Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

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.

 

There has never been a straight line through Meg Staley’s career. But every experience — from sale clerk, to department store clothing buyer, to printmaker — has factored into the creative work she now does. The Leelanau County artist hand builds women’s clothing. Each piece is a composition that allows Meg, 70, to bring to it the myriad surface design techniques that make up her distinctive visual vocabulary. This is not, however, a story about fashion, but a life-long journey that uses clothing as an expressive tool. This interview took place in April 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.

Several. Textile, printmaking, surface design 2 + 3 D, and clothing design.

You don’t work in a single medium. Talk about how all the things that comprise your practice, and how they draw you into them.

I don’t know what a “normal artist” is. And, I’ve never thought of myself as an artist. Period. I would say, in terms of the visual, it’s the texture, and color, and pattern that my mixture of media makes me happy. As far as motivation, it’s practical: It was money. A way in which I could express myself that was in service of women.

How was your work “in service of women”? How did you serve women through your clothing?

Because my early work was in building clothing for women — myself, and then for others. It’s been a life-long journey. I was always, from an early age, very, very excited by clothing. And I could easily wear clothing, and found myself making it for myself. Then, as I went on, I realized women — in general — would ask me style questions. And, through my first career at Nordstrom, I was a salesperson, and I went into fitting rooms with women, helping them find something they’re happy in. I realized women have all sorts of stories about their bodies, and what they don’t like. I got good at helping women find things that made them feel pretty. I was lucky enough, in my 20s, to put together a number of different jobs, in different places, in different aspects, to begin to understand that I could do something with that skill. When I got to a point where I could apply some of my skill set in terms of sewing, and making, and building, and printmaking, and all these other aspects of what I’d learned into designing for women, I understood that I had a mission.

You said you never thought of yourself as “an artist.” Talk about that.

My older sister showed a very early talent for representational art. She could draw a picture, and it looked like the thing. And, then she studied art. That was my interpretation of what an artist was. So, my sister was the artist in the family, and you know [siblings] can’t have the same roles. Even with a sewing machine, and sewing lessons, I was the only person who had ever sewed. I learned to sew, but in those days [in the 1950s and 1960s], that was not art. That was a craft that women did. So I didn’t ever associate it with art. That was my early story I told myself about not being an artist.

Was an “artist” something you wanted to be?

I wanted to be anything my sister was. In fact, telling on myself, there was this women who lived across the street from us in Bellevue, Washington, who was a cartoonist. I copied some cartoons and took the sketches over to her, and told her I’d sketched them. She told my parents she thought I was very talented. That’s part of my story, wanting to be something that I’m not, and not being happy with who I am.

Have you achieved the level of “artist”? Have you been admitted to the club yet?

Yes — because my definition has changed. Anybody who thinks a thought, sings a song, writes a sentence is an artist. I think of myself as a creative, sentient being. If you want to call that an “artist,” great, I’ll take it.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

That wasn’t until I was lucky enough to go to Smith College, which had a great art department. I learned there that art history was something — I never knew that was a thing. I took music history. I took music composition. I found out that all these things I was interested in were things [one could] study.  Also, I took a drawing class in sophomore year — when I found all the things I thought I was supposed to study required so much reading, and I was not a fast reader. I thought I needed something I could do besides read. I had this wonderful [drawing] teacher. He was practitioner, and worked for Hallmark Cards. He was not considered a Ph.D guy — he was a practitioner. He taught me how to see differently. The following year, I took a composition course from him. He told me I had a great eye, and he thought I should pursue an art major. He was a major influence. And, he’d come from a very different background: He was not a fine artist. He was a commercial artist. He gave me a stamp of approval about the way I look at the world. I studied mostly photography and serigraphy [screen printing]. By the time I graduated [in 1973] I was a printmaker.

You use silkscreen printing in your business, Meg Staley Handmade.

During my business of 30 years, we did a ton of silk-screening on fabrics, and I collected more than 500 images that I still have. I have this library of single-color images. I could easily make new images, but I have such an amazing library that I use my favorites over and over again on fabric. I cut up the printed fabric, and utilize it on different places on a garment.

I began collaborating and making things [with her husband, Jerry Gretzinger] in 1985 [as Staley Gretzinger Inc.]. We sold the business [in 2008], and I had to come up with a different name for myself. I wanted and needed to continue practicing. I needed to make money, so I started a new label: Meg Staley Handmade. It started out being women’s clothing, and branched out to many things — home goods, soft bedding, quilts, patchwork pillows. That has grown into a lot of commission work for people who have lost loved ones. [She makes] legacy quilts, keepsakes — that’s very important work for me now. I get to work with an individual, and process with them their loss, and work with them to make something that has meaning for them. But I still make women’s clothing because it’s fun.

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

When I went to Smith and began to study art, I was very influenced by my peers and classmates. I watched their process. I watched them not give up. I watched them come at a problem from a different angle. I watched them permutate their work in several different direction, and realized there’s no one way to make art. I never thought I’d make a career or a profession of it. I always thought it would be relegated to something that maybe I’d be lucky enough to play around with at some point. Serigraphy requires space. And it requires equipment. All art[making] has certain requirements, but this thing that I loved had a high threshold for practicing. I thought this was something I was going to have to say goodbye to. Thirteen years [after graduating] I started silkscreening again.

Describe your studio/work space.

It’s very me. If color is my religion, then my studio is my chapel. My studio is four miles away [from her home] in Cedar, Michigan. It’s an old general store built in 1909. It still has all its original floor, ceiling, and the original store front windows. It’s right on the main street of Cedar, two door down from the Cedar Tavern, and across the street from Blue Moon Ice Cream. When I try to describe where I am to the locals, those are the two reference points I use. The workable space is probably1,000 square feet, and then I have a whole basement.

The studio is so many things to me. It’s a place I can be by myself with my own music, puttering without any destination in mind. It’s sanctuary that way, and a celebration. In the middle of winter in Northern Michigan, and we’re all cooped up in our homes, it’s a place for me to go that’s filled with color and memories, and objects, and things hanging, and all of my favorite toys. It’s such a luxury for me. It’s the first space I’ve ever had that was really designed for me. We put in a big slop sink, and a big commercial dryer for setting inks, and a washing machine. I have tons of table space, tons of storage. Every other space I’ve worked in has been carved out of something more important. Or, it has been a living space, and I convert the dining room table into a print table, and then back again and put it all away. This has been a huge acknowledgment for me that I’m worth it. It also makes me incredibly happy.

Your studio is on the main drag in Cedar. What’s your relationship with the public walking by?

Initially I thought I could do a little store here. And, I quickly remembered my frustration and impatience being at Nordstrom,  having people walk in the midst of me making an incredible display, interrupting my artist process, and wanting me to help them. I don’t need to do retail anymore, and I don’t want to. I have one [Leelanau County] store that carries my work [Ruth Conklin Gallery], so I can tell people who want to buy my work to go to that store.

One of the things about having this space is that there are no barriers/excuses for getting work done. I don’t have to reset it up. I don’t have to do a whole lot to get myself ready to work. I can just walk in there and work. Sometimes that is a problem. It’s a lot of pressure. I want the excuse. I get frustrated with myself because I don’t have an idea or a destination yet. But when I do, I can flow right into it. It’s a space that really supports that.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

The final product is to support women — their bodies and their spirit. The whole notion is that a piece of clothing, for a woman, is a home to live in for the time that you have it on. This means it needs to feel good on you. You have to have a place to put your hand. It can’t be a place where you feel self-conscious in your garment. The beauty, and color, and uniqueness of the person who is inside is, hopefully, expressed on the outside.

This idea is contrary to how many of us are trained to understand clothing, e.g. suffering for beauty is OK.

It’s incorrect. If you’re at ease, you feel more beautiful. It supports that process of having the inside match the outside. Choosing to be known. My clothing is not shy. It’s a conversation starter. A lot of my designs come in my interest in travel: The motifs and the colors are drawn from all sorts of global references. So, you’re communicating all the time you’re in your clothing, and my job is to make something that communicates you. The other theme is celebration. I’ve always been a person who’s attracted to several colors at once. I love a single-color message, but I also love multi. Multi for the Japanese is the color combination that connotes celebration.

What prompts the beginning of a project?

A deadline. Even after being out of the business for so long. I designed four collections a year. I was always working toward the next show. That was in New York [City]. Jerry and I started by collaborating. He had a business designing and making women’s bags. He had a workshop, and started making one-of-a-kind clothing, which I sold for him in my [SOHO] showroom. My partner and I represented small designers working in their lofts off 7th Avenue, and one of them was Jerry. He also made a few pieces of clothing because he was an architect, and very interested in the human form. We began to collaborate behind the scenes on clothing I thought would sell well. It just ballooned, and we were in Harper’s Baazar, and Vogue. There was a heyday, which in fashion lasts about five minutes. Ours lasted about five years, and from then on it was just keeping up, and creating new things so people didn’t forget about us. At our largest, we made four different lines, and each one was sold separately. There was fall [collection], spring, summer, holiday — so we had at least four different iteration of the each label a year. I was responsible for making all that happen. Every once in a while I’d burn out and turn to Jerry for [help] with a new idea.

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

When I was in business, I was preplanning all the time. You had to think about the fabrics you’d need, and order those things well in advance of getting to design the collection. I was always working on three or four things at a time, six months in advance. Now, I get ideas and picture things well in advance. Other times, I don’t have an idea. And, I pray. A lot. I don’t have a lot of deadlines now. I like projects and I like deadlines because that gives me an endpoint to go for.

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

Not if I don’t have to. It’s such a luxury to work on one thing at a time now. I can concentrate of it. I’m not pulled in 25,000 directions. I can be pulled in directions that are creative in different ways. That’s one of the wonderful things about being semi-retired — having space in your calendar for being pulled in a different direction entirely.

Process is an organic thing. If you have time, you have space in your brain to entertain things that aren’t on the check list.

When our [four] kids were young Jerry and I were very active in their school, and would collaborate with the teachers to do art projects. Inevitably, four days before the project commences I’m cursing myself, and wondering why I ever said I’d do this. Sure enough, it would happen. A week later, I was including everything I got from that process into my process at work. Everything feeds the process, whether you like it or not

Do you work in a series?

Yes. I do. Not always. Some of them are one-offs. I’m really good at iterations, at spinning an idea out. And, I love all the iterations.

[NOTE: Meg and Jerry never outsourced their clothing to manufacturers in China. It was designed and created in their studio workspace. “That’s why we liked making one-of-a-kinds,” Meg said.]

What’s your favorite tool?

By far my rotary cutter. I do a lot cutting, and cutting is a big, big part of my work. You can make perfect curves with a clean edge. You can make imperfect curves. It’s a wonderful tool for fabric.

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

No. I’m not a good draftsman. I use a sketchbook for notes, and little cartoons of what I’m trying to say when I can’t say it with words. I’m not well organized, so if I have something [in which to record ideas] it has to be something all together in a notebook. Usually, I’m just working with my stitcher, Shelley. We do verbal stuff. I just show her what I want.

How do you come up with a title?

I used to name the garments when I had to. When I was making a [clothing] line, and there were 12 pieces in a line, then the ones that were the showstoppers got named because people enjoyed the names. I could communicate some humor, some excitement, some joy, a deeper meaning, or a sense of adventure. A destination comes through a name.

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

I won’t say it was a decision. I’ve always been practical in terms of: Can I make money with this? It was backwards in that I was making money, and I had my own business. I was lucky to find something I could do well. After I was a buyer with Nordstrom [Meg held a variety of positions with Nordstrom from 1974-78], I opened a showroom in New York with my friend, and we represented clothing designers to buyers — I’d been a buyer, so I could talk to them. And then, I started working with the designer on how to merchandise their ideas, how to communicate to buyers and make a collection that would tell a story on a retail floor.

Many people, when they think of a Capital “A” Artist, might not think that the business experiences you’ve described could inform a creative practice. 

I would never have said there was a through line while I as doing it. There was a point in my early 30s when I looked back, and said, “Wow, I’m using everything I’ve learned thus far.” It’s a gift of hindsight. I would not have said I was aiming toward anything consciously. All of those jobs that I’ve described taught me how to work with other people, how to talk to other people, taught me about customer service, taught me about connecting with people, taught me about organization, gave me a view into other people’s process, helped me understand that I was value-added with other artists in helping them shape their practice. And, it wasn’t until I started working with Jerry, collaborating with him on pieces of clothing to sell in my showroom, that I grasped the fact that I had a point of view that was important in this collaboration.

The second thing that really brought the whole thing full circle was when Jerry found on Crosby Street two old silk screens that were advertisement for T-shirts. He brought them to the studio and asked if I knew how to silk screen print, and could we figure out a way to use these? We threw some fabric down on the floor and screened our first piece. I thought: This is something that I learned [13 years earlier in college]. I can add something that is so dear to me.

Talk about making your own materials as opposed to sourcing all the materials for your work and cutting it off the bolt.

The main impetus for that was that we lived in a neighborhood that was filled with jobbers. Jobbers bought secondhand fabric off of manufacturers, and sold it to other people. This was an important part of the garment industry in New York. These guys had filled their buildings with fabrics. Over years. Decades. They had all sorts of fabrics that would not be suitable to use for other people — they had stains on them, they were white. But we could transform them, and they were cheap. We started dyeing fabrics, and we would print fabrics. We came up with several different techniques for printing. That allowed us to buy other people’s leftovers.

The economics of this are obvious. The other piece is that making your own materials gives you a unique, visual voice.

Over the period of time we were in business, we had so many people copy us, which was supposed to be a form of flattery. But nobody could really do what we did. We did so many different transformational things to our clothing. The clothing always looked different. That’s one of the things that kept us alive for so long — we could draw on so many different [surface design] techniques. It couldn’t really be copied.

What role does social media play in your practice?

About zero. I’m on Facebook and Instagram, but I don’t post my work. When we moved out here I made a decision I didn’t want to grow my business anymore. I didn’t have to. And, I wasn’t going to take jobs for money if I didn’t want them. If anything I had to make a decision not to have a website or have a business card. I wanted to narrow my work to that which I only wanted to do.

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

Art is expression and communication. It’s very different for other people. All art helps people connect with their feelings, and identify with what’s going on out there. Words don’t cut it at times — although writers help me connect with my feelings. But it helps people feel their feelings by identifying with an image, or a film, a song, or a book — that’s why art is so profound, and joyful, and devastating. I don’t think many artists think of themselves as having a purpose, but they can’t help it.

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

I was lucky. My grandmother was a docent at the Honolulu Museum of Art when I was kid, and because of that, [she] populated our house with a lot of Japanese art. That really influenced me. My mom always says, “I’m not an artist. I don’t know where you girls got this.” And I used to say to Mom, “Mom! You taught me to look.” She was all about getting us to look at things. The National Geographic! I’d pore over that. It’s just a feast, the world.

 

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

That’s a really interesting question for me. When we would come out here in the summer, we’d manage to get away from the business for a month, and the whole family would come out here.  We would have all sorts of projects, which we wouldn’t finish because we had to go to the beach. I found, when I would come here, I would have these incredible surges of creativity, and I would have to find something to do with it. For three years I painted the concrete foundation of our barn, with a fake stone foundation. That’s the name of our farm now: Fake Rock Farm. I can’t attribute the location as the entire reason, but it was a place that engendered creativity for me. Also, we were living in New York. We were bombarded by stimulation there, and visual information and noise, and intense amounts of things that would compete with our basic creative urges. Coming out here gave me space to listen. In moving here, it has been an entirely different experience than coming here for bits and pieces of time. In the winter the palette is both stultifying and supportive of my need for color. I have to say also the landscape has created more nuance in my palette, and sense of patterning. Northern Michigan has given me space and time.

[NOTE: Meg and Jerry began vacationing in Leelanau County in 1988. They moved permanently to Maple City in 2021.]

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

If I did, I didn’t see it as a creative practice. We knew artsy people, but I didn’t know the practice behind [their art-making].

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

I talked about my teacher at Smith who waved a magic wand and told me I was a creative being, who supported my eye, and said I had a good eye. My mother always telling us to look. My grandmother had so much style. My uncle owned the first showroom in San Francisco that represents Knoll Furniture, and he had an incredible eye. My first significant boyfriend is a painter, and he painted no matter what. He now hangs in The Met, and has an amazing career. He showed me perseverance. I also have to say that Jerry taught me to work on something every day.

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

The market decides that. If I’m really stuck, I’ll reach out, but I almost never show my work to anybody until it’s done. When I had my business there was a tribunal that looked at the collection when it was all done, and made edits, and that was pure torture, but necessary. I learned you had to have a thick skin. I learned, doing that work over and over and over again, that you surrender work. You let go of it.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

In my clothing work it was sales. “Exhibiting” took place at trade shows. I had my first show-show with six of my other Smith friends when we went back to Smith for our 45th reunion. We had a show of all work we done as adults in our adult careers. It was one of scariest thing I’ve ever done. And, it was one of the most joyous things I’ve ever done. It was a lot of work, and I had to explain all the things I chose to exhibit. You have conversation with yourself about how you’re not worth it. I think artists are incredibly courageous to put a piece of you up on a wall and say this is me, and open yourself up to god knows what.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

With everything. When you open up your ears eyes and mouth, you’re feeding yourself. If you’re listening, you’re feeding yourself. Going to museums. Travel. And, when I get to a hump in the creative process, when I have that self-talk  — I am not an artist, I can’t come up with a new idea, what was I thinking — I think of service, of doing service. If I am in service to the universe, and in fact to women, I can do anything.

What in the world drives your impulse to make?

Inextricable to my career is making money. But I had not been making art per se for 13 years. I was looking to get back to my creative self when Jerry and I started collaborating. I’d been in a creative dance with people, thinking creatively, but not in a hands-on way. What drives the impulse to make is not making for a while. It gets bottled up, and I just have to do it.

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Read more about Meg Staley here.

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

Melonie Steffes, 48, learned by doing. And by reading library books about practice and process. And by finding other makers to mentor her. Her paintings are filled with bears, insects, mushrooms, and other woodland influences that describe the world of the body and mind in which she lives. In both subject and presentation, Steffes’s paintings communicate an otherworldliness, a Magical Realism that charms. Like all enchanments, there’s a lot more pulsing around beneath the surface. Steffes lives in Thompsonville,  Michigan. This interview took place in March 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 mostly work in oil on canvas. I do do other things — occasionally I do watercolors, I’ve been thinking about getting back into them. Also, I do some sculpture, which I’m going to return to this summer. It’s better to do it outside because I use a lot of rusty metal. In the summertime I move everything out to my porch. I’d rather be outside in the natural light, with the bugs.

What draws you to oil painting?

I like that it doesn’t dry quickly. I have time to move the paint around. I like the way the paint feels, that I can make it thick or thin.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

My first year-and-a-half in high school, I went to a special program — I was living down in Florida then. I had extra art classes. But that’s it. After that I moved up here, and it has been mentors, and library books, and practice.

[NOTE: Melonie attended Gibbs High School in St. Petersburg, Florida,  in the late 1980, and was enrolled in the school’s artistically talented program.]

How did your formal training affect your development as a creative practitioner? Do you consider the training you got in high school “formal?”

It was really only touching on the basics. I wasn’t there very long. I didn’t get to the classes about oil paint or watercolors. There was a lot of design, a lot of drawing and printmaking. I really feel I learned so much more after I was gone.

Talk about that.

When I was in school I was learning some rudimentary things, but I wasn’t learning a lot that I didn’t already know. After I left and I was off on my own, there were a few years when I wasn’t doing a whole lot of art; it was just wanting to. When I was able to come back to it, at first I was getting books out of the library — straightforward how-to books, and poring over technique. I still do this today. I love to look at peoples’ processes, start-to-finish. I find it super inspiring. So, today, I’ll still go get books, or now, you can look on the internet. I love that. And then, I met Dan Oberschulte. He’s the one who got me painting in oil. I wasn’t using oils. I was using acrylics, and watercolors. He kept saying,”Here, try these,” and he gave me some [paints] he wasn’t using. I loved it once I got going with it. And, observing him — we used to paint a lot together quite a bit. When I say “mentor,” I mean that kind of thing: Looking at what he looks at, [specifically] the Impressionists. I love the texture and the color — I don’t paint that way myself; but I do find them very inspiring. They say that the best way to learn a language is through immersion. It’s more like that.

Describe your studio/work space.

“Disaster zone.” I needed to have a room separate from the rest of the house so I could step out, and shut the door, and leave it as it is, and nobody else has to deal with it. It’s filled from floor-to-ceiling with all the different things I do: I also make clothes, I’ve got sculpture things, I’ve got painting things, I’ve got tons of books, and then I have a million knick knack and fetishes everywhere. I think it [measures] roughly 12 feet x 10 feet.

You called your studio a “disaster zone.” What’s the disaster?

The chaos of my brain. It’s a mess. It’s cluttered. There’s stuff going on every direction you look. I’ve been in peoples’ studios that are so nice and neat, and I think why can’t I be that way? I clean it up once a year, and it just blows up right behind me. I don’t have time to be cleaning. I make stuff. It’s a sacred disaster zone. It makes sense to me, but somebody else might be horrified, and wonder how I get anything done in there.

How does your studio space facilitate your work? Or, affect your work?

The messy studio that we’ve been talking about is the Winter studio. The head space is very different when I move out to the porch, and its open, and the breeze is blowing, and birds are flying around me, and the butterflies and wasps — it’s completely different. When I’m indoors and enclosed with artificial light, I’m deeper in my head, less connected to what’s around me — maybe that’s why I have so many fetishes around me, collected from summer.

The natural world is an intrinsic part of the story in your paintings. It would make sense that being outside you might feel more connected to your work.

For sure. The more that I’ve been painting outdoors, the more that [the natural world] seeps in. Indoors, its a different vibe. Right now I’m at the end of Winter, and I need some ideas for an upcoming show [at Higher Art Gallery July 6-August 6], and I’m having a really hard time. There’s not naturally coming in.

If being outside and having a direct connection to the natural world feeds your work, how do you override the fact being inside during the cold weather months cuts you off from that?

I cross county ski a lot. I still get outside, but most things are sleeping. I probably should be sleeping, too, but being human, I’m trying to work. I still try to be out there, at least for a little while. The first few paintings I’ve gotten done for this upcoming show were ideas I already had going into Winter, and I wrote things down. They were already there. I wasn’t drawing off now. I was drawing off things I had in my head. I listen to stories a lot in winter. That’s a helpful thing. I listen to them while I’m painting, and that gets my mind turning.

I always think of your paintings as full of greenery, and Spring, and light, and warmth. Your paintings don’t reflect the winter world. True?

I don’t do tons of them. I was just thinking that today I hadn’t painted any Winter scenes. At the end of Winter, I don’t know if I want to do more black and white. I want to do color. This is a good example of where my mind goes more in Winter. It’s a big painting of a woman holding open her chest, and all these frogs are pouring out. That’s definitely a Winter painting. The ones I come up with in the Winter are way more interior, like that.

Talk about all the elements of the natural world you bring into your paintings.

[Depicting] the natural world isn’t all I do. Though these days, it’s definitely more and more, but I don’t like to get too boxed in. I like to paint what’s around me. For a lot of people that would be a landscape. The paintings are really autobiographical, but it comes out in these crazy ways. I spent my summer immersed in my yard, and my gardens. Every year more so in certain places I like to go to in the forest. I rarely design something ahead of time. I can tell you this really crazy story about one of my recent paintings, with this bear.

I have a place I like to go to in the Spring and Summer, in the middle of a creek. I call it my island because it’s literally in the middle of this creek, a mound and an old tree growing out of it. It’s also a place bears go. I’ve seen their track. I’ve never actually seen the bear. I like to go there, and take off my shoes, and I walk in the creek in the mud, and I’ve literally stood in the bear’s tracks in the mud. When I’m in a place like that, I’ll be sitting there, and see a vision in my head. When I see that, I’ll go home and sketch out what I saw in my mind. I’ll try to put reference materials to help me paint it. I have to look at things to make it look as real as I want it to look. A lot of my paintings come from being out there. There’s a certain meditative place when I’m relaxed, and I’m really present. I found this wasp’s nest out there one time, that a bear had taken down from a tree. You could see the claw marks on one side, and there was only half a nest. This is the weird story: If fit perfectly over my face, and there was one hole I could see through. I sat with it like that — I could still smell the bear — losing myself out there.

Magical Realism is the term that comes to mind when I look at your work.

Twenty years ago, a friend said, “What you do is Magical Realism.” I’d never heard the term. He said it was literary. Magical Realism, I think that sums it up. A long time ago, when I was 14, I went to a Renaissance festival, and there was a painter there. He did oil paintings of unicorns and stuff, but they were very realistic. He said something that always stuck in the back of my brain: If you want to do fantastical things, and grab people, do them in as realistic a way as you can. I think that really affected me. Even if I try to be looser, I end up being realistic with the whacky, fantastical world in my head.

Realism suggests to the viewer that what they’re seeing on the canvas actually is. So, you’re playing a trick with people.

Another person told me she thought my painting are very shamanic.  Which I thought was interesting. Sometimes they feel like that to me. It feels like a journey. So when an artist creates something, especially something that’s realistic enough the viewer almost believes it, isn’t that magic? Bridging two worlds? It’s telling a good story. It may have never happened, but you draw the person in, and then they have feelings, and emotions, and, maybe, challenging thoughts. That’s a good thing artists do.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

In the best way, in my favorite way, it’s that lighting bolt of vision in my head. And, words can do it. Sometimes I’ll hear a phrase incorrectly. If I’m listening to a story or someone is talking, I hear it incorrectly, but what I hear is more interesting, and I visualize it, [and think] that would be an amazing painting. A nugget. I’ll write them down. I have a million little pieces of scraps of paper, and napkins that have these inspiring phrases on them. I even have things written on the wall in my studio. If I hear or think of it, and I’m right there, I’ll grab the charcoal and I write it on the wall.

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

There can be quite a lot of that. It depends on how complex the picture is that I want to do. For instance, I have one that’s almost complete right now. This painting has literally been in my mind for 10 years. For whatever reason — it’s too much work, or I’m not there yet — the painting stays in my mind. Well, I’ve done it now, and thank goodness. It fit this [Higher Art exhibition] I’m trying to paint for. There’s a lot of preparation. There are quite a few animals in it. There are bubbles, which I’ve never painted before. There are a lot of landscape background. To put all that together, to what’s in my head,  first I sketch out the rough idea, and then I start grabbing [reference] photographs — it’s a Summer-Fall painting, and it’s not that now. In the Fall, I took a lot of pictures anticipating doing this painting. My camera is really important. And, I really hate to admit this, but [so, too, is] the internet. I have a love-hate relationship with tech. I‘ll gather all the visual reference together I need, and put it together into the composition I’ve sketched. I know people who can paint right out their head. I need to see the fur, and the whiskers, and the way the body twists. It feels like a little like cheating, but it works in the end.

How does it feel like cheating?

It doesn’t when they’re my photos, but when I’m using someone else’s photos … I’m not using their composition … I try to use my own photos as much as I can.

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

Yes. I will put things aside for a few days, sometimes longer, so I can’t see them, and I’ll be working on something else. I’ll go back and forth. Sometimes it helps me to take breaks, especially if I feel stuck, or I’m overworking, or some challenge in it that my mind isn’t working out, I’ll take a break and work on something else. There’s two paintings now that are in a state of almost-done, and I’ll come back to them. Sometimes I put things away for years. I just did this: I pulled one out that was done two years ago, and pulled it out to work on it some more.

Some of your paintings get put away to rest. Why?

Because I’m not ready to finish it yet. Not that I don’t want it to be finish. Maybe something I see, I’m not quite able to [translate it] to the canvas yet. Usually, that’s what it is. Or, sometimes, I’m inspired to do something else. I lose the energy and am not into [the painting] right now. And that painting may completely change later when I come back to it. When the energy changes.

Do you work in a series?

I didn’t think that I did. Well, I’ve come to realize, that in the past few years, the same characters are popping up through my work. When I put together everything I have now, I see themes. I see recurring characters and themes. I just didn’t do it intentionally. Some of these paintings have sold, and now I’m doing something that feels like it goes [with the sold work]. I feel weird about it. My bears, I’m holding onto now. I think there are more bear pictures coming. I don’t know what they are yet, but it makes me feel like I should cling to these, keep them, don’t put them out there.

What’s your favorite tool?

My camera is my most important tool. So many of the paintings are — this is the whacky part of my process; if I had neighbors who could see me, oh my gosh … I will set the camera up on a tripod in my yard, and set timer, and try to get into the positions I need. I end up taking a million pictures to get what I want.  That’s how I do most things if the [recurring ] woman is in it. Do you know how hard it is to paint a hand nicely? I have to see it.

It sounds like your camera is a tool for gathering reference information — rather than something that creates a picture you reproduce as painting.

Yes. Mostly. I do take a lot of B-roll — pretty landscapes, interesting bushes I might use at some point. I have to say that 9 times out of 10, in my thousands of photos, I don’t have what I want. So, I have to go do it again. It’s reference. Occasionally I’ll paint something directly from a picture, but very rarely.

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

Sketch books for sure. Piles of them. I sketch down an idea whether I’m going to do it or not. Sometimes I go back [into the sketchbook] and realize I’ve forgotten about a great idea. It’s there, the nugget of it is there. I sketch. I write. I write notes to myself.  Sometimes I even record audio when I’m driving. [Recording on her phone] is much safer than trying to write them while you’re driving like I used to do. Inspiration comes, and you never know when, so you have to have tools around to record it.

How do you come up with a title?

That varies. Titles sometime are in my head simultaneously with the picture in my head. Or, they come as I’m doing it. Sometimes, they don’t come. It’s a struggle. Sometimes the title comes before the painting. It’s the words, it’s a phrase, and I think, “That’s beautiful,” and I see it, and the title is already there.

What’s the job of a title?

The title gives a person a reference point. I prefer that my titles be little vague. I don’t like them to explain too much. I want the person’s mind to take the story where it will. A good title leads a person a little bit in a direction, but not to much. I don’t like titles that completely explain everything. There should be mystery. I want the painting to evoke things in peoples’ mind.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

That’s been a hard questions. I’ve always made art as long as I can remember. I was encouraged to, early on, because I showed a level of visual skill. I was drawing people with clothes when the other kids were drawing stick figures. So it was part of me, and it became also a way — when I was getting into my teens — to deal with things in my life, to get out difficult emotions, and deal with challenges. I had this wonderful tool of expression. And, I’m really thankful for that, to this day.

I was 20, traveling, so I wasn’t doing a lot of artwork, and I met with this friend I knew in high school. He’s a classically trained guitar player. He said to me that he’d met a blues [musician in Chicago]. He asked him how he got so good? And the guy said, “It’s what I do.” That stuck with me. I always thought of myself as an artist, but I started saying it to myself: It’s what I do. It’s real. I had to start thinking of it that way. So many people talk about having a hobby. I decided that I didn’t want to think of it as a hobby. It’s such a big part of me. Somewhere in my early 20s I started to say to people out loud that I am an artist. And, I do other things to support that. I’m a maker. I need to make things. I really started to hit it hard as practice when my son was born.

When my son [Seamus] was born, I was 24. I was able to stay home with him for quite a while. It became such a priority to me to do my art work. So, he would be in his baby bassinet on the table next to me, watching me paint. He seemed very content to watch. When he’d go down for a nap I’d unplug the phone, and lock the door — he’s napping and I’m painting.  It became a huge priority — the time that I had to paint, to use it, every bit, for that. I also wanted him to learn that I’m mom, and I’m absolutely here, But I have my own identity. That was something I grew up hearing about [from her mother and grandmother], that they gave up all their dreams and identities to be moms. There was a little pressure there to not do that. My grandmother was an artist, and starting to work in the fashion world, gave it up all completely when she got married and started having kids.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Social media. It’s such a bad word to me. I have an Instagram page, but I’ve never put anything on it. I just don’t want to. I don’t think it would be helpful anymore. All these social media platforms are so crammed full of information, and you have those no attention space. It’s like: click click click. Everything’s so fast. You forget the last thing you looked at.

You said social media is a “bad word.” Tell me why.

I see whole lot wrong with it, a whole lot that’s going wrong with us as human beings because of it. There’s some cool stuff, and that what get us hooked. We feel like we’re part of something, and we feel more connected, and yet, we get together less, and not because of COVID. That was happening before COVID.  When you read or post something on a social media site about yourself, that is the edited version of you. We can sit here and talk, and all of my foibles — I’m going to say dumb things, I’m going to look cross-eyed — it’s unedited. It’s me. But I can totally put out the honed version of myself on line, and it’s never fully real. The connection aren’t fully real. The way that it’s used to condition us, to train us to think in certain directions, to pit us against each other …

It sounds like you’re a direct-experience person.

Yes. I am. I do use Facebook. I wasn’t even going to get Facebook. I have this musical duo, and the several years back people were saying that the only way people will know when you’re playing is to get it on Facebook. I resisted for a while. And then you’re in. Now you’re looking at it, and it starts sucking you in. I hardly ever go there.

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

It’s different for everybody. There are plenty of people who make things, and never show their work to someone, or show it to very few people. What is their role? Do we ever know what our role is? On a quantum level, you never know what those waves are doing that you put out there. There’s also that role, in the social world, to make a statement, evoke change. Some people paint beautiful landscapes. Does that end war or cause social change? Maybe not, maybe it does, but it’s still totally valid. If you get too involved in what is the purpose of this, what is this going to do, I know I can paralyze myself [thinking too much about it]. I do like the idea of evoking some sort of shift in a person, in their consciousness. Or, changing their mood for the day. I hear this a lot: “I hadn’t thought of that like that before”; or, “That makes me think about that creature differently,” like the bears or the wasps [in her paintings]. I do like that.

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

Other living beings. Plants to bears to lots of mushrooms. People ask me all kinds of weird questions about that. And, no I’m not eating that.

What is it about mushrooms that make them recur in your paintings?

First and foremost, they’re all around me. I see mushrooms all the time. They’re everywhere. Such a vastly important part of the ecosystem. The mushroom is only the fruiting body that we see. The mycelial web, the roots of the mushroom, are under our feet all the time. We’re always walking on mushrooms and fungi. They’re part of everything. I’m kind of obsessed with mushrooms, and I have been for such a long time. They’re part of my everyday mind. They come up all around my house, all kinds, and are part if everything.

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

I am very grateful for the fact I live in the woods, and that there is so much forest in Northern Michigan, and water. I can be in the forest. I can be on the Big Lake. I’m a boat person, a sailor. I love the water. There are other places I’d like to live, and go to, but I was born here. The is my native land. You can see in the work that I do, most of the creatures you encounter are here. I don’t paint a lot of lions, tigers, and elephants.

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

Dan Oberschulte. He put the oil paints in my hand. He also helped foster that seriousness we talked about.  Seeing somebody who was that serious about [his painting practice] was helpful to me. That thought of art-as-life, and art life. I have two people I would call, and send picture of my art, and ask them, “What do you think?” I would bring paintings to him, and he shows me his, which we do to this day. That’s the trusted feedback, him and my son. My son has become that now.

[The late] Steve Balance — I used to model for him. He became a mentor. He would give me feedback too. I do things similar that he did with his photographs. He sets scenes up. He wasn’t an on-they-fly, capturing a moment. He would have an idea in his head, and set it up. That’s what I do. I have the idea, and set up my references to make what I see in my head.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

That is the part where I get to share that with the rest of the world, which I seem to need to do. There’s a lot that goes with it. I’m very introverted,  and I do spend most of my time alone, with my partner, and I want that and need that. It’s the point at which I push myself out there [believing] this thing needs to be seen by other people. There’s the validation wrapped up in it. There’s the selling, making some sort of income. There’s wanting to tell the stories, or at least put the stories out there for other people minds to start to playing with it. That makes it bigger than me. There are things on my wall that I never put out. Some of it is that’s what artists do. But I have a lot of issues around that, too. Once you start [exhibiting] in galleries, and you start putting your work into the public eye, all the voices start coming into your head. She said this, and he said that, and the gallery said I should do this or shouldn’t do that. That can be a real problem. I used to struggle with it more than I do now.

Is it hard for you to detach yourself from peoples’ responses? Or, do you take it in?

I take it in, but I feel like I’ve gotten good at … I’ve got this punk rock bone my body that wants to give everyone the bird when they telling me all this stuff. I try not to censor myself because of those voices. What I try to do is not censor myself. Make the thing. Put it out there, and it’s going to have its own life after that.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

That is so much mostly about getting outside. It’s looking at art. I do have a Pinterest problem, I think. I can go on there for so long because it keeps spitting things out.  It’s so inspiring sometimes. I see things I never would have thought of, wish I would have thought of. I love picture books. Music inspires me. I love to listen to stories. One of my bear paintings [came out of a] literal fever dream. I had this fever, and I was lying on the couch. And all I wanted was a big bear to come and read me a story. And so I grabbed my sketch book, and started drawing that. Later, when I was well again, it became this painting — that I really, really love — of this bear sitting in this big comfy armchair. The chair is outside with rose bushes behind him, and he’s got a big story book in his lap. The girl is lying on the ground, at his feet, in this white nightgown. And, then it gets a little dark, according to some people. If you keep looking behind the bear, there’s some bloody meat and bones. The woman is holding a bone. That is all very warm and fuzzy for me. The painting is called “The Nature of the Beast.” 

What drives your impulse to make?

Processing. It’s all processing the world, my immediate environment, the bigger environment. I’m creating ways to deal with it, whether it’s good or bad, and that’s why I’ve been doing it since I was a little. It’s what mankind has always done: We’ve created stories to make sense of what’s going around us. I don’t need to understand everything, but I need to process it. I don’t think we have to understand everything to benefit from it. Allowing things to move through you, being present, and then allowing whatever is there to move through you, whether you understand it or not — I think that’s really important for being in this world. When I had COVID, literally laying there, I laid on this table so much letting go of my body and going into this meditative state. It was there I realized if you can let go and let things just be, there’s so much there. There’s imagery, and there’s nothing, and silence, and it’s so healing. When I’m making anything, I don’t know I’m hungry, I’m not aware of my body any more. The creative process, my whole life, has given me time to let go of that physical weight, and that allows other things to happen.

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Read more about Melonie Steffes here.

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