Category: Creativity Q+A

Leelanau County artist Margo Burian, 61, has carved a niche for herself in the cultural landscape. Her atmospheric paintings of the the locality’s land, sky, water, and historic farmsteads are known and coveted by a wide range of fans and collectors. She began her professional life as a commercial illustrator, and has traveled from depicting Sponge Bob to painting the ephemeral place called liminal space. “I knew I wanted to be an artist since I was five,” she said. In the years that followed, Margo has honed and built on that desire, and sharpened her ability to talk plainly, albeit deeply, about the complexities of her calling.

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

Pictured: Margo Burian

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I work in a couple different mediums. Mostly, my medium of choice for making paintings is oil paint. I also do acrylic paintings, but not with a lot of regularity. My side gig to the oil painting is painted paper collage and mixed media.

How is collage worked into your paintings?

The collage I tend to keep separate from the oil painting. The two don’t go together in a way that makes sense. I will use bits of painted paper as a way to make adjustments to oil paintings. It’s like an un-do edit. If there’s a painting I’m struggling with, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s a particular color or shape, I may cut a piece of collage paper to place it over the painting to see if that’s what makes the difference. Generally, I see collage as a separate entity.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I received a BFA from Kendall College of Art and Design [1992] with a major in Illustration. I was a commercial illustrator for about 20 years [1990 – 2010] before I came to painting. I had a lot of good accounts: Meijer, Scholastic, I was licensed to draw Sponge Bob, and Hollie Hobbie and Dora-the-Explorer through Nickelodeon, a lot of work for American Greetings. When I started painting, I realized I didn’t have enough knowledge. Rather than go to graduate school, I thought I’d do a self-styled MFA, choosing to study with artists who resonated with me, and whose work I appreciated. That led to doing a series of workshops with a mentor, Stuart Shils, and Ken Kewley. I find that taking workshops is a better way for me to get knowledge I don’t have rather than committing to going back to college.

How do workshops address, and advance your need?

I’ve always been someone who’s interested in education. I’ve always been a seeker. The cup is never full; but I keep aspiring to fill the cup up with more knowledge. I really enjoy being in a learning environment with other creative professionals. I like to share ideas, to have exposure to people and ideas I might not otherwise have if I was holed up alone in my studio.

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

Especially with having a degree in illustration, I become proficient in a number of media. I started as a watercolorist, then did pastels. Didn’t do a lot of oil painting in college because I couldn’t afford the paint and the canvases; but having that illustration background was helpful. It solidified my drawing skills, and because I knew from the get-go I wanted to freelance, it helped me foster a sense of being dependable, and developing good studio work habits. When you work for yourself, there’s no one to pick up for you. You have to learn time management. If you don’t learn time management, you either lose your clients or work all the time. I ended up working all the time, which led to me switching to painting. I was working too many nights, weekends, holidays, birthdays, and finding that I wasn’t enjoying the commercial work-for-hire

Describe your studio/work space.

I’m fortunate in the fact I have two studios right now. The studio I have downstate is a bright, well-lighted third stall garage that was converted into finished space. When we built the home in Grand Rapids, we knew I was going to need working space — I’d just moved out of a 1,000 square foot warehouse into a 240-foot garage space. That was a challenge, but the lighting and the fact that space is directly connected to our home is fabulous. When I have the ability to work on premises, i.e. at my own home, I’m more productive. There’s no drive time. I’m someone who wanted to work at 9 o’clock at night, it’s doubtful that I would drive to my rented space [Margo has a second studio space in Leelanau County, where she and her husband have a second home]. When we’re in Grand Rapids, having access to the studio, if I only have an hour, I can spend that hour prepping things, or gluing paper to board, or organizing, or cleaning brushes. I’m less likely to work for an hour if I have to drive somewhere to do it. Having the studio space on site is almost a necessity for me.

Describe the Leelanau County studio you rent?

That is very small. Probably the size of a bedroom, which presents its own challenges. I’m not someone who likes to look at my work all the time, so I don’t have a place to turn the work away there. Being right in the middle of town, especially in mid-summer, can be a challenge as well. I very often have a note on my door asking not to be disturbed. I find that people are interested, but when I only have a short block of time to work, it’s hard having someone knock on your door just to chat. I love interacting with people, but it’s not good for work. I am easily distracted.

Talk about some of the themes and ideas that are the focus of your work?

A big theme for me is connection and intimacy. I tend to make a lot of small work, which is a hangover from my illustration days. If you’re working on tight deadlines, you’re not working 4ft x 4ft. You’re working 12 inches x 12 inches. Or sometimes even less. I’ve always been drawn to small work. It forces the viewer to come closer to look at it, which creates intimacy. As a painter of landscape, it’s about connection to the land, to the people. We’re fortunate to live in an area that is remarkably beautiful. People feel connected — whether they’re local or visiting. There’s an appreciation for the beauty of the area, its people, and the wildlife. For me, that’s the basis of my work.

You’re also known for your paintings of old dock pilings sticking up above the surface of the lake. You’ve done your fair share of depicting some of the historic agricultural structures. Your work allows for human artifact to enter the equation.

When I started painting, I focused on the land exclusively. I’m finding that I’m really interested in how we, as humans, have interjected ourselves into the landscape, and what we’ve done. I’m not saying it’s 100 percent all good; but there is something about the way, especially in this area, that structures interface with the land. In a way, it’s timeless. Especially with the park [Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore], and all the preservation that’s been done with all these old farmsteads, we’re in a liminal space: They’re not really of our time, but they’re holding space between the past and the present. I find that interesting. We’re never in the future, we’re only in the present moment, and we’re never in the past either. So, the space of the present moment is what I’m trying to capture with some of those structure paintings.

One of the things I wonder about is, for people who focused on the landscape — thematically — there is the relentless march of civilization that impacts, and destroys, and has its influence on the landscape. What do you think about that?

It’s tough. I’ve been a Northern Michigan girl practically my whole life in one way or another. I remember Traverse City and Glen Arbor from the lens of 40, 50 years ago. I understand progress can’t be stopped; but I wish it could be more thoughtful. I’m afraid, more people discover the area, that we lose what makes Northern Michigan special. I don’t have an answer. We shouldn’t close the gate; but we need to be very intentional about the way we move through the land, and the way things are developed. We need to have, as a culture, a major shift in our thinking about the land and its resources.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

My work is based in observation. I’m always looking. Throughout the course of the day, I’m looking at light, and shape, looking at my environment. Generally, an idea starts with a flicker of an image. I might be driving somewhere and see how the light is catching. If I don’t have time to stop, I file it in my memory bank, and try to remember to go back and check the same spot to see if it really holds my interest. If it does, I’ll go on site and make some drawings, make some acrylic paintings in my sketch book. I’m not much of a plein air painter. I like my studio. I like to be quick and mobile enough to catch the base information I want. Then I start to develop the work from there. Oftentimes, I like to work small and then scale up. The reason for working small is to see if my first instinct is correct: Is this a painting that has good composition? Is it going to be a painting that has interest for me as a painter? Are there things I can do to strengthen the original drawing; or add something from memory to it. The reason for working small, especially from the beginning, is to build a library of information. As I start to scale up, I’ve got some of the bigger problems figured out. Scaling up comes with its own problems. The tools are different: they’re larger, they react differently, the movement of the arm is different, the stepping back is different. It’s almost like a completely different painting once you begin to scale up.

Let me go back to the conversation about connection and intimacy, and the relationship to small work. You do also paint large. So: What’s “large”? And, how does connection and intimacy continue when you scale up?

For me, “large” is 24” x 30”. I also scale up to 40” x 40”, 40” x 50”. It does change the intimacy. You have this significantly larger thing, which has more presence because of its size. But just because something is big doesn’t mean it’s better. One of my big frustrations is people tend to write off small paintings in search of the holy grail. The work I make is the work I make, and I feel that if someone needs a really big piece, I may not be the person for that. The work I make tends to be smaller in nature. For years, I struggled with that. I’ve decided it’s the work I make, and I’m just going to stand behind it.

 Do you work in a series?

I do. It’s a little bit of an ADHD [adult attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder] series because I tend to jump around sometimes. Thematically, I can leave a series for a long time and come back to it, but the danger in that is that I feel like my work is always evolving. I don’t feel like I’m the same painter I was two years, as I was four years ago, as I was five years ago. I try to avoid getting caught in the trap of stylization. I’m looking to have the work be a direct interpretation of my own emotional state as an artist. I continually take classes and workshops because I don’t want to just make paintings that look the same. If I were working in a series, and completed five paintings right in a row, the danger is they would have all have a similar working method. If I spread it out over a few years, one could look very different than the other but still thematically related.

What’s your favorite tool?

Right now I am super into playing cards that I can cut up into small shapes to manipulate the paint. You can use them to smear. You can use them to push paint around. You can cut tiny shapes out if you need to hit the right highlight, you can also use them as a great straight edge. Just a cheap pack of Bicycle playing cards.

How’d you discover the tool side of playing cards?

I was looking at the work of a friend, Carolyn Fehsenfeld, who’s a brilliant painter. She had just released this whole set of paintings that had been done on playing cards. I’d been working with cold wax and decided I wanted to do a painting-a-day as a warm-up exercise before the studio. In the month of March, I made 31 paintings on playing cards. There was a day when I needed to make a small adjustment to the painting. I needed to slide the paint around, and cardboard — which I also love using — was too thick, mat board was too thick. So, I thought, “What about this playing card?” I just started hacking little pieces off of it, and started moving the paint with the painting card.

Do you use a sketchbook, or a work journal, or some sort of bound thing to record your thoughts and notes as you’re working?

I’ve always worked in a sketch book, and I probably have at least 30 sketchbooks in my studio downstate, from when I was in college all the way up to now. The sketchbook has always been a big part of my process — especially when I discovered I wasn’t much of a plein air painter. The plein air movement is great. It gets people out. You start looking at color, composition; you learn to make quick choices. There’s a lot to be learned from painting from [direct] observation. I use the sketchbook as an information-gathering tool. A lot of times when I’m out, I’ll make drawings in the sketchbook to build a visual reference for myself. It’s almost like a crutch, but I’ll take some photos, but I don’t work a ton from photos. I use photos as a back-up in case I don’t get enough information. Especially in the way I paint, it’s not all about the details. I probably don’t even need the photo, but psychologically I do.

Talk about the role social media plays in your practice.

Oh, cringing. It’s so hard for me. I feel reticent about posting work, and I shouldn’t be, but there’s something that I don’t like about [the pressure] to be continually posting. It’s a way to let people know what you’re working on. A good way to stay connected with people. But I also think it’s so easy to look at hundreds, if not thousands, of images in a single day that we haven’t properly learned how to look at paintings. You can’t really tell what an image looks like on Facebook or Instagram. You don’t get the surface presence. It’s flattened. It’s like there’s another filter between you and the art. I don’t think you can feel the piece as well. When you’re looking at that much art, every day, on social media … I know, for me, it makes me start to second guess what I’m doing, and I don’t want to be in a position of second guessing what I’m doing. I don’t want a lot of influence [into her creative life] that might not necessarily be helpful. The first time I ever saw a Monet painting was most likely in an art history book, or one of the art books my grandmother had given me for a birthday. The first time I stood in front of a Monet painting, I bawled my eyes out. I walked into MOMA, and turned the corner, and there was Monet’s water lilies. The rush I got from that painting was incredible. Opening a textbook — or, in this day and age, opening a screen — you can’t have that same experience. You miss a lot of context with social media. You miss the human experience. You miss the connection.

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

To surprise us. To enlighten us. You show us another way of seeing things, and another way of being. It’s not that life is just about acquisition of things. It’s about experiences.

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

I always say I spent my misspent youth misspending it in Northern Michigan. I spent four summers and a winter on Mackinac Island, in my late teens. Coming from Saginaw, which was flat, there wasn’t water, being at an impressionable age, spending all that time in Northern Michigan, gave me a sense of freedom. I developed this huge love of being near the water, being at the edges, of the ferry rides back and forth from the island. After Mackinac Island, I spent five years in Harbor Springs. Again, I’ve been drawn to areas with these large, flat expanses — i.e. Lake Michigan — and coastal towns, where flatness means edge. When I first started painting that was what really interested me. I think there’s a sensibility about living in Northern Michigan. It seems less hurried, and less harried. Maybe some of that is changing now — I especially notice that with social media. Every time we have to move back downstate, I feel I’m missing something that’s so deeply embedded in my heart. It’s a longing to be back here. There are beautiful places downstate, and in other areas of the state, but this place just resonates most clearly with my heart and my head.

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

No. I didn’t. It wasn’t until I took this community ed life drawing class at the college in Petoskey — which was taught by Doug Melvin. I knew, since I was five years old, that I was an artist; but I never realized that I could have a career in the arts. He was the one who said, “What are you doing waiting tables?” I don’t know. I’m having fun, living in a resort town, working at ski resorts [at age 25]. When I was in high school in Saginaw, career counseling was all about going to work in the [auto] plants. The high school I was attending, they weren’t doing a lot of college prep — maybe for the kids who had math and science aptitude, but I was the art kid. There wasn’t a lot of guidance there. Doug Melvin said I should be going to college, and he said the words, “I’ll help you.” So, it ended up with me being able to get a scholarship, and changed my life as a result of my experience with Doug Melvin.

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

First and foremost, Stuart Shils. I met him in 2009. He’s an internationally known painter from Philadelphia, and remarkable educator. He was my mentor for about 4 years. He opened my eyes to what painting could be, and for that, I am forever grateful. He was also instrumental in facilitating a teaching assistantship — with him — at Haystack Mountain School of Crafts in 2014, as well as referring me to a month-long residency at the Heliker-Lahotan Foundation in Maine. I learned so much from him; but at some time, you have to leave your mentor. You start hearing, especially when you’re mentoring under someone who is as powerful a painter as Stuart, someone else’s voice in your head over your own. Then you have to really look at the role of the teacher-student relationship. For me that meant standing on my own ground. We keep in loose contact, and I can never thank him enough for all his insight.

I’ve also had the good fortune to study multiple times with Ken Kewley. Ken is another East Coast painter, who also teaches and works primarily in acrylic paint and collage. I’ve learned so much from him about color, shape, and letting go of preconceived ideas.

Where or to whom do you go when you want honest feedback?

I have a group of friends here, and they’re generally my first calls. We’ve all worked together as creative practitioners, and we’ve also worked together collaboratively on art projects. I trust their judgement. I know when we talk about the work, it’s done with genuine care. They can be critical; but within the criticism there is a caring. We all want to see each other succeed.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

It used to have a bigger role. I don’t enter a lot of juried shows anymore. I’ve gotten out of the habit. I often don’t make time to be sure the work can get back and forth [from studio to exhibition site]. I’ve been very fortunate to have successful sales exhibitions, so lots of times I don’t always have a lot of work in the studio I want to send out.

In the beginning of your career, when it was more important, what role did exhibition play then?

It was about validation. I’m my own worst critic of my work. This is a problem when you have a small studio. I don’t have any place to turn it away or store it. It’s fun to come into the studio when I haven’t seen a piece for a while, and be surprised by it. Initially, it was about validation that I was really moving in the direction I wanted to be moving. Now, I don’t feel I need as much external validation as I did. When people come into my studio, they come in and want to make comments about pieces I’m working on, and I ask them not to make comments. Generally, my rule is if it’s in a frame, you can say anything you want about it; but if it’s not in a frame, I ask people to refrain, at least when I’m in earshot.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I know I can go through stages where I’m painting a lot, and then I pull back from it, and then I switch to something else. It might be cooking. It is very often knitting. And those things, when I step away from painting, all recharge my battery. I’m kind of an introvert. I like a lot of quiet. I like a lot of down time. Also, getting together with friends who are painting — going to an art camp or to a workshop. If I’m stuck or struggling with an idea, I find that being with other people who are creative, who are actively engaged in their own practice, being around those people helps me to extend my own creativity. I don’t really need to go to workshops; but I need to go to workshops to have the experiences of being open to new ideas, new materials, and to recharge. I consider myself a life-long learner.

There’s really no end point to learning, is there?

There shouldn’t be. That’s what keeps us young, our brains and our ideas fresh, to always be learning, to always be seeking, to open to surprise. Some of the surprises are better than others.

It’s another one of those process versus product things.

In the switch over from illustration to painting, that was a really hard thing for me. As a commercial illustrator/graphic designer, you were dealing in product. At the end of the day, your client doesn’t care how you get there if you’re delivering something that meets their expectations. There’s no talk about process. It’s always product. In your mind you know you’re always creating a product. That switchover was difficult for me at first, and sometimes even carries over now. I don’t want painting for me to be only a product. I think, when I get into trouble with painting, is when I see it as I have to have X amount of sales — because then, I takes the surprise and the fun out of it. The work I get the most satisfaction from is when I’m experimenting, when I’m learning something, or I’m working with new imagery. I’m kind of a materials weirdo. I like to try a lot of new materials and processes. That helps keep that product issue at bay: I can’t make a product if I don’t know what I’m doing, and I always feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. I remember my mentor saying that to me: The best place to work from is a place where you don’t feel like you know what you’re doing. I understand that now. It’s not always comfortable; but at the end of the day, I’m generally more satisfied with the work.

What drives your impulse to make? 

I’ve always been a maker, and I’m not exaggerating when I said I knew I wanted to be an artist since I was five. I started knitting when I was 10. I had my first, real museum art experience between the age of 8 and 10 at the    — my grandma enrolled me in classes there. She took me over to the Singer store to learn how to sew when I was 13. I don’t know where that drive comes from except that I’ve always had it, and I only feel most connection with myself when I’m making and creating. It’s so deeply embedded in me that I have to be making.

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Learn more about Margo Burian here.

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

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.