Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

Traverse City artist Mary Fortuna, 66, draws on a number of inner resources to fuel her creative work — chief among which might be a self-identified weirdness. Over the years she has found teachers who encouraged, and helped her cultivate and fully embrace it. Today, Mary translates weirdness into an array of soft sculpture beasts, insects, demons, and other fiber works. “I’ve always been drawn to the weird,” she said. Her beasts “have a life of their own. They’re not asking me permission to do what they need to do. It’s my job to give them the arms or legs they need to get it done.” This interview was conducted in September 2022 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured left: Mary Fortuna in 2013. Photo/Jeff Cancelosi

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On your website you describe your work, e.g. what you make in your studio, this way: “Sculpture, dolls, puppets, paintings, strange objects and other weirdness.”

That pretty accurately describes it. A lot of textiles, currently. Soft sculpture. I’m currently obsessed with insects.

[NOTE: Some of Mary’s current insect obsession is on display in the GAAC’s Small Works exhibit, November 4 – December 15.] 

Why are you obsessed with insects?

I spend a lot of time in my garden in the summer, and I just observe them. Right now, [her obsession is with] grasshoppers. I should be making a grasshopper. They’re all over. And, they’re so important. They drive life in nature. They are a critical element. I don’t kill spiders. I love spiders. I just let them do what they need to do.

There was a 2015 Detroit News article about you, specifically about your soft sculpture dolls. Vince Carducci [editor of the Motown Review of Art and a dean at the College for Creative Studies] was interviewed, and I think he gets at an important thing. He said, “Dolls are supposed to be girly … But some of Mary’s are a little vicious. There’s something almost kinky about them — like fetish items.” When people hear the word “doll” then it’s all over. They think of something other than what you make.

I’ve always been drawn to the weird, the anomalous, the scary. I love Vince’s word “vicious.” That completely nails it. Vince knows me as well as anybody in Detroit does. I made dolls when I was a kid. I made puppets and marionettes. I read books about dolls. My sister and I loved the Rumer Godden books about the doll’s house, about Miss Happiness, Miss Flower, and Little Plum. Pinocchio was one of my favorite books when I was a kid. The puppet that comes to life is an image I always loved. But I like things a little bit scary, a little bit threatening, a little bit menacing. I’m not a fan of all-out, bloody, dripping horror, but I like some teeth, and claws, and things.  A little bit on the edge of uneasiness, uncanniness, and strangeness.

Any particular reason?

I’ve just always been drawn to it. This is going to sound weird: I can watch endless murder mysteries and serial-killer movies, but I don’t like real vivid, gory horror. I like things that are more psychologically scary. Dolls have always had a strangeness. Even as they’re beautiful, and cute, and kids play with them, they always have an odd presence — as if they could come to life, or have thoughts of their own, or they could be doing things you don’t know about when you’re not in the room.

In the work you make, there’s an acknowledgement that these little beasties could be real. That sounds like the thing that informs your making of these objects.

That’s the synthesis. They have a life of their own. They’re not asking me permission to do what they need to do. It’s my job to give them the arms or legs they need to get it done.

What draws you to the medium in which you work?

I was lucky to have [two sisters] older than me, and my mom, who were all very handy. My sister and I also had a pair of friends who were also the same ages. We’d get together in the summer, and make marionettes. Do little plays with them. My interest in them was the making of them. I didn’t have a ton of toys. I had a few dolls, but much richer than that was to have a box full of any random stuff. My mom would throw things in a box, and hand it to me. It would be paper, and tape, and crayons, and corks, and weird little objects.

You work primarily in textiles, fabric and fiber. What draws you to that media?

I love the feel of fabrics in my hands. This summer, I was playing with a lot of velvet. It’s just the way it feels. You can influence [fabric’s] shape so readily and easily. You don’t need a lot of big, heavy equipment. I can sit in a chair, and turn a flat piece of fabric into any kind of a form. I can add appendages. I can tuck things in, and tighten them. There aren’t many limitations. I probably couldn’t make something you could cut with out of fabric, but offhand, that’s about the only thing I can imagine not being able to do

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I did a [Bachelor of Fine Arts] at Wayne State University [graduated in 1992]. I was a non-traditional student. I was 35 at the time, and the rest of the students were in their 20s. I’m kind of the no-bullshit person: Get out of my way, I’ve got work to do. Stop all this talking.

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

It gave me the discipline to generate an idea, and explore different ways to approach it; take a path and follow it, and see where it went; then take another path and follow that. I really learn how to develop ideas, and not think the first thing you think of is the greatest idea. I was observing the way my teachers worked, as much as I was other students. They gave me the ability to work out possibilities for something before you decide you’re done with an idea. That’s key to how I work. I also learned that any idea can be a good idea if you push it enough. There’s nothing that’s not valid fodder, or a source of inspiration. It can be anything.

Describe your studio/work space.

Catastrophic, right now. I have one room. I call it The Wet Studio. I used to call it the Messy Studio. I have one room in my small home where I do painting, papier mache, wet sculpting. Almost the rest of my home — apart from the kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom — used to be a dining room/office situation. Now, it’s shelves with bins of fabric, and a table with my sewing machines, and beads, and buttons, and notions, and tools. It’s all over, all the time, but I do go back and organize it. I’m surrounded by it. I can take 10 steps from where my fabric is stored, and sit down in a chair, and get to work.

It sounds like there’s no separation between your domestic space, and your creative space. Is that intentional?

Yes. It suits me to work this way. Any place I’ve lived in, I could have tried to keep things separate, but I can’t stop my work from encroaching. It just has to bleed into wherever I am. And, I just love working this way.

On your website, you describe the themes and ideas on which you focus in your work. You wrote:

“My visual vocabulary draws from world mythology, the spirit world as conceived by people everywhere, and the infinite variety of life forms that make up the natural and supernatural worlds.”

That gets to the heart of it. I take on an obsession for a while, and chew on it until I need to set it aside, so I can play around with [another idea]. Currently, my focus is 3D soft sculptures of insects and animals. I love magical and mystical symbols, amulets, talismans. Snakes are huge — an image of a snake has been important to every culture, and every spiritual practice throughout the world for as long as we have populated the world. There’s something about a snake that really gets into who human beings are, and how we behave. They’re revered, and feared. They’re holy. They have so many multiple meanings. And, it’s really fun to draw a snake. I have dreams about snakes.

What prompts the beginning of a project?

So many things. It could be an image I run across at random, whether I’m online, or reading, or watching a movie. There could be an image that pops up. Recently, I’m waking up in the morning, and kind of half asleep, and images are drifting into my head. Something will settle, and I’ll start to develop it visually in my head, and I have to get making at it as soon as I can.

Is it tiring, always being on alert for any inspiration that might come across your brain pan?

It could be tiring or overwhelming, but — somehow — I’ve figured out how to manage that for myself. A lot of times it’s by ignoring parts of the world I’m not interested in. I sometimes don’t even see something that wants to intrude. It could be piles of dishes or laundry. There are so many things that I’d rather be doing other than sorting baskets of laundry. I just don’t care.

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

Very often. I usually have a couple things going on. I make a part, leave it aside, and muddle on it for a little while, then I’ll go back and pick it up somehow.

Do you work in a series?

Very often. It’s a way of getting an idea to its completion. One piece will leave to the next idea, and the next idea, and the next idea. They’ll have some connection, more or less tenuous or concrete. I’ve learned to get out of my own way, and let things roll.

What’s your favorite tool?

My hands. And, my tiny, super-sharp scissors. My really good, sharp fabric scissors: Don’t ever touch them; if you use them to cut paper I will cause damage. I have one particular little needle I’ve been using for weeks now. It’s just the right thing, and if I lose it I’m going to be a real mess. I probably have 3,000 needles in this house, but this particular needle is the one that I need right now. My tools are as much of the fun to me anything else. My dad was a tool guy. He had this great workshop, and I used to sit and watch him working. He instilled in me a reverence for tools, and for the right tool for the job.

What tool do you use to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I don’t really do much of that. If I have an idea that has a lot of components to it, I might do preliminary sketching. I tend not to be much of an archivist. I don’t consider that stuff precious. I’m more likely to do a loose drawing, transfer that to the paper I use to make patterns on fabric. I’ll hang onto those templates that I make, but I like things to be really immediate. Spending time making preparatory drawings — that almost sucks the life out of it before I’ve even started. [Making] is a very spontaneous process for me. I just want to cutting and sewing as quickly as I can.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

It goes back to both of my parents. Both were extremely handy. Dad could make or repair anything. I have lots of memories of my mom doing tole painting. She, also, was a very accomplished watercolor painter. She would make us paper dolls. She’d draw these beautiful, Vogue sketches of paper dolls, and then show us how to make dresses for them. [Making by hand is important] because I can rely on myself. And, I love the way things feel in my hand. Apart from gathering some images, I use my computer [as a resource]. I don’t need external machines of any kind. I might sit at the sewing machine to put some basic parts together, but it’s the sitting down and watching the parts come together. There’s power in my autonomy that is really important to me. I could do this, if I needed to, sitting on a rock in the woods, and I could make something. All that’s required is myself, and I like that.

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

Don’t get me started. I think our reliance on buying cheap disposable garbage has destroyed the soul of our culture. It’s one of the most insidious evils in the world: disposable consumerism. If mountains of plastic in the oceans aren’t enough to make you want to go back and sew with pine needles and birch bark, I don’t know what is. It has affected us emotionally and psychologically in really bad ways to have lost this connection to what we can do for ourselves with the things we already find around us. It’s important to get as much life as possible out of anything that has already been produced. It’s right at the heart about what I believe about the world, and what I was taught as a kid. My dad never threw out anything. I inherited his jars of nuts and bolts and screws. It’s so vital to myself that I can’t separate it from what I am, and what I believe.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

The decision to attend Wayne State, and go after the BFA had everything to do with that. I was exposed to serious, professional, practicing, exhibiting artists in a way that I hadn’t been before. I developed relationships with these people, and was showed a pathway. Even though I didn’t always see it modeled at Wayne, or at other schools, I gave myself the idea that anything I wanted to pick up, I could turn it into something valid. Jim Nawara, who was a phenomenal painter at Wayne, told us in our painting class, if we are still making anything — not even exhibiting — 10 years out of school, we could consider ourselves successful artists. That was tremendously helpful to me. I go back to that if I have doubts about the weirdness or the silliness of what I make.

What role does social media play in your practice?

It’s a great tool for staying in touch with a couple of my friends who are very creative [through Facebook and Instagram]. We message, and trade images back and forth. It’s a way to make connections when I’m separated physically from friends. I’m up North, and a lot of them are downstate. I left a lot of people behind when I moved up here [from Detroit in 2016].

What’s social media’s influence on the work you make?

Randomly coming across images that interest me can spark a whole body of work. Just seeing some random thing can get a whole chain of ideas going.

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

I find it a simple and convenient way to — if I have a show coming up, I can post images of the work that will be in it. I can share information about when something’s going on, events. If people use this tool fruitfully, it’s a great way to get things happening. It’s so much easier than it used to be. You used to have to design an invitation and write a press release, and lick envelopes, and stuff them with letters and press releases, and photograph slides. It just so much simpler now. You used to need to have a three-week deadline to get an image into somebody’s hand so they could start generating something.

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

I see it as vital as farmers and fishermen. It’s important for everyone in the world to have the ability and means to decide what their voice is going to be as a human being, and how they will contribute to the world. It’s about contributing and adding to the world as it exists, instead of just constantly consuming. The critical thing is to develop your own voice and authentically present it to the world, whatever the outcome may be. It’s a big trend in recent years to do social engagement in your art practice. To me, that is not something that feels comfortable. I’m interested in letting ideas about current events, or the state of the world [into her work], but I don’t listen to people standing on soap boxes, and I’m very uncomfortable standing on a soap box myself. I don’t feel like I have the most-perfect, correct solution to any issue. There always can be things I haven’t thoughts of, so I tend not to make strong pronouncements.

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

Everything that’s around me. The natural world, history, stories, mythology all of that finds its way in. Even watching the news, and being aware state of the world —that gets in there, and has a way of influencing or coloring what you do.

You lived in Detroit for decades, then moved to Northern Michigan in 2016. How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

I live much more slowly up here. I made a very conscious decision to slow down, and step back from extraneous activities that weren’t the things I wanted to do. I continue to work — full-time for a couple years, but now I’m semi-retired [from Oryana Food Cooperative]. The easy access to the woods, and beaches in particular, has a lot of influence. It has driven me to use my observation of the natural world as my biggest source of inspiration. Having a place to have a little garden is everything to me. The quieter pace has a big impact on my life.

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

My dad was a film producer both in the army and for Jam Handy, which was a huge marketing, PR, and advertising firm in Detroit. During [World War II, her father] got to know some animators from Disney, and that was his real interest. There was a guy from Disney named Ray Cavallero, who was in Detroit. One day, my dad took us to his studio, and this guy became my instant hero. This is an artist. This is how an artist lives. He was making stuff. He supports himself.  He even let me sit at his drafting table, and hold a pencil.

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

First and foremost, Peter Williams, who was a painting instructor at Wayne State. He was a towering figure, both physically, and — for me — in every way. He detected weirdness in me, and encouraged it. There was an early bond and friendship. I would tell him, years after I was out of school, his was the voice I would hear in my head when I was doubting what I was doing, or I couldn’t figure out a creative solution to a problem. He was always the one who would tell me to just-knock-it-off, and work harder, and get busy, and look again, and find a way to do it.

Another person was Gilda Snowden. She studied painting at Wayne, and she was a huge figure in Detroit. She taught painting at [the College For Creative Studies] for many years. She influenced almost any artist who came through Detroit. She was extremely generous with her time, and encouraging.

Jim Pallas  is an incredible artist — first, in Detroit, and now, in Oregon. He always pushed me to celebrate the weird in my work, and to bring it out in any way I could. Jim is a real free-thinker, and somewhat cantankerous, and sometimes gets himself in trouble with people, but that’s another thing I value — his willingness to authentically be who he is, as hard as he needs to. He continues to be a real friend, and a strong influence on how I think, and how I permit myself to get things done.

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

I have a couple of very close friends who are artists themselves, and they’re willing to give me a real, serious critique. If something’s not working, they will tell me. I value that honestly more than people who tell me,That’s so cool, that’s so great, keep going.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice?

It’s huge for me. I love getting it out there. I love having people see it. I like getting feedback on it. I get a little shy about being at openings, and having conversations in the moment. Sometimes, the opportunity to have a show, will get me going on a whole body of work, and I’ll create all new work just because I have the opportunity to do that.

In the last couple of years, I’ve done this thing where I’ll have a couple of friends in mind, and will throw out a loose idea/theme, throw out a proposal, and everybody gets busy doing their own work. We might critique each other’s work, but there’s no close shepherding of what everybody is doing. It’s: Everybody do your work, and it will come together, and be good because it was a good idea, and because you are interesting artists. I’ve had a couple of really great shows in the last year that were generated that way. I love that way to work: Have particular people in mind, find a place to show it, and then just get busy and do it.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I go outside, and take a good long walk. I walk on beach or in the woods — that’s why it’s so valuable for me to be here. I get out in the garden, and clean things up, and look at what’s growing. I cook something. I talk to a friend, or write a letter. I go to books full of images that I love. I will sometimes have fairly lengthy periods of needing to fill the well again. A lot of that comes from books, and just soaking in images.

What drives your impulse to make?

Being alive. I don’t know anything else. The sun, moon, stars, trees, flowers, bugs, animals, birds, fungus, woods, beach, sky, water, rivers, streams, lakes. Seeing turtles on a log. What doesn’t?

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Read more about Mary Fortuna here.

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

 

Blacksmith Scott Lankton [left] was “hooked on hot steel” the first time he worked with it. The Leelanau County artist, 66, went on to find a vocation in the forge, pounding metal into domestic objects of great beauty. Scott Lankton also found that this old art + craft form can be put to use in the pursuit of peace, and be a way of raising awareness about gun violence — as he raises the profile of his calling, who is a blacksmith, and how it is more than an historical craft form demonstrated in museum settings. This interview was conducted in July 2022. It was conducted by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I work iron and steel, but I’ve also worked in copper and bronze, in silver and gold, most metals really, but iron and steel my favorites. I’m a blacksmith. I do custom metalworking.

What draws you to blacksmithing and working with metal?

I started out in jewelry, working in gold and silver, but when I saw some guys working with hot steel, I was hooked. They let me try it, and I was hooked for life.

What was it about the hot steel that hooked you? 

It was the spontaneity. The fact you have to think ahead and work quickly, literally strike while the iron is hot. You have to have a plan in mind, but you also have to adapt quickly to changing circumstances.

Did you receive any formal training?

I got a BFA from Western Michigan University in jewelry and metalsmithing [1978].

Did you have any coursework in blacksmithing?

I was studying small metals — the tiny, shiny things, like gold or silver. But I started working in copper, making vessels, raised hollowware. And, some other students had a forge set up in one of the garages at one of the university buildings. I though it looked neat, that I could make bigger things. My teacher, [the late] Professor Bob Engstrom, encouraged me. 

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

I think that it did. There are many blacksmiths who’ve had a university education, and higher education, but many haven’t. Having an experience in art school taught me how to draw, it taught me how to see things better, how to think about art, doing critiques.

Describe your studio space.

My studio [Sleeping Bear Forge], which is my fourth studio, is big, well lit, well equipped, and lets me do just about anything I want to do with metal working. I wish I’d had it earlier in my career. It would have facilitated me to do more work. It’s warm in the winter, and many studios were not. For many years, it was either you work or you freeze.

What themes and ideas are the focus of your work?

Nature, by far, is really the biggest influence. I’ve always liked nature: the animals, the trees, the birds, the lake shore here is pretty inspirational because of its vastness. Nature has been the biggest thing to inspire and motivate me to make things. So much art is an imitation of nature. I’m no different.

You moved your life, and yourself, and your family to Northern Michigan from Ann Arbor.

It started in 2016. I bought property [in Leelanau County]. And built the studio first, and then the house.

Ann Arbor is a different place than Northern Michigan. It’s called the City of Trees, and in that respect, nature is a big part of living in Ann Arbor. But you said nature is the biggest influence in your creative life. So, how did working downstate differ from working in Northern Michigan?

Ann Arbor may be the City of Trees, but still a rat race. It’s a great town. I lived in the country a little ways out of town, so I was still living in nature even though I was near the city. But the whole feeling you have when you live in a place full of cars, rushing around, doing their business, it’s a completely different thing than living in a place where people are not rushing around, where nature is far more dominant than commerce. It’s a much more relaxed, and contemplative environment to work in.

What prompts the beginning of a project?

An idea is like a spark. You have to act right away, or it may go out. If you want to build that spark into a fire you have to do something with it. Sometimes I don’t have an idea,  but I’ll simply light a fire, start working on something, and ideas comes from the work itself. The process itself is full of ideas. The fire and the anvil and the hammer have been some of my greatest teachers. Just the experience of doing it.

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

That really depends. If I’m just making a small thing, very little. If I’m making something functional, like a hook for the wall, there really isn’t much planning. I might do a quick sketch in chalk on the table. I’ve done a lot of large architectural work. [For these projects] there are meetings, and discussions, and drawings, and renderings depending on the needs of the client to understand it. Truly, blacksmiths often do something called sketching in iron where you actually make a small piece, which will answer many of the questions. If a photograph or drawing is worth a thousand words, the object is worth a thousand pictures. So to actually put something in someone’s hand, and let them touch it and feel it and see it, and see what the colors are, it’s a completely different thing. I do some sketching, not much. I do it as necessary to communicate with the customer.

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

I usually have many projects going and underway, but I find that I work best, and can only really concentrate well, on one thing at a time. So, once a project has begun, that project will be worked on to completion — unless something else takes priority.

Do you work in a series?

Not usually. Most works are one-of-a-kind. A lot of my work has been functional in nature, stair railing and things like that. So, each one of those is unique, and it’s kind of a promise to the customer that we’re not repeating this design. This is your design. This is your piece. It’s not that we wouldn’t make anything that’s related or similar because I can’t help that. It’s still coming from the same source.

What’s your favorite tool?

A 1,000 gram hammer. It’s about 1.2 pounds, a typical cross pein, blacksmith forging hammer. I think it’s Swedish pattern. It’s a hammer I’m comfortable with. It’s a hammer I’ve done the majority of my work with. Blacksmiths have a lot of hammers. We have hammers like Imelda Marcos had shoes. We like to have hammers, but you’ll find one or two, or five or six are the favorites. Of those, I can usually pick one that would be the go-to hammer for most work.

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

Not really. It’s a great idea, and I wish I did sketch and draw more. It’s a a wonderful way to have ideas. Usually there’s not a shortage of ideas.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

The satisfaction. I feel best when I’m making something. I’m sure it’s tied up with a lot of things: work ethic, creativity, it’s pleasurable to see that I can make things. I feel best when I’m doing something, and that doing something is often making something.

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

It really does [remain valuable]. The satisfaction of working with one’s hands — it’s very much in concert with working with one’s brain. There’s a lot of high, mental functioning going on. There’s tremendous satisfaction for anyone doing anything with their hands. Whether it’s cooking or painting, humans are innately geared to [work with their hands]. An awful lot of people do wonderful, valuable important work in our society today, but there’s not much to show for it. There’s not much to see. It disappears down a memory hole, it goes into a computer, into a file, and they don’t get to see what they made. It’s not easy to show people what they made. With an artist, at the end of the day, whether it’s good or bad, you literally get to see the fruits of your labor. And, that’s a valuable thing. The satisfaction of knowing I did something today, and I know what it looks like, that’s valuable. People miss that often in life.

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

I started doing metalworking. I was lucky enough to get a job when I was 14 working at [Hodges Jewelry Store in Carrollton, Kentucky]. The people at this jewelry store taught me to size gold rings, to do engraving, to make things with my hands. When I was a kid, I was artistic. I was into drawing, sketching, and painting. I’d paint the horse. I’d paint the cat. The metalworking, the physicality of that, the direct working in the materials was attractive. I didn’t think about it too much. I went to college. I was going to study engineering like my father and my brothers. I went through a year of engineering school and said, “I don’t like this.” So, I started taking art classes. I transferred schools, to a school [from Ohio State University to Western Michigan University in 1974, graduating from [WMU with a BFA in 1978] where they had an a better art program, and got a degree in art: metalsmithing and jewelry. That’s where the blacksmithing came.

At that point, I was pretty much committed. This is what I’m going to do for a living. How I was going to do that, I didn’t know. Saying you’re going to do something can cause it to happen. Saying I’m going to move up north caused it to happen. I didn’t have a great plan for a career as a blacksmith. I didn’t know what it was going to be. What I tell [blacksmiths] starting out is: You make a piece, and you sell it. Then you make another piece and you sell that. And, you make another piece and you sell it. You just keep going like that. If you were to write a book about how to do this, it would be a blank book, and on the first page it would say, “Do the next thing.” Whatever that would be. By making a statement [I’m going to be a blacksmith], you can become a blacksmith.

It’s the build-it-and-they-will-come approach.

What I made changed a lot. Out of college, I bought an old blacksmith’s shop [in Hart, Michigan, 1979] that had done repair work. That’s what people came to the shop for, so I learned to do electric welding, and arc welding, and things I was not trained for in art school. I learned about making knives [by visiting an exhibition at Cranbrook Museum]. So, I saw [examples of] “art” knives, very fancy, jewelry-like knives, and I got interested in this. My professor Robert Engstrom encouraged me to do it.

There wasn’t an a-ha moment. I got a degree. I was making things. I started selling a few things. I did art fairs. I saw that I could make things, and people would buy them, and I could buy food. It was a simplistic progression. There wasn’t an inspirational moment. By deciding at a young age that I was going to do this for a career it made it happen. It was an evolution into: What can I do to put food on the table? Some of it was practical. And: What can I do to please myself aesthetically at the same time?

What role does social media play in your practice?

It does. For better or worse, and I have very mixed feelings about social media because of the way it has influenced our elections. But it does a lot of other things that are good. So, I still use Facebook. It lets me communicate with my colleagues around the country, around the world — there’s a worldwide and nationwide community of blacksmiths and blacksmiths’ organizations. And, we share information. Social media allows me to see the work other people are doing, how they’re doing it. Obviously, there was nothing like this 30 or 40 years ago, when I first got started. We had one or two books on blacksmithing. Now, there are dozens and dozens of fantastic, inspirational books. With social media and YouTube, there are videos on how to do almost anything. We were sort of lost [in the pre-social media days].

There was a renaissance in the American blacksmithing movement that started more than 40 years ago. An organization was formed called ABANA [Artist-Blacksmith’s Association of North America.] These 20 guys got together in Lumpkin, Georgia, and they formed this association, and they started having meetings, and conferences. I started going to these things in the early 1980s. There were hundreds if not thousands of blacksmiths there. There were Germans, and Swiss, and French guys doing this much more artistic blacksmithing than American colonial smithing. Social media has allowed us to share. The Forging For Peace Project we’re doing has been promoted well on social media. We that to show others what we’re doing, and get them interested. As a communication device, it’s really great. It is somewhat like trying to get a drink of water at Niagara Falls.

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

I think artists, to a large extent, have always reflected aspects of society they feel are important.  They’re holding up a mirror, in many cases, to social issues, to beauty issues, to aesthetics. Often, art is disturbing or controversial. Some of it’s hated at first, then accepted decades later. The role of the artist is to comment, and say something about society, and say it in a way that is not just with words.

Talk about the Forging For Peace Project in the context of this question.

Forging For Peace is an international project. It was initiated by a friend and colleague of mine, Alfred Bullerman, in Germany. He started Forging For Peace in 2015. It was in response to his friend’s workshop in Ukraine being destroyed in the first Russian invasion [in 2014]. We’re forging large nails because nails are a symbol of connection — among blacksmiths, and in general. We don’t think we’re going to stop a war by making big nails, but what we’re trying to do is get people to raise their awareness to think about why we have such a violent world, a violent country in the United States, why we have wars still. For smart people, we seem to be living in a very dumb way. And, I’m not sure why that is. We could do much better. Some of that is starting a conversation with people about why this is happening? And, what we could do about it? How could we slowly change this, and evolve into a more peaceful planet? I’m not thinking this is an easy thing, but I am thinking it’s a possible thing. I think it could happen if enough people get connected. Most people would like to live in peace, to live without the fear of getting shot going to the grocery store. It’s absurd we can’t find the political will to do something about that — as a community, as a country, as a world.

Forging For Peace is the latest, but not the first [peace project in which Scott has been involved]. In 1999, I got involved with an apprentice of mine, and we smashed guns. This was before Columbine. We were trying to get a conversation started about gun responsibility. About keeping guns away from children. It has been a long-term interest of mine.

Forging For Peace is mostly what I’m doing with my forging now. Making more things for people’s houses is not so interesting to me anymore. I’ve done it for 40 years, and this is a project worth working on. I’m devoting my time and resources to Forging For Peace, to help victims of war. But more than that, to start a conversation where we end up where there are no more victims of war because we have no more war. That’s a tall order, but we have to start somewhere.

The nails are a way to start the conversation. We’re doing these demonstrations because it’s interesting. People like to see blacksmiths hitting hot metal, and that draws them in. And, once they’re there, we say, “Well, I like peace. How ‘bout you?” Most people would agree with that.

You have some feelings about how blacksmiths are perceived, and the role of blacksmiths in the present day. Discuss.

There’s this stereotypical image of blacksmiths as big, always male, burly. They’re practicing this art, but everyone thinks it’s a dying art. In fact, there’s a huge, blacksmithing renaissance happening around the world now. A lot of blacksmiths now are women. It’s not unusual. Now it’s common as can be. And, historically, there are many women smiths in history. But we have this American idea that they’re horse-shoeing, knife-making brutes. Some blacksmiths would like to think of themselves as artists, and they’re reaching for the highest aesthetic expression as any other medium. It’s a very modern thing. Sure. We all use fire and hammers, but we use lasers and computers and CNC Machining. Blacksmiths have always embraced technology as it came out. Immediately. They do a hard job, and anything that makes it a little easier is usually welcomed.

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

No. Not until I was an adult did I start looking around and [registering] that there are artists, and they make stuff. I was fortunate when I was a kid. I went to Italy, and saw the works of Michelangelo, DaVinci, Caravaggio, all these fantastic Renaissance artists. So, I was aware of art, but those weren’t people I knew personally. Working at the jewelry store taught me something. It wasn’t about art, but it was about craftsmanship, and quality, and doing quality work. That has always been my goal. I never thought I would be the best blacksmith, but I would be the best that I could be. And that has worked. To always do your best work is a good road to success.

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

There were two people: Professor Robert Engstrom from Kalamazoo. He taught me a lot about doing good work. He taught me a lot about aesthetics. He showed me joie de vivre — how to love life and enjoy it. Bob was a World War II vet. He was a prisoner war, and they just about starved him. And, he loved food, and good living. So, we’d sit around, and have a glass of wine, and open up the safe and get out the rubies: Do you think this wine is more the color the Ceylonese rubies or the Burmese rubies?

The other major influence was Manfred Bredohl. Manfred is a German blacksmith, and a diploma’d designer — working more with pen, pencil, paper, and drawing, and very interested in modern design and aesthetics. He use traditional blacksmithing techniques to do things in a very untraditional design way. I worked with Manfred for four months in Germany [1985] but he [opened up] this European opportunity [to artists internationally] at his workshop in Aachen, Germany. He allowed us to work in the shop. We stayed in an apartment next door. Learned an awful lot about the blacksmith business — how much of that is in the office, how much of that is with the clients, and how much of it is in the work itself.

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

My peers. It would mostly be on the internet today. If you really want honest feedback, you have to ask for honest feedback, otherwise people will say something nice if they like it; they might not say anything at all if they don’t like it. Honest feedback would always come from my blacksmithing colleagues and peers.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

It’s pretty easy. Just living here. That was the overall, easy way to influence my work: move to a new place, to live in a new way. I didn’t intend to retire when I moved up here. I thought I would keep plugging away doing [architectural commissions]. What I found, taking time off to do that and build my home, it allowed me the space to breathe to think about what I wanted to do. A certain amount of that is simply walking on the beach, or walking in the woods, or hanging out with my partner, Karel. Doing these things is inspirational. And, if it doesn’t inspire me to make new work, it’s good enough all by itself.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s a good question. Part of it is the selfish, good feeling I get from making things. It’s the stimulation, what it does for my brain, mind, body. My body feels better when I’m moving, and working. When I’m active. You get that endorphin rush working physically the same way runner, bicyclists, and other athletes do. The mind and the body are inseparable. What affects one, affects the other. Having my body do things physically affects my mind, and makes it feel better. It just really feels great to make things.

The satisfaction of seeing what you’ve done in a day — whether it’s good or bad, sometimes it’s a failure, but you learn from the failures. I don’t try to do things the right way first. I just make an attempt at it, and I learn something from it, from the process. From the process shows me a better way that I might do what I want, then I modify it, and do it again. That’s critical. The working itself is the fun, is the therapy. The object you produce in the end — OK: that’s the proof of that.

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Read more about Scott Lankton here.

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

 

 

As part of the exhibition Ropes, Ribbons, Twigs, and Things in the GAAC’s Lobby Gallery, Traverse City artist Dorothy Anderson Grow talked with Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, about the venerable art of printmaking as she practices it with 21st century tools and materials. Dorothy maintains an active practice focused entirely on printmaking. Working in her home-based studio, she creates hand-pulled, one-of-a-kind prints full of bold shapes, colors, and the sensation of texture. Ropes, Ribbons, Twigs, and Things is on display September 2 through December 15, 2022.

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Describe the process of making an intaglio etching plate.

Initially, I create an image. I work and think both abstractly and non-objectively. My images may begin both the familiar or unfamiliar; real or unreal. My inspiration can come from such things as ribbons, ropes, fabric, twigs, clay forms, or my own drawings. In order to input these images into my computer and began the process of making an etching plate, they need to be photographed. For me photography is a tool not an outcome. It’s absolutely necessary that I use photography for my process. That’s the only way I can load an image into my computer so that I can make a transparency, and a print.

So, you’re not taking dictation. The photograph is just a way to record or generate an image on which you do more work.

Given my generation, working from photographs was a no-no. You had to be more creative. Some realistic things are reproduced in my work now, but it’s not like I’m copying from a photograph.

Once in the computer, I use Photoshop to recreate, manipulate, distort, and arrive at an 8” by 10” composition. I work in gray scale with no color. Color enters into my thoughts later when I am inking the etching plates. So for now, I am using the computer (another tool) to produce an 8” by 10” clear transparency with black ink only (like in the first photo). My second step is to create the etching plate (second photo). Instead of using the old traditional method of engraving metal plates with toxic chemicals, I use a DuPont film [known commercially as ImagOn] on a plastic plate, a UV light, and soda ash to create a toxic free plate. There is a lot of equipment, timing, testing and chemistry that goes behind this method. Some printmakers use a similar and simpler method called Solarplate. The plates are already prepared and use only sunlight to develop them. I find them far more costly and not as controllable. On step three, once the plate is made, it needs to be hand inked and tested on my printing press. If the print details are not clear enough, I need to recalculate and go back to step two.

How is the plate hand inked and transferred onto paper?

This is the long awaited step in my printing process. To hand ink a plate, I mix a color and spread the water based ink over the plate.  I use a form of cheese cloth to rub off the excess ink and continue to whip the plate with recycled paper to clean the raised surfaces.  The ink will remain in the recessed areas that are etched out. When the plate is placed in the bed of the press, a sheet of printing paper is laid over top. In order for the paper to pick up the recessed ink from the etching groves, a felt blanket is placed on top. As the drum rolls over the paper, the pressure creates an intaglio print.

At times, I will ink up to eight 8” by 10” plates and place them next to each other of the bed of the press to create a final 16” by 32” print. The number and how I place these plates will determine if I have a large or small; symmetrical or asymmetrical print. The initial etched prints are only the first step to my finished work.

What media and concepts do you apply to make the final work?

This final stage is the most exciting. There are several techniques I use and I am always experimenting with new ideas. I usually start by adding blends of color with an inked brayer onto a sheet of Plexiglass producing a monotype. I will also, at times, go back into the etching with colored pencils to create some shading effects or clearer definitions. Not all the details in the etching plate come out perfect, so I check for detail. I touch up the gaps. I will also try to shade, although it’s hard to shade into a print.

Next, collage elements are critical to my thinking which add elements of juxtaposition and interest. Many of the collage pieces are inkjet printed sections of my previous prints, modifications of color and scale of the current print, or a newly formed image. I also add textures created from ink, paint, and a variety of sources. Conceptually, my goal is to arrive at a new and unknown place.

Using all these tools and processes, I want to create a visual form of communication that’s stands apart from other ways of communicating. To me art is a language with a visual vocabulary

How have printmaking supplies and methods evolved since you have studied printmaking?

The most relevant change for me has been the switch from oil based inks to water based inks. The new Akua inks will remain moist for five years if not in contact with paper or cloth. They print on dry paper (Arches 55), as opposed to soaked paper. They are nontoxic. I have already mentioned the safe way of making etching plates with film versus acid etching. Also, I attended a lithography workshop a couple of years ago where an image is printed onto a rubbery type surface from a computer printer instead of the traditional hand drawn image on a stone or metal sheet. It is amazing how much technology has effected the visual arts.

After 30 years as a painter, you decided to concentrate 100% on printmaking. Why?

I loved being a nonobjective painter. But also during my past years of study and two degrees in art [a BA/Art Education from Baylor University, 1965; an MFA from Michigan State University, 1976], I had also studied several types of printmaking. I found that my processes with painting and printmaking were quiet similar. Printmaking had evolved from a toxic art media into a safe media. Slowly, I began experimenting with forms of collagraph and monotype [printing], and found them challenging.

While I was teaching art at Northwestern Michigan College [1999 – 2005], I enrolled in Photoshop and other computer graphic classes. I searched for a way to incorporate these new skills into my printmaking. I then discovered ImagOn. DuPont had collaborated with Keith Howard from Rochester Institute of Technological and developed a film and technique to produce toxic free etching plates. Using this new process, I was able to apply my new computer knowledge. This became my new focus.

Some of your work is translated into a three-dimensional print. Talk about that.

This courage came gradually. I had been a member of the Washington Printmakers Gallery in Washington D.C. for several years when I began taking my printmaking seriously. The gallery held a very traditional view of what types of prints were acceptable. Prints needed to be matted and framed according to a specific standard and computer generated inkjet prints were not allowed. Since then, they have expanded their views and so have I. I began by creating wall relief prints without frames and eventually free standing prints with multiple views.

But because these three-dimensional works are intaglio prints, they needed to be printed first on my etching press. The idea was to combine several two- dimensional prints together. This was a very exciting move for me. I would print out several 8” by 10” sheets of paper containing the etching image and then cut, fold, bend and glue the pieces together. Because the majority of my prints are symmetrical, this was an advantage. So compositionally, my current three-dimensional works are an extension of the processes and techniques I use on my two-dimensional pieces. I have future ideas of creating asymmetrical 3-D work and prints on cloth.

Where and how did you learn to print? Formal training?

In my undergraduate studies in art education and studio art, I was exposed to relief printmaking like linoleum block printing. In graduate school, I did extensive coursework in screen printing. Post graduate, I studied several intaglio forms of printmaking including collagraph, monotype, etching, and embossing. Once I decided to make intaglio printmaking my focus, I had to search for these new processes on my own. Since there is very little intaglio printmaking happening in this area, I traveled to instructional workshops in Santa Fe, New Mexico and spent a month of immersion in Italy.

The subject, and title, of this exhibition is ropes, ribbons, twigs and things. What is it about these objects and shapes that interest you?

I began studying art following the Abstract Expressionism period. Most of my creative thoughts were grounded in Formalistic thinking.

Explain what you mean by the term “formalistic thinking.”

As opposed to creating art to tell a story, to represent an image, or to promote a cause, I create art so that I can use the elements of visual art to compose and create something new. The colors, the shapes, the forms, how they interact with each another, and how the outcome arrives: that’s formalism.

So today, I still find myself searching for pure visual expression in abstracted realism or non-representational art. My art is not about social change, political ideas, environmental awareness, or other commendable issues.

As my work has evolved, I am currently working with imagery that is non-solid, stringy, flexible, and temporary. They can be twisted, tied, folded, curled, or looped. They can be tangled, intertwined, overlapped, or repeated. Many of the images are familiar and relate to my past. Once items of my childhood play, they are now a part of my serious art. I am so excited that these images transcend into the three-dimensional realm.

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Read more about Dorothy Anderson Grow’s work here.

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

Painter Lauren Everett Finn, 64, isn’t shy about mixing her media. In any given composition, the Benzie County artist [pictured left] might develop an idea by collaging an element to the canvas. Or, add some marks made in pencil, crayon or oil stick. Lauren uses “whatever’s handy” to bring to fruition the idea she wants to explore. The same applies to the tools she uses in her practice: Paint brush and human hand have equal value. This interview took place in June 2022. It was conducted by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

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You work in a lot of media. Do you consider yourself a painter? Or, other?

I think I’m still a painter. Most of the building-up of layers [with other media takes place] underneath [the composition]. What’s on top is paint.

What draws you to all these materials that you use?

It’s the “what ifs.” I wonder what would happen if: this is on top of that, and that is on top of that. Some of [the results] you can predict just with your experience. But sometimes you get something unexpected, which is a treat. Lately I’ve been using this tissue paper that doesn’t melt with water. It’s hardy. But when you collage it [onto a painting], it disappears — other than what you’ve painted on top of [the tissue paper]. Can you do that right on the painting? Yes. That’s an option, but sometimes you’re toward the end [of a composition], and need a little something, and don’t want to risk going hog wild [on the surface of the almost-finished painting].

Why do you like painting?

It’s the actual process. The paint. The feel of it. The opacity. The transparency. Color mixing. It’s so versatile — that’s the main reason. Yeah. It’s my jam.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

No. I graduated with a degree in advertising from Michigan State [1979]. I took one art class in college, and I’m blaming the instructor: I absolutely hated it. It was awful. I couldn’t understand what he wanted. That was very frustrating for me. I don’t know if he was talking over my head at that point. I’d played around in high school [Rochester High School, Rochester, Michigan], I didn’t do a ton of art until after I got my first job doing drafting [with a small engineering firm in Birmingham, Michigan]. And then, realizing I could draw and see 3-D, I did pen-and-ink house portraits [1981-1984]. That was such a fabulous way to learn how to paint because it was just value, no color. We [Lauren and her husband, Don] moved around the Midwest a bit, doing the house portraits as a side business as we moved yearly, and then we moved back to Michigan. I wanted to learn color, so I started taking classes at Birmingham Bloomfield Art Center.

Explain what the house portraits were about.

[While still living in Milwaukee from 1981-1984] I just put flyers up: “Do you want a portrait of your home?” I’d do the house portrait, and the note cards to send. It was just a little cottage business. That led to doing some pen and ink limited edition prints of Milwaukee landmarks for a framing store.

Since you did not receive formal training, how did you learn the craft behind your medium?

At [community] art centers. Also, I have the most ginormous art book library. Anything that looked slightly interesting, I would buy the art book. I have two huge book cases. I keep trying to pare down, and I’m having a really hard time. Even now, I’ll randomly grab a book, and just flip through — I count on serendipity — and all of a sudden it’s like, Oh. That’s an interesting idea. I hardly ever read them. I’m just looking at the pictures. I read them when I first got them. Instead of [looking at images on her phone or computer screen] I like flipping through books. They’re my friends. They’re very familiar to me.

Describe your studio.

It’s the original cottage on the property [where she lives in Benzie County]. It’s six feet from the house. It’s ideal. People say how great it is to have a studio away from home. Well, I want my studio closer. When the mood strikes, I want to be able to easily waltz into the studio [18 feet x 20 feet]. I’m not one who wants a view in the studio. I love a basement studio if it’s well lit. I get easily distracted if there’s too many windows. I’m gawking at what’s going on out there. I do better if I have blinders on.

For a while now, you’ve worked on two, distinct thematic things: florals, and non-representational abstracts. Talk about both of those things.

The florals I love because they’re accessible for people. I can’t say they’re easy to make, but they’re fun to do. They’re joyful. I can play with color combinations. The abstracts: I love a challenge — that’s what has kept me interested in art for so many years. I’m never going arrive. You’re always going to get better. Abstracts are so challenging. I used to just start with an idea, and figure out where I was going to go in the middle [of the composition]. I still do that. But I’m learning that the design has to be great or no one is going to bother to see what you’re trying to say. If the piece of art isn’t interesting from across the room, then you’re not going to entice someone to come have a closer look. The design leads with [her abstracts], I’m finding. I come up with an idea while I’m working, and that helps me to finish. You work fast and furious to start. And, there’s a lot of thinking. The theme of the show of abstract paintings I’m doing [at Center Gallery August 5 – 11, in Glen Arbor, Michigan] is about hope. It’s called Wishing and Doing. I’d love to say I know exactly what [the paintings] are all going to be, but I’m exploring the theme [as she paints]. I have to be comfortable with a little bit of ambiguity.

Let’s go back to the florals. You said you love them because they’re accessible. What do you mean by that?

The floral paintings are easy to live with. There’s nothing mentally challenging about them. They’re pretty, and they’re uplifting. There aren’t many people who don’t love flowers.

You don’t strive for botanical accuracy in these painting.

No. The florals are more about color, color combinations. And then, as I paint them, each flower anthropomorphizes — they turn into individuals. They all have personalities. I find more people can look at flowers [than abstracts] because they’re not intimidated by a floral. Somebody looks at an abstract, and you’re asking something of them.

How do you flip back and forth between these two styles?

I don’t find it hard at all. The difference is the abstracts are more challenging, but the process is basically the same [for her floral paintings] — it’s all design. With florals, you know what your subject is going to look like; abstract, you don’t. You have to create a subject almost. It’s tough. My whole life, I’ve loved a challenge.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

What prompted the [recent] abstracts is Center Gallery approached me, and asked if I’d like to have a show of abstracts? Sometimes [the prompt is] external. I don’t pre-plan all that much. I let the process take charge.

Your floral paintings came out of a project you assigned yourself: the 100 Bouquets project.

The 100 Bouquets is now 200 Bouquets: I’m at [bouquet painting number] 137, I think. The project started from a business article I was reading. The question [posed in the article was]: What consistently sells the best? And, it was my florals. So, I thought, I’ll just do 100 bouquets, and see where it takes me. It was fabulous. I had a show of florals at [the GAAC in 2018], and it just blossomed from there. I like those little mini projects. If I’m going to do a project like that, the one thing I don’t do is keep it to myself. I make sure to tell people so I’ll follow through.

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

Typically yes. Right now I’m not doing any florals because I’m getting ready for the [Center Gallery] abstract show. Typically, though, I’ll bounce around. You can feel yourself — I don’t know if it’s boredom — needing to switch it up a bit.

Your bouquets project is a good example of painting in a series. What happens, in terms of process, when you paint in a series?

Each painting informs the next. Before the florals, I did an abstract series called Taking The High Road, and it featured a lot of ladders. I worked on that for three or four years.  At first it was a ladder in the background, and then there more ladders, and then there were lines, and circles. [In each of the paintings] you can see a progression [of the thematic idea]. You’ll bore yourself to death if you keep doing the same thing over and over. If you force yourself to keep with a theme, you’re going to innovate.

What’s your favorite tool?

My fingers. I’m tactile. I love the touch of things. It’s probably not real healthy — I don’t wear gloves, which is a bad practice. I usually remember to put Artguard on my hands. But I start with gloves, and then they’re off. I’m always softening or moving paint with my thumbs or fingers. I guess I never graduated from finger painting. The other thing is: the Procreate app on my iPad. After I’m done in my studio, I can have my iPad in the house, and play around with different ideas on [digital images of] paintings that are about three-quarters of the way done. I can audition 50 ideas in the span of 15 minutes. And, then, if some [inspiration] happens, the next day in the studio, I’m rarin’ to go. Not that you can’t do that [directly] on the work. You absolutely can. If I have no time constraints, that’s usually what I do. If I want to be really efficient with my time, Procreate is a god send. I find it really freeing to say, What would polka dots look like there? Oh, no! That was not a good idea. 

Do you use a sketchbook?

Yes. Before I start an abstract, I’ll do a lot of writing trying to nail down my thoughts about a subject. That will help lead the design. Sometimes, when I’m writing, I’ll do a bunch of thumbnail sketches.  I have a million sketchbooks.

Why does working with one’s hands remain valuable, and vital to modern life?

I think, as a human, giving of yourself — whether it’s painting, cooking, quilting, furniture making, gardening — making things better in the world makes us feel better. I think it’s good for your mental health to step away, and create something that wasn’t there before.

We do use our hands a lot, but it’s mostly our thumbs.

I embrace technology. I love technology. It’s like anything: There’s good and bad to it. I do think it has had a negative impact, but it’s still relatively new technology — at least to me. So, we all have to figure out where it’s going to fit. It’s here. If it makes you uncomfortable, don’t use it. We all have to figure out where it fits for each of us — it’s a tool. I always have my tablet at the ready, I have a podcast going, or audio book. I need a lot of audio stimulation when I work. I embrace it, but there is definitely a negative aspect to too much.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

When I started doing the house portraits, I thought of them as a business. When I started [painting] watercolors, I entered a few shows, and had a few successes. I’m one who falls into things. And, if it feels OK, I’ll keep doing it. If it doesn’t, I won’t. I will always paint — can’t imagine not — until I die, or can’t possibly do it anymore. The challenge of [working with serious intent started with a question]: Can I do that? I think I can. I’ve had other jobs, and they’ve never engaged me like this. I love not having a boss, other than myself. It has engaged me completely. I’ve found my thing. We’re lucky. We don’t count on my income to eat, so I’m fortunate for that.

How does the income you derive from your practice influence how you feel about your success as an artist?

It’s a part of it. But it’s not the entire part of it. I’ll have good years, and bad years — a lot of it is out of your control. I’ve had years when, oh my god, everything I turn out sells. And then I’ll have a year where it’s like, Hello??? Anybody out there?

Let’s talk about social media. You have an email newsletter, you publish instructional videos on your Facebook page, you use Instagram.

The newsletter — which I’ve ignored for too long — it used to be when I sent out the newsletter, it would always result in a sale, so how dumb is it not to do it? Writing is hard for me. It takes a lot of time and effort to do the newsletter, so I’ve kind of let it go. I might bring it back. I don’t know. I like to share ideas with other artists, so if I come across something [exciting], I’ll share it through Instagram or on Facebook. They’re two, distinct and different audiences. People I actually know follow me on Facebook. People I don’t know follow me on Instagram, and I have a larger following on Instagram. I used to love Instagram, but they’ve shifted to a lot of [moving content on video], and it’s not as relaxing for me to scroll through there anymore.

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

It’s a record-keeping thing. If I wonder when I painted something, I can scroll through Instagram quicker than I can [rooting through] my records. There is connection. I’ll get notes from people, other than local people. It’s about accountability. It shows I’m a working artist. I putting work out. It’s a bit of professionalism these days. Sharing is part of it. Do you have to? No. But I think a lot of people expect it. It attracts a younger audience, too.

What’s the influence of social media on the work you make?

I don’t think there’s a ton, except you can scroll through, and see what other artists are making. That’s fun to see. It’s like going to a mini museum. It provides inspiration. You’ll scroll by and see a color combination, and think, I want to try that. Not copying someone else’s work, but inspiration.

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

That’s a big question. We try to connect with people on an emotional level that is weirdly personal, and at the same time, universal. Artists can bring respite, uplift, inspire, and motivate change. Creatives can make connections where there previously were none, and bring a richness and depth to an experience. We can illustrate a problem that may bring a person to a new understanding or perspective. I also think we encourage non-artists to try their hand at creating, at least I do.

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

One of the reasons I’m limiting my news consumption [these days] is I’m trying to do this show about hope. I’m a Pollyanna. I try to look on the bright side. When I get too far down, I think: There’s a lot of fabulous things going on now that no one knows about. It’s not being reported. That’s the stuff I cling on to. I think just living influences my work. All of a sudden you’re doing something completely unrelated, and then something happens, and, oh my god: That’s a little spark of an idea. As far as my painting goes, I’m trying to keep the negative parts of the world out. I’m looking for all the good stuff, whether I come across it or just dream it up. I angst in my sketchbook. If I’m mad or sad about something, my sketchbook gets all that. It’s my release, and then I can go and do my happy thing.

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

We’ve never lived in a tourist destination before. We were always the tourists coming up to see my mom and dad [in Benzie County]. What I found I love up here is winter. After Christmas, there’s nobody up here, and you can walk down the middle of M-22 and not see another car or soul. I love that solitude, and the quiet. Winter is an important time to get new work done.  I can really immerse myself without distraction. I don’t think [however] the sense of place is [visible] in my work.

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

No. My mom was a quilter — hobbyist. My dad a woodworker —hobbyist. I didn’t know any artists growing up. I stumbled into it.

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

So many people. Starting out, it was pretty much [a] self-taught [experience]. Once I got to watercolor, then all those instructors at Birmingham Bloomfield got me going there. And then, I started in acrylic, and started taking workshops. Brian Atyeo was the first acrylic instructor I had. Robert Burridge, I took a workshop from him. I really liked the way he attacked [his work], and I still do that. The first strokes of my work are fast and furious. My art friends are all influential as well.

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

I have a critique group up here that’s helpful, and it’s made up of local artists. We meet one a month. I have a critique group from downstate. They’re so kind. They include me every once in a while in a ZOOM meeting. I find their advice invaluable. If I’m stuck, I know I could send an image to that group, and they would help me in a heartbeat. I’m also part of an [online] group called Art2Life. They have a feedback section. I don’t know these people, but I get excellent advice.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

Robert Burridge said, and it made me laugh, that unseen is unsold. Letting work sit in the studio isn’t doing it any good. I haven’t done that many solo shows. [Getting ready for an exhibition] almost feels like you have all these little pieces of an overarching idea. I’m enjoying trying to figure out all [the Center Gallery paintings] are going to fit together. I have six or seven of these small, 6” x 6” paintings that I’m enamored of, but I know they’re not going to fit [in the Center Gallery show]. There’s also the pressure of the deadlines.

How do you feed, and nurture your creativity?

I walk most days in Sleeping Bear [Dunes National Lakeshore]. It’s about 100 feet [out her front door]. I do a short walk [with Major, her 13-year-old dog]. Then I meet fellow artists, and walk in the park on Thursdays. With the artist friends, there’s always art talk that happens. It’s half art, half talk about family, and general conversation. My solo walks are the ones that really feed me. It’s almost meditative. I like to go early in the morning. Even when it’s crowded, I rarely run into anybody. If you get out around 7-ish, there’s nobody out. After 8 am, it’s really people-y.

What drives your impulse to make?

Wouldn’t that be interesting to know what it is. Some of it is: I think I can. What would happen if ? Something pops in your head, and that’s an interesting idea. I’m impulsive, and I jump in, but without a ton of thought sometimes. With art, though, I’m not going to get into too much trouble. It’s a good place to be impulsive. I really do need to make things, and I wish I knew why. It’s just innate. I’m unhappy if I’m away from the studio too long. But once I walk into the studio, it’s: Ahhhhh. This is where I needed to be.

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Read more about Lauren Everett Finn here.

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

 

Landscape painting is the focus of Lindy Bishop’s practice. Lindy lives in Elk Rapids, the town in which she was raised, in the midst of a region where the landscape is described with superlative adjectives. Lindy’s interest in land transcends recording its glorious, natural features. She views landscape painting as a vehicle for talking about the “basic human values we hold dear”; and a visual language that is widely understood, and unifying. This interview took place in May 2022. It was conducted by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I work in a lot of different mediums. I would say my primary medium is oil paint, but I have switched up to acrylic, and acrylic gouache. Sometimes I use two or three of those things at once.

Are there circumstances in which you’d rather use acrylic than oil?

Yes. I was in Costa Rica last fall for an artist residency, and I had to figure out how to be productive, paint a lot, and be able to bring it back with me. Acrylic is the perfect medium for that because it dries so quickly, and within a day you can pretty much roll [up the painting), and not worry about [the paint] moving or smearing. Other situation where I need to be portable: on a boat, for example. I did a lot of sailing on the Atlantic, and brought along acrylic gouache and some acrylics, which made it easy to work from the back of the boat. I do find acrylic is great for an underpainting. I’ll use that sometimes because of its fluidity, and the coverage over a large area.

What draws you to painting?

The first real painting I did was in high school. Jerry Gates was my teacher [at Elk Rapids High School]. In my sophomore or junior year he introduced me to acrylic paints. The first painting I did was of an osprey — a photo I found in Encyclopedia Britannica. It won an honorable mention in the high school competition through Cranbrook Art Museum, and I got to go to Cranbrook, and see all the other students’ work. I think it got me hooked:  #1, it was something I could do; and #2, it was fascinating to me to be able to look at something and recreate it. From then on, I’d crank out a painting or two a year even if I was doing other things.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

Beyond high school, no. I was in the high school art classes through sophomore year. The TBA Tech Center was new, and I was persuaded to move into their graphic art program. That took up my afternoons from junior-through-senior years. Rather than traditional [fine] artist studies, it became more graphic art studies. In college [Michigan State University, 1979-1983, graduated with a BA in Advertising], I did have one art class.

In the absence of formal training, how did you learn the craft and technique of painting?

A lot of it was self-discovery, just having the materials and doing it. The other part was, when I got to the point where I had more free time — my kids were starting to all be in school — there was one particular artist I liked at the art fair in Lake Forest, Illinois where we lived at the time — Lars-Birger Sponberg. He had a real sensibility of simplifying shapes, sizes, colors. He was fascinated with finding special aspects of ordinary subjects, mostly landscapes. As I saw him year after year, and bought a couple of his paintings, I found out he taught painting at the local community center where I lived. So, I started taking classes from Lars. Oh, and when I was living in Chicago, I took one painting class at Tree Studios, in the Gold Coast.

Describe your studio/work space.

I have worked in the past in all kinds of places: basements, spare rooms, empty retail warehouses. Currently, I’ve returned to a space in Elk Rapids [at 108 Dexter Street] where I started Seeds Gallery when I moved back here, from Chicago [2009-2012]. I came back here, to this space, about two-and-a-half years ago. My mother, who was living here, was ill, and I wanted to be closer to her. I needed a space to work, and this was empty again. It’s about 600 square feet. It’s a store front in Elk Rapids. I’ve not run it on retail hours. I don’t run it like a gallery. It has great exposure — both the light that comes in the windows, and the visibility for people who go by. I pretty much use it as a work space. There is a sign in the window. It has my web address, LindyBishop.com. Occasionally people will wave in the window, and I’ll say, “C’mon in!” 

How does your studio facilitate your work?

The light that it provides in here. It’s a very feel-good, happy place, but having a space specifically to paint — it has made a difference in [her] seriousness, being able to treat it as a job, the commitment, and the discipline. I asked the landlord [in September] if he could [divide] the 600 square feet in half [for] a living space. I have a studio apartment here now, so I live and work here. It’s great. I can wake up and paint. I can decide to paint in the middle of the night. Sometimes I step into the studio, and look at things.

What do you do when you need to get away from your work?

I like to get outside, and run. I have a routine I follow. My morning is: I grab a banana with coffee, and start working. Midday, have a little fig bar. Around 11 o’clock, I usually go for a walk or run, come back, and have a nice lunch, shower get back to work. That’s my ideal, productive work day.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

Mostly the rural landscape. That could include waterscapes as well.

Is there something in particular about the landscape, or landscape painting, that particularly interests you?

I like the fact that it doesn’t have to be precise. If you were doing a portrait, you’d want to make sure it was true likeness. I do enjoy portraits that are abstract, and interpretive. But I would feel more inhibited to try to create a likeness. When I do a landscape I feel like I have more freedom. It’s about the shapes, the sizes, the colors. I love the land, too. I love the creative ability of land to produce things. I’ve researched Regionalism, that movement. There’s something about that: Renewing our interest in the basic human values we hold dear. Somehow it’s held in the landscape. One of my past jobs was executive director of the Utopia Foundation [2014-2016]. Through that I’ve gotten to know different cultures, countries, different areas in need. What I want to do going forward is do one artist residence, away, a year, in another county. I’m thinking about taking my art in the direction of globalism — more the rural landscapes in other countries.

Tell me what you mean when you use the term “globalism.”

Globalism might mean different things to different people. The Regionalism movement seemed to be about the basic roots of America through the land. If there was an art movement called Globalism, I think it would be about the unification and understanding of different peoples and cultures through the landscape. An important part of that is also a broader exchange of ideas between international artists.

Is that because we all understand land?

Yes. There are similar things between people living in rural areas. Their tenacity. Their ability to appreciate the land, the earth, what it grows, how it feeds people. Some of the basic values of hard work, and being scrappy and surviving — it’s tied to rural areas.

Your painting is about the spirit of the place, too.

That’s true. Sometimes, when I’m in my best, centered flow with the painting, I do feel like there’s a rhythm or energy that can be translated from my arm, to the bush, to the painting.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

It’s about a shape, or a color, or the way the light hits something. Those three things. Sometimes they’re all in a composition. Sometimes just one things is really intriguing to me. I paint plein air sometimes, but because of our seasonal weather, it’s not always possible, so I do do a lot of studio work from photographs. Sometimes I do studio work from past plein air pieces.

When you talk about a shape, or a color, or the light, is it — for example — as basic as you’re running through your neighborhood, and you see a shape, and you have an a-ha moment? And it becomes the thing you want to explore on canvas?

Yes. I do spend a lot of time running in the woods, along beaches. Sometimes I just stop, take out my phone, and take a picture. I was running through the woods in Maple Bay [Natural Area] a couple weeks ago, and I’m running down this path, and there’s light hitting the path. But not only that, there’s these pieces of green moss through the center of the trail that were two-to-three foot strips that resembled the yellow lines down the highway, but they were green. I stopped, and took a photo because it was really cool, that unexpected resemblance.

What role do these photographs play in your work? Are you taking dictation from them? Are they reference materials?

It varies. It’s hard to get the total, literal reference from a photograph, so sometimes you take pieces of one and put it into another. I’ve learned there are pitfalls from painting from a photograph — that is: Everything appears equal when you look at a photograph. It flattens out things so that they’re all of equal value. And if you paint just what you see in a photograph, you end up with a boring painting. I fall victim to it. Lars-Birger Sponberg used to have us cut pieces from one photo, and tape them onto another photo to create a composition. What I’ve found, especially when I do commissions, people ask for whacky stuff: They want this in it, but they want that in it. Before you know it, you’re trying to put five photos together, but in our digital world, we can actually do that.

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

I don’t do a lot of pre-planning. Sometimes it’s more impulsive. If it’s plein air, it’s almost like going camping. You have to get all your stuff together, and loaded into the car. But if it’s working on a canvas in the studio, it’s planning ahead to have the right materials, and supplies. Every once in a while I have to think about that, look a few weeks down the road — especially now that we have supply chain issues. And, the cost of materials has gone up quite a bit. Sometimes, if I’m working from a photo, I’ll order an enlarged photo to look at versus a screen. But more often than not, I’m looking at my iPad screen. If I’m working from another painting, I have that painting nearby. Another thing is planning to have some good music to listen to.

What’s “good music”?

I always ask my kids [Jack, 24; Olivia, 23; and Duke, 21]. I go in moods. Lately I’ve been listening to classical music. Especially for my morning painting.

Do you work in a series?

A little bit more lately. I’ve been trying to build my inventory so that so I’ll be able to have more gallery representation. And, I’ve been putting off doing commissions, which a lot of times will derail where I’m going with a series. I think, with exhibitions, it’s good to have cohesiveness.

So what you’re exhibiting looks like a unified body of work?

Yes. [Painting in a series] helps create visual memory. When I work in a particular subject matter, I get to the point where I can do that without reference, and then it becomes really fun. [The work] becomes more out of your head and free. It develops your visual language.

What’s your favorite tool?

I have a rubber spatula that’s made for painting. It adds a different surface texture, especially to oil paint. And, it also spreads big areas quickly. I started working with rubber spatulas [marketed to visual artists], and then I started playing around with rubber/silicone spatulas I found in the baking aisle. And they work really well, too. They have some flexibility to them. I have some oil paintings, when you look at them in the light, there are some dynamic variations between the areas that were put down by the rubber spatula, which are really flat and smooth; and areas that are done with a brush. I especially like to use the rubber spatula to do the white in clouds. It makes them glow when light reflects off of those smooth strokes.

Do you use a sketchbook?

Not often. I got into the habit of writing. I do a daily journal, and there’ll be sketches in there. I haven’t gotten into the habit of using a sketch book because I feel like my time management has been so constrained, and that I’ve had to fit painting in between jobs. So, for me, I don’t want there to be a lot of delay between showing up to paint, and actually painting. I go right to it. I don’t do a lot of pre-sketching. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. That’s, for me, wanting to make the most of the time I have in front of the canvas.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

After I returned from a trip to Uganda and Kenya in 2008. I started painting portraits of the kids I saw there. Their expressions were unique. Total surprise at seeing a white person for the first time, sometimes. Or, distain. Or, fear. Or, anger. I had a lot of photographs that I took in Africa. And a few landscapes. I had my first show in Lake Forest [Illinois], and the show was about escape. I pretty much sold everything in that show — I was with three other artists. It gave me the confidence to realize I could paint and people were interested in it. From then on, I made a serious commitment to working on it.

What role does social media play in your practice?

It has been good for me in terms of connecting with audiences, and with other artists. It gives me the opportunity to look at some of my inspiration sources: architecture, fashion, interior design. Especially Instagram. It’s the perfect social media platform for visual artists. It’s a marketing tool. It’s a connecting tool. It’s a source of inspiration. [Conversely,] it has to be maintained. I have to take breaks from it. I have to remind myself to be a little more careful about curating my own presence, and not get hooked on the immediate gratification of: Oh! I finished a painting! Oh! Get it on Instagram! I’m also trying to recognize when I do feel the angst [brought on by] social media — like:  Oh my god, I’m not nearly as good as that person or this person. When I find myself in one of the phases, I take a break.

You talked earlier about wanting to eliminate the obstacles between you and your work in the studio. One of the things for which social media is notorious is its unique ability to suck time. Do you encounter that with your own social media-ing?

I’m pretty disciplined about stuff like that. But, procrastination is easy. I have to be self-motivated as an artist. When you’re working for yourself, by yourself, there are [procrastination] pitfalls, too, that can be easily justified. I’m pretty good about it, but it does happen once in a while.

What’s social media’s influence on the work you make?

It helps me consider color. When I look at interior design, or architecture, or fashion, and I realize there’s something I really like [about what she’s seeing]. A lot of time it comes down to the color choices.

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

It’s huge. There’s an opportunity for direct contact with people. And people have gotten more comfortable with buying art [online] they see — versus what they touch, and see in person. During the pandemic, everybody we saw on screen, from news media to talk show hosts, everyone had a painting behind them. It opened the door for artists and art.

On your website you write: “My work is about celebrating the land, what it grows and how it feeds us.” With that as context, talk about what you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?

As an overriding goal, I believe my own art is to give hope. But I think my role is deeper, and that’s to cross-pollinate with other cultures, other age groups, other arts, and with our community and economy. I feel like my role as an artist is to bridge a lot of elements in our world, but primarily through a portal of hope.

How do your paintings symbolize hope?

I don’t think that art need to be happy to be good. But I do feel like that comes across in my paintings as a sense of happiness, or joy, or spirit. Sometimes my subject matter, being more agricultural, or water, it celebrates some of the ordinary things we pass by or take for granted.

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

The way I experience the outdoors, and nature. The parts of the world that find their way into my work [come from her] travel, to experience different environments, and paint wherever I am.

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

It provides a wealth of subject matter. It’s just beautiful. The fact we have four season creates a newness. It’s this renewed sense of: Oh! We’re looking at snow on the branches! Now we’re looking at red and orange leaves. It’s playful. And being able to get outside and experience it all adds to that.

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

My mom did. She was a watercolor artist [the late Joani Braun]. She had 6 kids, and she always had a paintbrush or sketchbook in hand. Most of her work, when I was growing up, was portraits — of us kids, neighbors, different people who would come by. As a young kid I learned how to sit for portrait, and she would praise us for how nice and still and quiet we were. The idea that somebody could do that was right in front of my face. 

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

It’s a tossup between my mom, and Lars-Birger Sponberg. Lars painted until he was 100.

What was it about your mom’s and Lars’s practices that made such an impression on you?

That somebody could have a life as an artist. And what a life as an artist looked like. What it took. What they did on a daily basis.

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

For two years I have been meeting once a week with two other artists. We meet on Zoom — this started during the pandemic. One is Rachael Van Dyke [of Boone, North Carolina, and sometimes of Grand Rapids, Michigan. Lindy admired Rachael’s work, and exhibited it in her gallery]. The other one is a friend of Rachel’s, Jodi Ferrier. She lives in Washington, D.C. They both have different styles. They both bring something different to the party. They both have really good art critique abilities. Rachel was a teacher. Jodi studied art and graphic design — they both have good, strong art backgrounds. They can look at something, and understand how to describe what could make a difference. Once a week, for an hour, we have a Zoom call. We don’t always have a topic. Sometimes it’s just a catch-up. But we share everything, from practices to materials, where to order this or that, how to handle unique situations with customers, general questions that come up. We all started reading the book Ninth Street Women. That’s what kicked us off. We decided to read the book, and started discussing some of the artists from that era.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

I used to love to put together exhibits when I had my gallery. I find myself more of an entrepreneur sometimes. I consider myself an artist, but first and foremost I consider myself an entrepreneur. I like the idea — also, with an advertising background — of bringing different pieces together, and having them make sense in an exhibit. It’s also great to be part of them. It provides momentum, and goal setting for me. It’s motivating to have a show to get stuff done for. The other part is it’s validating that someone has invited you to be part of a show, and people are coming to see it. It helps to have a true response from the public. It’s hard to know what’s going on in a person’s head, so sometimes it’s the conversations you have. Sometimes it’s the number of pieces that sold that give you feedback. I don’t always think that sales translate into how good work is. Sometimes really good work never sells. It’s nice to be in association with other [exhibiting] artists. It helps to see your work among other work. Relationships are what make or break success in any of the arts. I feel that showing up to art events is an important part of [developing] relationships in the business. Relationships with other people in the arts connects you, and what provides you with the support, and the launching pad for a lot of success.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

Some of it comes from my inspiration sources. But a lot of times I’ll give myself an artist’s day out — I think that’s a recommendation from Julia Cameron. For me that means participating in, experiencing other arts, going to a museum. But sometimes that means going to the antique shows, the hardware stores, the places where my brain will put things together. I’m somebody who processes ideas in motion. A big part of my bigger-picture strategy comes when I’m running or doing sports, and especially in nature.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s beauty and light. Just seeing it. It makes me want to make something. It has to do with the fact that all life is creation. We are creative beings, and creating is part of what life is. That’s how I connect to my higher self, my sense of spirituality — that ability to create. When you watch it unfold before your eyes, that makes me want to create, too.

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Read more about Lindy Bishop here.

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