Category: Creativity Q+A

Mercedes Bowyer, 44, has had a seat on both sides of the arts table. For more than a decade, she lead the Oliver Arts Center, a community arts center in Frankfort, Michigan. After leaving the Oliver, she found herself making the art. A series of life changes pointed her back to an old familiar practice: needlepoint. And in the course of doing it, she discovered a path forward for her inner creative.

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

Pictured: Mercedes Bowyer

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How did you come to needlepoint?

I used to spend my summers with my grandparents down in Florida. As a way to give me something to do so I wouldn’t constantly ask to go to the beach, my grandmother taught me knitting and needlepoint. She prepped a little canvas, and taught me the basic basketweave stitch. For knitting, I think I got as far as knitting a sweater for my Barbie, and that was the last of that. That didn’t stick. I was in middle school, and I did not keep up with the needlepoint. Fast forward to 2020, right before the Pandemic, I decided to quit smoking. Anytime I craved a cigarette I would sit down and work on a jigsaw puzzle, and I did all the puzzles in the house. I found I still needed something to occupy my hands, my time. My grandmother [Jane Moore Black] had made me a work bag, and I still had that [needlepoint] project. I pulled that out, and tried to re-teach myself the basic stitch, and finished that project. That’s how it started. The Pandemic came at a time when I could explore needlepoint further, and I could sit and focus on it.

When you came back to needlepoint, you had an epiphany — that you could create your own canvases, and they would be more satisfying to work on than the ones you could purchase.

As I think about it further, the canvas my grandmother gave me she drew [the imagery] freehand that was very Mondrian. She graduated from Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri. She had a career in fashion design. She was a very creative person. So, that’s what I came back to: an original piece drawn by my grandmother. It was the middle of the Pandemic, and there are no local needlepoint stores near me. My husband ordered me a small kit. It was a really pretty, abstracted image of a flower. The threads were part of the kit. It didn’t tell you what stitch to use because it was a beginner kit: You were supposed to use one stitch. It was a painted canvas — sort of like paint-by-numbers — so you knew exactly where to sew the blue thread, exactly where to put the yellow thread. Halfway through, where I was supposed to put the white thread, I decided to deviate and use a sparkly white thread. It hit me, before I even finished the piece, I didn’t find it challenging. I didn’t like them telling me where to put the blue thread.

So, I thought, I could do these, but I could do them in my own colors. I could do my own stitch; but why am I spending money on this [pre-fab] painted canvas that some other artist painted if I’m not going to follow their direction, and what they intended for the piece? That’s when I started getting into my own designs. They were very linear, with lots of rows and grids, just trying out new stitches. I was scrolling through social media one day, and saw this pretty image of Sleeping Bear Dunes, and thought that it would be cool if I could recreate that in thread. And, yes: Shame on me. I took the image off of Google. I could not find who owned the image, and I thought that this was going to be just for me. This might not even work. That was the first time I adapted a photo to an original piece. After that, I was so guilt-ridden because I didn’t know who the photographer was, I started to use only my own photos, and my husband’s photos, or photos that I could identify the maker.

At this point, we should clarify that you were still the executive director of the Oliver Art Center. So, you probably had a keen sense of how important it is to credit creative work.

Yes. That’s true. There were many voices in my head going, “Now, now, now.”

When you decided to move from taking someone else’s image and adapting it to your canvas, what was the bridge for you using your original work?

In the early pieces, I tried to do my research and find existing, named needlepoint stitches that would mimic what was in the photograph. So, if I was doing water, I would try to find a stitch that mimicked waves. Since then, a lot of the visual effects I try to achieve, there aren’t existing stitches. Now, more likely, I’m taking an existing stitch, and editing the stitch to fit my needs.

Talk about the imagery you have been migrating toward as you get deeper into your practice.

It started with the Pandemic. We weren’t going anywhere except, maybe, a few drives during the day to get out of the house. A lot of the imagery is hyperlocal: Point Betsie, and the Frankfort lighthouses; and Pierce Stocking Drive — the usual haunts around the area. I did surprise a friend. I stitched her a log cabin, and I really enjoyed the process of [depicting] the architecture, recreating the building, the sidewalk, the log planks. I find myself drawn to buildings, and the built environment that’s nestled in Northern Michigan.

You’re taking you own photographs, and transferring them to the canvas.

When I got serious about it, I invested in a light box [which enables her to be able to] trace the main elements directly onto the canvas. So, if I’m doing the Pierce Stocking Bridge, I do the outline of the covered bridge, the outline of the road, but the rest of it I fill in from there. It’s not like I’m doing a full, painted canvas like you’d seen in retail stores.

How much latitude do you allow yourself to interpret what may, or may not, be there in the image you’re using?

I give myself quite a bit. I’ll use the Pierce Stocking Bridge as an example. The picture I took was after a rain storm, so you could clearly see that part of the wood on the bridge was wet. I decided to depict the change the colors in the piece from summer to fall.

What made you think needlepoint could be a creative practice?

I was enjoying the process of it. In a way, I was connecting with my grandmother. She needlepointed well into her 90s. I did get a little worried when I was halfway through that painted canvas and realized I didn’t like this. So, I thought, I enjoy the practice of this. I don’t like being told what to do. So, how can I flip this around and make it something I like to do? I was so drawn and connected to the practice that I just needed to find my own way for it to make me happy.

What is the difference between embroidery and needlepoint?

The main difference between needlepoint and embroidery is what the stitches are applied to — usually with needlepoint, it is canvas [not like painters use, though].

Talk about the training you’ve gotten in needlework outside of what your grandmother taught you.

I did complete the American Needlepoint Guild’s Master Needle Artist. It’s a two-year program, and the application was more strenuous than the actual program. I was asked questions about composition, color theory — basics that people would be taught in art school, that I never learned. I had to do some really quick learning in order to answer the questions on the test. Once that test was accepted, I spent a year writing a thesis. And in the second year, I had to do an original composition based on that thesis. It had to go in front of a committee for review. Come September, when they have their annual conference [in Missouri], I’ll receive my certificate and pin.

What was your thesis?

The role of needlework samplers in early American women’s education. It blew my mind as I was doing the research. You’d think that samplers were used to perfect your skills; but the reason you created a sampler and your parents hung it in their living room was so that potential suitors could see that you’d make a good wife.

There was a lot of moralizing expressed in samplers.

Right. A lot of the topics of those samplers were bible verses, statements about social mores of that day. Some of it was education. [The maker] would stitch numbers and the alphabet. Sometimes buildings were incorporated to represent the family home. There are [historic examples of] samplers done by children age 5; but your don’t see much work done past age 14 — at that point, most women were married. They stopped doing needlework for pleasure, and started using needlework to mark their household linens or repair clothing.

How did your training affect your creative practice?

One major takeaway was all the information on color theory: hue, saturation, complementary color. I only use DMC [brand] six-strand floss. Mostly, that’s because it’s the most available in a rural region. You can get it at a fine art store. Heck. I can get it at Walmart. DMC makes thousands of colors. I was working on a piece, and I could not find the right red I wanted: brick red. In doing all the color theory research I did, that’s how I started to mix my thread colors. For example, out of the six strands, I’d pull two out and and put in a different shade of red to get the look I wanted. It was either that, or I was going to have to begin dying my own thread, and I didn’t want to get into that.

Describe your studio/work space.

Primarily where I work is in the living room. I hunted around and found a really cool mid-century sewing table. It sits next to a chair with a really strong light. That where a majority of my current projects live. My home office space is also my work space [where she keeps thread, canvas, and other tools].

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

Currently, my focus is Northern Michigan sites. That’s everything from the State Hospital [now the Village at Grand Traverse Commons] to the Grand Hotel on Mackinaw Island. I like to have a connection to places — my husband can send me all the photos he’s taken; but if I don’t have a connection to it, I don’t feel I have much buy-in, which is another reason I don’t do commissions.

What kind of pre-planning do you do in advance of beginning a new project or composition?

Typically, once I’ve selected my subject matter, I try to make sure I have multiple images — even if it’s different than the image I’m going to recreate. I prep the canvas — I have to cut it down — and then I usually bind the sides with masking tape because when you cut the canvas it gets sharp, and will snag your threads. I trace the image onto the canvas. And I swear by stretcher bars. I can’t just freehand sew it. I have the full booklet of DMC threads, so I can look at the picture and determine which threads I want to use. Because I live an hour away from the nearest thread store, I have to pre-plan. I’m finishing up a piece right now, and my mind’s already on my next one [thinking about] what colors am I going to need, how am I going to do this — it’s usually one right after another.

What’s your favorite tool?

I have two. One is my stand. I promised myself if I juried into a show I’d entered, I was going to let myself buy this floor stand. It’s about $400. It’s not cheap. But it’s well worth it. I use it with almost every piece I create. It holds the stretcher bars so that my hands are free for stitching. Some of the intricate stitches require two hands. Or, if I’m getting really detailed, I use my second favorite tool, which is a set of dental tools. The hooks and picks the dentist uses, I use to move threads out of the way.

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

I have blank journal that’s gridded paper, that matches a needlepoint canvas. I subscribe to a few magazines, and if I see and interesting stitch I’ll cut that out and put that in the journal, and make a few notes about how I could use it. If stumble across a stitch I’ve edited, and used in a piece, I’ll record what I did so if I want to duplicate what I did, I have a record of it. I don’t do a lot of lettering, but to work that out on the grid is an important process. My thesis piece I did an abstracted view of the different depths of the Great Lakes. I really had to map out the stitches I was going to use on that one. It was a tight grid. It was worked out well in advance on graph paper.

Let’s talk about the 800 lb. gorilla in the closet. Needlepoint is a creative form that goes back to the Egyptians. Contemporary needlepoint, however, is generally thought of as a hobby activity, sometimes disparagingly. 

I attended an opening last week, and a woman was commenting on my work, and she said, “Wouldn’t that look great on a tote bag.” I thought: “It’s not a patch. It’s a piece of art, and you want to sew it on a tote bag?”

How do you talk to people when they say things like that? How have you evolved what you want to say to people?

At first, I didn’t put any thought into it. When I’m entering a show and am asked on the application what the medium is, I put “needlepoint.” That’s what it is. But, then, I was getting a lot of rejections. My husband said, “Do you think people think you’re stitching a painted [commercially-produced] canvas?” They’re not seeing it as original work, and that set me back a little bit. I just assumed people would know it was original work. Right now, I go back and forth about what I call it. For a long time, I’ve stuck with “fiber art.” Maybe I should re-think this and go back to “original needlepoint.” But when I talk to people about it, in the instance I mentioned, it was in passing, and I kind of nodded, and joked that, for the cost of it, “You can do whatever you want.” That’s why, whenever I get asked to speak about my work, my practice is to just engage in conversation about it. I try to get people to understand that, yes, I use needlepoint canvas and thread; but that’s pretty much where [the similarity between Mercedes’s work and commerically-produced needlepoint projects] ends. Some stitches will appear familiar. Others I’ll make up. And, I think that’s what frustrates some of the forum I’m a member of online. I keep on trying to get into shows, so I can put the work out there, and word’s getting out, and people are understanding that “needlepoint” is one descriptor; but it talks about a wide range of what people are doing.

What role does social media play in your practice?

It should probably play a large role. I have my personal Facebook page, and decided to create an Instagram page where I share all my needlepoint. But then I discovered as I expanded what I was doing into the Master Needle Artist program, and I was doing more talks, the need for a website reared its ugly head. I don’t spend as much time updating my website as I should. Sometimes I’ll do three Instagram posts in a week; sometimes you won’t hear from me for three months. I’ve reached a large audience through Instagram. I tagged this international podcast, and they reached out and we did an interview. I could be using it better; but I also have a day job, and a family, and find sitting down to take an Instagram tutorial akin to pulling out my toenails. I’d rather disappear from social media.

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

It’s twofold. What I do, I do for my personal satisfaction, to see if I can do. The piece I’m working on right now is of the Tahquamenon Falls in the Upper Peninsula. I wanted to see if I could replicate the foam in the water at the base of the falls. What drives me is, “I wonder if I can do that, and how well can I do that?” I’m not one of those people who believes they’re putting it out there for the betterment of mankind, or to make the world more beautiful. I’m driven by what I want to see out there.

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

Definitely, my grandmother [a fashion designer for a Chicago department store]. She created my paper doll. She hand painted it in my likeness, and created a template for making her clothes. At the same time, my grandfather was an architect. I remember conversations with him — he spent one afternoon talking about keystones, and their role in architecture, and all the different kinds of keystones you’d find in a building. I never really thought about that as a creative practice until I started depicting buildings. One of the other things was my education. I grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, and we had a program where we spent six weeks, once a week, going to the Saint Louis Art Museum. We’d be met by a docent, and given a tour of a different branch of the museum, and we would do a project. I vividly remember those projects, and being in that museum. That’s always been around me as I was growing up.

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

My grandmother. I saw her [doing needlepoint], and she did it well into her 90s and was very proud of it.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

In some aspects, that’s the end game: I want to have a piece for the [Oliver Center’s] annual members show, or the annual fiber show; but I don’t think that dictates what I do: I don’t do a lot of themed shows just because I don’t have anything that fits the theme.  I see exhibiting as the endgame when I’m working on a piece: Where can it show? Who can see it? It’s another tool for me to get the work out there. I don’t care about awards. I don’t care if it sells. I don’t do it for that. I do it to try and spread the word that this is art, too.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

I do it every day. Just doing the work. I subscribed to a bunch of periodicals when I got started. I wanted to see what was out there, and what other people were doing. I enjoy going to other exhibits and finding other artists [working in needlepoint] and try to connect with them. I’m always on the lookout for fiber shows — whether it’s basketwork or quilting, I’m drawn to it.

What drives your impulse to make?

I’m not sure what does; but I have the impulse daily. Some days I’d really love to call [into work] sick because I’ve hit my stride on one part of the canvas, and I want to see it to the end. And, there are other days it’s the last thing I want to do. The piece I’m working on now, I’m not liking how it’s turning out. Just not happy with it, and want to get it done. I’m not one to do more than one project at a time. If I start one and get  tired off it, I just work through the block and get it done. That’s my drive with this one. Overall, I just want to see if I can do it, test myself. The last piece, I did a lot of color mixing. I wanted to mimic sun rise, reflection on water, figures. I’d never done figures before.

You have a day job — as Donor Engagement Director for the Grand Traverse Regional Community Foundation. How do you juggle the demands of working your day job, and your studio practice? How do you make the two talk nicely to one another?

One pays for my ability to do the other. I view my creative practice as my break, my after-work decompression: I don’t come home and have a drink at 5 o’clock; I come home and I stitch. If I’m overwhelmed and not having a great day, I sit down and I stitch. That’s how they work well together. One involves a lot of head space, a lot of people-ing. As an introvert, it’s draining. I’m one of those introverts who can fake it, and be good with people; but it exhausts me. I find that the creative practice recharges me.

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Read more about Mercedes here.

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

 

Antrim County painter Wendy McWhorter, 68, is a late bloomer, self-described. But after retiring in 2013 she blossomed — a verb that applies to her creative practice, and her subject matter. Wendy is passionate about flowers. They meet so many needs: color, shape, their brightening presence in the landscape and the front yard. But it’s not all florals. Northern Michigan’s landscape speaks to her. Loudly. And, year-round. Once blossomed, this painter does not seem capable of wilting.

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

Pictured: Wendy McWhorter

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What is the medium in which you work.

Oils. Occasionally I do watercolor when I can’t take oils; but oils are my preferred medium.

Why?

Because I love the saturation of the colors, and — as one instructor said — the “juicy-ness” of the medium.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

Yes I did. “Formal,” back then, would be instruction in abstract art. All the professors in the the 70s were teaching abstract. My first two years were at Northwestern Michigan College [1973-75], and the instructor I got the most out of was Jack Ozegovic, the printmaker. I really enjoyed printmaking, and thought that that was what I was going to do. He encouraged me, so I went to Indiana University for a year [1975-76]. Although I really liked printmaking, I didn’t think I could make a living as an artist. I changed my journey, and went on to become an art teacher. [Before that, however] I went to Michigan State University to get a degree in advertising — all my credentials just seemed to fit that. I graduated from MSU in 1979. I [worked in advertising] until 1985 at the Traverse City Record-Eagle. I enrolled at Eastern Michigan University and got my certification in art ed, and started teaching in 1988. The only time I was able to do my own art was in the summertime, and that wasn’t conducive to a good practice. I retired in 2013, and became more dedicated to painting. I started painting every day.

When you were studying printmaking, you said you didn’t feel like you could earn a living in visual art. Why?

I didn’t have the dedication to push myself to create a body of work back then. At 21 years of age, I didn’t have the maturity to know that. I didn’t have the tenacity. I didn’t have the hunger to do it. When you’re young, you have to make a living. I didn’t see how I could do that unless I had a 9-to-5 job; but then I would not have the energy to do art at the same time. I didn’t want to be a starving artist. I love New York City now, as an adult; but as a 21-year-old, it would have eaten me up. I was a late bloomer, a real late bloomer. I didn’t realize the tenacity and hunger part of being an artist until I was 58.

Is New York City the place you imagined one went to to seriously practice visual art?

Yes. That was my experience with everything I’d read about being an artist. The internet has changed that [perception]. You can live in rural Michigan, and if you want to, you can be shown in New York City. Or, you don’t have to be in a gallery anymore. People can see your artwork on Instagram, and bypass the whole gallery scene — if that’s what you want. [Wendy uses Instagram and Facebook in her practice.]

For me, being a regional artist, the people who are interested in my art are local to this area. My interest [subject] is in the geography, the topography of the northwest area — Leelanau County, Antrim County, Old Mission, Charlevoix, and Petoskey. When people are looking at art, they want to see something that reflects the beauty they see, and why they’re there. Artwork in their home, if it’s of a place they’re familiar with, that they have a memory of, that’s one of the reasons why they buy my work.

Describe your studio.

It is a 10 ft. x 10 ft. space I carved out of the lower level [of her home]. I had a wall put up, with a barn door in it. I have two light sources. I have a nice, big window, and door with a window. I can walk out from it [under the upper patio], so I have a sheltered place where I can work outside. That’s nice. When people want to come see my work, they don’t have to come into the house. We can walk right to my studio.

As we’re talking, you’re preparing work for Bloom, an exhibit of floral paintings at the Botanic Gardens/Historic Barns Park in Traverse City, Michigan. Bloom is a continuation of work you did last year for another exhibition, Lost and Found Gardens — exhibited at Center Gallery in Glen Arbor, Michigan. In Lost and Found Gardens, you imagined the flowers planted by early settlers at Port Oneida. How did you research the flora that existed in Port Oneida?

I went to the Leelanau Historical Museum, and did some research there. I also looked online, and read a book by a woman [Rita Hadra Rusco] who lived on North Manitou Island for a long time. What I discovered was that a lot of lilacs were planted, wild roses, and when the boats would come to Glen Haven and different ports along the way, they’d sell bulbs, so people had daffodils, tulips. The most common native flowers were Coneflowers and Black-eyed Susans.

How do you feel about people wanting to come visit you at your studio?

It’s by appointment. I don’t have a sign up. I’ve never had a drop-in. I only got the studio two years ago, and it was still quite clean then. Now, I’d have to stop everything I’m doing if someone wants to come visit, and clean up. I don’t mind. It’s always interesting. Visitors might have come to look at one painting, then see something else they like. That’s the good thing about a studio visit: They can see all the work in person.

What themes are the focus of your work?

Incorporating nature — flowers and gardens and blooming trees — with the vernacular architecture of the area — the farmhouses, the barns. I like to put the two together. One is geometric, and one is organic. If it makes sense, I put the flowers in the foreground. Sometimes I focus on the farm; sometimes I focus on the flowers.

It sounds like you don’t take dictation from the scene. You give yourself the latitude and the freedom to arrange the components as you want them to appear in the composition.

Exactly. I take artistic license. The series I did last summer, there weren’t any flower there [when she was painting]. Through my research, I put them in.

What’s your favorite tool?

It has got to be the paint brush. The larger the paintbrush the better. That’s a life-long struggle for artists, to use a larger brush so you have a looser painting; and not using a smaller brush that will get you into the tightness of the details.

Do you use a sketchbook, or a work journal?

In my studio I have a vision board with a lot of photographs on it, of what I want to do. When I’m out in the field, I’ll take out my viewfinder, zero in on what I want to paint, do a rough sketch, and figure out my colors.

Explain the vision board.

It’s a bulletin board. I have it divided up into paintings I’m focused on [if she’s preparing for a show]; the other is work that I submit to exhibitions and galleries. I divide it up among the venues that I have. The Torch Blue Gallery [in Alden] want scenes of Torch Lake. [Another gallery in] Charlevoix wants paintings of sail boats, still lives. I have photographs of gardens, photographs of interesting barns and homes I like. I use [the vision board] to come up with my ideas. It’s there for me to look at all the time. I have on it a calendar of what I want to accomplish. I also have different pictures of artists’ whose work I like.

Earlier in our conversation you said that you can live in Northern Michigan, and have a shot at earning a living, because of social media. It allows people farther away to see your work. Is there any other role that social media plays in your work?

You get instant feedback from it. It’s a way to connect with people. They follow you. They make comments. Maybe a couple months later, they decide they really like a painting they’ve been looking at, and they buy it. I really appreciated it during COVID. It was a way to interact with people and market myself. There were no gallery shows. It created a new venue for people to look at art.

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

As an educator, I had that nailed down. As a visual artist, I’m still formulating [an answer]. I’m not a social justice artist. My artwork does not resonate with different things going on in the world. I appreciate artists [whose work falls under the social justice umbrella]; their role is clearly defined: They’re shining a light on what’s happening in our world, whether it’s war, climate change, racial disparity. Artists who are speaking to those issues are making a change. My artwork is simply for someone who wants to appreciate my vision of what I see out there in the world — paintings of the environment in Northwest Michigan, the hills, the lakes, the dunes. Appreciating nature. It’s ephemeral. It comes and goes. A record of what was, and let’s not forget it.

People have told you they purchase your paintings as a way to have a reminder of what they love. Is the role you play in the world that of creating a touchstone for people?

It’s a comfort. For three years in a row, [a client] who is a jewelry designer who lives in New York City, whose family has a cottage on Lake Michigan [in Leelanau County] has bought a painting from me each summer at the [GAAC’s] Paint Out. She said that these paintings, in her home in Brooklyn, remind her of her summer memories. And, I like to think of that — that I’ve got paintings in Brooklyn, which is a juxtaposition from a very busy area to a very relaxing memory of summer.

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

It’s one of the reasons why I moved back here from our little stint in Florida. Florida is flat. It’s extremely humid. It’s not very varied in topography. I have been up here, this past fall, for 50 years: going to NMC; my parents had a place in Glen Arbor; moving here after MSU. I’ve decided this is where home is. I’m much more inspired to paint here than anywhere else. It’s a connection. It’s a familiarity. But there’s also the unknown. In February, there was a really nice day, and I was going to paint near these orchards I always go to — I wanted to see what it was like to paint in the winter when there wasn’t any foliage. I was looking in my rearview mirror, and said, Wow. I’ve never seen that view before. So, I turned around. It was a farm. It looked like a Wolf Kahn painting, like a Grant Wood painting. With the bay, and the farm, and the fields: It was a perfect painting. And it’s a place I drive by every week; but because I looked in my rear-view mirror, I saw it differently. There are surprises every day. This is what I want to paint.

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

No I didn’t. However, having proximity to the Flint Institute of Arts was huge inspiration for me [Wendy grew up about 12 miles south of Flint]. I was lucky enough that my father appreciated culture. He’d drop me off at the FIA on Saturdays to take classes, so that’s what informed my early art practice — and then going into the FIA’s fabulous galleries. It’s a world-class museum. When I was teaching [at a Lansing, Michigan magnet school in 2010], I took students there.

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

I’ve always loved Wolf Kahn’s work. In 2004 I was going to a workshop in New Hampshire, and I went through Vermont, where there was a gallery that had his work. To see it large and up close was a fabulous feeling. This is exactly the kind of painting I can do in Northern Michigan. I like how simple the shapes are. That was a beginning for me in my thinking about landscape painting. I also like the work of Fairfield Porter. Similar reasons. Subject matter is what drew me to those two: the geography of places that are similar to here, water, hills, dunes, forests. Also: Nell Blaine. I liked her story. She was an artist who was struck by polio in 1932. They told her she’d never paint again, and she just fought through it. Eventually, she was in a wheelchair; but she wheeled herself outside, and continued to be a plein air painter. When she could not do that, she brought the outdoors indoors. She had flowers brought into her home, she painted those, and incorporated that with what was outside. That struck me. Somebody who had a lot of obstacles and worked through it.

You said you’d had such a profound experience looking directly at Wolf Kahn’s work — as opposed to looking at it on a screen. Talk about the importance of having people look at your work, directly.

It’s important to look at things directly because the screen does not show the work accurately. It does not show brush strokes — if you’re an oil painter it’s important for viewers to see how the artist has created with the brush. And size. When you’re looking at something on the screen, even though it might say something is 36” x 48”, you just can’t imagine that until you can back up and sit with it. That’s why I like benches in museums.

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

I have a good friend who has bought many of my paintings. She has a good eye for what’s missing. And, she’ll tell me. That began a couple years ago. When I’m struggling with something, I send it to her, and she pinpoints it. She’s a non-artist, which, to me, is very helpful. She’s a true critic. She’s not kind. She’s objective, too.

You’ve been doing a lot of exhibiting in the last few years. Talk about the importance of exhibiting in your practice.

It’s important. It gives me an impetus for creating series of paintings. And, series of paintings let you explore a subject. The other reason is it gives you an opportunity to interact with people, like at an opening. For someone to say, Where is this at? It looks familiar; I can explain where I painted it, otherwise, you don’t interact in person. Some galleries have a following, and those people are looking for a particular kind of art, so that becomes an excellent place for the artist and the collector to meet.

You raise the not-so-glamorous issue of the practicing artist’s need to do R+D: finding your niche, where your work is a good fit. Not everybody is going to come to an exhibition because you’ve put something up on the wall. That’s the business part of having a creative practice.

The show I’m going to have [in the Botanic Gardens], they have a following. So, I did a lot of press releases. I also targeted a lot of local garden clubs. You have to do your own marketing. It takes time. But I’ve created a list, which I can plug in for future shows.

You don’t strike me as someone who paints what you think people might like to see.

Right. I paint what I like to paint. That’s why I rarely do commissions. Most of the time, that meets with what other people are interested in. I’m not commercially oriented. I’m not making a living on my art. I’m appreciative of what it takes to make a living. That’s a 24/7 job. I’m not a working artist. I’m practicing; but it’s not my bread and butter.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I look at a lot of artists’ books. It’s amazing how expensive they are. So, luckily, with MEL Cat, I’ll go to my local library and ask them to get it for me. If I can, I find something at an estate sale. I do a lot of that. And, I went to New York City for three days. I went to the Metropolitan, to the Neuw Galerie. A month ago, I went to the Birmingham Art Center. I go to local art openings to see what other artists are doing. I have a network of artists who I talk to.

What drives your impulse to make?

I enjoy going out and painting plein air: Being outside is a big drive. I like to be outdoors as much as I can; but when the weather’s not great, I like to be in my studio. It my happy place. It’s a state of being. It’s mentally a good place.

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Read more about Wendy McWhorter here.

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

 

Laura Korch joined the Northwestern Michigan College art department in August 2023. She runs the ceramics and sculpture programs. “I had a very strong pull to [clay] as a child,” said the 43-year-old Traverse City resident. “As my work in pottery began changing into sculpture, I went to grad school [Arizona State] and started painting, and working with wood, and welding with steel. Now, my work can be a lot of different things”: vibrating wooden tubs, and walls of depressed coffee cups for starters. School cross-pollinated with studio work. Studio work cross-pollinates with teaching. It’s all of a piece.

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

Pictured: Laura Korch

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I primarily use clay. I had a very strong pull to that as a child. As my work in pottery began changing into sculpture, I went to grad school and started painting, and working with wood, and welding with steel. Now, my work can be a lot of different things. It mostly lands on clay and ceramics; but sometimes there’s an interdisciplinary approach. Sculptures are wood and metal with glaze and house paint. Or, one of my most ambitious projects was a giant, wood, interactive sound sculpture. People laid into this life-sized sculpture, and there were shakers that would pulse a two-way frequency at 528 hertz. When the person laid down they would insert their arms into these two tunnels that formed the shape of a large hug. The sculpture would then begin to slowly comfort and vibrate them with these frequencies.

I originally came up with the idea, as controversial as it may sound, in 2011. I was in Thailand, and was with a group of people who were living in Southeast Asia. I was going to ride an elephant. I was in this amazing jungle with a 15-year-old tour guide. At one point, we swapped seats, so I got to put my legs around the elephant’s neck. She had just given birth, so she was massive. And, she vibrated. She was rumbling. And, I thought everything in the universe vibrates. It was such an enlightening moment with this creature. Seven years later, this wood sculpture burst out from those travels, and that experience.

When you use clay in a sculptural capacity, there are remnants of its functional personality — but you’ve moved it beyond the functional into something else. Talk about that.

I was always fascinated with the pottery wheel. I thought that in conjunction with learning about clay as a material — there’s endless exploration with that material — I was so rooted in functional making, and wanting to be a full-time potter for more than a decade; by the time I was making sculpture, it was a surprise to me that I could open up enough to step away from the entrenched mud of [function-oriented] pottery. So, what you’re seeing is someone with a strong foothold and passion for functional pottery beginning to explore what it means to un-remember what I’ve learned, and try to approach it in a new way, which sometimes seems impossible. I do branch out, and sometimes I can succeed in making sculpture of various sizes out of clay. It’s most effective when I can combine the clay with another material. It reprograms my mind. It plays tricks on me so that I can’t settle into that habit of working with the material.

You’ve talked about yourself as a sculptor who works in a variety of materials. What draws you to sculpture?

It’s funny. It came about unexpectedly. I found myself working with the material in a different way than I was used to, and challenging the material at its maximum capacity. For example: I’d roll out these thin coils out of porcelain clay, and pinch it, make it into a ring, and I’d made 50 of these. The dry time for porcelain is very short — it goes from being soft to hard very quickly. I chose to stack all these rings with little clay pegs to make these fragile, cage baskets. That was a stepping stone for me. I became fascinated with this new way of working. And, also, from that, began thinking of concepts.

You received a BFA from Eastern Michigan in 2004, and your MFA from Arizona State in 2019. What happened in between?

I apprenticed with John Glick, a master potter, in Farmington Hills [Michigan] for a year. Next, I was hired as a ceramics studio manager for the Ann Arbor Arts Center, and that was when I first started teaching adults, and I had to begin explaining all the nuances of what I was doing with the material. That was a humbling period in my life. In 2007, I moved to North Carolina. There’s so much local clay. There was a low cost of living. And, I began teaching at several different art centers. At one of them, I was able to rent studio space — for pennies — for five years. Clay-makers had a cordoned off studio space there, and it was a very supportive community. Meanwhile, working at Trader Joe’s part-time. I was trying to make it as a potter. I was practicing selling at craft fairs, applying to exhibitions and shows. Finally, I bought a house in 2012 and renovated a garden shed [into a home studio]. Once these rings of sculpture came into my studio work, I took a four-week residency at Alfred University, which is one of the best ceramic schools in the nation and got to work with John Gill. I talked to the grad students there, and was convinced that I needed to go to grad school. That was why there was this gap. I was content with how I was living.

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

It affected everything. I’m definitely a product of academic training. In middle school, there was a ceramics department where I learned to hand build, sculpt and throw. In high school, I was convinced the only reason I was going was to take pottery classes. Our ceramics studio was huge. I felt like I had tons of support from teachers — we were glaze testing, raku firing, we had 12 wheels. When I went to college, I chose EMU because Diana Pancioli was there. She was an Alfred grad, and working very functionally.

Describe your studio/work space.

Here in Traverse City I’m occupying half the basement. We’ve put up a wall with a door. On the other side is a giant window and a door — so I can move things out the door if I can’t shimmy them up the stairs. I’m also occupying the laundry room — in this ground-floor basement. I’m able to have my kilns in there, a sink, and my oversized extruder. I’m storing my raw materials in that room, too. Now, I’ve got spaces to spread out. Originally I thought we’d build a studio off the garage, and I had plans for space where I could do welding. But it’s really hard to combine wood and clay. Currently, with me working for NMC, I’m able to use the welding shop if I need to.

What ideas are the focus of your work?

Usually, it’s whatever has called me to do. I went through a lot of life-changing events at the end of grad school that lead me to mysticism, Kabbalah, meditation. My work became more about these interactive sculptures that branch connection and consciousness. A lot of the time, I move into the work with that intention — whether of not it’s part of it. I’m still trying to embed it into the process of making. Currently, in the last three years, I have an agent. Tim McElligott, who is the owner of Curator Engine, approached me after my grad thesis exhibition, and said he wanted to work with me — whether it was the sculptures for businesses, or [other clay constructions]. He and I have been working for a number of years, and he’s bridged these connections with developers. What has ended up happening is I’ve gotten commissions through Curator Engine. Tim has a portfolio of artists that he takes to developers. There have been times when Tim will show me the color palette. The building has been constructed, here’s the parameters of the scale of the work we’ll need. We’re looking for a sculpture here, we’re looking multiple pieces there. What ideas do you have? I’ve really enjoyed this way of working. I got really burned out after grad school, and felt like I was giving up the rat race. I could never do enough. The artist in America has to be the photographer, the marketer, the maker. I got so tired of running hard with that game. These commissions work great for me. I don’t have to search out to the client. My agent is doing that. I get to stay in my studio and work. I’m not traveling all over the country to do art fairs. Instead, I have a couple gallery shops where I have pottery and sculpture, that sell really great. It keeps me in my space, working and making the way I want to do it.

It sounds like the themes and ideas for your work come out of these commissions.

That first commission, I came up with the idea of what to make; but there were parameters, and parameters can be really helpful.

The clients are saying, I have this space, and I like this, and what can you make of it? You come up with the creative juice?

And, my agent is not an artist. He has his masters in business; but he’s become pretty savvy over the years working with all these different artists [he represents].

What’s your favorite tool?

That’s changed over time. My first thought was my hands. We essentially, as a civilization, built everything with our hands. At different times I would have said [her favorite tool is] a pottery wheel, a kiln. Welding makes me feel like I’m looking into the universe with that light.

At this moment in time, what is your favorite tool?

My intuition. It’s a muscle I like to try to strengthen and flex. It’s learning to trust what I don’t already know. Putting my faith into the [belief] that my gut will tell me that the ideas will come.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

It has been a compulsion for me. It’s what I’ve been destined to do. I was enthrall to the process in elementary school. In fifth grade I had a teacher who let us do pinch pots, and I think that lit a spark for me. I always enjoyed art classes; but clay is grounding. The hands do the thinking. It’s even exciting to think, What’s the proper way to use a hammer? There’s a certain way you hold it. There’s a certain way you swing it; and we’re empowered by using our hands. It’s an extension of ourselves.

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

To each their own.There are people working in other mediums who may not be using their hands as much. I think it keeps us human — but I’m not stuck in that either. Back in 2005, we did a throwing day where we put the pottery wheels up on a table and we were throwing with our feet. It was silly and playful; but our feet are a lot like our hands. For me to touch something is for me to understand it.

What role does social media play in your practice?

I was putting a lot of pressure on myself to promote myself and my art work. I did that for a time. I do still have a few things on Etsy; but that’s a hidden closet. So, I would post on Instagram and Facebook, and I found that it drained me. It was not fulfilling. Reflecting on how I wanted to live my life with more intention, I turned away [from social media]. Now, when I finish a big commission, social media becomes a place of celebration for me. To show, and to share with other people what I’m doing.

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

I talk about this question with my modern art history students. I believe artists are here to show that everyone around them is also creative. Maybe that’s not as obvious; but I think that’s what we’re here to do. Art work is another form of communication — just like sound and music are different ways of communicating. If we can demonstrate doing anything in joy and love, that’s the point; and also reminding people of their own creativity.

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

I am a Michigan native. I grew up downstate [in Highland, Michigan]. I moved away in 2007, then moved back to Michigan in 2023. I was part of a huge, vibrant, progressive community in Durham [North Carolina]. My neighborhood was revitalized and thriving; but I lived next to a really loud freeway. Especially during COVID, it was wearing on me. The noise. The street lights were very bright; I had light-dampening curtains. I knew I wasn’t going to be at that house forever; but I was there for 12 years. Because of all the travel I’ve done, the timing was good to want to be near family again. My parents live up here half of the year, and this is the first time I’ve lived near them in 15 years. But, also, I was pining for a healthier environment for my emotional and mental wellness. We’re living in an old 1970s neighborhood [in Traverse City] that’s hilly and wooded, and it’s silent. When we go to bed at night and turn off the lights, we can’t see our hands six inches in front of our faces. I was craving this. I think the influence it has is that I have the capacity to expand. I feel like physically I’m expanding. Mentally I’m expanding. The weather here makes me feel childlike and free. It’s doing all kinds of wonderful things for my artwork. Making art involves a lot of rest. I know what it means to be completely depleted. So I want to be excited with I start a project, and scared, and challenged, and uncomfortable, and then I want to rest. This is the perfect environment.

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

Anyone who was a professional artist wasn’t someone I knew in childhood. My aunt taught me how to meditate. She had projects going on on the sidelines: wood shop, she could work with metals, she even knew how to throw on a wheel. She was very conscious. She’d talk about faith and god and mysticism, so I felt as though she lived her life creatively. She was also different. She was the black sheep of the family. So, I had this hippie aunt who was really creative.

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

This intuition, trusting that I’ll know, this channeling of god creativity has been the biggest influence. Instead of taking all the responsibility, and thinking, These are my ideas. I’m creative; I started thinking, Where is this light bulb, and all these pops of ideas, coming from?  Who’s lining up all these synchronicities? I think it’s this collective consciousness of being these expressions of god that work and move through us.

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

I’m so lucky. I’ve made really great friends from my grad school peers. There’s a handful of them I’ll go to. A few of my professors. On the daily, I’m in touch with my partner, Nick. He’s a musician. It’s fun to show things to my aunt, too, because she’s not fooled by art trends. She’s pretty cut and dry, and can weed out the bullshit. I have a lot of resources, including my new peers at NMC.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

That ties into what I said about the pressure to advance your CV, to work. In general, I do like exhibiting. I love the chance to showcase a body of work that gives me a lot of information about what I’m doing — which I can see when all the pieces are shown together a a group. It’s fun to be part of a group exhibition because now you’re interacting with other pieces, or a theme. Most currently, that my commissioned works are like permanent exhibitions. They’re in these collections, on display.

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

Over the years, my perception has changed a lot on how I view life and my work. First off, grad school has really prepped me for this way of living, being able to juggle a lot of different things at the same time. I’m so relieved to have a full-time art instructor position that I’m also energized from teaching. It’s an invigorating environment. And, because of grad school, I still have the energy to do my own work. You learn structures and schedules in undergrad; but you learn endurance in grad school. Right now I’m in a really good spot.

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Learn more about Laura Korch here.

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

Blankets. Pieces of mirror. A chair that isn’t a chair. Traverse City artist Mike Cotter, 79, has spent a long time thinking about low materials as high art. He went back to art school after moving permanently to Traverse City in 2008, and reignited a dormant studio practice that got sidelined. This is what he thinks about that — including some thoughts from Andy Warhol and Piet Mondrian.

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

Pictured: Mike Cotter in his studio.

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

Multimedia at this time. Probably wall-oriented assemblage. Collages and drawing.

When you say “wall-oriented assemblage,” do you mean 2D?

Some people would say it’s 2D — you can’t walk behind it. But there’s texture on the surface, something sticking out from it.

What draws you to the medium in which you work?

Throughout my career I’ve always been fascinated and inspired by non-art materials.

For instance?

At one time I was into linoleum a lot. Another time I used camp blankets stretched over frames, then went back in a worked in mirrors and rope and string on those pieces.

What is about these kinds of materials that interests you?

I like the idea of making what was called, in art school, “high art” from non-traditional materials. Some people might say that’s more like crafting; but I don’t see it as crafting.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I got a BFA in 1968 from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago in painting. I got an MFA in 1970 from Yale University in painting, but I did mostly sculpture; but it wasn’t traditional sculpture. A lot of pieces were furniture-oriented; but they couldn’t be used as furniture.

When you got your MFA, did you plunge into a studio practice? Or, other?

That was 1970: Let’s tune in and drop out. I went from New Haven to San Francisco. When I first moved there I had a studio space in the living room of a flat that I used. I was in some shows, but not a lot. In 1973 I moved to New York, and I did have a loft in New York. Then I moved to Brooklyn. I was doing work that was more like what’s in the [GAAC’s] HAPPY show [January 12 – March 21,  2024].

Was there a point at which you felt as though you needed to get a “regular job”?

In California, it only cost $28-a-month to live in the commune, so I didn’t need a lot of money; but I was working as a pizza delivery guy. When I moved to New York, I did get a job with the Department of Social Services. I guided senior citizens with their art in a couple different senior centers in Brooklyn. When I left New York in 1977 I’d just gotten accepted to be represented by the Holly Solomon Gallery in New York. That was a big deal; but I’d made the decision to move back to Chicago, so for 30 years I dropped out of [his art practice]. When I first moved back to Chicago, I had a studio for a year. I did one more piece, a drawing that got into the Chicago and Vicinity show at the Art Institute. I think Jasper Johns was the juror of the show, and I thought that was pretty cool. For 30 years, I worked in the corporate world — I had a corporate travel agency. When I retired, my biggest client hired me to be their director of operations, and I did that for 10 years. I always wanted to do more art, rather than buy art, so I went back to Northwestern Michigan College [in Traverse City, Michigan] for two years, and took drawing classes [2009-2010].

How did your formal training affect your development as a creative practitioner? What did you carry from school into your practice?

I think it honed and trained and educated the artist’s eye. I used all kinds of things I learned. They gave you a tool box to use.

Describe your studio space.

It’s a room in the house, on the lower level, and I share it with Irene [his wife, a fellow student at the School of the Art Institute ,who he met in 1964]. We don’t have conflicts as far as who’s using it at what time. We don’t ever work at the same time. We respect one another’s need for creative space. There’s one window, and it looks out onto a window well. So, there’s light.

How do you like having a studio in your home — as opposed to having a place you need to travel to?

It’s fine. It’s a space where you can close the door. You don’t have to neaten-it-up. At times, when you’re at home, and you’re working and want to give it a break — and think, What am I going to make for dinner — it can be distracting. You have your library, your garden, cooking. But if I go in and close the door, I’m pretty in-the-moment with the work.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

Sometimes I tend to be more attracted to something that’s not non-representational, but are objects that are abstracted from the real world — like when I did all the furniture pieces that were not furniture. Some people look at my work and say, Oh, it’s all so different; but I see connections between things.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

Well lately, it’s [the GAAC’s] themed shows. Again, I think it goes back to interest in materials. [Speaking hypothetically], I love how these hooks in the screen door work. I’m going to do something that’s related to that. To not just stay with the thing as it is. Piet Mondrian, wrote, and I love this quote: The interior of things shows through the surface. Thus as we look at the surface, the inner image is formed in our soul. It is this inner image that should be represented. For the natural surface of things is beautiful; but the imitation of it is without life. Things give us everything; but the representation of things gives us nothing. I like other artists’ work that has soul to it. It has to evoke a feeling in your soul.

So, springboard off of that: If you come across an object you like, is it accurate to say it could be the starting place for looking for its soul? Versus just representing the physical form of the object?

Or, give it a soul. I look at a fellow Art Institute guy, Claes Oldenburg, and the objects he made — the lipsticks, the hamburger, the clothespin. It wasn’t just a clothespin. There was other meaning to that.

What’s your favorite tool?

My eyes. If you don’t have the eye to see, to create, you don’t have anything. But more traditionally, I would say vine charcoal. I love the grittiness, and the softness, and being able to manipulate it with your hand or an eraser.

Do you use a sketchbook?

As an art student, I was joined at the hip with my sketchbook, and filled many of them. Write notes, put leaves in them. Now, I use the sketchbook in the studio to work out ideas for a final piece.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

Because I like doing it, and I’m pretty good at it. It’s probably generational — as opposed to a lot of work being made now.

Talk more about what you mean by “generational”?

I like touching and reading a book rather than an E-book. There’s something about smelling the book and touching the pages and leafing back and forth in a book as opposed to [reading from] a flat screen with a light behind it. That relates to doing work by hand. Like I said, there’s something about vine charcoal: There’s something about the texture, and the feel, and getting your hands dirty. In all of that, it adds to the soul of a piece.

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

I think it slows you down to be more human.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

When I was a senior in high school, and then, being at the Art Institute. Going on from there. Some people might think, Well, gee. You weren’t that serious if you dropped out for 30 years. To have Holly Solomon want to represent my work was amazing. The offer came just as I want got the offer from the travel business, and I was thinking of moving back to Chicago — and not having to deliver pizzas or work with senior citizens to make money.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Not much.

What’s its influence on the work you make?

Very little. The only time I’m connected to social media is through what a gallery or museum would do to promote a show I’m in.

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

The artist acts as vehicle to viewers, to open up a dialogue between people. Say two people walk into [a gallery] and look at one of my pieces. They may not know one another; but they could be standing next to one another and a comment might start them discussing it.  Anything that opens up a dialogue among people is a good thing. I think there’s very little dialogue between people [today]. If you’re able to create any, that’s a good thing. Just look at today: You don’t have telephone calls, you have texts. That’s not bad; but it’s all one way.

There’s a lack of direct engagement with another human being.

Right. You can think it. And you’re not confronted.

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

It can be anything from color to cobblestones. Andy Warhol said, The world fascinates me. I have that quote up on my studio wall. I’m interested in most all of it.

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

Living here gives my brain room to breathe — as opposed to suburban Chicago, or the city of Chicago. Some people can work in chaos. I wouldn’t say my studio space is neat; but if I don’t have things where they should be, my brain won’t work properly. The environment here — it’s so physically beautiful. I could see where it’d be very easy to not do any work.

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

My father was a very creative person. In the town where I grew up [Evanston, Illinois], there was only one art supply store, and it was run by this artist — Walter Burt Adams. He was kind of a Hopper-esque Regionalist. In fact, I own two of his paintings now. His day job was running an art supply store; but he’d go out and do plein air painting all around the city of Evanston [Illinois]. He was very rough, and curmudgeonly. He didn’t have phone in the store. He didn’t have a car. He was unique. [And] in my mind, he was a serious artist.

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

I would say, number one, would be my teacher and mentor at the School of the Art Institute: Ray Yoshida. Ray was the key influencer of the Chicago Imagists. They all kneeled before him: the Hairy Who, Jim Nutt, Gladys Nilsson. He was an amazing artist himself. All of the stuff from his house and studio is relocated into the [John Michael Kohler Arts Center]. Ray was probably the most influential as it regards how I would look at the world. In the classical sense, two artists [also influenced Mike]: Henri Matisse, and Marsden Hartley. When I was at Yale, the person who had the most influence on me was Lucas Samaras [who Mike invited to speak at Yale]. We just clicked. At one time, he did this mirrored room [now at the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo]. You walk in, and everything is covered in mirrors — the chairs, the furniture. At times, I would go and visit his apartment in New York.

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

My wife, Irene [they have been married 40 years]. I still have a close friend from the Art Institute, Gloria Brush, who was the head of the art school at the University of Minnesota at Duluth. She’s a photographer. Someone I met in California, Ford Wheeler , and he’s a Hollywood production designer. Locally, I would say Howard and Nancy Crisp.

You’ve just named five people. What do they have in common? Why do you turn to them for feedback?

First of all, I like what they do as artists. If you don’t have respect for someone else’s work, you can’t expect them to tell you anything of value about your work. You trust them because they’re friends.

 What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

It’s important. You can’t be a hermit artist. It enriches the artist to know you’re showing your work. It’s like music. I don’t think somebody wants to play the piano for themselves forever. It’s important to validate what you’re doing.

Does the validation come from the fact that an institution says, This guy made the grade.

You don’t have to sell it. It would be nice if it sold; but again, it’s about people coming in and having a dialogue about the work. The artist doesn’t always hear it.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

It goes back to the artist’s eye. You have to not only see your surroundings, but look at them. There was this woman north of Chicago who ran this mid-century modern gallery, old stuff she sold from the 1950s and 60s. When I’d visit the gallery, we’d talk about art. She said, To have an artist’s eye is a gift and a curse at the same time. 

An artist’s “eye” doesn’t allow your brain to say, Oh! There’s a tree! It says, Oh! There’s a tree. And now I’m going to look at the pattern in the bark, and the colors and values. It’s a full-body experience.

It can be exhausting; but I’m always so grateful I’m an artist. I can’t imagine not. It’s a gift.

What drives your impulse to make?

Whether it’s working to be in a show or exhibit, it’s innate. It’s there. You want to fulfill that desire to create. I can’t imagine not doing it. It’s not just my work. It’s a way of being. Whether it’s making a beautiful meal for someone, or knowing how you’re going to plant a garden. There are many ways that an artist lives. A true artist is not in the studio alone. It’s not just what they make, their work, and then the rest of their life is not creative.

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