Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

 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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nancy Crisp, 81, taught visual art to all ages, and abilities, in public school and private institutions, from the 1960s until 2003. Her own visual art education began in junior high, guided by a teacher who grounded her in the fundamentals. Now, her painting practice unfolds in a home studio she shares with her husband, a ping pong table, and more. Regardless of the other roles the studio plays, it’s the exact, right place to consider what’s developing on the canvas. “A lot of painting time is thinking time,” she said.

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

Left: Nancy Crisp

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Describe the medium in which you work.

In the last, few years of painting, it’s acrylic. I’m a big acrylic fan. It’s my paint of choice, and I love it. Occasionally I mix it with oil-on-top, but rarely. And, sometimes I [add] collage to acrylic [paintings], which is very adaptable to that.

What is it about acrylic that speaks to you?

When I went to college, it was just at the cusp of acrylic coming in. It’s the drying time: I love [acrylic’s] expediency. I can put paint on. I can cover it up quickly, so it’s easy to layer. Layering is my thing.

Tell me about your formal training in visual art.

I started at a college out East, and took classes there but realized they were limited. I switched to [the University of Michigan], and loved the art department. I got my MA there, in painting and sculpture [1964].

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

I had more training in high school than I did at the university. In my graduate program, we were totally on our own. I saw my graduate teacher once a semester — he’d come in, and we’d talk about everything but painting. When I graduated, I felt I needed to self-teach a lot — I did a lot of reading. I had a fantastic art teacher [in both junior high and high school, in Midland, Michigan]. Charles Breed went with us from seventh grade through 12th. The greatest gift that he gave [his students] was a real sense of composition. Charles included the elements of design (point, line, shape, volume and space) as well as the principles (center of interest, balance, focal point, rhythm, contrast and unity) in all our projects in all mediums.We didn’t do any painting in his class, but we worked with all kinds of other materials.

When I was in grad school, I loved being there. If somebody would have footed the bill, I would have stayed there for the rest of my life as a student. I think what happened in graduate school is — I’m a fairly shy person, and I did not do what a graduate student should do: They’re the ones who should go out seeking the knowledge, but I expected [instructors] to bring it to me. I didn’t ask questions.

Describe your studio/work space.

My work space is huge. We live in a very strange building that was built as a chicken coop. They sold eggs out of it. There were about 5,000 chickens at one point. It’s 185 feet long. The front third [of the building] is our living area. There is a 35 foot x 35 foot studio area that we [Nancy, and her husband, Howard] share. It was supposed to be mine.

How does your studio space facilitate your work?

I was able to go larger [4 feet x 6 feet — up from, for instance, 12 inches x 24 inches], which I wouldn’t have been able to do. I love that I can walk through the door, and I’m in my studio. That makes a lot of difference. I can pop in, do a lot of thinking, or maybe put a few brushstrokes on a canvas, and then pop back out [into their living space].

Does it ever feel, with your studio space being in such close, physical proximity, that your studio is breathing down your neck, and you can’t get away from it?

I’ve never had that feeling. We do our recycling in the studio. We play ping pong in the studio. It’s used for other things. And whatever I go in there for, I’m studying the paintings while I’m doing something else. It gives me more think-time on them.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

That always changes. I went through a long period of painting abstractly — using the paint, and seeing where the paint took me, and then would develop a composition from that without a theme in mind. Now I seem to have issues I want to talk about in the painting, like the environment, places I’ve been, or experiences.

What prompts a change in your focus?

That could be anything. I don’t have a straight line in my development. It depends upon whatever is in my visual and emotional life.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

I rarely work from a drawing. I’m all over the place. I don’t have a method I go to to develop a painting. It’s pretty much all emotional response, not an intellectual delving-into.

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

I often work on two paintings at a time just so I can use up leftover paint. It’s always good to have something new on the horizon. If one painting isn’t working well, I can switch to another. A lot of painting time is thinking time. That’s almost as important as the painting time, being aware of what’s going on and taking time to figure out where I’m going — because I usually don’t know until I get there.

What’s your favorite tool?

All my brushes. I don’t paint with a palette knife. All my good-sized brushes from my U of M days are there, and I’m still working with them.

Do you use a sketchbook, or a work journal?

Sometimes I do sketches, and sometimes I do paintings from the sketches. Swimming In The Heat started out to be a simple line sketch of the beach and the hills. But as I worked on it, I began thinking about the environment, and how much I loved any view of Lake Michigan and the shoreline and hills, and all of a sudden, my sketch turned into a cautionary tale about heat. Usually if I work from a sketch, it’s a starting point. But I don’t usually work from a sketch. I usually start out with paint.

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

I don’t know if I ever consciously made that decision. I was fortunate to have a mom who was an artist, too. She started us painting before I had memory. I don’t think there was ever a point when it wasn’t part of my life. It was always an activity that was valued in my household.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Probably none.

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

I think the visual artist’s role in the world is to be as true to themselves as they can be, and find their own voice. Whatever is personal is often universal.

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

Before the 2016 presidential election, I reacted very strongly, and my paintings were about that.

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

By looking out the window right now, I see buds starting. We go through all the seasons. We’re not urban. We’re in this beautiful country. It — the landscape — has to influence us. It would be hard not to. When I’m out in nature, or walking the streets, I’m always seeing line, texture, color. When I walk with somebody else, they have to listen to me as I talk about it.

Did you know any practicing studio artists when you were growing up?

My mom, and then my beloved art teacher, Charles Breed. He was a huge influence. He worked in a studio in Midland, and it was open to artists. It was a communal thing, so we were able to see him work, be with him while he was working. There was a core group of student who followed him through junior high and high school. We had dinner with him. We went to his cabin and studio on Long Lake [in Traverse City]. It was a warm and inclusive experience.

Lots of time we don’t have access to adults who can model the work we want to do. If you want to be a dentist, it’s fairly easy to find a practicing dentist from whom you can learn what a dentist does. In the visual arts: not so much.

I think that’s true. We mostly work in our private spaces. Having those few years where there are other artists coming into [the Midland studio spaces] was a rare opportunity. Now I realize I had that. Most of the time, creating is very lonely. You’re in a studio by yourself.

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

I have friends, and I have my husband who’s number one. He’s very honest with his feedback.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

That’s been a changing role. It’s hard in this area. There was a time when there was a thriving art community, and we had [the Traverse City] arts council. There were frequent opportunities to exhibit. [But, she said, the exhibition opportunities in local galleries are harder to find.]  

Why do you want to exhibit your work?

At some point one wants to have other people see it. We do it because we want to share it, and get response. It’s part of our identity. If no one sees it, how do we carry that identity if it’s only us [seeing our own work]?

There are many exhibition opportunities beyond Northern Michigan. Talk about how you feel about trying to find a place to exhibit outside your community.

There are lots of opportunities, which require an exceeding amount of work — filling out the forms, and then you have to ship your things, which involves expense and time taken away from other things you want to do. You aren’t guaranteed that after you’ve gone through the expense of applying that your work will be accepted. It needs to be sent back, or you have to go down and bring it back. I’m down to exhibiting locally. That’s what I spent my energy on.

You hit on a lot of things that illustrate that a studio practice isn’t all glamor — the yeoman work of applying, and packaging, and shipping.

No. It’s not.

How do you nurture and fuel your creativity?

I’m fortunate to be married to an artist. We both respond to the visual world. We’re both, often, working in the studio, and will react to each other’s work. That’s just part of what’s happening in this household. Through the years, many of our friends are also in the art world. I’ve done a few workshops in the past.

When you were teaching, what challenges did teaching present to you practicing your own work?

The big challenge was time. Teaching was very time consuming. My last 15 years were in the public schools. During that nine-month period, my days started pretty early, and I usually didn’t get home until 6 pm. There wasn’t really time to do art. In summer, I felt I had the opportunity to do the most work. Now, I have day after day after day to go into the studio. I may not paint every day, but I at least think every day.

How did your teaching activities cross pollinate with your studio activities?

Part of my mind was always [focused] on teaching art, on line and color and composition and shape, and working with different materials, and responding to what was happening with the children, and being encouraging. I always felt like I was thinking of art, and it paid off when I went into the studio. I didn’t feel like it was taking away from my making of art.

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

“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.