Category: Creativity Q+A

Deep Wood Press is situated on four acres in Antrim County, surrounded by 450 acres of land under the protection and stewardship of the Michigan Nature Association. This is Chad Pastotnik’s home, backyard, place of work, and shelter from the storm of contemporary life. This maker of hand-built, hand-crafted fine press books, age 56, bought the property in 1992, built a book bindery, and began creating a life and vocation focused on making beautiful things. “Nobody knows who I am in the region,” he said. But in the arcane world of fine press books, it’s another story.

This interview was conducted in October 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Chad Pastotnik

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

Private press books. The medium encompasses several disciplines: printmaking, bookbinding, designer bindings; the graphic arts of layout and design, and planning such things as books. It’s all done in-house, here [Deep Wood Press]. The type is cast on my linotype machine, in a separate building; brought over, proofed, corrected, printed onto fine, handmade papers from around the world, or specially made for the project at hand; the inclusion of original artwork; and then onto the bindery here. Basically, the only things that aren’t done here are making the paper and skinning the goats: That’s the primary leather we use for fine bindings. It’s traditional. Goat or calf [skin] are often used.

Is this a one-person operation? Or, do you have people who work with you?

It’s primarily me. I do take apprentices and students on occasion. On Tuesday, I have three of my former students and apprentices showing up to sew 60 copies of a book.

In your cosmos, is creating 60 books a big project?

It’s medium. My editions top out at 100 [books] these days. That’s primarily to expedite things. The bindery is the slowest process. Just staying under a certain number of books keeps me moving onto the next one.

Could you define what a fine press book is.

In modern meaning, it probably has its origins with the Arts and Crafts Movement. They brought back beautiful objects, and books were one of those things. Printing had become pretty well automated at that point, and book design was suffering greatly. Some interested individuals began promoting books beautiful once again, and presenting these kinds of editions — mostly classics on beautiful paper and well designed. So that tradition has carried forward into the 21st Century; but letterpress printing is no longer a viable, commercial entity, supplanted by computers and offset printing, and ink jet on-demand. Now it has become an even more specialized form of making books. I make books using pretty much the same practices as they did 150 years ago, and, essentially, the same forms as 500 years ago. Not much has changed here at Deep Wood.

I would imagine that when a fine press book is created, it’s usually not something like a Nancy Drew mystery; that the contents between the two covers have some special qualities, or are precious for some reason. Talk about that.

All the books I do speak to me in some way. Some of the books are definitely produced with some commercial ideas. All the books I do are on speculation. I don’t do much commission work. So if I commit two years of my life to a project, I have to have a pretty good idea that it’s going to sell. At the same time, for some of the smaller projects, I take on regional writers who aren’t necessarily known outside of my markets; but I still make the book because it has more meaning for me than a financial concern; the books I’ve done with Mike Delp, Jerry Dennis and Anne-Marie Oomen are all pure speculation. Most of my books are sold out pretty quickly, and they go to private collections around the world. As much as I love my regional writer friends, they’re not necessarily known outside of Michigan, the Midwest. So, name recognition with a book I’m pitching in England goes a long way. I’m at that happy point now where if I make it, they generally buy it.

Why do you think that’s true?

I’ve been doing this for 30 years, and I’m pretty good at it. I’m just lucky, I guess.

I can’t imagine there’s a lot of you doing fine press books.

Not a lot, no. I probably know most of them. We have a series of shows around the world that a lot of us travel to, giving the special and private collections people an opportunity to come to one place and do the hands-on thing. It’s an interesting group of people. There’s a lot of craft-centric parts to [bookmaking], so there’s a lot of people on that end. [On the other end of the spectrum] the book arts are now purely conceptual, and there are a lot of objects that sort of resemble a book.

When, and how, were you first introduced to this discipline?

Probably as an undergrad. I went to Grand Valley. And, [in the late 1980s] my professor [Delles Henke] had come from the University of Iowa, which has a long tradition of books arts. [Henke] showed us a couple of books he had done; but I wasn’t particularly interested in fine press then; The bookbinding part really intrigued me. At the time, I was doing really small engravings in copper, and they lent themselves to the book form. It wasn’t I until I got to be a better bookbinder that I wanted to introduce words. I found an old printer who was closing up shop on the northwest side of Grand Rapids, and he taught me some basics.

What draws you to the creation of fine press books?

I like being unique. There aren’t too many people who do it. I love the process — I’m a total junky for the process, the history, everything about books. The typefaces. The equipment. It’s the ultimate vehicle for information — or was for millennia. It’s all just beautiful. And the possibilities are unlimited. I could live five lifetimes, and still have things to learn.

What formal training did you have, specifically, for creating a fine press book?

None. I’ve done plenty of workshops through the Guild of Bookworkers, which is a national organization. So, if I want to learn a certain binding style, or leather tool technique, I can take a workshop. On the letterpress end of things, I did find myself in Iowa, not in a degree capacity; but I became friends with the people who were teaching the books arts there. Basically, I got a free education just for showing up. I got educated; but in indirect ways.

Describe your studio/work space you occupy.

There are 1 1/2 buildings devoted to it. The big intaglio press, and the typecasting are in a building 50 feet from here. The main studio is a building in two parts: half is the press room, the other half is the bindery, my office. It’s just full of stuff. In the early 90s, when I built the bindery part of the studio, print shops were giving away all the old letterpress stuff. They were making way for the new Xerox color printers and other things. Most of the stuff I got was free, for the cost of moving. It was the perfect time to get into letterpress because I was able to secure so much of this valuable equipment for little or nothing, and mostly from the region. The linotype machine came from Charlevoix where it used to make ballots, and newspapers. The only equipment I brought from a distance was a Little Giant [printing press] from a Carmelite Monastery in New Jersey.

I wonder if some of the people from whom you obtained your equipment scratched their heads and wondered, What’s up with this guy? He wants this old hunk of metal?

Certainly. The linotype machine guy said he’d deliver it to make sure he could get it out of his building.

Who typically comes to you wanting you to create a hand-printed, hand-bound book? And why?

Most of them are totally ignorant of the process. They don’t understand the costs involved. The other end of that spectrum is someone who does understand, and is still very interested in having their work produced. I’m finishing up a commission job at the moment. It’s 60 books, and it’s [the customer’s] second, fine press book. He’s got no wife, no kids, so he wants this to be his legacy. I don’t usually take this kind of commission work; but [the customer] was an exception. And, of course, anything Glenn [Wolff] and Jerry [Dennis] bring to me is instantly considered because it’s just so much fun.

People’s understanding of how books are created is now defined by different forces. You can push a button now, and have Amazon create, on-demand, 100 books in no time. Does that kind of understanding follow people when they come to you? 

Even when you do books on-demand, you have to use their tools to do a little bit of formatting. I think there’s a big disconnect — I see this with a lot of young graphic designers; they don’t understand the process after it leaves their screen.

What’s your favorite tool?

Maybe my Vandercook press. There’s so little I ever need to do to it. It always gives me the results I’m looking for.

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

I wish I were more organized; but usually it’s whatever scrap of paper is conveniently near. I’m organized enough that all those notes make it into one folder for each project — both for my own benefit, and I have places approaching me for my archive. I want things to make sense down the road.

Is this a personal archive? Or has the Smithsonian come knocking on your door?

U of M [University of Michigan].

Do they want your papers? And stuff?

Yes.

Did they tell you why?

I’m a Michigan Cultural Asset [a designation that comes out of the Michigan State University Michigan Traditional Arts Program.]

That must have blown your mind.

It’s nice to be recognized. I grew up in Cadillac. I’ve lived in Michigan my entire life; but nobody knows who I am in the region. Michigan’s institutions do collect me, so I’m grateful for that.

How often, in this day and age, are people recognized for doing hand work?

There’s the Traditional Arts Program at Michigan State. It’s geared toward craft — basketweaving, native dance, traditional instrument making; but they did award me a grant [in 2016]. Fine press books is one of those things that happily transcends both art and craft, or are equally represented in the end result.

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

Pretty much right away, when I bought the property and built the studio in 1992, and immediately began filling it with presses. That’s when I put the shingle out. A lot of the early work wasn’t fine books, but wedding invitations, and corporate print jobs. Soul-crushing work. They paid the bills. You pay your dues.

What made that work soul crushing?

Inevitably, working with people who don’t understand the process. Trying to make everybody happy. It wasn’t creative in any way. I was just a printer. I was also trying to sell my own art work; but at that time I was trying to sell locally. Engravings don’t sell very well in Northern Michigan. Not my stuff anyway. Focusing on book forms is what ultimately got me on the track I’m on. There aren’t any book shows in Michigan, so that forced me to go outside the state, and start taking workshops, and teaching.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I wish more; but I’m terrible at that stuff. My partner, Madeline, is the one who comes into the studio and takes pictures. Yes. I’m on Facebook, but I’m there for the friends’ kids. I don’t look at that stuff. I know it’s a powerful tool; but I guess, if I were hungrier, I’d exploit those tools more.

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

I think the role of the visual artist is probably a purely selfish one. I think the role is just to make [the work]. That’s about it. It’s somebody else’s role to interpret it.

Not everyone agrees that the arts are an important part of being human, so the arts get scattershot support. You’re not turning out 2,500 widgets every day. You’re doing work that doesn’t necessarily yield a huge presence on the world. You’re living back in the woods in obscurity, and yet you have the audacity to think you should be doing, and you are entitled to do, creative work. With all that, how do you think about your role in the world as a visual practitioner?

I have a hard time with the commercial, established “fine art” world. Having achieved success [on his own terms, the fine art world] is a crock of shit. It really is. Most people don’t understand the processes anymore. That generation of people are dying, who grew up understanding this work. I struggle with this. I have a peer group, and I’m considered the socialist of the group. I’m the one who’s welcoming in the new people, trying to organize dinners, and group accommodations. That doesn’t go over well with the establishment sometimes, where they want to pick and choose who’s coming up.

To what degree do you feel that the creative work you do makes the world a better place?

The books are exquisite, if I do say so myself. A recent edition I did of The Winds In The Willows — I’d argue that that’s a book everybody should read. It’s not a kid’s book. And, our edition is exquisite. This is a book that will be around in 500 years; probably longer if taken care of. That’s a legacy. Books are something that tend to stick around. There’s more than one copy, so there’s a chance there’ll be a copy somewhere, in some collection, at some point. To whatever value that will have for the person pulling it from the stacks in 100 years, who knows? Each book I make — the subject matter and treatment — can vary widely. My collectors do appreciate the fact each book is a new exploration of a different process I know well. Keeping it fresh is important to me, as well. If I did the same thing for each book, it would no longer be art. That’s the fun part, coming up with the ideas, the artwork, and the design.

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

A lot of my books have to do with the natural world. Trees. Conservation. Water. Trout. Growing up and living in Northern Michigan has defined the work I do, and the projects I choose. The potential projects on the horizon — the Jim Harrison stuff, some more Hemingway perhaps — it’s all Michigania, the exploded version.

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

Not really. We had a good work ethic [in his family]. We were always helping somebody build a house. There was always a project at hand; but no musicians or artists to influence that kind of creative direction. From the time I was a kid, I knew that was what I wanted to do.

Why is making by hand important to you?

The craft aspect of the books, and in all art, has been neglected for 60 – 80 years in American art movements. I don’t think you can have successful art without successful craft. Craft just means you know your process, your materials, and you have a deft hand. I can show somebody how to make a book; but that’s just superficial — it’s just a blank book without contents. Right now, the emphasis in a lot of the arts is conceptual. It has a lot less to do with craft. It’s all about the idea part of it. As I alluded, the book arts have embraced that. You’re at a show, and the guy next to you has cranked out a book in a week on the ink jet [printer], and it’s selling for the same price point as something I’ve spent two years doing.

Your process is a hand process, and by design, it’s slow, it’s deliberate, it’s mindful. Why has it not been crushed by a world that is obsessed by speed?

Because books, whether or not you read them, are still revered by a lot of people. There is an undeniable history there that has shaped our world. Books are part of the public consciousness. In my case, it’s unique to make books the way that it used to be done, and I think people still value that. When they see the physical object, when they handle the book, and feel the materials, and see the presentation, it evokes a completely different reaction than you’d experience opening up a modern book in a book store. To open a book is intentional. Unlike a painting on the wall, the book is there on the shelf or the table, and to engage with it, you have to engage and use at least three of your senses to make that happen. I can’t imagine a world without books.

Do you have a library card?

Of course. Three. Two, local village cards, and one for the Traverse City library.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

That’s easy. I walk out the backdoor, and there’s every reason to be here in Northern Michigan. That’s one reason. The other end of it: I get to travel a fair amount now for work. My partner and I have a home in Avignon, in Provence, and I’m active with a foundation [the Foundation Louis Jou] over there. I get to see a lot of books, art, and beautiful places. I filter out the bad stuff, and keep all the good. Louis Jou is private press practitioner. In his lifetime, he produced 140 books, 90 of which were done on his iron hand presses, which I’ve now restored over there. My main connection with Jou is that he designed his own typefaces, which are exquisite. His studio was turned into a foundation, and I’m on that board, creating awareness of Louis Jou. I do projects when I’m over there, and bring in people to teach wood engraving, linocuts.

Read more about Chad Pastotnik here.

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

Frankfort artist L.C. Lim feels her way through her work. “Once I get a feeling from a place, then I’ll use whatever medium will make that feeling [visible],” she said. “That’s how I always go about it. I never think about the medium.” Instead, she think-feels the places that bring her joy: the view through her studio window; her muse, Northern Michigan. “The view outside my window is a view of Lake Michigan through trees. On the other side it’s a forest. In all four seasons, I look out, and I see different things, and I get different feelings…. [I]f something looks good out the window, that’s where my easel’s set up,” she said.

This interview was conducted in August 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: L.C. Lim

Describe the medium in which you work.

I think about this question in terms of what I’m trying to do. I like to look at nature, and capture the feeling it creates in me. I spend a lot of time looking at things, and wait for something to talk to me — I try to get the feeling from the thing that’s talking to me. And then, it turns into my art. I’m all about feelings; not about painting a place. People think they can see a place in my work, which makes me very happy; but usually it’s not [the place they’re thinking of]. Usually they’re getting the feeling, and they’re feeling it.

Once I get a feeling from a place, then I’ll use whatever medium will make that feeling [visible]. That’s how I always go about it. I never think about the medium. I think about: Does this make me happy? Does this make me calm? Does this make me feel stoic or colorful? And then, I use my mediums. My mediums are a broad range of things that I’ve come to be expert in — not because I try to be; but because I use them to create my feelings.

What are those mediums?

Pastel, watercolor, printmaking, etching, acrylics, collage, pen and ink. There’s quite a few of them.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I have a certificate from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts [PAFA, 2004]. It’s a four-year studio degree where, you’re literally in the studio from 8 in the morning until 5 at night.   In the last two years you have weekly critiques from very accomplished artists/teachers.

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

You learn composition, line, space, color, materials, all the fundamentals. And then, you find that you use them later when you least expect it. It was an intense four years. There was a lot of homework, so it really wasn’t 8 am – 5 pm. It was 8 am – 9 pm. There were a whole lot of talented young people, and I was catching up.

What had you been doing before that?

I went to engineering school at U of M [University of Michigan] and a few years later I went to business school there. 20 years later I was running a half-billion dollar division of Honeywell when I left the corporate world.

You went to the PAFA after you’d had an entire adult life.

Yes.

What prompted your departure from the corporate world?

I always wanted to be an artist. I went to [elementary and middle school] at Greenfield Village. I benefitted from all the arts and crafts of the Village. It was amazing. We were weaving, and making candles, and there was a lot of independent study. Class size was 12 people or less. Greenfield Village school closed when I was in high school so I started taking classes at Pewabic Pottery in Detroit.

I was able to leave the corporate world because I was financially secure and could do what I wanted to do. And, I was young enough. I had been accepted to PAFA before I left corporate America.

And then you went on to become an instructor at PAFA.

I teach at PAFA, at Woodmere Museum in Philadelphia, and at community art centers in Northern Michigan. As long as it doesn’t get to be full-time, I really love teaching, and I feel that it enhances my art. You can learn a lot from people of all different levels.  My classes have an intellectual component to them. I try to take about 15 minutes and do — we’ll call it “art history” — a 15-minute vignette called “What Can You Learn From This Artist?” I feature lesser-known women artists who, actually, should be famous. A lot of them are now getting museum shows, and I can actually see the work I’ve been presenting for years in person.

Are you able to springboard from something you’ve highlighted in the vignette to something that’s taught in the classroom?

I teach two different courses, Realism to Abstraction and East meets West – How Western artists were influenced by the East. In Realism to Abstraction I look at how art is actually a continuum, and [the artwork] is likely somewhere on the continuum. So, for instance, when I talk about trying to get a feeling from a place, the viewer isn’t going to know what that place is; but you’re going to [experience] a feeling [from looking at it]. As [the artist] goes farther and farther toward abstraction, you get more and more feelings, and less of a “Oh, I just saw that out the window” response. So, what I do is feature various artists who are on the continuum that lets students think about their work in a different way.

Describe your studio/work space.

My [Frankfort, Michigan] studio is organized by stations. I have a place for etching, pastels, and painting/drawing. The view outside my window is a view of Lake Michigan through trees. On the other side it’s a forest. In all four seasons, I look out, and I see different things, and I get different feelings.

I have a workspace in [her home in] Pennsylvania, which is actually an extra bedroom. The house in Pennsylvania is an entire studio because if something looks good out the window, that’s where my easel’s set up. We back up to a nature preserve in Philly, and a creek runs through the backyard. It’s an ordinary house with extraordinary views.

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

Northern Michigan is everything. Literally. It’s my muse. My spot [home] in Philly is very nice; but this is my muse. There are four seasons, and I’m here in four seasons. I like winter as much as I like summer. It’s calm. It has a different rhythm to it. Autumn is gorgeous and colorful. I frequently drive around, aimlessly, looking for “that spot.” You can find me pulled over on the side of the road. I’ve been coming up here, first with friends, for 40 years. Northern Michigan is completely the thing for me. And, my husband, he loves it.

What’s your favorite tool? 

I would say it’s either my etching press, or my fingers. I like work you can touch.

Talk about your etching press.

It is a wonderful tool. It enables you to do etching, monotypes, and woodcuts. Hand printmaking is fun; but you can get more crisp lines and images with a press

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

I almost always do a sketch, lots of sketches. And then I take photographs. I rely heavily on photographs — after the sketch.

What role does the photograph play in your process?

This could be old, academy training: You never paint from a photograph without having done a sketch. A photograph flattens everything out — no matter what you do; but a photograph can be very helpful when you are back in the studio to remember details if you are trying to create space, if you’re trying to create the tree, if you’re trying to create roundness.

When did you commit to working with serious intent? 

The minute I left my corporate job.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Actually, it plays almost none. Now, the internet: That’s different. The internet I use to research my classes, to research artists. I have a website. Once in a while I’ll post a class; but the places where I teach already do it. I would probably be better known if I used social media more but I’m just more focused on creating.

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

I think the visual artist’s role is to be true to themselves, to put out whatever their creative intent is — meaning if it’s political, or, in my case, creating feelings and beauty — and let the recipient take what they want from it. I really appreciate people who are making a political statement [through their creative work]; but that’s not me. I think part of the artist’s role is to be who they are. It’s unbelievably important. It’s really good for people who think they’re not creative, even though they probably are, to be able to interact with people they perceive as creative. I think that’s really good for the whole world.

I often think of people who do creative work as translators of the world. You’re translating how you feel as you’re responding to a certain thing. All the arts give us powerful tools for talking about the world.

I agree. Maybe somebody looks at my landscapes, and thinks, Wow. Maybe I shouldn’t cut down all those trees. I’ve had people say to me, I’ve never seen snow that looks so good.

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

No. I would say it was Greenfield Village. It was unbelievable. To this day I think of how lucky I was to be amongst creative, super intelligent, left-brain/right-brain people. I felt like I was in a candy store. You were given a lot of different avenues to learn. And we went to museums; we went to the Detroit Institute of Art. I learned to play the piano. There was also math and science instruction.

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

I have favorite artists— Morris Graves, Helen Frankenthaler. And then, I have a teacher at PAFA who became a mentor; her name is Elizabeth Osborne. She had the most direct impact. She’s amazing. She doesn’t tell you how to do something. I have a couple of friends from art school who are good peer critique-ers. We have an informal, what-do-you-think-about-this group with honest feedback. And, I still take classes, Zoom classes. It’s good for continuous, adult learning.

Let’s go back to Elizabeth Osborne. How did she impact you?

She doesn’t tell you how to do something; she gives you ideas. A lot of the instructors at the Academy, they’re going to tell you how to draw, what palette you should have. She’ll look at what you’ve done and say, Have you ever thought about working in a square? It’s an interesting shape. Her approach is that of a mentor rather than an instructor. And she’s an amazing colorist. She would always come to my shows. She’d look around, pick something out, and say, That’s so interesting. It got you thinking: That’s interesting? You’re doing the work. She’s just pointing it out. That’s what I hope to do with my students. I try not to tell them how to do it. I try to get them to think: What do they think? Liz was the first, female teacher at the Academy.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice?

I have a regular solo show in Philadelphia at F.A.N. Gallery and have exhibited in Michigan extensively. The owner at F.A.N. actually cares about artists. [Exhibiting] gives you a deadline. People have been collecting my work for many years, and it makes me ask, Is this [new work] worthy of being one of those pieces in the show? Unfortunately, it’s a tough time for artists. Galleries are going out of business. Exhibitions are important; but I think people can get overly focused on exhibiting. I can make art that sells; but it doesn’t mean it’s good. And, it doesn’t make me happy when I get up in the morning thinking, Oh, I have to make this. I have the luxury of making what I want. Once you get in with a gallery, they know their market and want the same type of art. Maybe you’ve moved on; but they want the same thing. Showing in a gallery can be very positive, and there can be some negatives with it. I try to explain that to my students. You want to be true to yourself. If you want to try something new, try it.

Does having an exhibition on the books help you to structure your time? Or, how you think about what you want to make?

I get up every morning and go into my studio. I don’t need much motivation. It is fun to see what people react to your work. I’ve created these feelings and once the work is out there, it’s out of your hands. My favorite thing to do at an opening is to hear what people say. You have to be prepared. It might not be what you feel; but it’s really interesting to hear what people think. I like that about exhibitions.

When you have an opportunity to hear what people are saying, how does that get synthesized into your practice?

It doesn’t. I try to let it be separate. I try to just be me.

How do you feed/fuel your creativity?

I wander around a lot. Drive around. Now I can look out the window a lot. I bird watch and play the piano. The other thing I do is buy a lot of art books. I used to think it was funny when I’d see the PAFA students in the library — they weren’t reading the art books; they were looking at the pictures. At the time, I didn’t understand it but that’s what I do now. I read about the artist so I can talk about them in my classes; but I’m looking at the pictures. I go to museums shows.

What’s going through your mind when you’re looking at the pictures?

Sometimes you get ideas for color. Sometimes you get ideas for composition. Sometimes you just think you like it, or you don’t like it, and you think why?

What drives your impulse to make?

I’ve always had it. I don’t know. It’s almost like what else would you do? I was making Christmas cards when I was seven, and sending them to people. My mother has saved a lot of this stuff, and I asked her, Really? I was doing that? And she said, Yeah. You’ve been like this forever. 

Read more about L.C. Lim here.

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

Fleda Brown, 80, is so much more than her resume: author of 12 poetry books, and four memoirs; Professor Emerita at the University of Delaware; recipient of many awards including a Pushcart Prize. This plain-spoken writer is a fan of Elvis, and wrote a book of poems about him. Water recurs [“There’s so much water you could drown in my writing”]. And then there’s the poetic missive to Pablo Picasso about Guernica. The Traverse City resident came to poetry through her father, and without benefit of a formal plan of study. She just wrote. And read. And made it her job, the work of a long life.

This interview was conducted in July 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured: Fleda Brown

How did you come to poetry? What was your route?

I guess the route was my father [Phillips Brown], more than anything. When he was in high school, he belonged to a recitation group. They put on robes, and traveled around to other schools and other places, and recited poems. He learned so many poems by heart. My young years were full of listening to him recite poems at the drop of a hat.

Did you receive any formal training? 

Yes. When I was an undergraduate at the University of Arkansas [late 1960s] they offered the first-ever creative writing class. That was the only formal training that I got. I was writing poems all the time. When I first started teaching at the University of Delaware [ late 1970s], W.D. Snodgrass was there, and his office was right across the hall from mine. I asked him if could sit in on his poetry workshop, and I did. I guess you’d have to say that’s the only formal training in poetry I got.

I don’t suppose they asked Homer if he got a degree in poetry.

I think it’s totally unnecessary. It’s unnecessary to take a workshop; but you do have to have read a lot. Carefully. Thoughtfully.

What does reading teach one about poetry?

It’s like reading a lot of anything. You begin to get a sense. You begin to get smart about what’s good and what’s not just by the sheer force of all the reading you’re doing. You finally begin to get bored with things that aren’t very good, and then you begin to set your own standards; but that can only happen if the things you’re reading are worthy.

In 2021 Writers Digest published a list of 168 poetic forms. Which of the many poetic forms do you use to build a poem, and structure your writing?

I have, in the past, written a few villanelles, a few sonnets, some rhyming poems. More than anything, I write free verse. These days, I’m not the slightest bit concerned about form. I just write. Lately, I’ve written a lot of what’s called prose poems, which is just a little block of prose that reads like a poem.

Can you identify a characteristic in a prose poem that makes it read like a poem?

Density. The use of metaphor. I think the language needs to be very rich and compressed in a way that an ordinary piece of prose isn’t.

Visual artists – painters, for instance – can send off an order to the Dick Blick company when they need more tubes of paint, especially in certain colors. Writers do not have a word store. How do you approach developing and nurturing your word reservoir so that you have the greatest and best choices — the most color — for your work?

I have a lot of words in my head. Something that helped me a lot — I taught high school for a while [1970-1975] — and I taught a course in word roots. It not only expanded their vocabularies, it was very helpful for me. When I ran across a word I didn’t know I could look at the roots and figure it out. I read a lot, so my vocabulary is pretty big.

Describe your studio/work space.

I just wrote a blog about it [#294]. I’ve just had two books sent off to the publisher, and we’re starting to work on getting them formatted. And because of that, I think I wanted to change my work space. That made me want to clean house, and rearrange. If you read my blog, it’s pretty funny. I ordered three different chairs before I came up with a chair that I liked. And I ordered an ottoman, several of those, trying to get it just right. The way I write: I’m sitting here at a desk right now; but, basically, when I’m sitting at a desk I feel like an accountant. I haven’t used a desk in years. I sit in a comfortable chair with my feet propped up. That means everything has to be at the right height. I have to have a lap desk that gets my computer at the right height. I have to have the right cushion. I have to have the height I need on my foot stool. Other than that, I feel really comfortable having a bunch of books around me; but that’s it. When we’re gone, I just take my lap desk and sit any old place.

What subjects or issues or themes recur in your writing? For instance: Elvis gets an entire volume [The Women Who Loved Elvis All Their Lives, 2004]. Elvis also appears in the 2010 collection of poems, Loon Cry [“Elvis At The End Of History”].

I was working on another book at the time when I started the Elvis book. The other book was harder, and darker, and denser. I don’t know. I just got in the mood. I was a tremendously passionate Elvis fan when I was 15. I thought I’d like to do a book on Elvis. The book is not a praising of Elvis. In fact, I wanted to use a picture of Elvis on the cover, so I wrote to the Elvis Presley estate, and somebody bothered to read it. They said, No, it’s not praising enough of Elvis, so I couldn’t put him on the cover. Elvis is an incredibly fascinating person to me. I’m fascinated by people whose whole lives are devoted to something to the point they become it. He was all music. There was almost nothing outside of music for him. That’s not just interesting; it’s deeply inspiring. Actually, it pretty much killed him; but in a lot of cases, that’s where our best work comes from — when people give themselves to it, entirely.

Beyond Elvis, are there any other themes or topics you find yourself returning to in your writing?

Oh, yeah. There’s so much water you could drown in my writing. I’m always writing about the water because we’re at the lake [north of Traverse City, Michigan] a good part of the summer. And, I just love water. I swim as much as I can. So, the water’s always there. Animals are always there. Flowers, wild flowers in particular.

In returning to many of these subjects, is it because you haven’t exhausted your thoughts on them? Or, is it not even a matter of exhausting thoughts, that they’re things that are alive, and keep on giving you interesting ideas?

Sometimes I feel that I’ve exhausted something; but I’ve written three poems about milkweed, and you’d think that one poem about milkweed would have covered it; but I always come at it from a different angle.

What prompts the beginning of a poem or composition?

Nothing is harder than that for poets. It’s not like writing a novel, where you go back into it, and you already have a place to pick up and move on with. It’s terrifying to sit down, and to find the screen blank, and you have to figure out what you’re doing next. A lot of times I feel blank, so I look out the window, or I go for a walk, and I find something that I can start playing with.

What you described made me wonder if you think, Today’s the day I have to write a poem, and then you sit down and write a poem?

It’s not today’s-the-day because I write every day. A lot of times I sit down to write, and there’s nothing. So I say, OK. This is my job. What I do is write, and I’m going to write something. And, of course, that means I end up writing a lot of junk, a lot of trash; but if I do that for a while, I’ll see a phrase, or a line, or something I can pull out and begin working on writing that matters. It’s like being a visual artist. You do a bunch of pieces, and you’re not happy with any of them, then suddenly one is perfect, or really good. And, the only reason you got the one that is really good is because you did all the others. I think it’s a matter of discipline. You just stay at it, and you trust that something good’s going to come out of that.

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

I used to do that a lot more than I do now. Sometimes, I turn on the recorder on my phone, and say a few things into it so I remember. I’ve been writing a long time so I’ve gotten really lazy about that. I see young people at poetry readings, and they sit there busily writing little phrases, and I’m just sitting there listening. I guess, after all this time, I just trust that enough is being absorbed. When I need it, it will be there.

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

The circumstances were when I started getting published. I didn’t think about it as a hobby; but I did think about it as something I did on the side. I was getting my Ph.D, and I assumed I was going to be a scholar of some sort; but it was great to write poetry. I never liked scholarly research half as much as I liked poetry. After I was at the University of Delaware, I started publishing a few poems in some good places. The first or second poem I published was in the Kenyon Review, and I thought, Wow! Somebody likes what I’m doing. It took over more and more of my life when I realized I could do this. When my first book came out [Fishing With Blood, 1988] I basically said I’m chucking everything else. This is what I do. Fortunately, the University of Delaware was completely fine with it, as long as I was publishing anything that mattered, in good places.

Talk about that motivation to publish, and the support for publishing that comes from universities. The publish-or-perish thing.

I was at a publish-or-perish university. I know that when I’ve gone to do readings at smaller schools, they turn their noses up — I’ve been told, We’re a teaching institution. We don’t do that. I’ve always been a little offended by that. What I’ve found is people who publish are also splendid teachers. I never thought that publishing, or the requirement to publish, ever got in my way at all. It was probably helpful because it kept spurring me on. I just knew I had to get a modicum of work published. Actually, I always thought of the university as my patron. They were taking care of me so I could do this work. And, if taking care of me required that I turn in some [published writing], then fine. I needed taking care of. I needed my salary. I like teaching, too, I have to say.

It’s easy to teach the components of how to write; but it’s a different thing to put your writing into action, go about the process of submitting it, getting the rejections, learning how to deal with that, having success. As a teacher, if you have that experience under your belt, I’m wondering if that gives you another tool?

Oh yes, definitely. It gives you a confidence in what you’re saying to your students. Your students understand that this is coming from your own experience. And, if you have published work out there, it gives your students confidence in what you’re saying to them about how to do it. It’s really important.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I probably wouldn’t do any of that social media stuff — except that it seems like I need to, that it’s important. If you’re writing, part of your job — whether you like it or not — is marketing, which I don’t like, and I’m not very good at, and I do the best I can. So, I use Facebook to let people know if a book’s coming out. And, I have a blog. I do these things because I have to keep people aware of what I’m doing. I wish I were younger. Young people are so savvy about how to do this. I don’t even understand Instagram very well much less the other media that kids use. If I did, I could get the word out better.

In that prehistoric time before social media, how did you get the word out?

It was harder. All I could do was get in touch, personally, with people who might invite me to read. The press [publisher] would ask for a list of people that they could inform I had a book coming out. That was about all I could do back then.

I want to talk with you about your poem “Dear Pablo Picasso re: Guernica,” from the 2021 book Flying Through A Hole In the Storm, 2021. There is a line in it that really snagged me: “… Did you think you could redeem anything by art …” Guernica is Picasso’s depiction of the Nazis bombing the Spanish village of Guernica, and the horrific results. I’ve wondered if, over time, this painting has done anything to give people pause for thought. So, extrapolating from that: How does creative work redeem anything?

I’ve talked about that in my brain for many, many years. Sometimes there are people out doing things that have more obvious value, and sometimes I think, What am I doing? I’m sitting here writing these poems. There are so many things that need to be done in the world, and I should be doing them instead. Not that I’ve moved past that. Take Guernica for example: This is what art has to do. It has to show us to ourselves. That’s the redeeming thing: This is what we are; this is what we’ve done. And if we don’t show us to ourselves in a way that wakes up us, makes us take notice, it’s no use. Picasso just took that story, and turned it into a strange and interesting piece. You can’t help but pay attention to it. I don’t know if [art] changes anybody’s heart or mind. It’s there in front of us like a mirror: This is what we’ve done. This is what we do with our art. And if we’ve created something beautiful, then we — at least — can see that this is what beauty looks like. Or, if it’s a portrait of something ugly, then this is also what people are like.

I believe that the arts, all of them, give us powerful tools of expression. I’ve thought a lot about the role of the arts in translating the world in ways that only the arts can do: through interpretation, or abstraction. We’re not there as reporters; but we’re there to masticate, and digest, and shoot out a response. When the planes flew into the Twin Towers, I received a letter from a friend who is a hand weaver, and in it she wrote, Why am I doing this work when stuff like that is happening? My immediate response was she is doing something life affirming. I see that as inherent to all the arts. 

I agree. Any time an event or an image goes through another person, it becomes a translation. We learn so much about what we’ve just seen. Back to the Twin Towers. When that event runs through the mind or intellect of an artist, then whatever is written or painted becomes another thing. It’s a connection between the event, and the artist, or the observer, or the reader. It’s a deeper, and another, connection.

How do you negotiate, translate, and explore the world through your writing? Your 2016 book, The Wobbly Bicycle, is one example. In the introduction you wrote: “How does a writer deal with her cancer? By writing, of course.” Talk about this.

That book is unusual for me. I’ve never written a book quite like it before. I wrote it, week by week, and I wrote it as blog posts. When I decided to turn it into a book, I had to do a little tinkering. It was my way of making it through. I would sometimes lie in bed at night, feeling horrible, and think about what my next post would be? How am I going to talk about this moment? And how I’m feeling? And what this is like? It pulled me through that event, those six months, that year. It made it useful to me. It made the experience useful in another way.

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

I love living here. It was a choice, and kind of a scary choice because we’d been on the East Coast for over 30 years, and I had to give up being Poet Laureate of Delaware to move here. I wondered, What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Of course, I knew why we were doing this. We’ve had a cottage north of [Traverse City, Michigan], that we’ve had for 100 years. It feels more like my home. So, Michigan became my place. It’s very much where I want to be. Everything about being in Michigan fits me better than being in Delaware, and I’m sorry to say that.

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

Nope. I didn’t. Not any. The only role model I had was my father. Once in a while he’d write silly poems. That was it. I didn’t know a poet.

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

I can’t think of just one person. It’s an accumulation of reading poets I admire. There’s nobody who stands out because each one has given me something different. All those things have melded together. A lot of people who do an MFA program, for example, will look for the rest of their lives to a beloved teacher in the MFA program. That’s wonderful, and I’m sorry I didn’t have that. I was just all on my own the whole time. I did teach in an MFA program, so maybe there’s an MFA person out there thinking of me, which would be nice.

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

My husband, Jerry Beasley [professor emeritus and former department chair of English at the University of Delaware, and author]. He has a Ph.D in 18th Century literature, and is a very good reader, and scholar. He’s not a poet. He reads my things, and reads them from the point of view of an intelligent reader. So, I don’t need a poet reading my work, and advising me, although I have a group of poet friends who do that for each other. What I really need is, first of all, is to hear from Jerry, and have him say, This works for me. He’s not always right. Sometimes I don’t agree with him. Most of the time, he’s smart about what I’m doing.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I’m unable to walk past something in print without looking at it. I read crummy novels, and I read good novels, and poetry, and magazines. I read everything.

One doesn’t usually have on the tip of their tongue the name of a poet who has become fabulously successful. Poetry doesn’t seem to enjoy the same kind of public awareness and embrace that other art forms do. When Edgar Allen Poe published his poem “The Raven,” people were waiting breathlessly to read it. When it came out there was all sorts of conversation about it. People used to pay attention to these things. Can you reflect on why contemporary poets don’t get enough love? 

I think it was Louise Gluck who said winning a big prize didn’t change her sales that much. She never sold many books, and no poet sells many books. This is a different time. It’s a very visual time, and people are watching tons of movies, and reading other things. Poetry requires slowing down, and being very quiet with the poem no matter what kind of poem it is. Not many people slow down anymore. Some poets and some poems have gotten very esoteric, and that doesn’t work for ordinary people. By “ordinary,” all I mean is people who don’t often read poetry, or who haven’t studied it. I think that’s been a problem. If you look at some of the 19th Century poets, the point was to write for ordinary people who just like poetry. Those poems still work. [Some of contemporary poetry] has turned internal. I would compare it to is painting. Painting used to reproduce what you see in front of you. And then, it went inside and pulled at what you’re feeling, and turn that into part of the image. When poetry did that, people lost interest. It felt like something they didn’t know how to read. They couldn’t get hold of it. If it happen to be something like Alfred Noyes’s “The Highwayman” — a good story that was told in a rhythmical way that rhymes at the end — people get into that; but we’ve lost ordinary people. Poems have become too esoteric for ordinary people, and by that I mean people who aren’t used to ready poetry.

I think, generally, many people believe they won’t “get” a poem. It makes me wonder: Do we value the things that poetry can do, and does do, enough that we make it a priority to provide people with more experience with poetry? To be exposed to it so they can begin sorting things out for themselves?

I’ve spent a lot of effort on that. When I was at the University of Delaware, I got a grant. For one whole year, I wasn’t teaching, and went around to the secondary schools and talked to teachers about teaching poetry. I tried to help because what I’ve seen is secondary school teachers are scared of poetry, so they don’t teach much of it. They haven’t been trained. Now, I write a poetry column [On Poetry] every month in the Traverse City Record-Eagle. For me, that little column is like teaching Poetry 101. I pick poems that ordinary people who aren’t used to reading poetry can get hold of. And, I talk about it. The way that we can influence people is to constantly keep poems in front of them, and talk about them, and start with ones that are not so hard to understand. It’s like anything else. It’s like reading. You don’t automatically know how to read a difficult novel; you work up to it.

What drives your impulse to make?

I don’t have the slightest idea. It’s what I do. Outside my house there are some roses that just keep blooming. I don’t think they have any other impulse except to bloom; it’s just built in to do that. Apparently, writing poetry is just built in. I don’t think I could easily quit. [Poet] James Wright was still organizing his last book, lying on his death bed. And my friend, Sydney Lea, with whom I’ve written a book, he’s 81, and he’s writing more poems than he did 20 years ago. And, he just wrote a novel. It’s like it just comes out of him. It’s what you do.

While still with the University of Delaware English Department, you served as Poet Laureate of Delaware from 2001-2007. What’s the Poet Laureate’s job description?

I’ve been asked that a bunch of times. I think it depends upon what the poet laureate wants to do. I had the strong support of the Division of the Arts in Delaware, and they got me readings at lots of different places all over the state; but I consider that my role was to encourage poetry. If you have a poet laureate the reason is to bring visibility to poetry where it otherwise might not be. My favorite project was to ask people to submit poems. I picked 12 people based on their submissions, and I took them down to what was then called the Biden Center, a retreat facility on the beach in Lewes, Delaware, to spend a long weekend.”  We did workshops and read poems, and a bunch of those people have published books. It pleases me so much to see the success of some of those people.

Read more about Fleda Brown here. She also publishes a monthly column in the Traverse City Record-Eagle. On Poetry, a commentary, appears in the Northern Living section.

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