Category: Creativity Q+A

In addition to everything else in his busy life, Nik Burkhart 38, maintains a studio practice focused on painting, drawing, making marks on wood — as well as on the usual suspects [paper, canvas]. “I’ve been drawn to working with wood because it allows me to engage directly with a natural material, and embedded in that material is a history of growth and the history of another living thing,” he said. Here’s Nik’s history, and the events that have embedded themselves into his fiber. It’s the story told in the growth rings of a married guy with two kids, two day jobs who has been focused on doing creative work since high school. 

This interview was conducted in May 2025 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Nik Burkhart standing next to his 2024 mural Wiigwaasi-iimaan: A Mural For The Fouch Trailhead, a digital print on aluminum composite panel, 4′ x 16′.

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Describe the medium in which you work.

Primarily painting, drawing, and I incorporate wood into my artwork.

Although you create work on traditional surfaces [e.g. paper and canvas], so many of your works are done on gessoed wood [e.g. plywood, Red Oak, Cherry]. Why wood?

I’ve been drawn to working with wood because it allows me to engage directly with a natural material, and embedded in that material is a history of growth and the history of another living thing. It becomes a conversation with nature and the natural world. Directly. Especially if you think about how a tree grows, and how it forms its growth rings and grain. Those are interesting things that bear the history of how the tree grew, how it was harvested and milled and brought to market.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes you gesso the wood’s surface. That’s a way for you to use drawing and painting materials that will be compatible with the substrate. Do you ever let the grain and the wood’s natural surface be part of the composition?

Absolutely. I like to play between those scenarios. For instance, if I’m working on plywood I’ll need to do a gesso priming just to make the surface ready to accept additional media [paint, charcoal, graphite]. But I do enjoy, in other scenarios, putting Urethane or directly working on the wood before any other intervention, to allow the wood grain to inform the decisions and the composition I make.

In the painting world, there’s lots of talk about creating layers. Underpainting is a good example of this kind of surface enrichment. When working directly on wood, it makes me wonder if the same kind of layering-thinking comes into play?

Yes. That idea of underpainting and imprimatur is an interesting thing to me, especially as it connects to painting. I think it ultimately calls the artist to have a sensitivity to the materials they’re using, and how you can think strategically about how to incorporate that into the overall, finished project. A lot of times, it can be an intuitive thing; it doesn’t have to be explicitly decided upon ahead of time. Sometimes I’ll think I’ll want to incorporate the wood grain but then realize it’s not working the way I thought it would. The nice thing about wood is that you have the option of carving back into it. I like working on canvas, too; but if a composition isn’t working at a certain size or shape, you can reinvigorate it by cutting it or sanding away [but] it’s harder to do [than with wood].

Yes. If you sand the canvas too much, you’ll get a big hole.

Which could be interesting.

How did you start using wood in your practice?

I’m a thrifty person. I like to reuse materials that otherwise would be thrown away or discarded. A lot of my work on plywood started when I lived in Chicago. I worked for an art handling company; we would fabricate and pack art into crates using plywood. There were a lot of smaller scrap materials leftover from the process of building crates. Those would often be thrown away. I’d waylay those from the dumpster, and use them as painting surfaces. The same thing in an art supply store would cost significantly more. I discovered quickly that I could get a comparable product for free. Some of the paintings from the time I was working in Chicago were actually done on old crate lids, or parts of crates we broke down. That’s how it started. Since moving here, I have access to my father-in-law’s wood shop. He has a lot of spare cutoffs and odd-sized boards that would be hard to use in a larger project. I do love the idea of wandering through the woods to find pieces to work with, but it has typically been the case where what has already been milled is what I use. I’ve started to get involved with the process of milling.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I have a bachelor’s degree in studio art from Hope College [in 2009]. I also took classes as a high schooler, and have benefited from that formal training. I would have liked to have studied, more specifically at an art school, for further training. But, ultimately, the [training he did receive] gave me a framework to learn, especially from art history, and to look at the work of other people to expand my own practice. While I was at Hope, one of the formative experiences was [participating in] a satellite campus they had in New York City, working with an artist [Chris Anderson], and taking studio and art history courses. That exposed me to types of art I wouldn’t have seen, and contemporary art history that opened up a lot of new frameworks of understanding about how I could approach my own work.

It also got you out of the classroom, and directly experiencing a person who practices visual art as their job.

That was helpful because it showed me what was possible. It showed me that it was hard to be an artist. It hasn’t been a linear [educational process]; but it has contributed to where I am now.

Describe your studio/work space.

I have two studios: a winter studio, which is in the basement, and a summer studio in my father-in-law’s barn. The barn doesn’t have heat, so it’s not convenient to be in during the wintertime; but it is a great to have access to a full wood shop with power tools. I have a desire to have a year-round work space; but you need to start somewhere. Waiting for the perfect set-up, fixating on your studio or lack thereof, you’re never going to start.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

In a lot of cases, my work deals with a history of choices, a history of place, the way the choices — either my artistic choices or in the process of making — accumulate over time. Coming back to this area where I grew up has challenged me to re-explore and reexamine my connection to place and landscape, and go deeper into understanding why things are the way they are.

What does that mean: “… why things are the way they are”?

I’m still trying to figure that out. What I mean by that is trying to get a deeper understanding of the history that’s embedded in our current experience, how or why land looks like it does, what do we use land for, how do we interact with each other because of those historic choices. Also: the various technologies we use, that shape our lives and how the world looks around us. Part of that connects to growing up on a farm [in Brutus, Michigan]. It was a 100-acre farm that my dad worked full-time; but he also worked elsewhere to support our family. It gave me a connection to the land, and an appreciation for working with the natural world. I spent a lot of time on the tractor bailing hay, stacking hay in our barn.

What’s your favorite tool?

I love sand paper. It’s amazing what you can do with sandpaper or a sander. I use a random orbital sander. When you’re working with wood, it allows you shape the wood — both smoothing it out, and sculpting it. I use it like a carving tool sometimes, if I’m sanding back into the wood. It allows for a lot of versatility. It’s funny that for a painter or drawer that sandpaper would be [his favorite tool].

You’re not letting your designation as a painter define your tools. You’re finding the tools you need to use to do the job, to create the result.

Yes. You were talking earlier about underpainting. There was an idea I came across when I was in school: palimpsest. Essentially, these ancient manuscripts would oftentimes get cleared, so layers of text build up, and over time come to the front. What I like about that is there’s a history of the object’s materiality, that those things — even the things that aren’t immediately visible — still influence the outcome or the final object or the history of that object. Similarly, in my artwork, I think of them not just as images. I carve sand back into it to reveal the history.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

Making by hand allows my own artistic tendency to come through. Over time that becomes my mark on my artwork. Like it or not. I think very tactile-ly. We’re all physically embodied to make and create, and working by hand is one way to celebrate that. I like how working by hand filters [the object] through my own experience. It can become a contemplative action that’s helpful for me personally.

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

It helps me to be present. There are so many ways where our attention is drawn elsewhere. In that way, it has a lot of positive emotional benefits, and can be one of the benefit of artistic process — not that it necessarily has to be a therapeutic outlet. If we can be present with ourselves, we can be more present with other people.

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

There have been defining moments. In high school [in Pellston, Michigan] I had always had an art class. I got my schedule and didn’t have an art class for that particular semester, and I wanted an art class. So I wrote a letter to the principal saying that I was thinking about exploring a career in the visual arts, so I wanted an art class to continue on that trajectory. I got an art class, an independent study; but that process of stating the idea was helpful for me to make a commitment. Since then, there have been other defining moments, other choices to follow through. A project that was helpful to me to gain the confidence needed was, as a freshman in college, I was commissioned to paint a mural in the Emmet County Fairground in Petoskey. It was a great experience, that they would have trust in such a young artist without a proven track record. Financially, it was great compensation. It encouraged me to see that there are ways to make the arts a viable, professional option. There is a necessity, honestly, to work outside the arts to support myself and my practice; but those experiences and studying art helped me to commit to that trajectory, that commitment to an artistic practice.

What role does social media play in your practice?

It doesn’t play that big a role in making art. I use it as a way of seeing other people’s work, a way of fostering community and connection with other artists. I’m somewhat wary of social media. I don’t completely understand the implications of algorithms and AI. Honestly, I don’t spend a lot of time scrolling and Zooming. It can exhaust energy I could use elsewhere. I have a complicated relationship with it.

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

I’m still trying to understand that. At some level, we have the ability to make visible things that aren’t immediately visible. In some ways, artists have a responsibility to draw attention to social issues. But there’s value in just being able to appreciate beauty in the world — as well as being able to take the temperature of the cultural moment. Artists can also give voice to things or ideas or people that wouldn’t otherwise be heard.

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

Having grown up in Northern Michigan and being surrounded by the natural world has informed the things that I care about. When I was living in Chicago [from which Nik moved in 2021], architectural, built things played a role in the work I was making at that point. Being back in Northern Michigan has reinvigorated the connection to nature, and the emergence of natural themes in my own work.

Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice? Someone who modeled what it looked like to be a working artist?

There have been a lot of artistic influences along the way. My mom modeled creativity in a way that gave me access to the idea of making things. She has always quilted. I grew up in a Mennonite community, and they’d have quilting days twice a month. I got to go and hide under the quilts. I was the kid underneath the table. It was cool seeing people coming together to work on a shared, community project. I often come back to that when I think about creative community, and think about the way ordinary people can work with ordinary materials to create something beautiful.

In quilting histories, there’s always a mention of somebody’s kid sitting under the table while their mom is quilting. Finally, I get to meet somebody who was really that kid.

I’d throw my stitches in sometimes, too. My mom and I have talked about collaborating on a project. Having those contexts where I can learn and gain knowledge has been helpful for me. A lot of my other, artistic influences were my instructors in school. They had enormous impact on how I thought about art. Katherine Sullivan was my instructor and advisor at Hope College. In Chicago, an artist who was also a teacher at North Park University, Tim Lowly, was an informal mentor for me. I appreciated how he fostered community within the context of the academic college community; but how he, even now, gave a platform for artists to share their work with a larger audience.

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

My wife, Theresa. She knows me well and isn’t afraid to pull punches. There are other artists who I go to from time-to-time. In Chicago, one of my most informative feedback communities — we called ourselves The Group Format. It was a group of six or seven artists who were serious about making art. We’d meet every other Saturday, talk about each other’s work, and give feedback. That was incredibly helpful to me. It helped me move forward in my practice. That was at a time in my life when I was working in property management, so I didn’t have that much incentive to be making work as my day job. It was a way of still feeling connected to that part of who I am. I’m still finding my people here. Those things develop overtime.

I was looking at your website, and at the page where you list exhibition history. You graduated from college in 2009, and dove into exhibiting – both solo and group shows. I counted 51 exhibitions on your CV. So: Question #1 — What is the role of exhibition in your practice? And, Question #2 – You’re married, and the parent to two small children. How do you carve out time to make work so you can exhibit?

I was somewhat surprised by the number of exhibits that I have had. My exhibition list is something that I often feel self-conscious about in the sense that I would like to have an even “more prestigious” list of venues and institutions.  I think artists often undervalue the legitimacy of our own history and easily fall into the trap of comparing ourselves with the pedigrees of other artists. Taken as a whole, my exhibition history communicates a feeling of a trajectory; but what it doesn’t show is the level of self-doubt, frustration or disappointment when I have been turned down for shows or go a while without having a significant opportunity to show my work.

For most of my artistic career, I have primarily exhibited my work in educational spaces, art centers or non-traditional project galleries while working in other jobs to support myself financially. This has allowed me time and space to develop my artistic practice with limited commercial pressures. I have only recently begun to have more interaction with commercial gallery contexts. Exhibitions have been helpful for the deadlines (and the ability to call something “done” and all the things that I talked about in the interview) and the opportunity to more objectively see and assess the impact of my artwork. Themed shows and call for entries allow me to explore new territory or mediums that I wouldn’t ordinarily use in my practice. It’s also a great way to connect with other artists and invite people in to see what I have been working on. Exhibiting helps me to feel part of a larger community. The process of writing about my artwork for a show statement allows me to hone my vision for my work. I often learn as much from hanging a show (especially a larger body of my artwork) as I do when I’m making the work. Because my studio space doesn’t allow me to hang large amounts of work together, it often isn’t until I see it in an exhibition context that I realize the larger conversation that each work contributes to.

Back to Question #2: There are two little girls to whom you’re the father. You have work you do outside the home. There are lots of things that require you to be present. How do you find time to be present with your own work?

At its best, being a parent is a creative practice as well. There are times when the creative practice of being a parent has to take over my artistic practice. From a productivity side of things, I could probably make more work if I didn’t have other commitments; but I find that the creative practice of being a parent, being in a relationship with my family fuels and expands the world, it energizes my artistic practice instead of competing with it. There are time management challenges. In this area I’ve really benefited from Theresa’s support. My in-laws have also been instrumental in caring for our kids as well. That has allowed us the space to live the way we do right now.

I like how you framed that, talking about the experience of being a parent as creative work. It makes me think about how all things are integrated. It’s not just about parceling things off into a bunch of unrelated silos. For the person, for instance, who wants to be a writer, you just can’t sit in your room and write; you have to be out experiencing the world. What you’re saying is that everything fuels the next thing, and the thing next to it.

I framed it in an idealistic manner. The reality is there is that tension that makes it feel like a competition. When I have the space and time to work, it means somebody else needs to take care of my kids. That’s something any parent needs to navigate. But it’s also fun to have my kids involved in my making. Sometimes I allow them to paint on top of something I’m working on. Or, I’ll put out materials and supplies to let them paint or draw, as a way of entertaining them. Sometimes I’ll use their drawing as the foundation for my own work. Their paintings will be on the back of my work, or I’ll layer over with my own Capital “A” artwork. I’ve had to recognize the time I do have to be creative … and pick the work I need to do based on the time I do have available.

You have a day job.

Currently, I have two day jobs. I teach oil painting at Northwestern Michigan College in Traverse City. I started that in the fall of 2024. Day Job #2 is I’m working as a studio assistant part-time to Jerry Gretzinger in Maple City [Michigan].

How do your day jobs cross-pollinate with your studio work?

Having had plenty of other day jobs — from the time I graduated from high school until now — sometimes it’s like the emotional fuel. Sometimes the day jobs have conflicted with my desire to create, so creating from that place of angst is where my work has come from. Sometimes the effects of the job don’t manifest themselves immediately; but I believe there’s no wasted experience. One way my job at NMC has manifested itself in my current practice: I’d stepped away from oil painting because of the solvents, and the chemical and spatial requirements — I don’t want to be using toxic chemicals around my kids, so I shifted to drawing or using acrylic paint. The NMC program shifted to a solvent-free approach to oil painting. So when I was hired, I had to relearn how to oil paint without the solvents. That has shifted some of the material choices I have made, and I’m painting a lot more with oils because of my day job.

What drives your impulse to make?

I’m a firm believer that we all have creative capacities. I think I have this creative impulse I’m trying to steward. I’m trying to make things and offer that to other people. At a very basic level, that’s why I do what I do: I really enjoy it and hope that other people can participate in that. There are times when I’m not making art or working in some other creative outlet, I feel stuck. Emotionally, it makes me a better person to be making things.

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Learn more about Nik Burkhart here.

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

“Place has become the bedrock of my work — ‘place’ meaning Michigan, where I was born and raised,” said Boyne City painter Dani Knoph Davis. “Learning about the wildlife of a place is so important, but has been swept under the rug over the last 50 years.” And so, with every brushstroke, Dani, 39, makes work that seeks to raise awareness about the wonder and awe of the other animals who live in her neck of the woods.

This interview was conducted in April 2025 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Dani Knoph Davis

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

I work with watercolor, gouache, pencil, graphite, and heavy cotton watercolor paper to create illustrations of Michigan wildlife.

I’ve often wondered if people who work in illustration feel like they’re not accepted as a part of the Capital “A” Art world.

It is its own thing. I don’t know what happened historically. When you go back to the early 1900s wildlife art was a big deal. Even for my grandparents, wildlife art was a big part of the Art scene. It seemed to slip away.

Your work is reminiscent of the style people associate with Audubon. You place your creatures in their indigenous setting, and bring in other critters that might be companions or symbiotic parts of that setting.

Symbiosis is definitely a big part of my work. I find ecology fascinating, how species relate to one another. There’s a deep truth in that. I really crave deep truths nowadays.

What “deep truths” are you craving?

Whenever the world began, life evolved — together, in harmony, in a way things made sense. In society today, I find so much confusion. I think that’s another reason why I create this kind of art: It brings me peace. And, I think other people find peace in nature art as well.

Is the natural world a more straightforward place to you?

Absolutely. One hundred percent. I hate to use the word “escape,” but in today’s world, when I go into nature, I feel like I’m trying to escape society, to find peace.

What draws you to the media in which you work?

In art school they teach you acrylics and oils right off the bat. When I graduated from art school, I found myself living in tiny spaces.To work in oil paint you need windows, and room to breathe and clean up. Watercolor, for me, was more practical. I also fell in love with the process of creating transparent layers — something that’s a lot more challenging with oil paint or acrylic. And it’s a lot easier to clean up.

Where did you attend art school?

I went to the University of Michigan’s School of Art and Design [graduated 2009 with a Bachelor of Fine Arts]. And I did an undergrad study abroad at the Glasgow School of Art [2008]. That was really meaningful.

What in particular did the Glasgow School of Art offer you as a student?

I really enjoyed their program. It was more heavily focused on studio practice. Every student had their own studio space. Then you’d have an instructor you’d meet with once or twice a week, and they’d critique and help guide you. I felt like I started to grow as an artist then; whereas the University of Michigan was more focused on taking classes. There wasn’t enough studio time.

Describe your studio.

It has a view of a lot of trees out the window. It’s elevated on a hillside. I paint during the day, so that natural light is really important. It’s always a little bit messy, especially in the summer, during art fair season. It’s a room in my house, about 14 feet x 14 feet.

Your home studio is a continuation of what you said about working in small spaces. Are you accustomed to that now, or, in your heart of hearts do you long for a warehouse-sized studio?

I would love to double or triple the size of my studio. The next house I buy, it will be a priority to have a larger studio space.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work? 

Place has become the bedrock of my work — “place” meaning Michigan, where I was born and raised. Learning about the wildlife of a place is so important, but has been swept under the rug over the last 50 years. We see small groups trying to raise awareness for species, and a lot of them do a great job. Our Department of Natural Resources and local tribes do a great job of stewarding species. But I come at that from an art angle. I want my art to help raise awareness for species in Michigan, but also remind people of the wonder and awe of wildlife. For example: When I’m at an art show, I get two or three good stories from people who walk into my booth, and they see a painting of a particular fish, and that reminds them of fishing with their grandfather; or of a turtle their sister caught when they were younger, and somebody got upset so they had to release it. For some reason, with adults, these things get buried. I want people to remember that these species are out there, and it’s their home, too.

Your work is about direct experience. How do you encounter these animals, and then reinvigorate them in your studio?

All this goes back to my childhood. My family has a generational log cabin on a lake in Gaylord. My favorite memories are being there with my family, paddling around the lake, seeing the loons, painted turtles, large-mouth bass, blue gill. These are experiences that have stuck with me my whole life. There’s always been something inside me that’s told me, These are important things. Don’t forget these things. Remember and share them. After I went to art school and I was trying to figure out what kind of artist I wanted to be, I kept going back to those experiences with wildlife in Northern Michigan. I also come from a family of hunters and fishermen. We have a lot of taxidermy in the cabin. And both of my grandparents were wildlife artists after they retired. To some degree, it feels like carrying on a legacy. I was so impacted by their work. Now, as I grow as an artist, I want to know more about Michigan species that I didn’t know about when I was growing up. It’s my own exploration I want to share with other people.

How do you begin to visualize the animals you want to paint? Are you sitting at the base of a tree waiting for a chipmunk to run over your toes?

No. But that sounds fun. In my earlier work, I’d work from my own photographs. Nowadays, I source inspiration from a program called iNaturalist. It’s a platform for people to take pictures of species and drop-pin their locations. A lot of biologists and naturalists use it in their studies. More recently, I find myself pulling multiple images and collaging them together in Photoshop to create my own compositions, which I paint from there.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

It used to be I would do collections. My first collection was fish. Then I made collections of turtles and butterflies. Now I’m departing from that way of creating art. Trying to be a bit more spontaneous, and more poetic with my work.

What does the poetic part of that mean?

Like this recent piece I did of a painted turtle with a water lily. It feels like a poem to me, without the words. Poetry is another place we can distill and crystalize ideas. Mary Oliver is great at that.

The subject matter you’re dealing with would make it easy to migrate into the totally scientific. In your work, you’re trying to infuse the subject with life. You’re not painting taxidermied work. You’re depicting the life inside the creature.

I try to capture that essence. One thing that has disturbed me about the scientific world of biology, natural history 100 years ago, paintings were always created from death. In biology, you are always looking at the dead specimen in the bottle. I want my paintings to convey the beauty of the life of the creature.

What’s your favorite tool?

The paintbrush. Brushes and tubes of paint.

Do you use a sketchbook? Work journal? Any kind of tool to make notes and record thoughts about your work?

I use Photoshop to create my compositions. But when I have a piece in my mind, I always work compulsively on the composition, and then I go straight into painting the final piece. One and done: I’m not a sketch artist.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

I honestly feel like it’s genetic, in my DNA. I’ve always loved physical labor, and making things by hand. Given the option of whipping cream with the whisk or a hand mixer, I will use the whisk. I love doing things by hand. I get so much gratification. I feel like I learn more. And, I feel like I’m connected to what I’m doing. I think the way most people can relate to this is: There’s a difference when you type an email versus handwriting a letter to somebody. It’s hard to put words to it, but it’s there, and we all know it. This year I started handwriting letters to one of my best friends who lives in Chicago. It has been really joyful, sharing handwritten letters with somebody.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

After art school, I moved to Seattle, and felt like Alice in Wonderland throughout my 20s, trying to find a way forward. I felt I needed meaning [in her life], so I started going down to the locks and watching the salmon. I got fascinated by salmon, and learning about their life story. Just the fact that they’re born in a river, and the river imprints on them: After they’re gone out to sea, they know exactly where to return to where they were born. So, I created a collection of salmon paintings, and met with a gallery owner who asked to show them. Weirdly enough, I [in the process of] moving back to Michigan. I got a phone call as I was driving through the Upper Peninsula, and [the Seattle gallerist] told me the whole collection had just sold to a buyer from Oregon. That was the moment I started thinking, OK. I could do this seriously.

 What role does social media play in your practice?

I don’t do social media anymore. I stepped away from it in 2019. I found it was giving me more grief than I wanted. I don’t miss it. I haven’t looked back.

Did you step back from it personally and professionally?

Yes.

So, your online presence is through your website.

Yes. And occasionally I’ll send out an e-newsletter.

Many times, in these interviews, artists will tell me how much they value Instagram, for instance. They talk about being able to show the world their work, or being able to look at other people’s work. How do you weigh in on that?

When I hear the word “world,” I cringe a little bit nowadays. Going back to the importance of place, and being in the place you are, and recognizing its importance, I find that it’s more fulfilling for me to be present in the place I am as opposed to scrolling through the world. It’s totally overwhelming for me.

How do you let the world know what you make?

The most important thing I do to connect with others around my work is to do art fairs in the summer. We have a great art fair scene in Northern Michigan. I’ve met so many wonderful people at these shows, and made so many wonderful connections with real people: artists, buyers. People have shared their wildlife stories with me, and that has become cherished and important to me.

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

For me, personally: Refocusing our minds on wildlife in the place where we live. And reminding folks of the awe and wonder they’ve experienced in the natural world. At the end of the day, I selfishly want people to care more about wildlife. That’s my drive, even if it’s as simple as not cutting down the tree that blocks your view in the front yard.

It’s an overwhelming job. How do you keep despair at bay?

I pay attention to what our local conservancies are doing, and try to support their work. I try to help share the stories about all the good work our DNR and local tribes are doing — a lot of people like to criticize what those agencies aren’t doing right when in reality they’re doing a lot of innovative work to support populations and habitat for wildlife. I think we don’t give them nearly enough credit. If you go back in Michigan history and look at our state from the late 1800s to the 1920s, the habitat was devastated. Young folks don’t know that now, and a lot of people have forgotten it. Clearcut city: A lot of our woods built Chicago. Overfishing. Sturgeon were almost completely wiped out. If you look back to the 1930s when the DNR was set up, so much incredible work has been done. We can’t take that for granted.

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

It’s part of the foundation. It’s the original inspiration for me. It’s an endless inspiration for me. We are so lucky to have so much conserved, preserved land up here.

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

Probably not. I’d be doing wildlife art no matter where I lived.

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

Both my grandma and my grandpa, Bill and Joan Davis. When they retired, my grandma painted landscapes in a French Impressionist style. Her painting would make my brain feel like a symphony. My grandfather was woodcarver, and [his subject was] wildlife. We have a loon he carved in our cabin that looks like a real loon. The amount of detail is incredible. They were a huge influence.

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

Laura Yeats. Her partner ran the gallery in Seattle. She was influential, and one of the first people in my early adulthood who encouraged me, and gave me the confidence to take my art seriously.

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

My partner, John. I ask him to do this a lot — to look at my work, and make suggestions. In art school, they teach you how to critique work, and it can be brutal, but you learn how to take it and how to word things in a way that is constructive without being offensive. I wish everybody was able to convey constructive criticism. It applies to so many things in life.

Are you able to take those skills and apply them to your own work? Self-criticize?

Yes. I’m very critical of my own work, which is why I spend so much time composing the piece before I put pencil to paper.

You spoke earlier of exhibiting your work at summer art fairs. Let’s get into this some more: What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

I love sharing my art work at art fairs because you get to meet the viewer, and [hear the viewer’s] perspective, which is something you don’t always get in a traditional gallery setting. I value that so much — on a human level. I’ve gravitated to the art fair world because of that. I’ll do traditional gallery exhibits on occasion, maybe one a year. But it’s so funny to me to drop off a painting, and then see it hung on a gallery wall, and leave it. I love connecting with people over art.

More of that direct experience stuff.

Yes. There’s been this dialogue, culturally, about the lack of third spaces. As a society, we’ve lost these places in the world where anybody can go to, and interact with other people. In Europe, their markets are a great example; or, their civic squares. The library seems like the last-standing example of these places. And, of course, we have great farmers’ markets in Michigan; but there aren’t many places now where you’re just meeting folks, and conversing, and sharing stories. There’s a certain joy and fulfillment of communing with strangers. My mom will help me at art fairs, and she ends up in these conversations with strangers about anything and everything. Next thing you know they’re talking like they’re old buddies.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

It’s always about getting outdoors for me. In particular, the spring, summer and fall. The winter is so quiet up here, but I love finding wildlife tracks in the snow. They [the other animals] are out there even though you don’t see them. I cross-country ski a lot. We’re on the brink of everything coming back to life. I opened the door the other day and heard Spring Peepers. It’s still so cold out, but they’re peeping.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s like meditation for me. It’s such an intense focus that I can’t think about all the other life stuff that stresses me out.

You have a day job. What is it?

I do marketing, graphic design and some advertising for some realtors.

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

Having a day job forces me to have a really intense schedule. I schedule my studio time every morning. I wake up, and I spend the first three hours of my day in my studio. Then, I do my day job. I run on a strict schedule, and that works for me.

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Read more about Dani Knoph Davis here.

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

 

 

Leelanau County painter Douglas Racich, 64, divides his painting time between watercolor and egg tempera, an ancient, slow-moving medium made of ingredients that sound like the beginning of a cake recipe. The world outside Racich’s studio moves quickly. He does not. He depicts still, quiet subjects. Racich’s paintings are about Northern Michigan — to which he, his wife Michelle and three children moved in 1998 from Illinois. He hopes they’ll cause people to stop, look, and “slow down.”  

This interview was conducted in February 2025 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Douglas Racich

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

It’s 50/50: watercolor and egg tempera.

What is egg tempera?

It’s egg yolk and water. That’s the basic recipe [into which] you’re adding pigment. The amount of pigment you add can make it appear more or less translucent. In general, it leaves an opaque surface when compared to oil and acrylic. Watercolor has a matte appearance.

Do you prepare your own egg tempera paints?

I do. I think most artists who are working in that medium do. It’s tricky. Some pigments mix easily. Others are hydrophobic, and don’t do what you want them to do.

Do you raise chickens?

I don’t. I do have a CSA membership [community supported agriculture] from Nine Bean Rows down the road. Eggs come with the CSA [box]. I don’t eat eggs. I just eat plant-based foods.

Egg tempera is an ancient medium. It’s a niche medium. The world is full of readymade paints. So: 1.) What was it that sparked your interest in painting in egg tempera?; and 2.) How did you learn?

Initially, as a kid, I’d do little sketches here and there — I never knew anyone who was a real artist. Right after the birth of our first child, my wife got me a set of watercolor paints, and I said, That’s really nice. I threw them in a drawer, and didn’t touch them for a number of years. I finally got them out and started painting in watercolor, which I did for two or three years. As I got the hang of it — I had no formal training in art, so this is all just trial and error — I started picking up books at the library, and started reading about artists, and this gets to the question of egg tempera. I saw a book about Andrew Wyeth, and that was it. I knew I needed to figure this [egg tempera painting] out.

If you could zero in on the thing that Wyeth’s paintings made you want to learn how to paint in egg tempera, what would that be?

We lived in Illinois, outside of Chicago, before we moved here [to Leelanau County] — it was a non-suburban setting that made me think of where Wyeth lived [in Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania]. I think I was drawn not only to his subject matter, but to the light. When he set up paintings, they weren’t like the standard landscape, the standard portrait. They were just a little bit different. There’s a great one he did of his neighbor Karl. I love that piece.

How did you learn to prepare your paints?

Well, pre-internet: the library. I looked up other artists beside Wyeth. Robert Vickrey was a big egg tempera painter, and some of his books had nice details about how he put those mixtures together, and the processes he used. In the egg tempera field, there are different ways people mix their paints. I take the egg yolk and water mixture, put it in a little container, put in the color, and mix it up. You can vary the ratio of water to egg, but generally it’s 50/50. Mostly, it has been trial and error figuring out the basic formula. I just kept working on [the formula] until I felt comfortable. In this age, people like fast. With acrylic paint, you can just whip out a painting. You can’t do that with tempera. You’ve got to be patient.

There’s a stillness to your paintings. They’re quiet.

I don’t have a good feeling for figure work and people. I’m not confident in my drawing ability, which has led me to a lot of my landscapes, to the outbuildings, and the still lives I do. They may seem quiet because they’re about non-moving things.

What other subjects are in your line of vision?

I love gardening. I love growing squash, so I’ve done multiple squash paintings. And, I like flowers, too. I’m surrounded by cherry orchards on one side of our property, and apple orchards on the other; I’ve done a lot of pieces about those. There’s no shortage of subject matter. I grew up on a farm. It was my uncle’s farm [southwest of Chicago], and my parents had a little house next door to it. It’s how I grew up. It’s what I love.

How has the lack of formal, visual art training affected or advanced or put hurdles in the way of your practice?

I don’t know that it has had any impact whatsoever. I have on occasion heard remarks from people who’ve gone to art school about “real artists” versus “not-real artists,” and I’m not sure what that is. I feel like I’ve put in the 10,000 hours.

[NOTE:  The “10,000-hour rule,” popularized by Malcolm Gladwell in his book “Outliers,” suggests that it takes approximately 10,000 hours of deliberate practice to achieve mastery in a particular field.]

I don’t know why that gets on my nerves. My self-training hasn’t affected anything. There hasn’t ever been a problem getting into galleries, exhibiting.

How have you taught yourself?

Looking up stuff. If the internet had been around when I first started painting, it would have been fantastic. I looked at a lot of print material. Some of the big art magazines back then had wonderful articles showing how people made their work, their technique. Besides looking things up, I kept on trying to do it. Tempera can be frustrating. You have to be careful, and patient. You can work for weeks on a piece and not like it. I had a piece, a still life with cherries. It was almost too simple, and I didn’t like it. I ended up cleaning out another area [on the board] above the cherries, and painted another cherry above them. I laid in all the shadows so it appeared that the cherry was hanging in mid-air. I called it The Rapture. But that’s the nice thing with tempera. You can go back. I’ve completely sanded down a board, and started all over again. You do get a second chance, but it’s tough after you’ve spent all those hours.

Describe your studio/workspace.

I have three children, and we live in a very small farmhouse. Early on, we had a couple of upstairs bedrooms that weren’t being used. That was my studio. Once I got the [studio] finished out here, the sense of space was overwhelming. I don’t think it’s that big, but compared to being in a little bedroom all the time … Paintings stacked on top of paintings: It felt very claustrophobic. I’ve never done big paintings, bigger than the standard watercolor sheet [2’ x 3’].

[NOTE: Doug’s studio is approximately 350 square feet. It is the front portion of an old barn on his property. The barn was constructed in the 1870s.]

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

The end of the painting I’m working on. There’s that. There’s the need to push stuff out for galleries. In general, when I think I’m getting to the end of a piece, I’ll think about what I want to do next. If I’ve been working on a watercolor that has taken forever to finish, I think, I’ve got to switch to tempera. As far as subject matter? I do a lot of photography. If I’m out on a hike or on a road trip, I’ll take pictures of things that interest me, or will be reference material. In my head, I can keep thinking about a piece I’d like to paint, and it could be years. At some point it’s: OK, it’s time to make this. Then there are other times, bringing vegetables out of the garden, I’ll think, This is a great squash, and, boom: I’ll want to paint that right away. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. It organically happens.

How many galleries represent your work?

It has taken a hit. When I was living south of Chicago, I had two or three in the city. Then, up here, I was showing in as many as four. Right now, I’m down to one gallery in Elk Rapids [Mullaly’s 128 Gallery].

Generally speaking: Are the subjects you paint dictated by your desires and interests? Or, knowing the market for a certain gallery, do you adjust what you make so it’s a better fit?

When I was showing at [the now closed] Main Street gallery I did find myself leaning toward more local images: the Sleeping Bear Dunes, historic buildings. I still love those things, but the still lifes are pretty universal, and it wouldn’t matter where they were made. I tend to now try to find subjects that would work anywhere. Many of the buildings from the Sleeping Bear Dunes area, people outside of this region wouldn’t know where the buildings were. They’d just think it was a fun picture of a barn or old stone building. I have a piece in the Dennos [Northwest Michigan Regional Juried Exhibition] right now. It’s simple: Just a big field of grass with a couple of oak trees in the background. It’s a scene from Ashland, Oregon. I’ve had a couple of people ask me where this was in the Dunes? It has that open feeling to it you [can experience during a hike in the Dunes].

What’s your favorite tool?

My mixing trays [plastic and ceramic]. Especially with watercolor and tempera, I’m constantly mixing the different colors, and I can use the same trays for both media. I love seeing the paints laid out, I love seeing the different colors, and knowing what I’ve got to do: They’re there, but I’ve got to get to work

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

I don’t. If I do anything, it’s about color combinations I’ve used on certain pieces. Sometimes I’ll find myself doing three or four small still lives at the same times. I might make notes on what colors I was using to make a particular mix if I have to recreate the color I was using. Mostly, it’s technical stuff.

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

I had a friend, Joan, who was an elementary art teacher, and also worked as an art agent helping to place artists’ works in galleries. [In the mid-1990s] she saw my work, and was instrumental in me starting to show a lot in the Chicago area. She vacationed up here, and got me in a gallery in Charlevoix. She said, You’ve got to go up there. I said, It’s like Alaska. Why would I want to go to Northern Michigan? She told me I had no idea. We eventually visited. She was responsible for me thinking about painting as real work. Until then, my painting took place on weekends and after work.

You had a day job.

I was a dentist. It wasn’t a calling. A number of things came together that made me realize I didn’t want to keep on doing that. At that point, I was also starting to sell more art. We’d finally made our way up here, after all the poking and prodding from Joan, so we wanted to move up here. And, that’s what we did. I painted full-time for four or five years after we moved up here. At this point, my kids are getting into high school and college age, so I took a job [outside the home] for a biological testing firm, and they had a laboratory in Traverse City. That took care of the bills, but I finally let go of that. The painting never stopped. Even during that time, I still had four galleries I was showing it. It was hard. Now I’m back to just-art. Nowadays, with social media, [the art business] is a different thing. I used to just rely on the galleries to do most of the work. Now, I try to get a handle on social media.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I’m a big Instagram-er. I don’t look at Facebook anymore. I love Instagram. I love seeing what other artists do. I think social media is essential now. What can it hurt to just throw stuff out there.

What’s the visual artist’s role in the world?

To get people to slow down a minute or two in their lives. Just to sit there and focus on something for a minute: stop and look. People are so busy. I don’t think people spend a lot of time just being quiet. It’s hard, the way society is — with the internet, with phones, with work. People are just constantly moving. I hope that people can have a little, quiet moment when they are looking at art. A little sense of calm and quiet.

We live in a world where people are bombarded by images. There’s no dearth of visuals to look at. But looking at something that’s hanging on the gallery wall is different than looking at something on a screen. I think it’s hard to get people to move away from the abstraction of their phones, and their screens, and all the millions of images they see every day, to directly experience something in a gallery wall, and consider it quietly.

I’ve hung my work in art walks, for instance. People will go through the different shops displaying art, and 85 percent of the people just want to get their books stamped so they could put it in the prize raffle at the end of the walk. They just flew by. I do think museums and galleries, since there’s nothing else in there but the art, helps people to slow down a little bit. That’s the drawback of social media, trying to capture an image on a little screen. Does the viewer even understand the detail? It’s hard to capture.

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

My wife, because of all the support that has allowed me to do this. From an artistic standpoint, it was, initially, Andrew Wyeth. That was the thing that made me want to paint, in the style I wanted to paint. I also love the comments of other artists, friends who are visiting, just chatting about what they’re doing, what I’m doing.

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

Again, my wife, Michelle. She’ll be very honest with me. It’s nice having grown-up children now: one who paints all the time, the other had a gallery.

What role does exhibiting play in your practice?

If you want to make money, the work has got to be out there. I like getting feedback from the gallery owners, whether it’s good or bad. I like trying to participate in local shows — it gets the public together to support the arts.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

Number 1: Getting outside, since I tend to paint what’s around me. Hiking, biking, kayaking, a little ride in the car — that nurtures it. I’m not specifically looking for things. I just happen upon them. I do love galleries. Looking at other peoples’ work is empowering.

What drives your impulse to make?

I think about that sometimes from a biological, evolutionary standpoint. It’s just something that’s in me.

If you’re not painting, do you get the shakes?

The summertime gets busy. The garden. The yard. It’s warm out, and I do love being outside, but I do think I need to get back working in the studio. So, yeah. There’s a little something that’s ticking away inside me.

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Read more about Douglas Racich here.

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