Category: Creativity Q+A

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

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

Pictured: Margo Burian

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Describe the medium in which you work.

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

How is collage worked into your paintings?

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

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

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

How do workshops address, and advance your need?

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

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

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

Describe your studio/work space.

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

Describe the Leelanau County studio you rent?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

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

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

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

 Do you work in a series?

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

What’s your favorite tool?

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about the role social media plays in your practice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

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

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

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

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

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

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

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

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

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

What drives your impulse to make? 

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

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Learn more about Margo Burian here.

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

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

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

Pictured left: Alice Moss

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

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

Are you working from photographs? Or, from recollections?

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

Why don’t you work from photographs?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

Pictured left: Matt Schlomer circa 1996.

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What draws you to the saxophone?

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

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

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

Because she saw great, musical potential in you?

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

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

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

Do the two art forms complement one another?

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

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

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

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

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

NOTE: Watch a short video of Matt conducting here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does the Sound Garden Project fall under the collaborative umbrella?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you fuel and nurture your creativity?

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

What drives your impulse to make music?

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

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Learn more about Matt Scholmer here. And, here.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

Left: Nancy Crisp

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Describe the medium in which you work.

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

What is it about acrylic that speaks to you?

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

Tell me about your formal training in visual art.

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

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

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

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

Describe your studio/work space.

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

How does your studio space facilitate your work?

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

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

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

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

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

What prompts a change in your focus?

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

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

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

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

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

What’s your favorite tool?

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

Do you use a sketchbook, or a work journal?

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

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

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

What role does social media play in your practice?

Probably none.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the role of the exhibition in your practice?

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

Why do you want to exhibit your work?

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

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

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

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

No. It’s not.

How do you nurture and fuel your creativity?

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve always built things. I’ve been a maker since I was a little kid,” said Leelanau County artist Larry Fox, 69. And the things he has built — sculptural constructions in Poplar and Baltic Birch — have found their way into homes and corporate settings across the US. A veteran of the art fair circuit, Fox has traveled far and wide with his trailer full of work inspired by architectural shapes, cracks in the parking lot pavement, and what he discovers when he falls into a creative pothole. Fox’s work is all about dimensional shape. “I’m attracted to dimension,” he said. And it was dimension that brought him and his family to Northern MIchigan in 1989.

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

Pictured left: Larry Fox

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You work in a sculptural form using wood.

Yes. Three-dimensional forms that are constructed out of wood, and primarily painted — as the finish.

And there are always lots of interesting marks on the surfaces of your sculptures.

A lot of that is a painting technique called dry brushing. I learned that from working on movie sets. It’s a loose type of painting. I also use colored pencils to enhance [the surface design] a little bit.

When did you work on movie sets, and where?

Mostly in Detroit. Small independents. Then I worked on a few big features around the country [including The Abyss, Tiger Town, and Stardust]. I was doing fine woodworking at the time — making furniture and building additions. This was in the 80s and 90s.

What draws you to working in wood , and working with wood in a sculptural way?

I can manipulate wood to satisfy my curiosity. My father had a shop, and as a young kid I was in the shop all the time. He was very giving about me playing around in there. That’s where [his interest in] wood came from — and the fact that it’s a natural material — as opposed to metal. I don’t find other materials attractive. Wood is warm. It’s growing. I love trees. The three-dimensional aspect: I’ve always been attracted to dimension. I grew up in Detroit, and it was totally flat. That’s one reason why I’m in Leelanau County: There’s some dimension to [the landscape]. I’ve been thinking about transitioning to painting as I get older, and I haven’t made that leap yet — because of the dimensional aspect …

It’s flat.

It’s flat!

What physical effects are you feeling that makes you consider leaping ship, and going to painting?

Getting out of bed every day. My body’s starting to hurt. I used to do a lot of really-big work [e.g. a 50 foot-long installation for GE Medical, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in 2006]. I’ve curtailed that. I’m doing more bench work. I still have the desire [to work large], but not the energy.

Did your dad let you run power tools?

Oh, yeah. I was lucky I never did anything really bad. I would always take the tools, and try to push them: What can I do with this as opposed to just doing what you’re supposed to do? I would always push. I do that with my work.

You don’t allow yourself to be hemmed in by either the materials or the tools, or the conventional expectations of what both of those things can do.

To a degree, I do. You have to respect the materials and the tools. Every time you approach a power tool you have to be on your game. I appreciate that aspect of it. At the same time, the other side of my brain is going, What can you do with this that’s different? 

Did you receive any formal training in visual art? 

I studied architecture for two years at Lawrence Tech. And then I went to the College For Creative Studies in industrial design. And then I got a degree from Wayne State in art education [1979]. I also went to Penland, and Haystack, which are craft schools. And an internship out in Canada at the Banff Art Center.

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

It definitely contributed to my ability to use my talents.

It sounds like you may have learned a lot in the doing.

Yes. I would say mostly in the doing.

Describe your studio/work space.

It’s in a pole barn, and is a 24 feet by 24 feet. I have a room for painting and drawing. It’s 150 feet from my house. Half of it’s heated. When I first moved in, it did not have windows. I remember coming back from a funeral [25 years ago], and I said, I’ve got to put a window in that shop. So, I got a big window from somebody who was ripping down a big house. It overlooks all these pine trees, and it’s beautiful.

How does your studio/work space facilitate your work?

I’ve had six or seven studios in my life, everything from a garage to a studio in Suttons Bay [Michigan]. It can make it easier; but the actual work? It really doesn’t matter. You’ve got to have natural light. You’ve got to be relatively comfortable. But you can adapt to anything. 

What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?

A primary idea is one based on observation, [observing] form, pattern. If I see something — let’s say it’s a crack in the sidewalk, and I’ll say, That’s amazing. I’ll eventually interpret that [observation] into a piece. Sometimes I’ll want to tell a story, whether it’s political or human relations. There’s an architectural interest. I get ideas walking in the woods. There’s natural phenomena. There’s man-made phenomena. Pretty much everything.

It’s like you’re always punched in.

You are. It’s amazing. The key is, as soon as you see something, you’ve got to jot it down. You’ve got to sketch it on a piece of paper or wood. Then you put it away, and say, Someday I’ll make that.

I’m interested that you jot down inspirations. Cameras are ever present these days. Are you still a pencil-and-paper guy?

Oh yeah. Give me a legal pad and a Sharpie, and I’m happy. The pencil issue: I’ve always loved drawing. Even now, I don’t spend a lot of time drawing; but I do sketch out my work. Loosely. I’ve always loved that physicality of the pencil on the paper, and that texture of the paper is important. There’s a great joy to sit down and just draw some ideas down: That’s one of my favorite things to do.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

First you have to have the idea, the concept [and ask yourself] How am I going to interpret that concept in a physical form? You have to ask yourself what you want to say. What is this piece about? Is this a form piece? Or does it mean something? What is it? You take that thought pattern, and interpret into the shapes. I draw the piece as I build it. I see the piece graphically as I’m making it. And, sometimes I build and see that it’s not working, so I cut it in half, and now it works: You can’t always see it right away.

You work in wood. It takes a little courage to chop things up. Wood is a lot harder to put back together than a couple pieces of paper or fabric.

Not really. There is a little bit of a [psychologic] barrier. You try to talk yourself into [settling for a composition that doesn’t work by saying]: That’s OK. That looks pretty good. But you keep coming back to: That’s not OK. And so you go: I gotta do it. But you don’t want to do it because you’ve already put the time and effort into building it, and you know it’s not right.

Sometimes I see that as an opportunity to have a new creative thought. It ejects you from the path you were on, which is saying, You’re going in this direction. But then you hit a pothole.

And, sometimes, those potholes are fantastic. They make the piece. Sometimes your initial concept of the piece doesn’t quite work. It’s always about: How am I going to make this piece work? It’s not a black and white thing.

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

Rarely. I can’t multitask very well — unless it’s a process I have to let sit, and then I’ll go onto something else.

What’s your favorite tool?

Bandsaw.

Why’s that?

The freedom of it.

It’s a scary tool, with a band of sharp, fast-moving metal.

You always have to have your hands away from the blade. What that tool can do is incredible. It’s a blade and you can play with it. A lot of things I work on aren’t perfectly straight. There was time when that was different, but now my work is a lot looser.

Why is making things by hand important to you?

It’s key. Every time you make something, you’re creating something — whether it’s a chair or a table or a house. You had this idea, and you process it, and you make the thing. It’s an over-and-over cycle of burden. Here’s this new thing. It’s incredible.

Why does making by-hand remain valuable and vital to modern life?

From the beginning of time, it’s a human thing to use your hands — whether you’re gathering food, or you’re making a piece of art. I think a lot of people lose it, forget about it. But I think every human has that desire to make things.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

I did my student teaching, and I thought, I like making things better than teaching. As far as committing to it, after college I thought about being a self-employed woodworker. There was no [precipitating] event, but I had to make money, so I was going to do what I loved to do. I always dabbled in other things — film, film sets — but the other side of that, I was always making something — whether it was with 20 people or by myself.

 What role does social media play in your practice?

A website is the beginning of that. You have to have a website. The website connects people with your work that would never see it, and is a reference once they have an interest in it. Other than that, if I’m doing a show, my social media director — who is my daughter [Lindsey, 31, also a visual artist] — she does all the [social media promotional] stuff on Instagram.

Do you use social media to tell the world about your work, or look for inspiration?

No. I try to stay off it. I have to admit that I’m as curious as the next person, and sometimes you see stuff that’s really cool. But I don’t like going there.

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

People who make things, artists, they can show me things I might not even think of. [They] broaden your view of the world, and [they] open up a bigger picture.

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

Living up here allows me to have a lot of time to pursue the work I want to do, uninterrupted, and a low-key, very low-key, lifestyle. It [allows him] to clear my head, and have a clean palette to work with. Lots of times, you end up living where you went on vacation as a kid. I came up north on vacation when I was a kid. I grew up in Detroit, so I also have a big-city fix I have to satisfy every so often. When I did more [art fairs] I used to get that satisfied. Now, [his life] is a little isolated as I get older. It’s very quiet up here in the winter. I gotta get out more.

You’ve shown your work on the air fair circuit for decades. What kind of job is that for a guy to have?

The beauty of that whole [art fair] world is it allows you to do what you love to do. Now, traveling to the shows and selling the work — I’ve never liked that. I’m introverted. I have to get into my extrovert mode to do that. As a general thing, it’s not my favorite part of the business. 

You get a lot of immediate feedback about your work on the air fair circuit. You come face-to-face with a lot of human beings who are looking at your work.

You have to put on your sales-person hat, and it’s really important what you say and how you present yourself. I can do it occasionally. I like the idea that the work sells itself, but that’s not really true: You have to engage and say the right thing. That’s the part of the business I’m not really crazy about. I’ve struggled with it. I’ve been [working the art fair circuit] for about 30 years now.

Do you exhibit at art fairs year-round? Do you do that trek to Florida to do all the shows in that state?

I used to do it every year, but I’m kind-of done with Florida. I did that for 20 years.

When you were growing up, did you know anyone with a serious, creative practice?

My dad loved making things, but everything was by-the-book. My mom was a Sunday painter. Most people asked me, What are you doing? You can’t be an artist. When are you going to get a real job. I heard that a lot.

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

My heroes, in the historical sense, are Frank Lloyd Wright, Louise Nevelson, the Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava. 

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

At this point, my daughter, Martha [his wife], and my son Jesse [27]. He’s really good with proportion and forms.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice? Do you ever exhibit your work in museum or gallery shows?

Yes. It’s getting eyes on your work.

Tell me how you fuel and nurture your creativity.

I do it by taking hikes, going skiing, reading.

Walking in parking lots looking for cracks in the pavement?

Exactly. I don’t directly try to nurture my creativity. I’ve never had to. It’s hard to answer that. You go through hills and valleys of creativity. Sometimes, when I’m in a valley, I go, I haven’t really thought of any good ideas in the last month. But I don’t go, I’ve gotta do something to nurture it. All of a sudden, there will be another wave. I can’t tell you what promotes that.

You work, mostly, in a non-representational fashion. Why is that the best way for you to execute ideas — as opposed to trying to make something that someone will say, A-ha! That’s a chair!

Whenever I was in drawing class, there were compositions or human forms, and you’re supposed to capture that — the proportions, the feelings. When I make stuff, I don’t want to be tied to [its realism]: That’s a horse, or that’s a hill. I just want to make an interpretation of [an object or subject]. It frees you up. It’s partially due to my limited technical abilities — that’s why I switched from fine woodworking to what I do now. Technically, it’s not that challenging, but artistically, it’s more challenging. It’s a lot more fun. Harder to sell, but it’s a lot more fun.

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Read more about Larry Fox here.

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