enter. My work is more internal these days, as I’ve gotten older, and the the only person I feel like I need to please is me.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

So here’s the deal: work. Work begets more work. I don’t wait around for inspiration. I have way more ideas than I could ever get to in this lifetime. Those ideas are because I work. I get up, I do what needs to be done around the house, and then I go to work. Sometimes I hit the studio at 8 am. Sometimes I hit the studio at 6 am. Sometimes I hit the studio at 1 pm after lunch, and I work. And then the next day, I work some more. I occasionally take the weekend off — for visitors, or to go plein air painting. Basically, I’m in the studio working. When you’re working, you get ideas. You’re working on this idea, and while you’re working another idea may occur to you, and so, you should follow that idea. And while you’re working, another idea will occur to you. It’s a reoccurring thing. But to get there, you need to get to work. On the days I don’t feel like it, I go to work anyway.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s over-active brain, thought process. It’s constantly making connections in my head, trying to link an idea with a process. Some ideas are better said one way than another. Do I make mistakes? Yes. Lots of mistakes. Mistakes can lead to breakthroughs, to a different avenue to say what you wanted to say. It’s a constant firing of synapses. Three lifetimes might do it for me. Maybe four. One, no.

I want to talk about your former day job, which was teaching art in the public schools. You taught art in the public schools — from elementary to high school — for nearly 30 years, in the Lansing area. Talk about the challenges that teaching presented to your own studio practice.

I retired 20-some years ago, and I didn’t really retire. I just went right into teaching water media workshops for adults for private and public organizations. I just taught my last travel workshops. Now I’m retiring from that job as well. Traveling isn’t as much fun as it used to be. Even though they pay well, and it’s fun to share, as I get further into my older years I feel more like I need to paint, and walk in the woods [versus] travel, and teach. Will I continue to teach? Yes. I have enough [local] teaching opportunities to keep me going.

While you were teaching in public school, did that drain any of the creative energy you had for doing your own work in your studio?

Especially when I taught in the public school, it was my goal to do a good job. Some days were totally exhausting. To do a good job, it took a lot of energy, so there were times where I didn’t have the energy to paint evenings. I’d paint on the weekends, or call in sick, and paint all day. When summer arrived, I only took one day off. School ended. The next day of summer I took that day to rest, relax, and the next day I went straight to the studio and put 8-to-12 hours in, all summer long for 30 years. It’s that work-ethic thing. Growing up, I can remember my dad saying to me, No matter what you do, be sure you work hard at it.

How did the work of your day job cross-pollinate with the work you did in your studio?

Especially as a high school art teacher, you have to be able to teach all of it. Printmaking, painting in all media, jewelry making, metalsmithing, ceramics, I had to be able to do all of that to be able to teach it. Am I good at all that? Not really. Teaching during the day, against vast expanses of concept, processes, and media, informed what I do visually. I’m still there, but it’s all painting, collage, and two-dimensional now. What I do, and the ideas I have, are broad — just like in the teaching days. It informed. I guess it still does.

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Read more about Mark Mehaffey here.

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