Category: Creativity Q+A

Artist Carrie Betlyn-Eder, 68, first visited Leelanau County in 1968, as a child with her siblings and parents. She watched the moon walk from a house in Leland, and got a taste for the place [“It just got under my skin”]. In 2022, Carrie and her husband, Mickey, relocated from St. Paul, Minnesota. Carrie, a native Chicagoian, traded sunrises for sunsets, an urban life for a rural life, and found an abundance of new materials — and ideas — in the woods with which to create her mixed media construction.

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

Pictured: Carrie Betlyn-Eder

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Describe the medium in which you work.

Stuff. I work in things that I see, that grab my fancy: assemblage, papier-mache; pretty much all found, salvaged things I find around. Occasionally I’ll buy something [materials].

You wrote this on your website: My work grows out of an inherent instinct to scavenge, and my fascination with connections, literal and imagined. What does that mean?

That means I like to pick things up when I’m walking — I walk all the time. I used to live in Chicago, where there’s lots of stuff to pick up. As I moved, first to St. Paul, Minnesota, then here [Leelanau County], there was less detritus and more organic materials to work with. It’s how I see things. I’ll look at an object and say, That looks like a breast, or a bird. I’ll put it with the rest of the collection, and I’ll remember it’s there. The next time I’m looking for something like that, I’ll go, Remember that thing you found on 57th Street? That’s there. Let’s go find it. So, when I put the pieces together, there is the thing — an implement, or a piece of rusty metal, or more nowadays, plastic. [Carrie adds that the found object functions on several layers: What it was, what it’s becoming, and what it might say when it goes out into the world and seen by somebody.] How these objects relate to each other appeals to me. Sometimes, when I’m really on my game, it says something about the world, and about me, and my relationship with those things.

Contrast and compare what you might find when you’re on the streets of Chicago versus on the streets of Leelanau County.

Here, my work has been drawn to nature as a result of having more natural objects from which to choose — I have four acres, and there’s all sorts of fascinating, gnarled bits and pieces of flora, predominantly, that are becoming birds. They’re, literally, heads. In the past, particularly where I walked on the [Lake Michigan] lakefront on the south side of Chicago where I lived, things were falling apart: limestone, rebar, live things trying to grow up in between all these dilapidated efforts to try to control the lakefront. I did a lot with rebar for a while — rusted, metal shapes where the storms had changed how they held the limestone or cement in place. I did a piece once that looked like a DNA model because of the way the rebar had been curved. It was this wonderful treble clef with lines running through it.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

Not in visual art. I’m trained as an actor and a dancer. I started [professional] life as a dancer. I left high school, joined a regional ballet company in upstate New York. [After suffering injuries, Carrie moved onto acting.] I’m trained up the wazoo as an actor: I have a BA in Theater from the University of Michigan, and an MFA from the Goodman School of Drama in Chicago. I worked in theater until I had my son [1991]. All during that time I did a lot of collage — as a sort-of therapy. I grew up in the world of art. My grandparents [owned the Guildhall Galleries] in Chicago from the 1950s to the 1980s. A Michigan Avenue gallery. All mid-century European artists. Some Chicago artists. And, I kind of lived there. One of [the gallery’s locations] was in the Fine Arts Building for many years, and I studied dance upstairs, and then I’d come down to the gallery when I was done, and hang out there. It was a really rarified, amazing way to be exposed to art. My mother was a painter. She started doing assemblage work when I was a kid — there was a fire across the street from us, and we’d go salvage remnants from it, bring all these cool things home and she’d make stuff. I wasn’t actually doing assemblage at the time, but it obviously seeped in. I think what my mom taught me was how to look at stuff, and how to see things differently, or with possibilities.

Dance and theater are both creative activities. I don’t see big difference between the practice of those and visual art — it’s all about creative problem solving.

I agree with you entirely. What I discovered in my old age is the thing that has been constant through all these efforts — and I started dancing when I was 4 — is it has always been about composition, and telling a story. [In theater, dance, and visual art making] it was all about taking disparate parts, whether they’re internal or external, and making a whole that was pleasing to me, and could possibly translate what I was trying to say. When I started making visual art seriously, it was so much easier because I didn’t have to worry about 15 other people. It was just me, in a space with my stuff, doing what I wanted to do. There was so much pleasure in it. Certainly, in terms of acting which is what I spent the most time doing seriously, I liked rehearsing. I like doing research, I like thinking about things, and spending days just trying stuff. This allows me to do that in a really safe, comfortable place. And then the scary part is having to put it out [exhibiting].

What you’re talking about is process. On your website, again, you said, I’m fascinated by process. Any process. Why is process such an important thing in your practice?

The biggest thing is the high. When I’m really working, and trying, I get such a great feeling from that — more than from any finished product. The work: It’s an amazing feeling. I’m looking for how things fit together, intellectually and emotionally; how they fit together in terms of beauty and structure. All of those things need to tick off in the process of making whatever it is I’m making. If something is quite right, I definitely get stuck. I need to walk away from it a bit. I need to do something else. That’s why I walk a lot, to think about things. I’ve learned you can’t muscle stuff into place. All of these issues I feel are consistent with day-to-day living.

Describe your studio space.

Moving to Leelanau has given me my first, real studio space that hasn’t been the dining room, kitchen, basement, boxes of stuff everywhere. One of my tenets is that you work with what’s at hand. [Carrie’s studio is a finished outbuilding on her property.] If you need something that isn’t there, then maybe you don’t need it. I’m living the dream now. I can just walk into my space, and I have space [that is organized] and I also have it set up like a little gallery with different bodies of work. I came here so that this last part of my life would be how I wanted it to be — with peace, and creativity. I had high hopes for the potential of finding creative community here. This is heaven. It’s perfect. If I’d dreamed of a place, it would not be much different than this. When we lived in St. Paul, I had part of the kitchen, so I could glue some stuff together then go cook. I learned to make things work for me. And my family was very patient with having my stuff all over the apartment.

What’s your favorite tool?

It’s either my hands or my eyes.

Why is making by hand important to you?

It’s important to me because it’s essential to living. We all have hands. There’s the potential for all of us to use these things [hands] to do something. What I love about art and life — and those things are pretty much the same — is that we can all partake of that. It doesn’t have to be capital “A” Art. But you can make something with almost nothing because you have hands.

When did you commit to working on your visual art with serious professional intent?

Shortly after Sam was born. I’d been given a gift of laboratory glass by my father. I was really taken by these shapes — Frankenstein’s lab kind of stuff, curly cues. The shapes of these things were really evocative to me. I decided it would be fun to stick them together, and making these found object vessels. I would say this was the early 1990s. I made a bunch of these. I stuck them in my car and started driving around to galleries, and a couple galleries said, Oh, these are cool, let’s see if we can sell them. I wanted them to be useable. I bought doll-house sized [water] pitchers so you could fill [the vessels, which held one or two flowers]. It was very minimal. I was influenced by Ikebana. My great aunt was a practitioner. The best class I took in college was on Japanese painting, so that whole aesthetic — the simplicity of line, ornament just really appealed to me. After a few years I was wanting to tell more stories, and I was running out of lab glass, so I started making more narrative pieces.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Other than using it to look at what other people are making, and getting an idea of what’s happening in the real world of art, I would say I don’t use it very much. I have a Facebook page that, for years, I would use to announce shows at the gallery I was at in Chicago. I can’t bring myself to go on Instagram even though everyone says that’s where you should be. I would be very happy to live without a computer except that I totally depend on it for many things.

What is the essential thing about social media that doesn’t make sense in your practice?

One: I don’t think my work translates very well in two dimensions. It’s really hard to photograph. The other is I don’t care. Much. That’s always been the case with all of these things. I just like to please myself — except I want to put [images of work] out there, and you need this [to do that]. That’s a difficult question. As I’m saying this, I’m also thinking that I get a lot of [electronic] newsletters about art, and I’m fascinated by what people are doing. I find it really motivating to see what this woman did with a bunch of plastic bags. It feeds me. It makes me feel good to look at that work. And certainly during the pandemic when we couldn’t go anywhere. It was necessary. Now, when I’m living in the woods, it’s really handy. I can’t live without it. And, I’m sad it is abused, that the great, democratic bringer-together that the internet was supposed to be has become, in many ways, really horrible.

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

The more beauty that can be shared between people, the better. Even if it’s not beautiful, then the more expression of experience, and perceptions of what’s happening all around us, the more we can get that out there in ways that can resonate with lots of different people, I feel that’s the whole point. I used to think that plays could change the world. And, then I thought not-so-much anymore; but it’s important to have them. People have things to say. It shouldn’t be so expensive to go to plays. It shouldn’t be so hard to have any art near you, or part of you. And, that, I think is the most important thing.

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

First and foremost, I’m just happier. I wake up. I see critters. I have Black Trumpet mushrooms growing in my yard. I found living in cities to be more than I could handle anymore. So aggressive. So on top of each other. In my old age I’ve become uncomfortable in crowds, and I was always, very much the urban person. I just wanted to be somewhere where what was around me was feeding me more. There’s something about the way the water meets the land here that just grabs my heart. I knew, if I came here, that would be fed, and that would be good. During the eight years in St. Paul I tried to find creative community, but it is very silo’d. The museums are fantastic. But if you’re a bougie, old lady living in St. Paul trying to connect with the young people living in North Minneapolis, that’s really challenging. I had a sense here there was really a strong creative community hiding here, and I would find it. And, I have. I happened to move to a place where there’s six, really great artists within screaming distance.

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

My parents. My family as a whole. I grew up in such an artistic world. I was given art as birthday gifts. I was taken to the ballet because it was cheaper than getting a babysitter. And I was taken to plays, and exposed to things that I don’t think people, particularly now, get. I was given free rein to try stuff. My mother didn’t want me to become an artist or an actor or a dancer because you couldn’t support yourself, but I always have — with another job. So, there’s that: the little world I grew up in. The artists I’ve love and have impacted me are Joseph Cornell, Louise Bourgeois. There’s an artist in Chicago — Mary Ellen Croteau — who was taking plastic tops and creating these wonderful columns with them. I would see her doing stuff I was doing.

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

That’s been harder since I left Chicago. When I was at Images Gallery, we had a cooperative that met twice a month, and there were eight to 10 people as any time who were happy to tell you what sucked, and what was working, and what you might think about. That was a gift. Now, I’ve gotten to be friends with a couple of artists, here, who have been helpful about how to think about things. My husband. I’ll pretty much ask anybody who’ll look at the work.

What is the role of the exhibiting in your practice?

Ego. I have something to say. I’ve always had something to say, and put it out however I’m working [e.g. dance, theater, et cetera]. That’s one thing. I think it’s also about finding community. I’ve always looked for calls-for-artists that resonate with something I’m doing, whether it’s recycled art, thematic things.

You’re not looking to exhibit anywhere. You’re making specific choices about the exhibition themes so you can find a fit with the work you’re making.

And have made. Having moved here and trying to get the lay of the land … There’s the  beach art, which is all kinds of interesting stuff because this place is so beautiful, and everyone wants to paint it. There’s definitely a whole coterie of people doing really edgy, interesting pieces. But I’ve got the sense, particularly because most of it’s sculpture, my work doesn’t go into galleries per se, unless it’s a show of my work. What I realize now, I need to do two things. I want to create some small works that’s accessible so I can get into a gallery. And then, these bigger pieces, which are conceptual, I feel like I need to write a proposal to some of the larger exhibition spaces, and see how that would fit into the work of other people exhibiting work on the wall.

Is exhibiting about putting your work out there so you can get your ideas out there?

Yes. And see what happens with it. But what I’ve learned every time I’ve put something out there, the whole world sees things differently. I can learn from that. I can get hurt by that. I get excited by that. All sorts of things happen. That’s the theater of it, I guess.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

I walk. I look. When I’m walking, I can stop. I can take in the whole great, giant thing around me; or I can notice that the little knot in the tree over there looks like an eyeball, and what if I did something with that? I can go from the macro to the micro. Things delight my eyes. I get excited about little things. When I’m doing that, I’m not thinking what’s for dinner, how my son’s doing, the world coming to an end. It’s a break from the good and the bad of everyday existence. I also do tai chi. It clears me out, and then I can look at things different. The other things I’ve added to that is I photograph work in process, then look at it in a photograph, which helps me see things I don’t see. I like to feed my sense. That helps keep things at a place where I can work. When life starts getting really difficult, it gets harder to do that.

What drives your impulse to make?

I don’t know. It’s just there. I’ve always needed, from the time I was a very small person, to be able to create some thing, whether it’s a dance, music, I always needed to do that as part of my life. In my adult life, I’ve been able to do that more than anything else. I’ve been pretty lucky in that respect. It’s part of my DNA. It’s like a sensation. It’s under my skin, and I can’t do anything about it. When I don’t do it, it’s not good. I get stuck. One of the things is that it connects me with people. I like my privacy. I like being quiet. The making lets me be alone, and then, what’s made connects me with people.

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Learn more about Carrie Betlyn-Eder here.

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

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

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Describe the medium in which you work.

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

What draws you to blacksmithing and working with metal?

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

What was it about the hot steel that hooked you? 

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

Did you receive any formal training?

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

Did you have any coursework in blacksmithing?

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

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

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

Describe your studio space.

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

What themes and ideas are the focus of your work?

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

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

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

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

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

What prompts the beginning of a project?

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

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

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

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

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

Do you work in a series?

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

What’s your favorite tool?

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

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

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

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What role does social media play in your practice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

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

What drives your impulse to make?

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

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

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Read more about Scott Lankton here.

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

 

 

Judith Shepelak’s road toward a full-time studio practice came after she’d worked as a paralegal, then a graphic designer, then a landscape designer. In between she raised her children. For the last two decades, her creative focus has been on ideas and subjects that interest her instead of a client; and she executes them all in colored pencil — a labor- and time-intensive medium. “[Creating a drawing with] colored pencil is a very long process,” said Judith, 74. “What I can do in a pastel [painting] in five hours is probably going got take me about 40 hours in colored pencil.”

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

Pictured [left]: Judith Shepelak

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I work most of the time in colored pencil. But I also do pastel work.

What do people need to know about colored pencil to better appreciate work done with it?

[Creating a drawing with] colored pencil is a very long process. What I can do in a pastel [painting] in five hours is probably going got take me about 40 hours in colored pencil. A colored pencil drawing begins by laying down light base layers, then you add and add and add, changing your colors. [The process] can add up to about 15 layers. So, I do my piece about 15 times in order to get the colors I want.

Is there a blending process that takes place with all this additive color?

Colors will blend themselves because of the way the pencil lead is made. But there are also about seven or eight blending tools. A lot of us use gamsol [an odorless mineral spirit used to thin paint] ] — because it dissolves some of the pigment, and you can move it around.

How did you start using colored pencil? 

I was a landscape designer for a period. I would do the landscape drawings, and color them in with colored pencil. I didn’t think a lot about it until one day, I went to somebody’s house, and they showed me that they’d framed my drawing; and I thought maybe I could just do colored pencil drawings. I didn’t have any training in colored pencil. That’s when I started to take workshops. At some point I thought I would do botanical art because I was taking some of my workshops at the Morton Arboretum in Chicago. But then, that was so limited. I was using a magnifying glass — I felt like it was a job, and I just wanted to be free with my art, so I sought out other workshops.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I started out at the American Academy of Art in Chicago. I decided it was costing me as much to go there — I was still living with my parents — so I decided to go to Northern Illinois University in graphic design because I also decided I needed a job after I got out of college. I finished off with a BFA in Graphic Design [1972], but I had other art courses — woodcut [printing], weaving.

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

I’m not sure that my formal training in graphic design helped [me with] what I was going to do later in life. I did have one instructor [Nelson Stevens who taught woodcut printing at Northern Illinois University] who was extremely helpful, who taught me how to think beyond the box. He would sit down and draw with me. He’d add a couple of lines and then say to me, Now I want you to add to this. We’d go back and forth, and I learned this freedom of in drawing — I didn’t have to always draw exactly what I saw. He was just trying to free me up. Graphic design is different from fine art. It’s a job of putting together a visual piece, but you’re not using a tremendous amount of creativity. Everything you do in graphic design is dictated by your client.

Talk your studio space.

When we moved into [a townhouse in suburban Chicago], I fixed up the closet so I’d have all kinds of space to store all my art supplies, and long flat files for paintings. The rest of the studio space: I have a table that I work on, and an easel. I have all sorts of flat workspace where I can lay work out if I’m framing it. And, I have my own desk area where I keep my computer.

The one I have here [in Traverse City/Northern Michigan] is a regular bedroom that’s probably 12 feet x 16 feet. I have my drawing table, and I have areas to put all my tools that I’m working with, but it’s not as elaborate. Anything I need to store, I [store in] a little side room. It’s not the best, but it’s fine. I have the [Grand Traverse] Bay to look out on.

How does your studio space facilitate your work?

Here, in Michigan, I have floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides of the room, so I get to look out on the forest, I get to look out at the Bay. I have plenty of light here. I never feel like I’m missing anything when I come here to work. In Chicago, it’s another story. [The studio is] in a town home. And, I don’t have the same visuals, but I have the space. Anytime I want to do framing, that kind of work, I leave it for Chicago. If I want to work on my website, [maintaining] my files and portfolio [that also takes place in Chicago]. Here [in Northern Michigan] I just work a lot.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

I spend a lot of time on landscapes, on abstracts, and I have done botanical work, but I don’t find that exciting. Lately, I’ve been delving into working with people — not portraiture. There’s a lot to learn, in colored pencil, when you start in a new area. Portraiture [requires] a whole different set of colors than you’re working with in landscaping.

What prompted the introduction of figures into your work?

Most of the work I do comes from photographs I’ve taken. The first time I put a human in, it was in a landscape where my husband and I were hiking, and I had a picture of him in front of me. I started adding people to the landscapes by showing them hiking. And then, I had grand kids. There were so many cute photos that I’d get from my daughter-in-law. I did one during COVID when they were all at their doctor’s office getting shots, and they all had their masks on. I had a watercolor instructor in school who said that once he started putting people into his landscapes, they were more interesting. There was more of a story. So, then I tried that. And I do think it does make a difference. People are very interested when they see a person in the painting because then they can see themselves in the painting.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

Almost anything in my life can be a prompt. I could read a line in a book, and my mind just zooms off into a visual. Or I could see somebody else’s art and think that that’s [an idea for] a picture. And I’m somewhat political. I have several pieces that reflect on what’s happening currently in the world. A lot of those end up as abstracts. They’re more creative.

Why does the political work get abstracted?

Sometimes I’m not expressing a particular event. A lot of times it’s an emotion. I’m expressing how I feel inside about what’s happening. It always comes out in an abstract form. I really can’t draw political characters. That doesn’t interest me. I’m doing this for myself. It’s a way to relieve tension by drawing.

What’s your favorite tool?

The eraser. You can erase half of a piece of art — colored pencil is a pencil medium. There’ll still be a stain in the erased area, but you can rework it. I have all types of erasers, and so do other colored pencil artists. We talk a lot about how we remove things.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

I’ve always done work by hand. When I started out in graphic design, everything was done by hand. There were no illustrations you could buy off the internet. If you had to lay down type, you had to glue it up and lay it down by hand. I am a person who likes to construct. Even as a kid, I’d construct things out of popsicle sticks. I love to bake. I garden a lot. I use my hands more than I use my mind — not that I don’t use it. Everybody, in some way, creates with their hands — whether you’re building a home or painting, you’re always using your hands.

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

There’s a certain reward to doing things with your hands. You’re putting yourself into that piece. And that’s a good feeling. It’s a different feeling than when you read, or write a book. There’s a different feeling there. Some people, including myself, do better when we’re creating with our hands.

When did you commit to working with serious, professional intent?

I worked for about 10 years after college. I worked as a paralegal, then I became a graphic designer. When I had my first child, I still worked freelance in graphic design, and then I was a full-time mom. I spent a lot of time donating time to a lot of organization, but I wasn’t doing anything for myself. When my kids got older, I went back to school for landscape design, and ran my own landscape design business for about 10 years. That’s when I started drawing. Once my kids started going off to college I started drawing more. And the more I drew — suddenly I had 20-25 pieces — I thought, What am I going to do with all these things? I started looking for galleries where I might show [around age 55]. I started out showing work in a framing gallery. Then, I started looking for real galleries. I’m still looking for galleries. When I look back, sometimes I regret that I didn’t start earlier

What role does social media play in your practice?

Having come to Facebook and Instagram late in life — I do have a website — I find I don’t like to spend time doing that. Probably because I don’t have the same versatility that my children do. They seem to understand what everything means, and where to find certain things. [NOTE: Judith adds: When I was referring to my website, I meant that I didn’t like updating it, mostly because half the time it’s a slow process to figure out how to technically achieve what I am trying to do and ultimately it becomes frustrating. My children are better at understanding how to get from point one to the next.

And with Facebook and Instagram, I find them a waste of valuable time. They do serve a purpose for me occasionally, but in my life, if I want to find out how you are or where you’ve been I’ll call you to catch up (which I do, and enjoy the conversations immensely). If I want to know about politics, I’ll watch the news, and for my other interests I go to books and magazines. There is nothing more relaxing than to head to bed with something to read!]

I keep telling myself I should [be more involved with social media], but I just like to draw. I seem to not want to focus on that. I’m 74. I’m already set in life financially, so I’m not desperate to be making money from my art. I could do more if I wanted to. But I don’t have that kind of energy. I’m doing what I want to do in life at this point, and gardening is the other half of what I want to do in life. I use the internet for lots of reasons. I belong to Beechtree Community, a colored pencil group that gets together every Monday. We all chat about our work, different exhibits we’ve seen, new ideas, what kind of new eraser we’ve found. I use it for searching out exhibits, galleries, other people’s art. If I want a little more information about a bird, I’ll use the internet to look it up to see if I’m drawing it correctly. I use it as a reference.

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

It influences the landscape portion. I take a lot of photos around here. It might be a cloud, or the water in the Bay. It could be the beach where there are old piers — I’m fascinated by the wood. I always carry my phone. Sometimes I just stop the car when I’m driving. Over here on the Peninsula there’s so many beautiful areas.

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

No. I knew no one at all. I didn’t have a clue how you’d get into art. After I took my graphic design program, I didn’t know how to get a job. That’s why I ended up as a paralegal. When you don’t have someone, or know someone in the field, you don’t have a clue how to get into it.

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

I mentioned the gentleman I had for my woodcut course. He was very influential because he was so open to teaching, and helping me understand how to open my mind, and use my mind when I’m doing my art. The other person is Georgia O’Keeffe. She was one of the first artists that was a woman who was recognized. I read one or two biographies about her, and you realize she came from an ordinary background. I like what she does, and the way she did very feminine art — so different from what the men were doing. I think women have a different feel when they draw. [NOTE: Judith adds to this thought: Georgia O’Keefe always interested me because one, she was a female artist and two, a large portion of her work centered around nature and the outdoor world, which I relate to, and was created in a modern style. She became a significant female American artist who began life with a very modest beginning on a farm near Sun Prairie, Wisconsin which also seemed relatable to me. When I said I like what she does I meant that I found the way she interpreted the world through art very appealing. I’ve always found it very feminine even if she was using bold colors; her interpretations were gentle often flowing rhythmically. I’ve always felt that men don’t have that tenderness in their art.]

To whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?

Beechtree Community. I do use my daughter sometimes, but she’s not available all the time. But with the Community, we do have a day every month where you can share work. There is one member who works in colored pencil. You can tell her what your problem is, and she posts it. All of us who are on [the site] that particular day can talk about how they’d [address] that particular problem. It’s very helpful. If you’re not working in a studio with a group you don’t have access to criticism and critiquing. I’m always open to it.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

When you exhibit, you get the feeling what you’re doing is valuable. Other people are seeing it’s well done, they think and feel. It encourages you to go on. You go to an exhibit, and sometimes you get inspired by other work that’s there. It helps. It’s not an easy thing to pay attention to exhibits, and send art out, but I do think it’s valuable.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I don’t know if I try to nurture it. It’s there all the time. I have an incessant curiosity about things. I’ve had family members ask me why I ask so many questions all the time? It’s because I’m fascinated by everything. I’m curious all the time, and that kind of curiosity feeds me. I read books on many subjects.

What drives your impulse to make?

I really like to draw. The first 55 years of my life, I didn’t tap into myself. I was always giving to other people and things, and I suddenly decided that I would give up all my community work, and just do what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to do all that I can to encourage my artwork because that’s what I like to do. I feel like I’ve given a lot, but this is my time. I have 10 more years, maybe 20 if I’m lucky.

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Learn more about Judith Shepelak here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why are you obsessed with insects?

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

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

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

Any particular reason?

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

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

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

What draws you to the medium in which you work?

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

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

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

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

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

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

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

Describe your studio/work space.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What prompts the beginning of a project?

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

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

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

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

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

Do you work in a series?

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

What’s your favorite tool?

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

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

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

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

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

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

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

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

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

What role does social media play in your practice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice?

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

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

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

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

What drives your impulse to make?

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

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Read more about Mary Fortuna here.

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