Category: Creativity Q+A

Nancy Crisp, 81, taught visual art to all ages, and abilities, in public school and private institutions, from the 1960s until 2003. Her own visual art education began in junior high, guided by a teacher who grounded her in the fundamentals. Now, her painting practice unfolds in a home studio she shares with her husband, a ping pong table, and more. Regardless of the other roles the studio plays, it’s the exact, right place to consider what’s developing on the canvas. “A lot of painting time is thinking time,” she said.

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

Left: Nancy Crisp

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Describe the medium in which you work.

In the last, few years of painting, it’s acrylic. I’m a big acrylic fan. It’s my paint of choice, and I love it. Occasionally I mix it with oil-on-top, but rarely. And, sometimes I [add] collage to acrylic [paintings], which is very adaptable to that.

What is it about acrylic that speaks to you?

When I went to college, it was just at the cusp of acrylic coming in. It’s the drying time: I love [acrylic’s] expediency. I can put paint on. I can cover it up quickly, so it’s easy to layer. Layering is my thing.

Tell me about your formal training in visual art.

I started at a college out East, and took classes there but realized they were limited. I switched to [the University of Michigan], and loved the art department. I got my MA there, in painting and sculpture [1964].

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

I had more training in high school than I did at the university. In my graduate program, we were totally on our own. I saw my graduate teacher once a semester — he’d come in, and we’d talk about everything but painting. When I graduated, I felt I needed to self-teach a lot — I did a lot of reading. I had a fantastic art teacher [in both junior high and high school, in Midland, Michigan]. Charles Breed went with us from seventh grade through 12th. The greatest gift that he gave [his students] was a real sense of composition. Charles included the elements of design (point, line, shape, volume and space) as well as the principles (center of interest, balance, focal point, rhythm, contrast and unity) in all our projects in all mediums.We didn’t do any painting in his class, but we worked with all kinds of other materials.

When I was in grad school, I loved being there. If somebody would have footed the bill, I would have stayed there for the rest of my life as a student. I think what happened in graduate school is — I’m a fairly shy person, and I did not do what a graduate student should do: They’re the ones who should go out seeking the knowledge, but I expected [instructors] to bring it to me. I didn’t ask questions.

Describe your studio/work space.

My work space is huge. We live in a very strange building that was built as a chicken coop. They sold eggs out of it. There were about 5,000 chickens at one point. It’s 185 feet long. The front third [of the building] is our living area. There is a 35 foot x 35 foot studio area that we [Nancy, and her husband, Howard] share. It was supposed to be mine.

How does your studio space facilitate your work?

I was able to go larger [4 feet x 6 feet — up from, for instance, 12 inches x 24 inches], which I wouldn’t have been able to do. I love that I can walk through the door, and I’m in my studio. That makes a lot of difference. I can pop in, do a lot of thinking, or maybe put a few brushstrokes on a canvas, and then pop back out [into their living space].

Does it ever feel, with your studio space being in such close, physical proximity, that your studio is breathing down your neck, and you can’t get away from it?

I’ve never had that feeling. We do our recycling in the studio. We play ping pong in the studio. It’s used for other things. And whatever I go in there for, I’m studying the paintings while I’m doing something else. It gives me more think-time on them.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

That always changes. I went through a long period of painting abstractly — using the paint, and seeing where the paint took me, and then would develop a composition from that without a theme in mind. Now I seem to have issues I want to talk about in the painting, like the environment, places I’ve been, or experiences.

What prompts a change in your focus?

That could be anything. I don’t have a straight line in my development. It depends upon whatever is in my visual and emotional life.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

I rarely work from a drawing. I’m all over the place. I don’t have a method I go to to develop a painting. It’s pretty much all emotional response, not an intellectual delving-into.

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

I often work on two paintings at a time just so I can use up leftover paint. It’s always good to have something new on the horizon. If one painting isn’t working well, I can switch to another. A lot of painting time is thinking time. That’s almost as important as the painting time, being aware of what’s going on and taking time to figure out where I’m going — because I usually don’t know until I get there.

What’s your favorite tool?

All my brushes. I don’t paint with a palette knife. All my good-sized brushes from my U of M days are there, and I’m still working with them.

Do you use a sketchbook, or a work journal?

Sometimes I do sketches, and sometimes I do paintings from the sketches. Swimming In The Heat started out to be a simple line sketch of the beach and the hills. But as I worked on it, I began thinking about the environment, and how much I loved any view of Lake Michigan and the shoreline and hills, and all of a sudden, my sketch turned into a cautionary tale about heat. Usually if I work from a sketch, it’s a starting point. But I don’t usually work from a sketch. I usually start out with paint.

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

I don’t know if I ever consciously made that decision. I was fortunate to have a mom who was an artist, too. She started us painting before I had memory. I don’t think there was ever a point when it wasn’t part of my life. It was always an activity that was valued in my household.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Probably none.

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

I think the visual artist’s role in the world is to be as true to themselves as they can be, and find their own voice. Whatever is personal is often universal.

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

Before the 2016 presidential election, I reacted very strongly, and my paintings were about that.

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

By looking out the window right now, I see buds starting. We go through all the seasons. We’re not urban. We’re in this beautiful country. It — the landscape — has to influence us. It would be hard not to. When I’m out in nature, or walking the streets, I’m always seeing line, texture, color. When I walk with somebody else, they have to listen to me as I talk about it.

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

My mom, and then my beloved art teacher, Charles Breed. He was a huge influence. He worked in a studio in Midland, and it was open to artists. It was a communal thing, so we were able to see him work, be with him while he was working. There was a core group of student who followed him through junior high and high school. We had dinner with him. We went to his cabin and studio on Long Lake [in Traverse City]. It was a warm and inclusive experience.

Lots of time we don’t have access to adults who can model the work we want to do. If you want to be a dentist, it’s fairly easy to find a practicing dentist from whom you can learn what a dentist does. In the visual arts: not so much.

I think that’s true. We mostly work in our private spaces. Having those few years where there are other artists coming into [the Midland studio spaces] was a rare opportunity. Now I realize I had that. Most of the time, creating is very lonely. You’re in a studio by yourself.

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

I have friends, and I have my husband who’s number one. He’s very honest with his feedback.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

That’s been a changing role. It’s hard in this area. There was a time when there was a thriving art community, and we had [the Traverse City] arts council. There were frequent opportunities to exhibit. [But, she said, the exhibition opportunities in local galleries are harder to find.]  

Why do you want to exhibit your work?

At some point one wants to have other people see it. We do it because we want to share it, and get response. It’s part of our identity. If no one sees it, how do we carry that identity if it’s only us [seeing our own work]?

There are many exhibition opportunities beyond Northern Michigan. Talk about how you feel about trying to find a place to exhibit outside your community.

There are lots of opportunities, which require an exceeding amount of work — filling out the forms, and then you have to ship your things, which involves expense and time taken away from other things you want to do. You aren’t guaranteed that after you’ve gone through the expense of applying that your work will be accepted. It needs to be sent back, or you have to go down and bring it back. I’m down to exhibiting locally. That’s what I spent my energy on.

You hit on a lot of things that illustrate that a studio practice isn’t all glamor — the yeoman work of applying, and packaging, and shipping.

No. It’s not.

How do you nurture and fuel your creativity?

I’m fortunate to be married to an artist. We both respond to the visual world. We’re both, often, working in the studio, and will react to each other’s work. That’s just part of what’s happening in this household. Through the years, many of our friends are also in the art world. I’ve done a few workshops in the past.

When you were teaching, what challenges did teaching present to you practicing your own work?

The big challenge was time. Teaching was very time consuming. My last 15 years were in the public schools. During that nine-month period, my days started pretty early, and I usually didn’t get home until 6 pm. There wasn’t really time to do art. In summer, I felt I had the opportunity to do the most work. Now, I have day after day after day to go into the studio. I may not paint every day, but I at least think every day.

How did your teaching activities cross pollinate with your studio activities?

Part of my mind was always [focused] on teaching art, on line and color and composition and shape, and working with different materials, and responding to what was happening with the children, and being encouraging. I always felt like I was thinking of art, and it paid off when I went into the studio. I didn’t feel like it was taking away from my making of art.

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

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

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Describe the medium in which you work.

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

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

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

What draws you to painting?

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

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

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

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

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

Describe your studio/work space.

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

How does your studio facilitate your work?

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

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

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

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

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

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

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

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

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

Is that because we all understand land?

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

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

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

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s “good music”?

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

Do you work in a series?

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

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

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

What’s your favorite tool?

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

Do you use a sketchbook?

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

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

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

What role does social media play in your practice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do your paintings symbolize hope?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

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

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

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

What drives your impulse to make?

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

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Read more about Lindy Bishop here.

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

 

 Matt Schlomer, 51, is finishing his 11th year of teaching at Interlochen Academy of Art. He is a conductor, and he is a teacher of saxophone — and, he is the founder of Sound Garden, an out-of-the-box approach to bringing musical performance to people wherever they happen to be. It’s a way of planting musical seeds in unexpected dirt.

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

Pictured left: Matt Schlomer circa 1996.

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What draws you to the saxophone?

I’m probably 80 or 90 percent a conductor now. My main, musical outlet is one of silence rather than saxophone, even though I still teach saxophone. My thought about silence is that conducting is an odd way to be a musician in that you make no audible sounds. You are physically silent though your inner life is thrumming with musical ideas desperate to get out.

Did you start by playing the saxophone — and that led you to conducting?

Yes. But my mom got me playing piano in third grade.

Because she saw great, musical potential in you?

It was the era when, if you were going to be the all-American family, people had a piano in their living room. Everybody took piano — that was part of the deal.

What did you learn about the saxophone — through your own practice and playing it — that took you by surprise.

I think what surprised me, looking back, is how it takes you over when you’re playing. It’s so all-encompassing that you almost disappear. As I look back, I think I was more naturally a visual artist. Because the visual arts were easy, I think I didn’t put as much stock in the fact that I could just do it. So, music and the saxophone were this extra challenge that fascinated me, and the pursuit, the trying to tame the thing, overtook the pursuit of the visual arts.

Do the two art forms complement one another?

They do, but in the later part of the pursuit. During what I call the skills-acquisition phase of the evolution of a musician — the high school/college undergraduate [period] — not so much. But when I went to conducting, I [came to] think of it as a sonic painting.

You compose and arrange music. Can you differentiate the two? What creative opportunities do composing and arranging present?

Arranging is more like a coloring book in that you have these outlines, and you have this autonomy to make coloristic choices, but the main form of the work is already done. Composition is more like a blank sheet of paper or canvas where you really have to put your own parameters on it to keep you going in a direction that will turn into something specific. If an idea is borne in your head, you can’t get it out until it’s realized, if it’s there you have to put it out or it haunts you. I’ve found the more ideas haunt you, the more there’s something to them.

You work with large ensembles when you’re conducting. Talk about that.

As a conductor, you don’t have an instrument until you have people to make the sounds. It’s a bizarre dichotomy. Your internal art making has to be overly vivid — the more details you can create in your imagination, the more likely it is you can get them to happen in reality; but in reality, I’m sending out aural images without making any sound. That’s part of the magic. In some bizarre way, there’s some synergy that happens, where it does transfer [from conductor to musicians]. It’s an ironic way to make art.

NOTE: Watch a short video of Matt conducting here.

Are you describing standing before the musicians, and there’s this Martian mind meld between what you’re hearing in your head, and what they’re playing?

Yes. It does sound Jedi mind trick-y, but it’s true and real, and it does happen. The best way to describe it [is to liken it to those] moments when you’re in a gathering, and somebody will enter, and the whole room changes. I do these challenges — we call them “Duels.” I’ll challenge the [musicians], and say, “You have to watch me, and I dare you to play as loud as you can”; or, as soft as they can. I lay down the challenge, and then I’ll overly focus on creating these sounds that are either super quiet or loud, and send this idea of energy and intent. They can’t play it loud. Or, soft. It’s impossible for them to do.

How does your day job cross-pollinate with your own practice?

Music has existed throughout time because of benefactors. In the last 150 years, right now, we’re in the era where music’s greatest benefactor is educational systems. Of course, there are  orchestras, and they have their own benefactors. But we’re in a time when there are more full-time musicians, and the reason for that is the education system. For musicians, our personal lives and output, and our paid life all seamlessly mix together. It’s a blurred existence.

If we do creative work, it’s hard to know where it begins and ends. Creativity isn’t some isolated phenomena. It invades other aspects of our entire lives.

It’s my “hobby.” It’s my passion. It’s my career. It’s my way of thinking. There’s a fun mind game we play. If you were stranded on a deserted island, and you didn’t have your instrument, would you still be a musician? That [question] asks you to think about what your relationship to music is.

You have collaborated with a wide range of creative people. What is a collaboration?

It’s a really popular word now. What I would love collaborations to be, but I find rare, is there could be an open dialogue between two creators, and our differences and ideas bang up against each other. We learn a new perspective, and take that opportunity to take that perspective into ourselves and really try to understand it, try to adjust our own perspective until something more complex and beautiful happens. What I often see happening — and sometimes there’s not enough time, or people don’t get to know one another — is people who say, I’m going to put some dance to this, and you’re going to do music, and they call that a “collaboration.” The result rarely becomes a cohesive, powerful, new experience.

In your collaborative projects, people come together, and there’s dialog, and conversation — versus people showing up with their pieces and parts, and saying, A ha! We have a new thing!

And, in my mind, there shouldn’t be an expectation that I show up with my art form — [for example] I’m the musician, so I’m the expert, so you have no right to say anything about it. That’s distasteful to me. There are so many different perspectives. A non-musician can listen to music, and I will learn something about what they hear. Those perspectives inevitably enhance the whole work.

Nobody has the market cornered on a good idea, do they? Why do you do collaborative projects?

In my mind, everybody wins because everybody grows. Everybody has an opportunity to broaden their artist palette by hearing people talk about their own processes. It always feels like a more powerful experience as a result.

Does the Sound Garden Project fall under the collaborative umbrella?

I suppose it’s collaborative in that the big question I’m asking with the project is: How do we interact with audiences in a more authentic way? And interact with people who aren’t looking for us, which classical music hasn’t done.

[NOTE: The Sound Garden Project was founded by Schlomer in 2020 through the support of Interlochen Public Radio. He continues to facilitate the project. Over the last three years, he has put together different groupings of conservatory musicians – from soloists to quintets – who, for  two-to-eight weeks in the summer, perform in pop-up and formal concerts at unorthodox, public settings. In 2022 and 2023, the GAAC hosted Sound Garden Project as part of its Manitou Music Series. The PULSE Saxophone Quartet were the GAAC’s Musicians-in-Residents in June. The quartet performed on a pontoon boat in Glen Lake, the GAAC’s Front Porch, Cottage Book Shop, on the Lake Michigan beach, the Glen Arbor Township playground, Glen Lake Community Library, and other places.]

Explain what the Sound Garden project is, and your role in it.

The tag line of the Sound Garden project is: Planting music in unexpected places. The goal of the project is to have an opportunity to hear live performers in a classical music tradition, up close, and experience a sampling of the music so audiences have a first-hand knowledge of what that is like. In practice, we never dummy down the art. What we do is try to meet people in places where they have free time. We try to think where people have time in their lives these days to even have space for something new, and then we try to invade that space, to give people the opportunity to hear that music, and then make sure we create a platform for them to trust their experience.

One of the plagues of classical music is we’ve bred this idea that if you don’t know enough, you won’t get it. I don’t think that’s true. Last year, one of the favorite Sound Garden concerts we did was in [Empire, Michigan] at Grocer’s Daughter Chocolates. They gave us three different samples of chocolate, and we’d approach [customers] and ask them if we could play music for them. They say, Oh, I don’t know classical music. Then we’d say, We have some chocolates for you to sample for free, and then we’ll just play a minute-long piece and ask you a few questions afterward. And, they’d do it. The same people who said they don’t like it, some of them had the strongest answers [about the music and its relationship to the chocolates]. They’d talk about the form of the piece, and the musical elements that made it blossom. There are so many moments like that.

You’re taking classical music out of the context in which most people understand it: a performance space, where you buy a ticket, you find a seat, and you listen. The Sound Garden Project throws all the out the window. With Sound Garden, there is no ticket buying, you go to places where people aren’t there to listen to music, and yet you find ways to have people engage with the music. Why do it?

The tag line — Planting music in unexpected places — insinuates that it’s a seed, and that how anyone’s interest in anything will grow. Sound Garden performances are more like a sampling room. This summer, someone will have their first wine tasting in the Traverse City area. Someone at the winery will tell them how the wine is made. And, from those little samples they’re going to have more interest in wine. Our hope is that people will think what they hear is cool and try some things. One of the barriers we face is the perception that the context in which we play is this high, religious experience where you have to take a large amount of your evening, you have to buy a ticket, you have to go to this hall where you get shut in, and then you sit down and you lose control of what’s happening to you. In this day and age, we don’t do that. That’s an environment, where if you’re going to try something out and you’re not sure if you’re going to like it, you’re already you don’t feel good.

You’re the driving force behind the Sound Garden Project. What was the thing that caused you to think, We’ve got to change the way music is presented to the public.

It’s a lingering question. I’ve wondered about this for a long time, and suddenly there was a canvas to put it on. There’s also a musician side of this. The way that we’re trained does not encourage this kind of thing. We do a detox session with each new [Sound Garden] group that comes into the Sound Garden Project. Not because the conservatories are doing something wrong, but [in the conservatory] there’s a deep-skills acquisition phase, and it’s a crucible of scrutiny. We have musicians who are really accomplished, and people would be thrilled to hear what they could do, but they’re living in this mindset where they think, I’ve got to do all these things, and win competitions before anyone will want to hear me.

Musicians will say, especially with this generation, I want to change the world with my art. But for them to sit down, up close with somebody, to have their instrument in their hand at a gas station or Grocer’s Daughter, to interact with people and give them something meaningful and beautiful that they actually believe in, is such a wildly intimate experience that they’re not prepared to do. They say they want to do it, but they don’t have a context to figure out what that would look like. So, that’s turned out to be a really exciting [part of the Sound Garden Project], and for the musicians. [Sound Garden] gives them a context to put their money where their mouth is, so to speak.

There are some problems from the musician side, too. When musicians come out onto this lit stage, and they can’t see the audience — they’re blinded — and it’s a total atmosphere for judgement from the very beginning. They come out and start playing and supposedly sharing something deep, and they don’t know with whom they’re sharing it. It sanitizes everything. There’s no human element in it. They don’t even meet the audience afterward: They clap. They go off.

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

I think it’s to help us all to wonder, to keep curiosity alive. I don’t believe that our mission is one of political commentary. There are people who feel motivated, and are rightly informed to do so.

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

It’s just beautiful. I’ve found that an incredible way to re-center. When I’m out in Northern Michigan, I’m able to wonder bigger. When I go for a run in the woods, all of a sudden the ideas are flowing like crazy. What’s magical is there are really great places for us to gather; but then, also places for us to scatter. That’s a special feature.

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

I didn’t. South Dakota was a little confining. I was a little bit of an oddity. I was in the art room all the time, so they let me go into the art class in the high school because I was eating everything up. When I was a freshman, and we went to Milwaukee, it was scary. We went from a town of 1,200 to 1.4 million; but it turned out to be perfect. All of a sudden everything opened up. I’m thankful. South Dakota was a safe place to wonder, and to be a kid. And when I needed more stimulation, and to find kindred spirits, that opportunity came when we moved to Milwaukee: concerts, and museums, and Chicago was really close.

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

I don’t know if there was one person. There’s my conducting mentor, Scott Teeple. There are people like Mary Brennan, she was a professor emerita when I was at the University of Wisconsin getting my minor in dance. She gave me hours of time, where we would discuss the intersection of music and movement, and what I was experiencing, and my questions. It was an incredible gift that she gave to me. I had a philosophy teacher in high school who was amazing — someone with that magic ability to take a teenager who has brain damage, which we all do at that age, and make me feel like he was taking me seriously.

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

For a conductor, that’s a rare thing. It’s challenging. I have another mentor, Alan McMurry, who will be honest with me. Scott Teeple will, too; but we’re both right in the busy-ness of our careers, so there’s not much time for there’s not much time for that.

How do you fuel and nurture your creativity?

Exercise. Running. Hiking. Kayaking. The connection between the body, mind and spirit is so true. And the older I get, the more I have to tend to that. You can’t take it for granted. Also, having new experiences. I like to travel. Collaborations help a lot.

What drives your impulse to make music?

With music, it’s about listening. You can’t make as good of a sound by yourself. That act of joining sound is always better if you’re outside of yourself and putting it with the song of others. Getting to do that, and showing that to younger people that that exists is the thing we’re all looking for.

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Learn more about Matt Scholmer here. And, here.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

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

What draws you to all these materials that you use?

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

Why do you like painting?

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

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

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

Explain what the house portraits were about.

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

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

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

Describe your studio.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s your favorite tool?

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

Do you use a sketchbook?

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

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

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

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

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

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

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

How do you feed, and nurture your creativity?

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

What drives your impulse to make?

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

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Read more about Lauren Everett Finn here.

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

 

The outdoors comes indoors to the Lobby Gallery at the Glen Arbor Arts Center. By The Side Of The Road is a series of abstract, mixed media landscapes out of the imagination of painter Alice Moss, 67. Moss has been watching, and walking, and thinking about the roadside and woodlands of Leelanau County since the early 1960s — when her parents first visited the area. Moss’s ramblings are also a chance to source casts-off and other materials that find their way into her charming paintings. By The Side Of The Road runs September 1 – December 15; or view the exhibit here.

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

Pictured left: Alice Moss

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Describe what you’ll be showing in your Lobby Gallery exhibit.

Abstract landscapes inspired by places I’ve been, and objects I’ve seen. And I’m calling it By The Side Of The Road because I think of that as not just what I find by the side of the road, but what you see on the side of the road when you’re driving around.

Are you working from photographs? Or, from recollections?

It’s right out of my brain. There are no photographs. Just things I see, and the shapes that impress upon me.

Why don’t you work from photographs?

I like to depart from the actual reality of it, and if I work from a photograph, then I’m trying to match the shapes and colors more closely. I want it to be more of an impression of an idea, instead of trying to make it look like what it actually is.

Is the imagery in your work reflective of what you’ve seen in your travels around Northern Michigan?

Yes. And, other places from around the world. But from Northern Michigan, I do get a lot of ideas about the horizon and landscape you’d see — the lakes, the trees, and the hills.

What do you like about the landscape from this particular part of the world?

I find it more calming than something that’s frenetic or jagged. A straight, horizon line is more soothing than something that’s vertical, or jumbled up, or zig-zag-y.

You have a home in Glen Arbor that you have called a home for more than 60 years. What’s your Northern Michigan backstory?

My parents came here when I was four [from Troy, Michigan in the 1960s], and they built a place on Lake Michigan.

You use a lot of recycled and salvaged materials in your paintings. Will these materials show up in your Lobby Gallery exhibit?

Yes. I use found objects — I don’t like to think of it as recycling because I’m not using something and then turning it into something else. It’s salvaged. The wood [in the compositions as well as framing materials] I find, some of it is from post-construction tear-downs. Or, I find it on the beach. The metals I find along the road a lot while I’m out walking. I do find it in the woods, and the forests — old cans that are rusted, and coming apart. I cut or shape or bend them. Some of the metals I use are new. I use raw copper that hasn’t been in something else previously. My daughter, who’s a chemist, has made ground copper for me, and I’ve used that in quite a few paintings.

Recently, I was in conversation with an artist who talked about finding inspiration in the cracks in the parking lot pavement at Meijer. There’s so much creative inspiration and material everywhere — if you keep your head down.

Or, looking around. Your head doesn’t need to be down. Finding things in the woods, you have to be observant because stuff is buried under leaves and things.

What is it about these found materials, and non-paint materials, you like to bring into your paintings?

Some of the scrap metal looks like hills or mountains or a horizon. It sparks my imagination, [trying to figure out] how it could be incorporated into a painting. Like solving a puzzle: How’s this going to go? Sometimes I’ll start the other way. I’ll have a painting, and I’ll [realize] I need something to stick right here. So I’ll look through my stash, and see if I have something. Sometimes I’ll make it work. Sometimes I have the perfect piece. One of the other, weird things I’ve used is road paint — when they stripe a road with that glue-on sticker, well those come off, and crumpled up by the edge of the road. I’ve used some of those because they have a really nice texture. I did a sailboat [composition], and the paint was the sail.

What do you want people to know when they’re looking at your work?

That I’m inspired by landscapes and the objects around us, as well as the interplay of objects and color. Certain objects connote a mood in a color. I like people to think, What could this be? What is this? It will be something different to different people. That’s the thing with abstracts: It’s whatever [the viewer] thinks … That’s why I have a hard time titling things. I don’t want to give preconceived notions. I’d like people to go in with an open mind, and see what they see, like, and think about it.