Author: Sarah Bearup-Neal

Karen Anderson came “out of the womb searching for meaning.” The Traverse City writer has found it in a bowl of oatmeal, buckle snow boots, canoeing the Manistee River, and the historic neighborhood in which she’s lived for several decades — among other places and things that, at first blush, seem mundane. But it is this very ordinariness about which she writes that has spoken, clearly and loudly, to readers of her newspaper column, and now to listeners of her weekly radio essays. Karen Anderson’s love affair with words and ideas has been part of the locality since the 1970s; and continues — in spite of a college professor’s lament that marriage, motherhood and all the rest might diminish her creativity. This interview took place in January 2022. It was conducted by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Describe the medium in which you work. What is your work?

Currently, my medium is radio, and I contribute weekly essays to Interlochen Public Radio.

How many books have you published and what are their titles, publication dates?

Three: Letters from Karen in 1978; A Common Journey in 1982; and Gradual Clearing:  Weather Reports from the Heart in 2017.

How many essays have you written and read on IPR?

I started contributing a weekly essay in 2005. So, if you do the math, it’s weekly … 52 a year times 15 -16 years, whatever that is.

How long did you published essays in the Traverse City Record-Eagle? 

It was a weekly column, and I did that for 30 years. I was invited to start writing a personal column in 1973, and continued until 2003. Then, Peter Payette [then News Director, now Executive Director] at Interlochen called me up and said, “Your columns could be adapted for radio. Would you be interested?” And by then, I really was interested in trying a different medium. I’d been doing the Record-Eagle for a long time. I really love IPR … I felt like this would be a new growth opportunity. And it was, and is.

What are the difference between writing for print and writing for radio?

I had to learn that, and thanks to Peter Payette, he could be my coach. When I wrote for the Record-Eagle, my columns were about 700-words-a-piece, and my essays for Interlochen are only 200 words. They slide them into a two-minute slot between news stories. That’s a big drop in words, so you have to condense dramatically. I learned a number of things. One is: You can really only include one idea per essay. You can’t really ramble around and add ideas and detours. There are no detours in two minutes. Another thing: Your sentences need to be short because people are listening. They don’t have text in front of them like when they’re reading the Record-Eagle. They’re listening. And if they miss something, or if your sentences are too complex, or your words are too big and unfamiliar, it’s going to go by them, and you can’t go back. Simplicity — both in terms of concept, and I don’t mean simplistic, [but sentences that are] straightforward, with focused ideas, short sentences, sentences that are clear, without lots of adjectives or dependent clauses. Here’s the thing I learned: I take out words; but I can add in with my voice what I take out in words. I can add inflections, and pauses, and emphasis that I can’t do in print. Even though it’s shorter, I really like being able to use my voice. It’s a way of indicating to the listener what I care about. With radio, there’s an intimacy about it. From time to time IPR gets people in from NPR to visit the station and coach the staff. I worked with a woman years ago … and she talked about how intimate radio is. It’s helpful if you think that you’re just talking to one person. You don’t imagine yourself talking to a thousand people. And, probably most people are listening alone. I like the immediacy and intimacy of radio, which is different than print.

What draws you to writing, to the written word? Why did you choose writing as a vehicle of creative expression?

Because I learned early that I was good at it. I was an avid reader, and I started writing terrible, youthful things, essentially copying The Secret Garden as if it were my own novel when I was in the 6th grade. When I was in 10th grade, the assignment was to write a personal letter, and I wrote one that I made up. I made up a family in which I had an older brother who could fix me up on dates. The teacher gave an “A” on this and read it to the class. She liked it because it had so many personal details, and it was so conversational. She seemed to think I had a talent for writing, and I think that gave me some confidence and focus about going forward in that realm. I was also in art classes, and I had a small amount of talent in visual art; but it didn’t interest me as much as writing. I was hungry to ferret out the meaning of life, and I felt like words were my vehicle, metaphors and language always attracted me. That was the path I followed.

Did you receive any formal training in writing?

I majored in English literature at U of M, [Karen received a bachelor’s degree from the University of Michigan in1966] wrote lots of papers, and went back and got a master’s degree in English literature [late 1960s]. That was some formal training. I had some really good coaching from one professor. We had to write a paper on Byron. I didn’t know anything about Byron, so I went and got a bunch of book about Byron from library. I wrote a paper quoting all the experts on Byron, and got a “C” on my paper, which shocked me. This is my major. So I went to see the professor, and he said, “I don’t want to read about what the experts think about Byron. I already know that. I want to read about what you think about Byron.” Oh my god. I didn’t have any thoughts about Byron, but he gave me permission to have ideas about something that he thought might be valuable. That was really important to me. Trust yourself.

How did your formal training affect your development as a writer?

It made me a good writer. Writing academic papers for high-quality professors is rigorous, and I learned how to express myself in a grammatically correct and beautiful way. I was taking a Chaucer class … We could write either a creative or research paper. Of course, I wanted to do a creative paper, so, I decided to make up an additional Canterbury Tale pilgrim. I made up my own pilgrim to add to the gang that was going to the cathedral. I wrote my paper in iambic pentameter rhymed couplets It was quite a few pages of single-spaced rhymed couplets, and I had so much fun doing it. My professor gave me an A+, which was thrilling. He said [I] seemed to have a gift for writing. Here’s the awful, additional thing he said. We’re talking about the 60s now. He said, “You seem to have a real gift for creative expression. I hope, when you get married and have children, it won’t dissipate your interest in intellectual pursuits,” or something like that.

How did that comment, in retrospect, influence how you went forward in the world with your writing? 

Here’s the embarrassing thing: I was so thrilled that I got an A+, and that he said I was a really good writer, that I didn’t feel sufficiently offended by his additional comment that my path to motherhood and marriage would dissipate my intellectual pursuits. I never believed that; but I wasn’t as offended as I would have been after the Women’s Movement brought to my attention the ways in which the patriarchy has shaped our world. Consciousness raising was on the horizon; but it wasn’t there. I look back on it now, and I’m just appalled that he would even [say] that; and worse, that I didn’t object; but the other messages were valuable to me.

Beyond your formal training, what are the other ways you learned about your craft?

I attended the Bread Loaf Writers Conference in Vermont [1977-79, 1983 as a Bread Loaf Fellow] … It’s an extraordinary experience. It was two weeks of listening to top-notch writers read from their work, and then you attend workshops on craft, and then you can have your manuscript read by writers on staff, and meet with them to get feedback. All of those things were enormously helpful to me. It was nitty-gritty writing … I remember Hilma Wolitzer saying that her editor would go through her manuscripts and circle the words she’d repeated. That’s really good advice. Read your stuff out loud to yourself, and you’ll hear all the repetitions and the things that don’t make sense. I ended up going to Bread Loaf four times. One time, after I’d published a book of columns, I was there as a fellow, which meant I got to read from my own work, which was a great thrill. And, I got to go to Bloody Mary pre-lunch gatherings with the writers. I got as much help from those experiences at Bread Loaf as I did from U of M studying formal literature. It always helps to go to conferences and workshops where there are opportunities to get feedback on your work.

I had another good experience there, an ah-ha! moment. In my Record-Eagle columns I used to include a quote from a famous person at the beginning of the column, that was related to the topic. Writer Geoffrey Wolff was the staff person who reviewed my first book. He really liked my essays. He said, “These quotes you have at the beginning of each essay don’t add anything.” He said, “You’re hiding behind the quotes as if you needed an authority to prove your idea was valid. Your ideas are strong enough. You don’t need those quotes. They’re just a distraction.” I was scared to take them out, that my readers would protest. But I took them out and nobody even mentioned it.

Describe your studio/work space.

It’s nothing special. It’s my daughter [Sara’s] bedroom. When she left for college I grabbed her bedroom for my office. It’s just a bedroom with a twin bed, and the Cabbage Patch dolls are on the bed.

How does your studio/work space facilitate your work? Affect your work?

It just gives me privacy. A place where everything is available.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

I write about my own experiences. Daily life. Ordinary experiences. Also: nature — I write quite a lot about doing things outdoors. I write about relationships, and often a theme is the search for wisdom, or insight about the meaning of life. That sounds grandiose. Trying to extract meaning from my daily experience is the effort, the energy behind the essay.

You’re heard weekly on Interlochen Public Radio. Characterize these essays you write and read on air.

They’re brief meditations on my experience and search for meaning. The subtitle of my book [Gradual Clearing], which was suggested to me by a writer friend, it’s Weather Reports From The Heart, which is a little corny; but does suggest what I’m after.

The Interlochen Radio essays are two minutes in length. What are the challenges to expression and writing posed by such a compact “space”? How do you craft an idea for such a compact space so that you can take the idea through its full arc?

Quickly. There’s one idea. Short sentences. Simple words. Focus. Focus. Plus, a kind of intimacy. That’s the construction of them. That content is, I’ve tried to be willing to be vulnerable, to be confused, to not have answers, to share from personal experiences in an honest way. Here’s the thing, and this is from the time I started writing columns in the Record-Eagle: When people talk to me about my columns, or now, my essays, they don’t talk about my experience, they talk about their experience. They’re really not interested in my experience except as it connects them to their own experience or insight or understanding. So, they come to me and tell me about themselves, which is wonderful. It’s like we’re more alike than we are different. And, people connect to what I write in ways I could have never predicted.

The confined spaces of your former column, and now, the radio essays, impose boundaries and limits on your writing. I wonder if these confines are humbling, if they remind the writer that every word isn’t precious?

I don’t think they’re humbling. I think they’re challenging. Another formal and informal training that was helpful to me is writing poetry. When my granddaughters were home schooled, I offered to teach the poetry curriculum. So, every week for seven years, they came to my house. I decided I should get more serious about writing poetry, and I took a class at the [Northwestern Michigan College in Traverse City, Michigan] with [Leelanau County native] Holly Spaulding, and discovered how difficult poetry is to write. It’s even more distilled than my essays. It condenses things down even further at its best. That was really helpful. You find you can leave out a lot of words you thought you couldn’t leave out. It doesn’t take away, it adds to. You get right to the heart of things. I confess now that I’m very impatient with people who cannot be brief, either in writing or in speaking.

Are the essays you published in the Traverse City Record-Eagle different in any way than the ones you’re writing for and reading on the radio?

They were longer, so I had time to meander and include various additional thoughts and ideas. They weren’t as focused. When I started writing them, I was in my 20s. We’re talking not quite 50 years ago. I didn’t know nearly as much as I know now. Here’s the other thing: When I first started writing my column I was the “roving reporter.” I would write about fun activities around town, and then I might throw in one about my grandmother. The ones that people liked were about my grandmother. I learned from my audience that people really liked personal stories. My maturity level, my self-awareness, my repertoire of experiences were much less in the 70s than they are now. The goal is the same — to extract meaning from my experiences — but I think that I’m better at it because I know more about myself and about writing.

Who is your audience?

Right now, it’s the IPR listeners who are in Northern Michigan, and all over the place. When my book of essays was published in 2017, the audience expanded further. Not necessarily people who can hear me, or who have ever heard me, they discover my book … I really feel privileged, truly, honored and grateful to have a weekly audience. It’s a very precious thing.

What kinds of clues have you gotten along the way that tell you who your audience is?

I think it’s evenly men and women. I get letters, emails, comments out in the community. For example: When I was writing a weekly column in the Record-Eagle, my picture was in the paper every week, so people would recognize me when I was out around town. Now, people recognize my voice. It is the strangest thing. My husband and I were at a nursery buying a Maple sapling for the backyard, and the forester telling me about the tree said, “Oh, I know you. I listen to your essays on IPR.” He recognized my voice, which is fascinating when you think how distinctive our voices are. I have those experiences quite often … When I published my book and I went out and did readings — it was weekly, for a year I was out on the trail — there were as many men as women in the audience.

What do you do with the feedback you get from your readers and listeners?

I use it. Depending upon what it is. Knowing what they like is a good clue to themes and points of view resonate with people. If they don’t like it, I can use that, too — if I think it’s valid … I write a variety of essays. One recently was about oatmeal for breakfast. Now, that’s pretty mundane. Right? It wasn’t profound. I got more response to that oatmeal essay than I’ve had in quite a long time. People weighing in on how they like their oatmeal. It was humorous to me. I could never have predicted that, and I loved it. It’s a reminder that ordinary life that’s where we live, day-to-day, in our kitchens eating oatmeal. It reinforces my belief that ordinary experiences can connect us. And I just don’t mean describing oatmeal. Usually there’s some level of understanding or humor or insight about daily experiences. It delights me to find what people particularly enjoy because it isn’t often what I expect.

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

It depends on what I need, whether it’s the actual sentence construction or themes. I’ve always gotten good feedback from Peter Payette at IPR; from my poetry teacher Holly Spaulding, who helped me edit the essays in my most recent book. She’s absolutely relentless and fearless about taking things out. I always valued her feedback. [IPR Program Director] Dan Wanchura is the guy who produces my essays for IPR. I send him ideas before I write the essays, and he’s very honest about whether he thinks [an essay idea] has has legs, or not, or how it might grow legs. From time-to-time, I’ve had a writing group. I was in a writing group for a couple years with several really talented, regional/Northern Michigan writers, and they also helped me put my book together. I can still go to any one of them for counsel, if I need it.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

A whole bunch of things. Experiences. Overheard conversations. Sometimes a memory because I write about my childhood. I recently wrote about my brother getting to wear buckle boots when he was a little boy. I didn’t get buckle boots because I was a girl. I had to wear those dorky zip-up boots with fur around the top. It was partly a meditation: I’d perceived that things were already better for boys than girls. I had so many men telling me about their memories and experiences with buckle boots. Childhood is a rich source of memories and ideas. Books that I read, conversations I have, daily life, which keeps happening. Then I try, like many writers, to quick jot down the idea. I only need the idea. I get it on paper, in little notebook, and then I can revisit it when I have to write a batch. I write about 12 [IPR] essays at a time. And, then I go tape 12.

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

Not much. I’ve been doing it so long. All I need is the idea. It’s like Hemingway saying begin by writing the truest sentence that you know. All I need is an image or a sentence and then it writes itself, not always well. I don’t want to know what the end is. I don’t know where I’m going to arrive because I trust the process to take me where it needs to go. If I already have an ending in mind, I often get derailed from it, and it isn’t as strong as letting the material go where it goes.

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

Yes. I might have several essays in various stages of development. Sometimes, I will start to write and find, for whatever reason, the stars are misaligned, and I cannot write a coherent sentence today. It just won’t happen, and I could sit here all day and it just wouldn’t change. So, I leave it, and then the stars realign, and the next day the sentences come to fruition. Sometimes I just have to leave a piece, or the idea, or I can’t figure out the ending, so I just have to leave things and revisit them, so I can work on other things while I’m waiting.

What’s your favorite tool?

I just write on a PC pretty much. Computer keyboard.

You didn’t come out of the womb writing on a computer keyboard, so talk a little bit the difference between writing by hand with a pencil and paper versus the word processor/laptop.

I used to write everything longhand on legal pads. But the computer arrived, and I was working full-time in public relations and marketing at Northwestern Michigan College. That was my full-time job, and I had to learn to use the computer for my job. I soon learned how much easier it was to revise things on my computer than it was any other way. My work forced me into using a computer.

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

I make notes in a little notebook. And if I just have an idea for an essay, it’ll go into my notebook if I’m out and about. Or, I grab a scrap of paper, or a receipt from Meijer. It could vanish if I don’t write it down. My file of essay ideas is full of scraps of paper.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

When I went to work at the Record-Eagle in [the early] 1970s. It was just job, like a Gal Friday. I was reading proofs, and doing grunt work in the ad department. But I approached Bob Batdorff, who was the publisher then, and I said, “You don’t have any book reviews in the Record-Eagle, would you let me write some?” He told me to write a few and I did, and they liked them, and after they’d used a half dozen he said, “You’re a good writer, would you like to write a weekly column? Just your own. Whatever you want it to be.” It was an extraordinary invitation. At that moment, I began to think how I could shape something that was my own idea, that wasn’t about somebody else’s book or life. I started writing a weekly column for the Record-Eagle in 1973. That was the beginning of taking myself seriously as a practicing writer. And they paid me.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Not very much. My essays for Interlochen are part of their website. I have my own page where they archive my essays; but I don’t Twitter, and I don’t have my own website. I’ve thought about creating one, but I just haven’t done it.

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

I think of Holly Spaulding when she was teaching us poetry, and she would say, “Make it fresh.” I think our responsibility is to take whatever ideas we have, and make them fresh so that someone looks at them anew, so that they a reason to pay attention … to any concern, insight, or wisdom we have to offer them. It depends on your purpose, if you’re trying to persuade people of something, or to enrich their daily lives. The other thing I’ve talked about before: Connecting with other people. Demonstrating how we’re all more alike than different. That we can bond over oatmeal. That there are commonalities in the human experience, which are really nourishing to consider and celebrate.

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

My neighborhood: I live in Central Neighborhood in a 100-year-old house. I love this old neighborhood. I feel at home here. And, also, the larger outdoors — my husband and I go canoeing and camping and hiking in this region and beyond. Those things also really nourish me. That whole small town thing. Traverse City is a small town in some ways, and I like that.

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

It’s an accessible place. Even though we have a lot of new people moving in, I can still walk downtown and see people I know and chat with. I can talk with Jim Carruthers, the [former] mayor of Traverse City who bikes by my house. There’s still a sense, since I’ve lived here a long time [since 1984], of knowing people and feeling a kind of belonging and ownership in this community, not just Traverse City; but the region at-large. I feel invested in it. I belong to it.

Is the work you create a reflection of this place?

Yes.

Would you be doing different work if you did not live in Northern Michigan?

That’s really an imponderable. That opportunity to write that column — would that have happened if I was working at the Chicago Tribune? Maybe not. But because the Record-Eagle is a smaller paper and the town is a smaller place, that opportunity came to me. It was phenomenal. Would I have done the same work somewhere else? Maybe. I hope so. I think now I’d have the confidence to make that effort. I still think I’d be writing about the small things.

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

I had an 11th grade English teach named Nelle Curry who was a writer and connected to the art world. She was a frumpy, dowdy woman with frizzy hair — you would never have thought of her as a glamorous artist; but she was a writer. She invited a group of six of us to join a creative writing group. We met at her apartment, which was a glamorous, high-ceilinged [place], with lots of books. She knew various visual artists. And, she was not married. She was a single, independent woman. It was an eye-opener for me. Her life was nothing like my mother’s. I loved considering Nelle Curry a free agent who was doing creative work and living in this book-lined apartment. I think that gave me another vision of possibilities for women. All the women I knew were just like my mom. They were home, raising kids, not working outside the home. Miss Curry gave me a glimpse of myself as a writer; but also a larger vision for women.

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

Initially, a person who made an impact on me was Loren Eiseley. He’s really a science writer, wrote The Immense Journey, which is a collection of essays. He is such a beautiful writer. What I learned from him was the use of the extended metaphor. He would be writing about one thing but talking about a lot of other things. Sometimes people have talked about essays as a way to talk about big things and small things at the same time. Loren Eiseley taught me in The Immense Journey how to use an extended metaphor. You take a single experience, write about it accurately and then find meaning in it that can expand the significance of it. I admired that so. It seemed to me such a rich approach. He does it masterfully.

What is the role of publishing in your practice?

It was meaningful to me to have book of my radio essays published because radio is pretty ephemeral. With the Record-Eagle [essays], there’s a piece of newsprint if you want to save it. Radio comes and goes. It’s satisfying to have 120 essays between two covers instead of hoping someone might catch it on Friday mornings at 6:30 or 8:30. Publishing has given me an opportunity to reach a larger audience, and interact with that audience in ways that I don’t and can’t just by being on the radio.

Tell me about the feelings you have when you hear yourself on the radio.

Sometimes I sound better than other times. It’s always a little scary. What if it sounds terrible? But I listen because I learn. I should have read that sentence differently. I could have added more emphasis. Or: That part was good. I always listen with little fear, and a little hope.

Publishing one’s work is accepting that you’re going to be vulnerable. You’re putting yourself out there for any Tom, Dick or Harry to read. Does radio change that in any way? Or, exacerbate it?

It’s a risk. Being in any medium is a risk. Not everybody is going to like what you do for a variety of reasons. I guess you just have to learn to accept not everybody is going to love it. If possible, it’s great to engage with the people who don’t like what you’re doing, and have a conversation with them — if that’s possible. You can learn from people who don’t like what you’re doing. Sometime people will say, “Oh, why don’t you write an essay about X,” and it’s their particular passion. And I always have to gracefully say that the person who needs to write about X is YOU. You really care about it. I can only write about something I really care about. I suggest they do a letter to the editor, or a forum piece in the Record-Eagle. Get your concerns out there, they belong to you. I can’t do it as well as you can. I don’t have the passion for it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I write about my everyday life so I keep living my everyday life; but I try to live it in such a way that I have a piece of my mind open to the possibility [of an event] being the focus of an essay. I think most artists are always scanning their experiences for the possibility of turning them into art. I certainly have that additional level of awareness, and discovery going on a lot of the time, whether I’m canoeing on the Manistee or shopping downtown or walking in my neighborhood. Or, remembering. People [ask her] how can I remember stuff that happened when you were a little kid? Well, you only need a fragment of that memory — the sound of a buckle boot — and you start to write about it, and it all starts unspooling from your memory. It’s all in there. You just have to invite it back. Memories are great. Reading books might stimulate something. Outdoor experiences. Relationships. All of that.

What drives your impulse to create?

Two things. I’ve mentioned one, and that is: It seems that I did come out of the womb in search of meaning. It was a joke in our family: Karen wants to know what it all means. There was a sense of searching for meaning, so I went to books and poetry; and an effort to extract meaning from my own experience, not just from the experts and existing authors. The second piece is I love language. I love it. I love the way it works, I love words, I love the way words fit together and create magical combinations that nurture our souls. Playing with language, finding the right word is a joy for me. And when I feel like I’ve nailed it … When I was able to say what just what I mean in the most beautiful language I could find inside of two minutes — that’s deeply satisfying. I really pay attention to language. Whether it’s people talking to me, or using it myself, or reading it in books. Our language is so rich and beautiful. Maxine Kumin the poet said all the good words have been taken, we can only rearrange them. Isn’t that wonderful? You don’t need new words. You just have to rearrange them so that it makes the world fresh.

Karen Anderson’s essays are heard Friday mornings, at 6:30 and 8:30, on Interlochen Public Radio. Read them here.

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

What is the medium in which you work.

Mostly oil [paint] and cold wax.

What does that mean?

A lot of people, right now, are interested in understanding the difference between encaustic and cold wax painting. Cold wax [medium], I like to tell people, is more about consistency. When you get a new jug of cold wax, it kind of looks like Crisco ….  It’s like softened butter. You add it to your oil paint. You can increase the translucency, the transparency of the oil paint with it depending on how much you add. Some artists put it right on top of [the painting]. There’s all kinds of uses for it … I use a palette knife. That’s the best way to use anything with cold wax. You could use a brush, but it tends to gum up the brush.

By using a palette knife, do you get a different appearance on the surface of the canvas?

I like things to be more textural. So, with a palette knife, you can really get that. You can cut into things more. I like things to be angular.

What draws you to the medium in which you work?

The fact that I can leave it for a long time and come back to it. I like to scrape things away and reveal what’s underneath certain colors. That’s easy to do with cold wax. That’s one of the things that draws me to cold wax. I never seem to have enough time to sit down and complete something. I work here at the gallery a lot, so I get interrupted a lot. I have to have that freedom to be able to come back to something.

It’s also interesting that you need time to think about your composition and the ideas in it. 

Yes. For sure. As artists, we spend a lot of time working on a section or an area, then you leave it, go get a cup of coffee, come back and just stare at it. I’ll have my easel next to me here at my desk [in the gallery] and I’ll be answering emails or something, and keep looking at it. [Taking a pause] promotes more thought about what’s going to happen next.

Did you attend art school or receive any formal training in visual art?

No. I have not. I did go to art school, but for music. I was a classically trained singer, and never had any inclination to draw or paint. In fact, I was terrified of it. I never thought I’d be good at it. I graduated [in 1997] from Interlochen Arts Academy for voice. And then, I went to Peabody Conservatory in Baltimore [1998 – 2000] for voice for two years, and then I and dropped out. I have severe stage fright, debilitating … It was really bad. Once you get to the college level of classical music, everyone is amazing. You’re not the big fish in the little pond anymore. [Between] that horrible monster of comparing myself, and trying to be as good as everybody else, I couldn’t take the pressure.

How did you learn to paint?

I grew up as a kid in the restaurant industry. My dad owned a restaurant and he would always take me to work with him. I always loved to cook. When I lived in Florida, I started my own personal chef business. My dad lived here in Elk Rapids [Michigan], and he came up with this crazy idea that we were going open up a restaurant together, and we did [Regalo opened in 2008]. After a year-and-a-half of being really successful we realized having a business together was not a good idea for our relationship. I was super depressed. I’d left behind my business in South Florida, which was doing great. Left all my friends. Moved up here to Northern Michigan. Didn’t know anybody. This was in 2008. I just felt this urge I wanted to be creative in order to pull myself out of what felt like a huge loss. It was like a divorce. I just went to Michael’s and got a cheap pack of canvases and kid’s paints. I started doing little paintings, and everybody said, “Oh these are good. You should sell them!” I didn’t but I thought I really like this. It made me feel really good. Without sounding cliche, it really was the power of art that pulled me out of that hole I was in. Shortly after that I met my partner — whom I’m with now. And she’s a dog trainer, so we had dogs coming and going all the time. As an easy subject, I started painting her dogs that were always around. Her clients started asking me if they could pay me to paint their dog. That’s where it all started. I started doing these dog portraits, and it led to other things.

Describe your studio/work space.

Right now my studio — I call it the nomadic studio. In the months that I’m really busy at [Higher Art Gallery], I can’t paint here. So, I have this little nook in my kitchen with windows. I put my canvas on the wall in the kitchen. Or, I use a little easel on a little table. It’s very cramped, it’s not ideal, but it works. When I’m here in the off season, I have all my paints in the office, and I have big easel I keep here next to the desk, and I just paint here at my desk. When people come in, we talk, and I just keep painting.

How does your studio/work space facilitate your work? Affect your work?

It affects me negatively and positively. I’ve learned how to work efficiently in a small space. I try to stay organized. I don’t have room to spread out and be messy — like I would love to do. Obviously, I can’t do that at the gallery. There’s [other people’s] art everywhere, and I have to stay neat and tidy. It gives me a feeling of restriction. One of the positive things is feeling like I’m forced to paint here while at work has helped me to get over my shyness. In order for me to produce art work, I have to be able to engage with people at the same time. They’re curious. They want to see what  you’re working on. It doesn’t bother me anymore. At home working in that small nook in my kitchen — I hate working at home. I’m constantly being interrupted. And then I also feel the sense of, “Oh, I’m home. I’m going to wait for this spot [on the canvas] to dry, so I’m going to do some laundry,” and the next thing you know you’re tired and don’t want to continue with the painting. I’m hoping to have a designated space of my own soon.

When you talk about how your “studio” in your gallery affects your work, you said it has forced you to get over your shyness. Is that about having to engage with all the strangers who come through the front door?

I’m outgoing when it comes to that. My paintings go through this awful stage where they’re just bad and you don’t want anyone to see them yet. They’re going through this ugly duckling stage while you’re working on it. I’ve just had to get over that. I’ve just had to not worry about what someone is thinking while I’m working on a painting, while we’re chit-chatting. But I’ve found it’s a positive thing. When people walk into the gallery and see an artist working on something, it’s like an ice breaker. It relaxes people. It gives you an introduction, a way to talk to people. And then they ask if I have finished work in the gallery, and I can show them.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

I’m an emotional person. I internalize a lot of stuff. I think getting my feelings out with a narrative on a canvas helps me work through my own stuff. Also, I’m a very nostalgic person. I had a close relationship with my grandmother. A very bad relationship with my mother. A lot of time, who and what I paint — my subjects — have a lot of of metaphor-slash-symbolism for these things. I tend to paint women because I’m in a relationship with a woman. My subjects tend to be two women. It’s what I relate to in life.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

So many things. I’m literally surrounded by art all day every day. Sometimes it can be something as simple as one of my artists I represent brings in a piece, and I’m obsessed with the colors [they’re using]. I love looking around at the color combinations or composition of an abstract painting, and [then] apply it to a figurative painting. Lots of time I’ll start working on a figure with no real idea of where it’s going, and then a dog will come with it. I like painting birds. Women and birds. I paint a lot of women holding eggs. I went through this weird thing when I turned 40. I was like, “Oh god, I’ve haven’t had kids,” and so I painted a lot of women with eggs because I was feeling really weird about not having children. Was I regretting it? Not regretting it? It’s usually something deep-seated in me that has to come out.

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

Now, in the last two year, I do a lot more than I used to do. I never ever, until two years ago, had a sketch book. It’s so ridiculous. Everything in my head, I’d just start on a canvas and finish it. Now, I do have a sketch book and try to sketch out ideas. I get annoyed when I forget them. That helps me practice for what’s going to be on the canvas. It was really always because I was afraid of drawing. I thought I would be so terrible at it. It actually turns out that I’m not that bad as I thought, and I really enjoy it. It’s relaxing. I plan things out loosely with a painting, and then, usually, other things will start to appear in the painting midway through.

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

No. I’ve tried. I get so jealous of artists who can have multiple things going on in their studio. I really have the ability to work on one thing at a time.

Do you work in a series?

I did when Michelle Tock York and I had that show over the summer, Heroines, Real And Imagined [August 5 – September 5, 2021 at Higher Art]. That was the first time I’d tried to discipline myself to work in a themed series. And, I didn’t like it. So, no. I don’t really. As I’m working other ideas come into my head and I no longer want to do this. I need a break from it. I just get bored.

What’s your favorite tool?

Palette knives. I use credit cards a lot to scrape. Those are good for wiping away paint to reveal what’s underneath. To get a really clean look [at what’s underneath] I use a lot of clay tools.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

It’s important to me because I don’t know what else I could do that would alleviate this feeling I get inside when I’ve gone too long without using paint and doing something on a canvas. I get really irritable, and not in a good space when I haven’t made something with my hands.

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

Because we live in this society where everything needs to be done so quickly, and spit out so that people are happy. Making something by hand is so much more valuable because, well, it’s one-of-a-kind. And even if the artist makes multiples, it’s still one-of-a-kind because their hands have touched, and that leaves rooms for variations on what might appear to be the same thing. That’s one of the hardest things to get across to people when they’re trying to understand why something costs what it costs. Saying there is only one of something: When you think about it, it’s really pretty powerful when most people buy things now that there are millions of them.

How do you come up with a title?

I love titles. Titles come a lot of times from a song. I used to keep a book in my purse because I’d hear something that was really smart, clever or touching, and I’d write it down and think that that would make a great title for a painting. Titles are usually pretty personal. I don’t love it when I see something titled “No. 20.”  …… I understand why artists do it. I understand why you don’t want to explain to the viewer exactly what they should be thinking. And, you don’t always want to do that. I get it.

What’s the job of a title?

I think, for my paintings, people sometimes look at them and think they’re cutesy or whimsical — which I hate — or something like that. Yes. Sometimes I paint something just to paint it. Most of the time there’s some deeper metaphor in the painting, so I try to not make those metaphors so blatant. They’re a little hidden in the painting, and the title will allude to that

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

About five or six years ago.

What were the circumstances? What prompted that?

When I felt like I needed to [paint], having to do it for my well being.

What role does social media play in your practice?

It plays a big role. I do share a lot of things on social media [Instagram and Facebook]. In terms of the business side of selling my art, I do make sales using social media. It’s a love-hate relationship. I wish I didn’t have to use it. It’s a necessary evil …..

What’s its influence on the work you make?

It’s very convenient to have in your hand a virtual art gallery for the entire world. Almost every artist has social media. Or, if they don’t you can look at gallery accounts and then look at those artists. It’s inspiring. It does have an affect on me, and not just for looking at art, but for learning about new tools, new mediums. So many artists now post videos of themselves making their art. It’s a great way to learn new things.

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

On one hand, artists shouldn’t feel like they have to take on having a role. We’re just here to create what moves us, and if it can effect change or move other people in some way, then that’s great; but I don’t feel that that should be our role or responsibility.

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

I think one of the reasons I paint women a lot is not only in response to what has been happening for the last five years. When Trump came into office, I felt like women were under attack all over again. That inspires me to focus more on women. In the smaller, microcosm of that, being a woman gallery owner I feel like I’m constantly questioned and tested by men, male artists and patrons who question my level of knowledge about what I’m doing with my business. I feel like everyday, on the smaller level, I have to face it here, too. I’m friends with other gallery owners in area who are women, and we get together and talk about this all time. It’s a real thing and starts to wear on you … I came in here a few weeks ago, and had a message on the gallery answering machine from a man who went on [such an extended] rant that the answering machine kept on cutting him off. He called back three times to finish his thought, which was all about how I’m on the wrong side of history because I’m choosing to represent mainly female artists; and that I’m part of the problem in this country of dividing men and women, and black and white. It was a really angry message. That was the blown-up version. But I deal with little comments all the time. It, honestly, makes my stance on this even stronger. Obviously there’s a problem if people feel these things, and feel a need to say these things. I’m not going to stop doing what I’m doing.

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

It affects it greatly. I am somebody who’s affected lot by seasonal changes. I tend to paint accordingly. Living in Northern Michigan with the beauty that surrounds us  around affects my painting. In the spring I paint outside, and those things will find their way into my paintings.

Is Northern Michigan reflected in the work you make?

I notice that in the winter when I’m painting more, my paintings tend to be more introspective and quieter because it is quiet. I’m inside more. Definitely in the spring and summer, birds and nature will find their way into my paintings. If I’m home in the summer, I’ll try to paint on my front porch. We live in the woods so it’s easy to take that in, and it comes out in the work.

Would you be doing different work if you did not live in Northern Michigan? Would it have a different appearance?

I think so. For instance: I lived in South Florida for many years. You can look at [the work of an] artist who lives in South Florida, and know they live in South Florida. Oftentimes  they use very different colors: a lot of turquoise, pink, and things like that. After I’ve gone to South Florida, I soak up the colors from around there, and I want to use them. I want to paint them.

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

No.

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

Two people. My partner, Pam. We’ve been together almost since I started painting. I know people who are in relationships with someone who is not an artist, and their partner does not understand, does not give them the solitary time they need to make things, and it’s bad. I’m very lucky that she gives that time even though she doesn’t always understand it. She’s very encouraging, and has always encouraged me: from the artist standpoint to opening the gallery. I think who you’re sharing your life with is a huge component in what you’re able to accomplish.

From an inspirational standpoint, and as a  huge muse for me, is my grandmother [Beverly]. Even though she wasn’t an artist I like to think she was an artist in her spirit. She collected art. She appreciated well-made, fine things, and she filled her home with them. Growing up, all that [sunk into] me. I spent a lot of time with her. When she was alive I was her only grandchild, so she poured it all into me. She was silly, and strange, and different stories she told me shaped the way I see the world today.

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

My friend Julie has the best eye for when something isn’t working. I always send her a picture of [a work in progress], and say, “What’s wrong with this?” She immediately will respond with what I need to do to fix it, and it always works.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

It’s important to me. I only exhibit my work here and at Twisted Fish  [in Elk Rapids]. Of course I hear all sorts of feedback when I’m sitting here in the gallery, and people are looking at a painting they have no idea is mine. I know some artists who hide their work away.  And, they’re OK with that. I like to get my work out there. It’s one of the ways I can connect with people in a positive way. It always means so much to me when people look at my work and connect with it on a personal level, they see something in it that I intended it to mean or to be.

Why did you open a gallery?

How does your work — owning and running Higher Art Gallery — cross-pollinate with your studio practice?

The obvious thing: I show my work here. Sometimes somebody will ask if I have work here, and I say no. I lie [laughs]. I may be having a particularly vulnerable day.

What challenges does working outside the home present to your studio work?

A lot. One of the things someone told me before I opened the gallery is that I’ll never have enough time to work on my own art work, and that is 100 percent true. If there was just one thing I could change in my life, that would be to have more time for my own art work. Since I moved [the gallery from Union Street] to this location, it’s much busier now, even in the off season. In the old space be able to paint for an entire day, and maybe someone walk through the door if I were lucky. It’s not like that any more.

See more of Shanny Brooke’s work here.

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

Nick Preneta, 37, works in wood. Green wood. Mostly with his chain saw. Notching and carving and creating marks, both intentional and serendipitous. The Leelanau County artist, trained as a furniture builder, began to explore the aesthetics of non-functional wood shapes and objects when he started looking at the scraps he was generating. This interview took place in September 2021. It was conducted by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Describe the medium in which you work.

I work in wood. Generally when I start working with wood, it’s green wood, so there’s a lot of moisture in it, and that’s a key part of my process: starting with green wood.

Why is that key?

I explore the medium itself, and structural elements. Working with green wood allows me to dive deep into the structure of the wood, and explore how it changes as it loses moisture during the drying process … Different species of wood act differently during the drying process, and even the conditions the wood is under affects it. That’s what I explore. I make “suggestions” to the wood while I’m working it, by making cuts in the wood, and seeing how what I do to the wood will affect the visual outcome as it dries. I don’t know what’s going to happen — as far as the wood changing after I cut it. I look at the grain, and I have a guess, but sometimes I’m surprised. Those could be good surprises or bad surprises.

I’m really interested that you factor in things that are out of your control.

That’s really what draws me to the work I do: being able to experience something that’s out of my control. It’s a living material. Even after its cut down it can still be “living.”

What draws you to the medium in which you work?

Wood is something I’ve always been drawn to, since childhood. It goes back to playing in the woods, and making forts with sticks, making crude play toys with sticks. How I work with it has evolved over the years.

 Did you attend art school or receive any formal training in visual art?

I studied at Northern Michigan University [2002-2006]. I received a BFA — it was a concentration in furniture design. I had been accustomed to woodworking before; but [school] opened up concepts of visual presentation, conceptual ideas and social implications.

What do you mean by “social implications”? 

My initial goal in going to school for furniture design was to learn how to make furniture, and make useful things for peoples’ homes. But when I was there I was exposed to a lot of different studio furniture makers. So I found myself being drawn to creating forms that weren’t practical at all for making furniture; but I really liked the form. And the fact that I could make this form out of wood. That was a big mind shift for me: You can still make a piece of furniture, but it might not be functional as a piece of furniture.  It could be a dining room table, but it could be saying more than this is just a surface for you to  eat off of. I’m thinking of a dining room table, classically constructed and [the artist] hand-drove a nail right in the top of it [so the nail is sticking up and out of the surface] … It creates an emotional response in the viewer. At that point in my life that was really intriguing to me. I’d never explored forms like that. It was a mind-opening experience for me.

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

It was what I needed at the time. It exposed me to new ideas. As far as the work I do now, that was the first introduction I had to working with green wood. I developed techniques at college that I use if I get stuck with visual problems … The whole university scene of being around other people making things, having constant feedback: I realized that that’s very important.

You’re living in a place where there are a lot of creative people, but you’re not bumping into them every day like you’d would in college.

You’re not in the same studio they are. I think it’s really important, but I don’t really share a lot of my work in process with other artists. It’s something I need to do more of; but it’s something I haven’t incorporated into my work.

Describe your studio/work space.

I live on an old farm. I converted an old outbuilding for my studio.  It’s approximately 16 ft x 30 ft. When I first converted it, I was still in the mindset of making furniture. So, it’s a practical work space. This suits my needs for now. I suppose, if it were a different situation, my work would be a little bit different. For instance: I work with green logs, but the space isn’t conducive to bringing big logs [into the studio], so I also work outside. I do a lot of the rough shaping outside with the chainsaw. Once the pieces of wood are broken down, I bring them inside and work in the studio. Bringing big, heavy, bulky pieces of work into my studio is cumbersome, so the scale of my work is smaller than that.

What woods are you using?

Whatever comes my way that I’m interested in. What I’m using right now is beech — there’s a lot of Beech that’s available because of the fungus. People are taking it down. I use ash — [available] because of the emerald ash borer. On my own property, I have a lot of Black Locust trees. That wood is very intriguing to me. I haven’t done a lot of it in my art work, but I have a great resource when I’m ready to do that.

What is it about Black Locust that intrigues you?

Black locust is an invasive, which is intriguing to me on its own, because it’s seen as undesirable. It’s also very useful. Farmers used Black Locust traditionally, and people are stylizing Black Locust now. It’s tough wood, very dense, and the grain structure is very interesting to me.

How does your studio/work space facilitate or affect your work?

Part of it is the space. I’m not able to drive a piece of machinery right up to it, to bring logs inside [the studio]. What I bring in, I have to carry, and it has to be small enough to get it through the door. The tools I have, as well, limit the size of the work. When I first set up my studio I had a small band saw, which cut a height of 6 inches. That was a big constraint on the size of my work. Recently, this past year, I upgraded to a different size band saw so now I an cut double that height. I feel like that’s going to make a big difference in my work, as far as what I’m able to do [regarding] size.  I’m excited to see how that affect the work and changes the scale of things …

Is your studio a year-round space?

Yes, it is. It’s an old pig barn. When I converted it I put insulation in and I’ve got a wood stove as my heat source.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

What I focus on in my work is very minimal aspects — I would call most of my work minimalist, and that plays well with wood. As a material, it’s more about highlighting the qualities in the wood, especially as it changes during the drying process. That’s what I explore: the structure of the wood itself and what happens after it’s a tree, and it [arrives at a the point when it’s] dried and seen as a commercial material that can be used to make things. I want to highlight the in-between part, or the life the wood has after it’s [done] living, how it chooses to change.

When you have a piece installed in an exhibition, is it still drying?

Not usually. Most of the moisture has left it at that point. Depending on how I treat it, some of my pieces I leave raw, unfinished. And some I put a finish on. The raw pieces will [absorb] moisture in the atmosphere. They’ll change slightly. Up until now, they’ve all been dried, but I do think it would be interesting to do an exhibit that is an experience thing, where you get to see the whole process if you’re there every day. You can come in every week and see how the wood changes week to week. That’s a goal of mine in the future if I find the right spot for that.

It’s a great idea. We all come to an exhibition being trained to think the pieces we’re looking at are “finished.” What you’re suggesting with the show like that subverts that shared understanding of what work in an exhibition is supposed to be.

My work is 3D. It’s kind of finished. If I found a way to present my work that it’s more of an experience, that would be really interesting to me. Sometime when I cut wood and I observe the changes, the piece — when it’s dried completely — isn’t as interesting at that point as it was [in wet form]. An exhibition that somehow captures that … We live in an age when that’s possible, with technology and sharing. That’s a whole different realm I haven’t explored …

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

A lot of times it’s the wood that I have available. From there, either the wood will inspire what direction I want to go in, sometimes it’s the idea of exploring the aspects within the wood: I want to explore a certain form and the cuts that I’ll make to the form. It’s the material or the idea that will prompt. It depends upon what’s available.

Do you ever stumble across a piece of wood and say, “A ha! That has possibilities.”

I saw this log and said I want to do something with that. It had a lot of different branches coming off the main trunk. I thought it was really interesting. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but I wanted to work with it.

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

Not much. Sometimes I will have an idea … But I can’t really predict what’s going to happen. A lot of the time it’s just that cutting multiple forms that are the same with slightly different variations to the cuts or the shape or the grain within the piece, and seeing how that reacts, and then reacting to what the wood does. I liken it to a conversation. I have an idea and throw it out there …

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

Sometimes I do. It depends on what’s going on as far as what I have to work with, and what else is going on in my life. It’s not something that needs to happen. The nature of the process allows for that — as far as the time it takes from starting a project, to the wood drying, to continuing to work on it after the wood has dried. There’s multiple months between those two points. I can start something, and then work on a different idea.

You’ve got things in different stages of readiness?

Yes. It’s kind of seasonal, too. I do a lot of the rough shaping of the forms in the wintertime. I find the wood dries best because of the dryer air. Toward spring and summer is when I refine those shapes and forms.

Your work is tied to the natural world in so many ways. Your materials come out of your own woods. Your processes are tied to the seasons — you do certain things because the weather has a different effect on the materials in the winter than in the summer. It’s an interesting way of working.

I do it because it makes sense. It works for me. I’ve thought of ways to dry wood in the summer when the humidity’s higher, but I haven’t needed to … It is a nice rhythm to just work with nature and the environment the way it goes.

Do you work in a series?

I definitely explore the same idea over time. I feel like its the same idea I explore over and over again with slightly different variations. I do it because I don’t know what’s going to happen …

That’s an interesting thing about your practice: You don’t try to control the materials. You are very democratic. You allow your materials to have a say.

It’s a very individualistic process. I want to know [of the wood] what are you going to do? And, what are YOU going to do?

What’s your favorite tool?

The chain saw is my favorite tool … This tool is used to take down the trees. What I like about it is similar to what happens within my piece. [The chainsaw] makes cut very quickly; but there’s a lot of interesting details that comes from that tool. That’s what I really like: the uniqueness of the results.

Do you use a sketchbook? Work journal?

I do, a little bit, not extensively. What I end up drawing is just different variations of the same thing. My work is nothing I can predict what’s going to happen to each piece, so I can draw ideas of forms I’d like to see, but that’s all they are: drawing. It’s not anything I can really control … It’s not a big planning tool for me. I use it for inspiration. Just drawing out forms I’d like to see, and how can I get this form.

How did you think about hand work before you began practicing seriously?

I was always intrigued with craftsmanship and things constructed with intent. Even in grade school, using scissors and crayons, I was pretty controlling in that work and precise — you know, coloring within the lines. When I was younger I valued controlled skill in handwork. As I’ve grown, I’ve let [the need to control] go.

Why is making things by-hand important to you?

I think it’s a great involvement for the brain to be able to make something with your hands, just to be able to successfully create something with your body is great.  I encourage my children to make things. It’s what kids do: exploring, playing and exploring with their hands …. It’s a connection to your physical world.

You work with machines; but it’s at human scale so your hands don’t get overridden by the machines. 

Yes. True.

I think handwork is so important because it keeps us honest about what our powers really are.

In woodworking, working with hand tools you might see more clues of that in the work.

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

It goes back to my draw to the material I work with. We have bodies and hands and we need to be connected with what we can create with them — not just what we can create with our mind.

How do you come up with a title?

My titles are based on the thought process I go through while making the piece. Sometimes my titles are suggestive of the process — this was a struggle for me to get to this point; or there’s something that reminds me of the form I’m working on.

What’s the job of a title?

To give a clue to the viewer of what your intent was. To let the viewer know what was going through your mind when you made it.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

Sometimes I feel like I have to re-commit. I remember the first time when I shifted from the idea of trying to make furniture to more sculptural pieces. At the time I was doing a lot of carpentry work. I was  building cupolas for a barn. It had rafters that were curved [cut from straight pieces of lumber] … After I’d cut 20-some rafters I was cleaning up the work area and I looked at this piece of [guide] wood I’d laid all the rafters on to cut [curves], and I thought to myself that I really like this piece of wood more than the cupola. [The guide wood] had all these lines [saw cuts] made by this tool in the process. That was the point I decided to really pursue sculptural forms. When I was in school, I always found myself drawing these forms that were very impractical as furniture. I struggled with that internally, [asking], “Why are you doing that? No one could every use this. Is this going to be valuable to people? Are people going to want to buy this?” But, that point, when I was cutting rafters for the cupola, I realized I wanted to make sculptural stuff. I didn’t want to make “useful” things. I wanted to explore making something to look at.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I don’t exhibit a whole lot — maybe 1 or 2 times a year — so social media is a way for me to get work out there, and get feedback during those times when I don’t have work hanging in galleries. I go through spurts of being very active on social media, and not being active at all. It’s a good way for me to get feedback from people. It’s really the main source of seeing what other people are doing.

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

There’s no artist that’s not influenced by [others’ work]. I see what other people are doing with wood. I see forms and lines, and I put those in my wheelhouse. It all affects me; but what kind of affect? I don’t know.

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

To share the human experience in whatever way they individualize it … It connects people to shared emotions shared experience.

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

I think the history of working with the material, and what other people who’ve worked with wood have experienced before. It’s something that influences me. The historical method of woodworking before power saws was handwork. Those woodworkers found it a lot easier to work with green wood, so they capitalized on that. They worked the wood while it was green, and they knew it was going to change as it dried. So, some people started thinking about that … The thing that makes it way into my work is that basic, first knowledge of wood and how to work with it; what it’s properties are; and how to use those properties to get a result that’s something you want.

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

There’s a lot of trees around us. If I wasn’t living here, I’d like to think I’d still be exploring the same thing. I live in a community, and my social media has some influence on me; but I draw inspiration from the landscape; but I feel I would do that anywhere. It goes back to my thoughts on observing the world, and finding beauty in small details. I don’t need to live here for my work; but for my sanity, I do. I guess that would affect my work … I choose to be here. This is my home. This is what I love. It fits me. It makes me happy, and that’s how it affects my work. It provides a supportive environment.

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

I guess I didn’t realize they were practicing studio artists. I had a neighbor who was an artist; but it didn’t dawn on me what that meant. He made dulcimers. He was a professor at Kent State University in the art department.

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

I go back to the historical references. The scores of woodworkers before me who have explored the material. Those who work with wood, and push its boundaries for things other than a useful material to make functional things with.

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

I don’t do that a lot.

What is the role of the exhibiting in your practice?

It’s to share what I really enjoy and find value in with other people. It’s important to me to get my work out there.

See more of NIck Preneta’s work here.

Watch this time-lapse video of one of Nick’s pieces moving from green to dry.

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