Category: Creativity Q+A

Traverse City painter Justin Shull “knew, even in high school, that I really wanted to be making visual art in some capacity.” And, that’s the course the 41-year-old artist set: a 2004 BA in Studio Art from Dartmouth College [Hanover, New Hampshire], followed by a 2009 MFA in Visual Arts from Rutgers University [New Brunswick, New Jersey]. But road blocks, and side roads, and other impediments got between him and total studio immersion. Now, he’s free to practice, and this is what he has learned.

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

Pictured: Justin Shull

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What is your work?

For the past three years I’ve worked full-time as a fine artist. Prior to that, my last role was product manager for a video company, Riot Games.

Any male, age 12 – 25 has heard of the game [he worked on]. It’s called League of Legends. It’s an online multi-player game, kind of a fantasy-based capture the flag with very deep strategy. I joined the company in 2011 when they were small — about 100 employees — and the company grew to about 3,500 employees world-wide, and had about 350 million monthly players at one point. Quite a large game. Very popular.

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

I knew, even in high school, that I really wanted to be making visual art in some capacity. But I thought then it was something I did along side or parallel to whatever profession I’d choose. At the time I was in engineering, then pre-med. I explored a lot of different directions and ended up studying studio art [undergraduate studies], and then going back after some time in the work force to do my MFA. I thought I wanted to teach, and be in higher education, and surrounded by that environment and be part of that community. What I enjoyed about undergrad, graduate school and teaching was the ability to explore visually, wherever your creative sensibility took you — there’s no market pressures in that. A good portion of my creative journey has been within that context, and it has only been in recent time that I’ve been trying to make work that connects more directly with a market.

What did you take away from school that you now see is part of the way you practice in your studio?

One of the dominant mindsets coming out of the academic environment is to focus narrowly, and in a very rational, research-based approach. I’m still deciding if that’s the right way for me to work. Very often, it doesn’t seem like the right way to work because I have found I tend to work on multiple series in parallel, that are only tangentially related, and that actually have to develop on their own over time. Having to describe them up front as [an academic] thesis is not the right way to arrive at the best work. That’s one thing that has taken me years to figure out in terms of what was the dominant framework for working in academia — versus creating a work flow and an approach that works in the studio. That was really important because how you structure your approach to work, and how you constrain or not constrain yourself, has a big impact on outcomes over time. I want to say I received a lot of technical, hands-on education around how to use the media, and I did not. Most of the programs are much more focused on the conceptual side, and they leave it to the students to figure out the medium.

Why do you think that is?

I think it’s a pendulum-swing reaction to the over-emphasis on a singular approach to the medium, which defined academies for centuries. There was a really strong reaction to that through Abstract Expressionism [to the present time]. There are programs that really stress how to, for instance, develop your facility with oil paint. But a lot of programs do not.

Do you work in oil, or acrylic, or both?

In undergraduate I worked primarily in oil paint until I developed a severe sensitivity. I’ve been limited in my ability to use oil paint since then. I only work with it outdoors now. But there are a couple of painting that I’m working on [in the studio] that are going to require some oil paint. As a medium there are certain things I can do with it optically that I can’t with acrylic. I tend to look at whether I’m using acrylic paint, or oil paint, or another medium in part [determined by] what that medium allows me to do visually, and in part what’s contained in that medium from an historical context.

Give me one example of what you can do with oil paint.

Because oil paint has a longer working time, you can use soft brushes to achieve very subtle gradations and blends that you cannot with acrylic. There are more recent developments with the open [acrylic] paints that let you begin to approximate that; but there is something about the way the oil blends materially and optically that lends itself to certain applications.

Describe your studio.

I work in a live-work space in the Tru Fit Trouser Building in Traverse City. In total, it’s about 1,300 square feet. I have about 700 square feet of that set up as a studio. I’ve been in this space for two year, and I specifically wanted to work out of this space because of its tall, white walls. There’s really a flexible track lighting system with high CRI [color rendering index] lights so I can approximate what larger work would look like hanging in a gallery. For me, that was part of the process of working up in scale, and developing studio work — not just landscapes rooted in outdoor observation.

You’re able to bring the landscape ideas inside, and complete them in the studio — as opposed to confining yourself to plein air painting.

Yes. Plein air painting is a great exercise in staying calm, collected, and focused on translating my experience of the space around me in real-time, navigating changing light and sometimes challenging weather conditions, and maintaining the mindset that my primary objective is to observe and translate spontaneously in a way that ultimately will be inviting to re-discover later (both for me and any other viewer) versus falling into the trap of going out to “make a good painting” or to “make a painting that will sell.”  Everything I learn while painting en plein air filters into my studio work, but for me the studio is a place where ideas can unfold at a much slower pace, sometimes even over the course of years. I might develop a digital sketch over the course of a few weeks and then return to that idea a few years later to make a painting based on that sketch and the painting is then able to unfold into its own self and perhaps push some of those ideas even further. And more recently in the past year, branch out from landscape altogether into a more figurative, allegorical series.

You have been known as a “landscape painter.” You exhibited a piece in the GAAC’s 2023 Swimming exhibition that suggested you were trying to get out of the landscape silo, to explore other themes and subjects. How hard is it, when one is known as one thing, to start moving in other directions?

I’m still learning that. There’s a couple of different axes on which you can answer. One: It can be quite easy, if you’re just talking about making work. I can go into the studio and make something completely different. That part is easy. But then there’s the question of how it’s received? How do meet expectations, or not meet expectations, and how do people respond. That’s the part I’m still figuring out. Much of work from the last year I have available on the web through a couple of private viewing rooms, but I haven’t posted it my website yet. That’s one of my big project this year, to decide how I want to integrate, or not, those different bodies of work. There’s value in looking at historical examples of how people had multiple, diverse bodies of work versus a singular body of work. But then, I can decide that even if that didn’t work for someone, I’m going to make it work this way.

You paint landscapes in lots of lovely, luscious color. You’re also painting landscape in winter in a primarily black and white palette. Usually, when people paint the landscape that do that when it’s sunny, 70 degrees, and the world is in bloom. You, however, are finding something very paintable in a starker landscape. Talk about that.

The root  of that is I don’t actually see myself as painting the landscape. What I see myself doing is painting my response, my representation of my experience of the world, which manifests in different ways. One is interaction with a landscape. One is interaction with various media, technologies. I always look at the landscapes I paint as metaphors for some other state of being, or mindset, or philosophy, and that creates a lot of space for working with different [seasonal] lighting conditions, subject matter within the landscape that might not be there to celebrate the sunny day, but be there to speak to our human experience as we move through the world. That’s how I come to the landscape. And then, of course, the audience will take different things away as well. That’s the beauty of it — there’s always room for a range of interpretation once the artwork is out in the world.

What’s your favorite tool?

My favorite tool is my projector. It allows me to accomplish a lot more than I would otherwise accomplish. In the history of larger-scale public painting there’s always the question of transfer, and how one scales their design — work at a small scale to work at a public scale. Digital projectors are amazing. I can make a drawing, a collage, an iPad drawing. I can combine them all. I can take that to an 8 ft. x 8 ft. canvas. I don’t have to sit there and grid out — for hours and hours and hours. In that way, it’s a productivity tool. It also helps you see things in a new way very quickly. And, I try to be really upfront that I use a projector in my work. When you start to talk about tools and methods, artists can very quickly start to splinter into ideological camps. I like to have that conversation with people who might not like to embrace photography as a source, or certain technologies. I’m happy to talk with anyone — especially people working in the Western traditions, the centuries of utilizing optical tools in the studio.

The distinction I hear you making is this: The machine isn’t doing the heavy creative lifting. It’s helping facilitate your expression of your original work. I think that’s where the conversation begins to get into “explain yourself” territory.

To our point, the bigger theme is the conscious choice as to which technologies we use, and to what extent efficiency is the goal. There are times when efficiency gains are really useful. And there are times when being in the middle of something, and having to make a decision with your hands is very useful.

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

I have a couple spiral bound sketchbooks. One of them I use to do color tests with paints. One of them I use to sketch out ideas. Then, I also will physically collage materials together — one-off pieces — that I collect and put into a photo portfolio at the end of the year. And, I also have a digital sketch pad.

You’ve created murals. You’ve worked as part of a video game start-up, and you’ve taught visual art at a number of universities. When did you decide to jettison these kinds of work, and commit to working with serious intent as a studio artist?

Coming out of undergrad I already felt that, if I had the choice, my priority would be maintaining a studio practice as a primary pursuit. It was a question of financial practicality, which it wasn’t [for Justin] for a good 15 years. After a few years of teaching through the financial crisis in 2008, 2009, my mentors [at Southern Methodist University (SMU) and Texas Christian University (SMU)] who were going to be retiring, chose not to retire, and they gave the feedback that if I couldn’t sustain myself [as an adjunct instructor], I should do something else. That got me out of teaching. As far as working in the video games goes, it’s difficult to work at a start-up part-time. It was really, for many years, all or nothing. I [eventually] tapered off to a part-time consulting role [with Riot Games], and then was able to paint. I’d stopped making art. It around 2017 I started painting again, and I knew it was going to be a few years, minimum, before I could produce work that I could bring to gallery. Coming out of the financial crisis, a lot of institutions decided to lean more heavily on adjunct instructors, and begin tapering back and eliminating tenured [positions]. The whole model and ecosystem of tenured-track positions changed dramatically.

How did teaching cross-pollinate with making your own work? And, how did teaching get in the way of you making your own work?

What I like about teaching is you have the opportunity to always be learning something new about some method or software or conceptual approach — if you want to. There’s this ongoing embrace of curiosity and learning that can cross-pollinate, between students and educators. There is an atmosphere of possibility in the classroom, with younger students. Those are things I really enjoyed. In reality, the world of an adjunct instructor is pretty difficult. You’re teaching two-three times the course load of an associate or tenured professor, and very often trying to find additional income — just from a practical standpoint — on top of teaching. When I was teaching, I was teaching six classes a semester, and also had a part-time job. As you can image, if you want to be making work, or if you have any aspirations to have a family life, those things can quickly come in conflict. The practical application of the current [teaching] model is that it does not create space or time or ideal energy to make the best work. That’s just the reality.

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

There are different roles the visual arts play in our lives, as creators and as audiences, and a lot of people can engage with the visual arts and benefit from the creative process and how it affects their day-to-day approach to navigating their lives. And then there’s the question of: What role the visual artist plays in attempting to reach a broader audience, and be part of a broader conversation. That’s always up for debate, and always evolving. In the best scenarios, those individuals help us to understand what it means to be human, and to understand what our value systems and belief constructs are; and help us think about how we’re navigating the world. That’s pretty lofty, but I think, at best, what the visual arts, what other arts, can do.

You’re not creating work that attempts to be photographic in its precision. You’re creating work that provides people with a visual of how you’re interpreting the world. Lots of times, people who work in the visual arts see things differently, or see different things, and give viewers an opportunity to think about, for instance, the start beauty of a black-and-white landscape in the winter.

There is a certain satisfaction or joy that comes from being able to replicate a photograph. My goal is not to replicate a photograph. Photography and optical image projection, for me, are all tools. The image I ultimately create is a personal reflection.

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

Personally, one of the principles guiding my choice of colors, is the physiological effect color can have on us. Very often, the reactions a viewer is having to the colors in my work are connected to the types of experiences I’m trying to reference in the first experience of a location or a place. It might not be initially evident. Another thing that comes into a number of my landscapes is this idea of the intersection or interaction of our ordering of the world around us, and the natural logo or structure it pushes back with, and the dynamic balance — or lack of balance — between those two. There’s so many different ways to get at that.

On your website, you talked about direct observation: “ … my studies with Stanley Lewis at Dartmouth College and Chautauqua School of Art instilled in me the importance of direct observation, and introduced me to the amazing range of potential expression within this tradition.” Elucidate.

We can create space, and a sense of place completely from our imagination. Or, through strict adherence to shapes and colors that we observe directly. One of things I appreciated about Stanley was his commitment to going outside every day and working on a painting for two months straight, through changing weather and light conditions, and attempting to bring that experience into a single image — that was this condensation of time. My first exposure to folks going outdoors to paint was the Impressionists, and a lot of that work was really quick. To see this range of folks going out to experience the landscape directly, to capture their experience of it directly, for me that was a real revelation.

Why is there benefit in directly experiencing something?

I see value in personal, authentic, individual processing of then world around us rather than consuming what we’re told to consume.

How does Northern Michigan inform and/or find its way into your work?

I moved to Northern Michigan in 2018 from Los Angeles, and I arrived here with really fresh eyes. I wasn’t familiar with the landscape. I wasn’t familiar with the light. I wasn’t familiar with the history of [the place] and how the space had built up. It was a real joy, and it has been a real joy, being here, responding to that, taking it in for the first time. I’m actually noticing now, as I become more familiar with it, that’s become harder to do; and I’m going to have to change my approach in some way to keep the work, or the way I respond to it, fresh. But that took a good five years or so before I began to feel that. One of the things I’ve enjoyed about moving to different parts of the country, and seeing different parts of the world over the past 20 year, each time you land somewhere, you’re able to look at it with fresh eyes. I’ve found that that’s really important to learning how to look honestly. For me, it’s about true discovery, and authentically analyzing, thinking about, and interpreting in a way that is often unexpected, [as opposed to] digesting something in way you’re told to digest it.

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

Oddly, or not oddly, Frank Stella. I discovered his work in high school. His work, formally, I admired; but also, the lasting impression comes from the very dramatic way his work evolved into different pursuits over time — starting as a formal minimalist working his way into something of a maximalist and working from very flat images to 3D sculptural work. Just as a role model, with the variety of work an individual’s career over time can embody — that’s stuck with me. That ties back to the question of: What do you do when somebody knows you as doing this thing, and you start doing that thing? There are some people, from an early age, I admired in their ability to follow their pursuits authentically even if it meant confusing expectations.

To whom do you go when you need honest feedback?

I’m always trying to expand the range of people I can get honest feedback from. I tend to lean on the friends I went to grad school with, and mentors who I studied with, and close friends. Those tend to be the people I can ask, Take a look at this, what do you think? Ask me some tough questions. Or, let me know when you think something is not working. I enjoy when a good friend will call out that they don’t like what I’m doing, or it doesn’t work. I usually respond to that better. It’s a challenge to articulate why I made the decisions I made, and to figure out if I’m going to push further into that until it’s doing what I want it to do. Or, abandon something.

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

In the ideal world exhibiting artwork is, selfishly, a way for me to get real-world feedback from people about how they’re reacting to the work, and what they get from it. Sometimes that happens. I get the best feedback when I’m in-person with the work, doing a gallery walk-through and giving people additional context about the work. You really only get that through an exhibition space. I have my studio set up partially like an exhibition space, but there’s a lot more variables having your work out in the real world not knowing whose going to come into the gallery or art center and see it.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I try to expose myself constantly to other people’s work, and keep it dialed in so I’m not overwhelmed, but able to challenge myself through other people’s work as much as possible. The other thing I’ve found is really important is making sure I make time for other things — physical activity, athletics, just getting outside and wandering and giving myself time to not have to talk to other people. Just being in your head and letting yourself wander are important aspects of being able to foster creativity.

What drives your impulse to make?

I think it’s to find shared meaning and shared understanding. At it’s core, that’s the impulse to make — which is to put something out into the world, and find someone who says, Oh yeah! Or: I didn’t see it that way. At the end of the day, it’s a social activity, even if done in isolation.

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Learn more about Justin Shull here.

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

Carolyn Swift, 66, is the visual art version of living [well, making] large. Her collages — a melange of materials, and techniques — can measure as wide as 60″. And across all that surface is a feast of marks, color, texture, raised elements that explore collage beyond its humble cut-and-paste foundations. It has been “a long journey” for Swift, out of an urban life, onto Northern Michigan, and into the “world’s best studio” where she contemplates the sound of the wind, and tries to figure out a way to make it visible with paper, colored pencil, paint and glue.

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

Pictured: Carolyn Swift

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

I make large-scale works on paper. They are collage and relief. The collage pieces are made from a combination of things: painting, from prints — that would include old prints of mine, and other people’s I know.

Talk about why you make your own materials — as opposed to, for instance, shopping for commercially-produced papers.

It’s about control. When I make these pieces, I’m looking for a particular mark making. If I find some [commercially-produced paper], I’ll buy it and build on it. For example, I use some Japanese papers that have fibers in them, and that has a particular movement to it, which I’ll build on with painting and printing.

Using materials you’ve created allows you to bring a distinctive visual signature to the work.

Yes. I have a good friend who has a printmaking and painting background. She was getting rid of a huge stash of her old prints, which have a very different quality than my own — as far as the color and the layering. A whole different feel to them. It’s fun to explore adding my “signature” to her “signature” and see what comes up from that. I’ve loved that process.

How are you making your prints?

I am using old woodcut boards that I’ve had since the 1980s. When I got out of grad school, and moved to the Detroit area, I was doing a series of large-scale woodcut prints, and I still have all those boards. I print off of sections of those. I’ve enjoyed this. I see threads that have run between then and now, things that I’m intrigued with, or mark making I have been using.

You work in a large format.

Yes. And I’m going to do that as long as I can. The pieces I have been working on for a while now are shaped, not on a rectangular base. When I frame [work] the largest piece is 40” tall by 60” wide.

Why do you work at such a large scale?

I have chosen a large format because the scale creates a particular relationship between the piece and the viewer, different than, say, something small that one could hold in one’s hands, or larger, like a wall-sized piece or installation. I think of the scale as almost 1:1, our size to an object that while not exactly the same size, has a “presence” that feels almost the same. I think it is more apparent in the vertical pieces, as opposed to the horizontal pieces.

And by “shaped” you mean what? 

The edge of the piece is not a rectangle. The shapes themselves create the edge of the piece.

What does working in collage allow you to do that you can’t do in other media?

It has opened up a huge world for me, and that world has primarily been being able to experiment without committing. When I make these pieces, I start off on a large piece of paper and I draw a tentative composition. Then I’ll make pattern pieces using transparent paper. I’ll then pull out a printed piece set it on that spot and block it off.

Are you a scissors or X-acto Knife person?

Generally scissors, but it depends. I did a whole piece that was based on the breakup of ice in Grand Traverse Bay — when it used to freeze. They were very intricate pieces cut with an X-acto Knife. But generally, I use scissors or a mat knife.

And, adhesive of choice?

Acrylic gel medium. It’s a tremendous adhesive, and it’s waterproof. The downside of that is because it’s water-based, and the base paper I’m using is unsized printmaking [paper], it will buckle. I’ve solved that by taping my paper to a wooden board. It dries flat.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I have a BFA from Albion College [1980] with a focus on drawing and printmaking. Then I received an MFA in printmaking from Indiana University [1983].

How has your formal training influenced or informed your practice?

There was a foundation of knowledge that I got at the undergrad level, from two professors, regarding formal elements — composition, line, shape. From both of them, there was such an emphasis on nuance. I drew easily. I didn’t have any problem drawing things representationally, but to take it to the next level, and think about the nuances of the relationships — that was the huge one, as well as the passion for art. In my schooling I really learned much, technically (representational drawing skills particularly). What has taken me much longer to learn is how to convey qualities about something or some experience, and that involves nuance. For example, how does one convey the power of a thunderstorm? For me it involves very particular colors, shapes, rhythms, etc that are different from trying to convey, say, the power of a blizzard. Being able to keep searching for the particulars, that is what I learned really well through my schooling in drawing and printmaking.

The graduate world was more of a negative experience. Without going into a long rant, I didn’t find a whole lot of support from the professors. The professors were more neglectful. I went from being really supported in undergraduate school to being dropped off into the deep end in grad school. There were things I was struggling with in the work, and I got no guidance. If anything, from graduate school, I learned a lot from the art history classes I took.

What ways did all this schooling prepare you for being a practicing artist?

Being well-prepared visually, and motivated by things other than grades. [Those factors] give one the [chance to ask], Why are you doing this at all? The other piece that is a challenge for anybody in the arts is, when you need time to do artwork, how do you reconcile that with everything else: making a living, if you have a partner or kids. It’s a real challenge to find that balance.

How did you reconcile it in your own life?

It was a long journey. Needing to be financially self-sufficient, I stumbled into teaching. I didn’t get an art education degree. And I really enjoyed teaching. That was two-birds-with-one-stone for me: being able to teach and stay in art that way. It wasn’t until I left teaching 12 years ago that I had the unfettered time I needed to devote to the work. I’d never experienced that.

[Another strategy was to keep] an art journal. Whatever I’d notice, I’d jot down, and that has been invaluable — to see [for instance] that something I was thinking about 15 years ago, I’m still thinking about.

When did you teach, and whom did you teach?

My first 10 years out of graduate school, and this was in the Detroit area, I did a whole host of part-time gigs — from college teaching at the Center for Creative Studies [now College for Creative Studies], I taught in their extension program, both adults and kids. I got certified to teach in public school, and I ended up for 17 years teaching in Clarkson [Michigan]. I was hired along with two other people to form an elementary art program [pre-kindergarten through fifth grade] because they did not have one. I left in the fall of 2012. I moved from metro Detroit and moved up here.

Describe your studio.

The best studio I’ve ever had. [Located in her Traverse City, Michigan home], it’s a lower level walk out. There’s some daylight. The biggest thing is that there’s space. I need oodles of space. When I’m making these pieces, I lay out all the possibilities from my collage [papers] stash. It looks like an explosion in there. It’s a finished space, a heated space, a lit space. There’s a storage space. And when I go to move these pieces, I can walk outside as opposed to trying to angle a 40” x 60” frame up the stairs and around the corners.

What themes are the focus of your work?

It all stems from nature. To be more specific, my relationship with nature. It’s not just a portrayal with nature. It’s the transitory nature of things, ephemeral qualities — predictable changes like seasons, but also unpredictable ones. I would like someone looking at the work to feel, even though it’s a static image, that if you turned away and turned back, something would have changed. Changing light, changing temperature, clouds, I’ve always been deeply affected by that.

Your work is not representational.

It’s a mix. There are elements that are very concrete. Then there are others that suggest that quality. It isn’t about the exact look of things. It’s about their qualities. For example: There are woods behind this house, so the wind in the leaves is this incredible sound. I’m trying to figure out how to represent that. But to make it also, so a viewer could pick up on the fact [what they’re seeing] is a sound that comes from leaves in trees. It’s a hybrid, tricky territory that’s fun to explore the options — not having the leaves be green, for example; but exploring what other colors might show the qualities.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

It’s always about an event, something I’ve experienced. This piece I’m working on now, about the wind in the trees, was prompted by my windows open at night, and this incredibly beautiful sound and feel. I’ll write that down. It takes me a while to make these pieces, so I’ll sit with that for a while and see if that intensity of an experience fades, or stays, and keeps coming back and nagging me to remember this. I walk a lot, and when I walk some ideas will grab my attention. I’m not consciously looking for something.

The making part of your process is also slow?

Yes. Increasingly. For two reasons. One is that what I’m doing now is not just using colored, collage pieces, but a relief aspect. I build up the surface on various levels with foam core, or two layers of mat board, so that surface shifts. Technically, on the scale I’m working, and in my 60s, having the endurance in my hand to cut mat board in the intricate way takes a while. The other thing is I spend a lot of time in the process: I put down a piece, I block it, I lift the pattern piece, I look at it. I might spend a whole day just doing that; and, then all the steps [of assembling the composition]. Generally, not always, I end up drawing on them.

Is the process as important as the product to you?

Hugely. For me, it’s not just about making a thing. It also shapes how I interact with the world. I’m hoping to transfer that in the pieces, so they don’t look like a static view of one thing. The pieces are an event that are in the process of changing.

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

No. One reason is I just don’t have the space — it would take a warehouse. The other reason is once I’m hooked into an idea, my brain is really just into that mode until I resolve that piece, and then I can move on. I was a huge multi-tasker when I was teaching — I had to be — and it wore me down to a nub. The process, if I’m really paying attention to it, forces me to be present with it as it is. I encountered this in teaching. I think it’s important to impart this to students, who naturally are about the process. I encountered huge resistance from the powers-that-be in public school because they really just wanted to see nice projects. It’s important for kids to explore in a validated way the process: try this, try that, we’ve made mistakes, what can we do? I don’t think they have a whole lot of room to do that anymore.

What’s your favorite tool?

Prismacolor pencils. They’re such a minimal part of my work. My first love is drawing. What you can do with the nuances and subtlety of color layering that you can do with Prismacolor pencils, especially on top of an already colored surface, is pretty amazing.

Why is making by hand important to you?

When I look at artwork, I’m always looking for who is the artist? Why did they go to the time and trouble of making something? What is their visual signature? Can you get that digitally? Yes. That is a form of hand making, but I like the direct connection between something in your hand and the marks that are made from it, which can only be made by a hand directly into the material. I’ve always like the physicality of it. There’s no substitute for that experience for me.

Do you think that working by hand remains valuable in modern life?

More than ever. The digital world, the AI world can duplicate things. The handmade and the experience of it — not just the product of it — is about humanity. It’s really easy for individuals and humanity to get lost. I’m really looking for things that have always been there, that we’re hardwired for. That hand connection to material is always going to be there. It’s a deep part of us.

Working with your hands is a direct experience. Tapping a keyboard and telling a machine to do something is an abstracted experience.

Yes. There’s a separation. We are in trouble in this world in part because of that lack of a direct connection. We need physicality. Someone asked me once if I thought you could have as strong a connection with nature by looking at Google Images? It’s not a substitute. There’s no substitute for all the sense being involved, so I think it crucial, more than ever: If we don’t have that full, rich sensory connection to the world, then it’s diminished. And when it’s diminished, it’s not valued, and then there’s no stewardship.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

Right after I got out grad school. There I was, without having to produce [school assignments], and that was my moment of, Do I want to keep doing this, and what does that mean? It was a very conscious choice for me.

Talk about the role social media plays in your practice.

I don’t do any social media. So, zero. I have a website, and that’s as far as I’m willing to go. For me, it’s a bigger picture of social media. Could more people see my work? Yes, that’s true; but, in general, even if I wasn’t an artist, I wouldn’t do much social media. I’m really troubled by much of it, as far as the companies who run it, and the data gathering. I’m really leery. I’ve not gone down that path. It’s a question of who’s benefiting from my use of social media.

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

That’s a challenge these days. I think the visual artist’s role is to bear witness: Here I am in the world, here’s what I value, and I want to see if others can connect with that. When I think about the role of painting and sculpture and photography 150 years ago, they were the social media. Think about when [Igor] Stravinski’s Rite of Spring was performed, it caused a riot. The idea of a piece of art moving people that strongly, I think that day has passed. At the same time, art’s function is still huge. It’s easy for people to get lost in this world. To say, I made this thing, I want to be a connector with the people — it’s not just about me expressing but connection with other people as well. That’s a deep human need that, I hope, won’t go away.

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

I would connect that to a bigger picture of trying to show that these experiences are crucial to well being; that these connections provide us with a primordial grounding. I think that’s a message that needs to continuously go out there.

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

I’ve always had this connection with the place, the physicality of it, the energy of it. I was in metro Detroit for 29 years, and that was always a challenge for me. The work that I did then showed that. I did a piece called In Search Of A Horizon. I felt so blocked-in downstate. Back to bearing witness: Here’s my place, here’s my connection with it. I was searching for wider, open spaces. I have family and friends up here. I needed a place that was quiet, where I could see stars, not have to commute 45 minutes each way with crazy drivers and traffic. Northern Michigan checked off all the boxes for me. And, seasonally. I wanted a place with more winter, but that’s starting to change.

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

Before college, no. My family was very supportive. There was always great support of the arts. My mother was an amateur musician. My father went to the University of Michigan on the GI Bill, and studied English literature. It was striking to me that before the war he was preparing to be an engineer. I speculate that he thought, My time on this earth is limited, what do I really want to do?

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

My printmaking/drawing professor Richard Brunkuis. He set me on a path, and it was life altering. The way he approached the complexity and nuance of a piece, that has stayed with me forever.

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

There are two artist friends of mine, one in particular — we were in undergrad together. She’s a painter. We’ve always shared work.

Talk about the role exhibiting plays in your practice.

It’s a critical role for me. I really want to share my pieces in person. There’s such a different experience in-person than online. First of all, because of scale. Especially looking at them on a phone. I have not gone the commercial gallery route. I’ve really gone the route of a lot of art centers. They play a huge role in connecting general populations with artwork. That has been one of my primary motivations. Especially, having taught in the public schools for 17 years, and seeing how little art plays a role in the vast majority of peoples’ lives.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

The biggest thing for me is having time. When I moved up here, I fully intended to substitute teach. But when I started to work [in her studio] full-time, I’d never experienced that in the absence of other obligations. So I taught a little bit, and then I retired. Time is like having oxygen. And having time to set the work aside, and go for a walk on the beach. It’s about being in a place, and being able to know the place in all of its aspects.

What drives your impulse to make?

That’s a mystery. I don’t have the words for that. All I can say is that it’s present. The process is about joy and connection, and I’m really happy it’s still there.

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Learn more about Carolyn Swift here.

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

Northern Michigan is painter Randi Ford’s subject, from Sleeping Bear Dunes to Pictured Rocks. Her work is inspired by these natural places — so much so that the 34-year-old artist moved to Benzie County last summer so she could live and practice where she find artistic and spiritual nourishment. You may already know her work: One of her paintings, Path Through Time, was selected for the Glen Arbor Arts Center’s 2023 Manitou Music poster. Take a look at it here. With her husband, artist Ben Ripley, Randi has merged a last name [she’s Randi RipleyFord] and a life. “Life is art,” she said.

Pictured: Randi Ford

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

I currently work with acrylic paint. I’ve been acrylic painting for the past eight years. I was using gouache, and I also experimented with oil painting. I really loved gouache, but I wanted to paint larger, and not on paper but on canvas. I enjoy acrylic because I can layer, and blend, and create a lot of line work. I figured out how to make it flow well using a flow release.

Define flow release paint.

It’s an additive to mix into the paint, but I put it in a spray bottle.

It makes it easier to move the paint around?

Yes. It keeps it wet longer. A lot of people struggle with acrylic because it dries too quickly. I can also get longer, smoother brush strokes.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

Yes. I first studied art in high school — I didn’t do it until my senior year, and all my classes senior year were art classes. We had a good program there. It’s a small school in Sturgis, Michigan. I went to Grand Valley [State University] and received my BFA in Illustration [2012], but I also touched on painting. For my senior show I did a combination of illustrative landscapes themed on the seasons of Michigan; and a series of abstract landscapes in oil.

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

I think college helped with creating work — we had to do so many different assignments that pushed us to develop our skills. And then, executing your vision and completing the projects helped me be able to do that on my own after I graduated. I learned how to lay out timelines, and set deadlines.

Describe your studio.

Right now I don’t have a full studio. It’s in process because we just moved up North. I have been working out of my home studio for 10 years in Grand Rapids. I had it in the basement. Then I moved into a room upstairs. In my studio I have an easel, a paint station, speakers for music, plants, stones, art objects, a few of my paintings as well — I like to create a peaceful, beautiful space. My computer and my iPad are there. I use my iPad to develop paintings, and I work from that developed image when I’m not painting outdoors.

When did you move North?

I live now in Beulah [Randi and her husband, hand engraver Ben Ripley, moved in August 2023]. I’ve been wanting to live in Northern Michigan since I started coming up here [to paint] in 2014. I’ve been getting inspiration up here, and in the Upper Peninsula. My work is inspired by these natural places. We found a home in Beulah surrounded by state land. My studio is a walk-out from the basement that overlooks the woods and the front yard. We’re putting in a slider with windows, so I’ll have a lot of natural light. His studio will be in the garage.

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

I was first drawn to nature, to paint it — I had an innate desire to replicate it, to show its beauty and wonder. Then I started working with different nature conservancies in West Michigan to create art for their [fundraising]. They [the Land Conservancy of West Michigan] have an art show called Preserved! to raise money for the nature conservancies [including Flower Creek Dunes Nature Preserve, The Highlands and Saul Lake Bog, all preserves in the Grand Rapids area]. My work allows people to appreciate the natural landscape, and hopefully want to restore their landscape or protect natural areas. That was part of my mission for my work — bringing the beauty of the landscape, and to help move forward people’s mindset of what a landscape should be. There’s also a spiritual part to the work. The desire to paint was a spiritual pulling. I feel that I’m called to bring beauty and light to others through my work.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

First, it’s prompted by my different hikes in nature. It starts with the subject matter and the awe I feel, and trying to replicate that in the composition. I’ll go through my photos [taken during the hike], and find the images that create the most honest spirit to paint.

Your process involves being out in the natural world. Do you feel that directly experiencing these things comes through your paintings?

Yes. Part of it is the feeling I have when I’m in those spaces. There was only one time I referenced an image online. All the rest of the work is done from my own experience. Whatever drew me to capture that through my photograph, that’s what I want to express. I’ll try to show the spirit of the life in the plants in nature, making them feel more alive than just [representing them on canvas].

What’s your favorite tool?

The camera. But I also like to use Photoshop — I’ll it to design the scenes a little more, and edit the photos before I start painting. For painting, I use only two brush styles: the flat brush, which is squared [for line work], and round brushes to do tiny details.

Before Photoshop was invented, how would you develop the composition? Has Photoshop always been a part of your practice?

It has. Sometimes I don’t [run the photo through Photoshop]. I’ll just take the photograph, and start painting directly on the canvas. Sometimes I’ll sketch things out — I used to draw a lot for my illustrations, which I stopped doing when I got more into my painting. Sometimes I’ll do that to get the composition down. I don’t take my iPad out there.

You came of age when computerization was taking over hand work.

I was in high school when all this digital stuff was happening.

Do you have any thoughts on why making things by hand is important? 

I do think that making things by hand is very important, and that’s why I won’t fully go into digital art. I use that as a tool to make my paintings better. Digital things separate people. [The connection] isn’t real life. It’s in the digital world. I can’t use the computer too much. I get hand pain in my nerves. So, I’ve made it a practice not to be on my phone or computer too much. I take breaks. I think handmade art work has more spirit in the piece. It comes to life more. There’s more of spiritual essence to the piece. If you printed out a painting online, there’s not life or emotion that you can feel. The emotive energy that is put into the piece is actually felt more in the handmade process.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

I did that right after I graduated. I didn’t want to get a “normal” job. If I get a “normal” job, I’m going to be giving up my time and energy, and putting that into a job I’m going to leave. I’ll have to catch up. So, it’s now or never to pursue my art career. Right after, I started creating as much as I could. I had a few part-time jobs where I was balancing that side-by-side, but, eventually I was able to let go of the part-time jobs that were preventing me from doing what I wanted to do with my art. I’ve been full-time since 2017.

What kinds of part-time jobs were you working? 

I worked at Jared’s, the [national chain] jewelry store. I was interested in jewelry making, and I learned how to connect with clients. I almost wanted to work as a bench jeweler, but I worked there seasonally and learned how to work with clients. I was kind of shy, and that helped me open up to strangers. And then I worked at LaFontsee Galleries [closed in 2022] in Grand Rapids in an internship. That got me more familiar with the gallery side of things, and I was using my digital skills to help them. They started carrying my work after I’d worked there for three months. I showed with them for a few years, and I was also showing in art festivals, which I wanted to do more — as well as [find representation] in galleries up North since I was painting up North. I also taught at Grand Valley for a year-and-a-half, teaching 2-D design. That was a great learning opportunity for me to teach students directly, and helped me to learn more about what I was doing by teaching that to students. I gave that up. It was a lot of work for not much money. I could make one painting in less time, and make about the same amount of money as an adjunct professor.

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

I’m not the best at social media. I wanted to use it to connect with people and gain followers who wanted to see my work. Now I use it as a gallery space. When I have something new, I’ll post it to keep people updated. I don’t want to post all the time. It distracts me from my art. It’s a trap. You have to be learning all the new things all the time. That’s a whole other job, social media.

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

The goal with living up here was to live among the places I paint. I’ve lived in the city since I graduated from college, and moved to Grand Rapids [Michigan]. I was coming up North all the time. I lived down there, but I’d be up here for showings, to get inspiration. Once a relationship I had ended there, I decided I wasn’t going to stay in Grand Rapids anymore. There wasn’t any point to it. My family’s not [in Grand Rapids]. A lot of my friends moved away. I’ve had a lot of signs [telling her] to move up here. When I moved up here, everything fell into place. I’m hoping to connect more with other plein air painters; to get more inspiration to make stronger pieces.

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

My grandmother wasn’t a professional artist, but she did create art her whole life. She was beautiful gardener. Cooking was an art for her. Her house was very colorful. She like to collect antiques. She didn’t paint landscapes, but did more expressive things. My dad is an industrial designer — he designs finials, the decorative end pieces for curtain rods. One of my mom’s friends made copper fountains, and sold them at art fairs. She’s how I learned about art fairs. My mom had a booth at the Shipshewana Flea Market selling antiques. I helped her, when I was young, to set up her booth.

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

[Randi mentions a number of teacher she studied with in college, as well as Northern Michigan painter] Margo Burian — I went to her, and she mentored and encouraged me, and talked to me about the art business.

Talk about the role of creating a body of work.

Creating a body of work means I’m creating a series of paintings. Each time I create a body of work it will be a little different than the last. The way I paint it changes.

So, you’re creating a group of paintings that have some relationship to one another? And when you show them, they all hold together as a unified idea?

Yes. The paintings will have the same kind of look because I create them in the same time frame.

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

I go to Ben. I have a problem reaching out to people and asking for help. A lot of times, I critique myself; but then I’ll go to Ben. My dad’s a good critique-er. He has critiqued me throughout my lifetime, and pushed me to do better.

You exhibit your work at art fairs. When I was a more frequent visitor and exhibitor at art fairs, the exhibitors generally seemed to be older. I wondered why there weren’t more young people going this route. Talk about your experience.

Yes. I’ve been doing a combination of that and showing at art galleries. [Randi and Ben will] have a space in the future, in the barn down the road from the house, where we’ll have a gallery space. [Exhibiting at] art fairs is a way I can connect with people and share my work directly. Through galleries, you give your work to [the gallerist], and you really don’t have any way to connect with the people who are seeing the work. I like to know the people who are collecting my art work. It’s important for me.

When you’re standing in your art fair booth, you’re directly connected with the people who are looking at your work.

That’s part of it. I used to interact with people more, but now I sit off on the sideline to allow them to look at the work. I pay attention to [detect] if they want to communicate with me about the work. Or, if they’re looking at it, I’ll give them my message. I’ll have longer, deeper conversations with anyone who is looking my work, to make a deeper connection. I continue to have a relationship with them afterward through my newsletter.

Do you feel like an anomaly? Are you usually the youngest exhibitor at an art fair? 

I have been the youngest for a long time. I think there are more younger artists who are starting to show. But mostly it’s older people. I’ve overheard people talking about that at art fairs. They want younger people to start coming in. They were saying that art fairs might die if we don’t get the younger generation involved. A lot of [older exhibitors] are starting to retire. But it’s harder for younger artists to get in because the art work needs to be of high quality to get into art fairs, and younger artist might not have the body of art.

How did you learn the ins and out of being an art fair exhibitor?

I started exhibited at church craft shows. And then I moved onto the [Fulton Street] farmers market in Grand Rapids. They have a craft show every Sunday. I slowly started learning about other art fairs from exhibitors there. I looked at other artists’ booths that I thought were strong. I used to have an E-Z Up tent, and then I invested in a Light Dome, and it looks more professional. Now, Ben and I are going to be showing together.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

Listening to music. I listen to music a lot when I paint. I also hike, and go on nature walks. That clears my mind. Nature inspires me, and then I get inspired to painting. Painting [brings on] a peaceful state for me, where I feel connected to spirit.

What is in in the world that drives your impulse to make?

It’s my nature. I just want to create beauty: a beautiful space, a beautiful life. Life is art.

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Learn more about Randi Ford here.

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

 

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

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

Pictured [left]: Judith Shepelak

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Describe the medium in which you work.

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

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

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

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

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

How did you start using colored pencil? 

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

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

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

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

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

Talk your studio space.

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

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

How does your studio space facilitate your work?

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

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

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

What prompted the introduction of figures into your work?

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

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

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

Why does the political work get abstracted?

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

What’s your favorite tool?

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

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

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

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

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

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

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

What role does social media play in your practice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

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

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

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

What drives your impulse to make?

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

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Learn more about Judith Shepelak here.

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

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

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

Pictured: Carrie Betlyn-Eder

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Describe the medium in which you work.

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

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

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

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

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

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

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

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

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

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

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

Describe your studio space.

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

What’s your favorite tool?

It’s either my hands or my eyes.

Why is making by hand important to you?

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

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

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

What role does social media play in your practice?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the role of the exhibiting in your practice?

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

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

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

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

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

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

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

What drives your impulse to make?

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

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Learn more about Carrie Betlyn-Eder here.

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