Category: Creativity Q+A

Mark Mehaffey relocated to Leelanau County five years ago. He lives in a house that bumps up against the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore — a fitting locale: A large portion of Mark’s work focuses on the landscape, although like so many things in this artist’s life, Mark is a guy whose creative work refuses to be shoehorned into tidy boxes. He moves fluidly between representing the visible world, and working with not-so-representational subjects: marks, lines, scratches, color stories. His practice is less focused on “subjects” than it is on ideas, the “what-if” of them that can take one down a wide range of creative avenues. On Christmas Day this year, Mark will turn 72. “Inside my own head I’m still somewhere between 24 and 26,” he said. Also inside his head are more ideas than he can explore in a single lifetime, he added. It’s a good problem for a visual artist to have.This interview was conducted in October 2022 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured left: Mark Mehaffey

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What’s the medium in which you work. 

Mixed water media. Occasionally collage, but most of the time watercolor, gouache, and acrylic.

Do you consider yourself a painter?

I am a painter who uses watercolor, not a watercolorist.

That’s an interesting distinction. A “watercolorist” is what?

Somebody who relies on what gravity, paint, water, and paper will do all on its own accord.

Is watercolor just another technique/material?

Not just another material, but a material that’s available to me when that’s the best material for any given concept. Rather than allow the media or material to dictate to me what it does, I impose my will upon it.

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I have Bachelor of Fine Arts degree with Honors [1973] from Michigan State University. And a teaching certificate for arts, crafts and psychology.

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

Technically, hardly at all. Psychologically, it was an affirmation that making art, thinking about the arts, staying in [arts-related] education was important.

Describe your studio/work space.

It’s somewhere in the vicinity of 300 or 400 square feet. It’s essentially the whole upstairs of this house. I had a contractor open up the attic space above the main bedroom, and then I took the whole space above the garage as a studio space. It has two sky lights, one window, and enough lighting to make it daylight at night. It’s adequate for what I need to do, maybe a little cramped for large work: I’m currently working on a 48” x 48” collage, and it’s not the same as my previous studio [in Williamston, Michigan, where he resided for 31 years], which was 500 square feet and vaulted ceilings, but it works.

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

I have a current motto based on the way I feel, and listen: Talk less, listen more. My interests, especially when it concerns painting, are broad. What I consider to be valid ideas and concepts for painting, equally broad. I explore lots of different roads, lots of different compartments, and if a tangent occurs to me, I take the time to follow the tangent because you never know where that might lead. If you saw the entire body of my work, and you didn’t know me, you’d probably think it was three or four different artists. Let us not even discuss “subject.” I really don’t approach [his work] as subject. I approach it as content: What is the idea behind the work, or elicits the work? That’s way more important than subject. Subject can be anything: meat, a tree, the sun, it can be sand dunes, right? It’s the idea that drives that work that’s more important. I take any subject and show you the effects of light — light, that’s the content.

Would you like to give an example of an idea you’ve tackled?

Let’s just take “meat” for example. My whole life revolves around my next meal. People who know me know I love to eat. Food is always paramount. Quite a few years ago, as my [late] wife Rosie and I were traveling the world — Europe, Asia, China specifically — and I needed to eat. Other people could avoid food that was too strange or tasted not the way they wanted it to taste. I avoided nothing. I became enamored with the idea of food as a messenger for what we are. I started a whole series of paintings — 12, huge, oversized transparent watercolors in the vicinity of 25” x 37” that visually describes what we eat, trying to make people think why. They range from a close-up of a meat counter, to  barbecued pig hocks, to Atomic FireBalls, the jaw breaker candy, and everything in between.

What prompts the beginning of a project or composition?

An idea. A “what if?” Or, can I say something about this that is unique to the way I do things? Not something that has been said visually before. Or, can I make people think about something they probably should think about? Or, can I tilt the entire world in the direction it needs to be tilted?

How much pre-planning do you do in advance of beginning a new project or composition?

I have two separate approaches [dependent upon whether the work is representational or non-objective]. Let’s just go to the landscape, because of where we live. My house sits right in the middle of the [72,000 acre] Sleeping Bear Dunes Lakeshore. My side yard is part of the lakeshore. I can step out of my house, and be in the woods in about 10 steps. A lot of landscape forms appear in my work. By necessity, time being a factor, some of that’s based on photographic references. If I work from photographic references, then that photograph is distilled in a number of ways to simplify, and get to what I want to say. The photograph is taken with painting in mind. So when I bring the camera up, and look through the view finder, I’m already seeing a rectangular, picture space. That photograph is printed out, and distilled in my sketch book: Forms and shapes are eliminated; I get to the essence of what I really want to say. It’s simplified, and then I make a contour drawing of where I want the shapes to be, and then I — the artist — assign values [the lights and darks] to each of those shapes. Sometimes it’s based on the photograph. Often, it’s based on the way I think it should be rather than the way it is. Once I assign value, then I evaluate that value plan in my sketchbook. If I think it might make an interesting painting, then I might do the painting based on the plan in my sketch book, and I seldom revert to the photograph again.

About half of my work, I don’t start with a plan. I start with an idea. So I jump into the surface, maybe with mark making, maybe with scratchy brush strokes, maybe with a big, overall dominance of one color or value, and then I make the next mark based on that mark, and the next mark based on those two, and the next mark based on those three. It’s more of an intuitive approach, but it’s intuition based on 60-plus years of  painting.

This second way of working is not the route you take when you’re working representationally.

Occasionally, recognizable subject may enter into this work, but most of the time [it’s] non-objective — although I’ve been known to hide social commentary in some of this work, or political messages, or other ideas I’d like people to perceive or think about. Sometimes they’re pure design.

If they’re hidden, how does the viewer perceive them?

Sometimes the viewer will pick up on the hidden messages. Those people who know my work will often look for them, and sometimes they don’t, and I don’t care one way or another because I’m the one getting a chuckle out of it.

You specifically referred to your photographs as “reference.” That indicates that your photographs are another way of gathering information; you’re not taking dictation from the photograph.

The last time I looked, there’s about 57,000 photographs on [his computer’s hard drive]. And, then I have a couple external hard drives that are also full. Each of those photographs was taken for a specific reason at that time. Sometimes it was the effects of light. Sometimes it was how shapes are put together. Sometimes it was the dramatic color or mood. That concept recurs to me as I look at those photographs. Once I have the idea that drives what I want to say visually, then I can expound on that idea — and it’s better for me if I can explore that idea in a smaller sketch book before I attack a painting. I made some decisions, prior to beginning a painting, that are very helpful.

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

Yes I do. My studio’s a trash pit right now. I took some small collages, and did some more, and now I’m blowing these up into 48” x 48”, 40” x 40”, and 48” x 60” giant collages that mimic the 6” x 6” and 6” x 8” collages. That’s been great fun. In addition to that, I’ve just ordered eight, 20” x 20” panels because I have an idea for a landscape series I want to execute in acrylic. Also, laying [in his studio], are five, totally nonobjective paintings that are transparent watercolor and gouache, and I go from one project to the next to the next based on what captures me when I walk in, or what’s in my head when I wake up in the morning.

Do you work in a series?

I do. And the series continues in my head for years, and years, and years. We’ll go back to the food series. That’s been ongoing for 13 years, and I only do two a year. My nonobjective work, think totally abstract — the two terms have become interchangeable recently — that’s pure design. That’s an ongoing project. I usually work on those paintings — eight, 10, 12 paintings at a time. They all get laid out on my two drafting tables, my two work tables, and the floor, and I cycle from one painting to the next, and the next. Eventually one or two might reach some sort of conclusion, and they get separated out, all the rest go back in the flat file until I feel like doing that again.

Clarify the distinctions between “abstract” and “nonobjective.”

Abstract implies that something has been abstracted. This is sometimes based on a recognizable image. Depending on how much the artist distorts – abstracts — this image, it may or may not be recognizable. Once that occurs it pushes into nonobjective (no subject) territory: [There is] no object. My work wanders back and forth, over and around this line. To most people these days, abstract has become the term that covers both.

The purpose of going back and forth between works is that you’ve found another idea to work on in the series to continue the idea forward — true or false?

Yes. It sits there in the small part of my brain, in the background, and will eventually go, Oooh! I can paint this. I can make a series that will make people think about food, and what we eat, and why we eat food. 

What’s your favorite tool?

Brushes. Counting brushes dedicated for watercolor and gouache, and brushes dedicated for acrylic, and brushes dedicated to be abused, the last time I counted it was pushing 400. How many do I actually use? The same seven or eight.

Then, someone might ask why you have so many? 

Every now and again, a specific brush will bring up a past idea, or elicit a future idea, and the what-if happens: What if I did this with this brush instead of that brush? Or, what if I held the brush this way instead of that way? Or, what if I were very delicate with this brush instead of heavy handed? I like brushstrokes, mark making with brushes.

This collection of brushes goes back how far?

To the beginning of time. They probably go back to my late teens, early 20s. I’m hard on brushes. They’re a tool. Just like a computer is a tool. A hammer is tool. A pencil is a tool. They allow you to accomplish what you need to accomplish. Eventually, if you use the tools, you wear out the tools. Very, very old brushes have a tendency to go under the sink as glue brushes. Eventually glue brushes fall apart, and need to be trashed, and then other brushes take their place. It’s a constant recycling of brushes and uses.

Do you use a sketchbook?

Yes. I use a white page, drawing paper, 5 1/2” x 8” sketchbook because it’s easy to carry around and work out of. My idea drawings in the sketchbook are small — 3 1/2” x 4 1/2, or 5”. They don’t take that long, and I can decide if this is [an idea] worth painting by seeing it. Once a sketchbook is finished, it goes on the shelf, but I do take it to a printer, and have a booklet made of my sketchbook. I blow it up a little bit so they’re easily seen, and print and bind a copy of my sketchbook. That way, when I travel and teach, or want to share with somebody, I can pull out that book, and thumb through it, and not smudge the pencil.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

I was 10 or 11 years old. Psychologists have studied what makes people an artist, and one of the ways is this flash moment. So, when I was 10, I was hanging out with this friend of mine. We walked through his house — his dad was an artist — and on this big drafting table was a watercolor painting in progress, and all of his paints laid out, and brushes in containers, and paintings above him, and I just stopped dead, and was mesmerized by everything that was going on there. Visually. I vowed at that moment I would continue to figure that out. I got for Christmas that year, a little Prang set of watercolors, and I started with that and never stopped. The next Christmas I got the [Prang set with] 16 colors, including the black and white, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. For years, I’d sit in my room, and try to match the colors in my room — match the wall color, the book bindings, the wood work. I’d go out into the middle of the street, and try to paint the street in perspective to figure out how that worked. A couple years later, somebody told me there were actually books on perspective. All that occurred as a kid for me. Learning on my own, a lot of what I did because I just made watercolor do what I needed it to do, held me in good stead in later years.

What role does social media play in your practice?

Less now than it used to, although I’m still “on” both Facebook, and Instagram. I think Instagram makes more sense for visual artists — it’s shorter, to the point, and more visual.  As I age I’m less into posting on social media as I am getting to work in my studio. [Social media] is a way to sell paintings, and I have sold paintings on Facebook and Instagram. It’s not my major focus, if it ever was. I prefer to deal with real people in brick and mortar galleries.

What’s its influence on the work you make?

I make what I make, and let the chips fall where they may. I paint for myself. I do what I do, and go to the next do-what-I-do.

What’s social media’s influence on how you let the world know about the work you make?

Less these days. I’ve come back as a supporter. I have a lot of friends that are deep into marketing on social media — by necessity. Some of us need to sell work to pay our bills, or to afford our habit. And, so, I’m fully supportive of their efforts. Do I need [to use social media for marketing]? Probably not. Most of the work I make goes to the five galleries [that represent him]. They do a good job of marketing, and take that off of my shoulders.

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

Don’t you wish visual artists ran the world? I’ve found that creative people seem to be a lot more accepting of different, and divergent ideas, and a lot more open to the flow of both ideas and discussion of those ideas. Some folks dig their heels in because that’s the way it has always been — even if the research indicated that a change would make it better, they still want to stay stuck in the past. Creative people, and artists, are a little more open to change.

So, is the answer to the question of the visual artist’s role in the world that of “changemaker”?

Often we deal with what could be, rather than what is or what has been. It’s the what-could-be, and the always looking forward that artists seem to be more aware of than non-artists.

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

The woods. I grew up in the woods. At age of five I was let loose on two square miles of Northern Michigan woods with a trout stream that ran right through it. When you let a five-year-old loose on that kind of expanse, results can be profound and very interesting. I learned to find my way in the woods. I learned all of the animals of the woods. I learned what you need to do to see in the woods. So, I continue to spend time in the woods. Since I live in the middle of the Sleeping Bear Lakeshore, what I do is drive, park, and hike right into the woods off-trail, and then go, and go, and go, and go. With my visual memory, I can remember that hike forever.

When you’re walking in the woods, is it fair to say you’re not only doing it for your soul, but you’re also taking things in visually that get catalogued for future use?

I see paintings. I see them in terms of shape, color, value, texture, and how I might manipulate all those into an interesting painting. We all carry cameras now, in the form of a cell phone. I carry a point-and-shoot with good capabilities. If I see a “painting,” I might snap a photograph of it. That’s why there’s 30,000-plus images on my cell phone.

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

Hugely. I prefer late fall and winter because of the lack of people. It becomes a matter of simplicity and complexity. In my head, I prefer simplicity, so the starkness of winter feeds that simplicity. I lean more and more, even in plein air painting, toward painting in the winter for the simplified landscape form. Complexity enters into it also, especially when we’re dealing with this riot of glorious, fall color, and the myriad shapes in the woods. I was sitting in the woods last night, with the light shining through, and staring into the woods. A painting of that complexity would take lots of hours to include it all.

Is the work you create a reflection of this place?

Yes. Specifically, most of my landscapes are based on where I live, and the surrounding area. There’s a lot of interesting farm land between Empire, and Traverse City, and a lot that is interesting beside the lakeshore, and a lot of lakes that need to be fished. You add the rivers, and the dunes, and everything on top of that: I’m going to need three lifetimes to incorporate all the forms, and shapes I see daily.

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

Remember my earlier story about flash beginnings? That gentleman was middle age at the time when I walked through [his home]. Years, and years later, we had a show together. So, I was in my mid-20s, and he was probably 50, 60 at the time. Because of that beginning, he and I have talked through the years. We decided to have a show together. It was a lot of fun, and made the circle come round. His name was Pat McCarthy.

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

My wife Rosie. First and last critic, confidant, marketer, and partner. We lost Rosie to metastatic lung cancer [in June 2022]. It was devastating.  Rosie was the biggest influence. I’m learning life alone, let’s put it that way. [Mark and Rosie were married for 51 years at the time of her death.]

Who’s the critic, confidant, and marketer now?

That is a huge hole. To be determined. Probably me. It’s going to be a hybrid. I don’t have the time to do all of that. That’s part of the reason my brick-and-mortar galleries have become so important. They’ve taken over a lot of the role of marketing. I paint, and paint, and paint, and feed them. Some of the work is wildly popular. Some of it, not so much. My job is to create. They do the marketing. All of the owners/directors of the galleries that represent me: I’m proud to call them friend.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice? In this case, I’m differentiating between showing work in a sales gallery, and showing work at a nonprofit arts center.

If I have work that fits a curated exhibit, I often will put a piece in the show. I will, fairly often, enter pieces in juried exhibits. I do less of that than I used to — it was a promotional tool for me. It worked. Got me lots of teaching jobs, accolades, and that kind of thing. I pick three or four large water-media shows, and most of the time enter. My work is more internal these days, as I’ve gotten older, and the the only person I feel like I need to please is me.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

So here’s the deal: work. Work begets more work. I don’t wait around for inspiration. I have way more ideas than I could ever get to in this lifetime. Those ideas are because I work. I get up, I do what needs to be done around the house, and then I go to work. Sometimes I hit the studio at 8 am. Sometimes I hit the studio at 6 am. Sometimes I hit the studio at 1 pm after lunch, and I work. And then the next day, I work some more. I occasionally take the weekend off — for visitors, or to go plein air painting. Basically, I’m in the studio working. When you’re working, you get ideas. You’re working on this idea, and while you’re working another idea may occur to you, and so, you should follow that idea. And while you’re working, another idea will occur to you. It’s a reoccurring thing. But to get there, you need to get to work. On the days I don’t feel like it, I go to work anyway.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s over-active brain, thought process. It’s constantly making connections in my head, trying to link an idea with a process. Some ideas are better said one way than another. Do I make mistakes? Yes. Lots of mistakes. Mistakes can lead to breakthroughs, to a different avenue to say what you wanted to say. It’s a constant firing of synapses. Three lifetimes might do it for me. Maybe four. One, no.

I want to talk about your former day job, which was teaching art in the public schools. You taught art in the public schools — from elementary to high school — for nearly 30 years, in the Lansing area. Talk about the challenges that teaching presented to your own studio practice.

I retired 20-some years ago, and I didn’t really retire. I just went right into teaching water media workshops for adults for private and public organizations. I just taught my last travel workshops. Now I’m retiring from that job as well. Traveling isn’t as much fun as it used to be. Even though they pay well, and it’s fun to share, as I get further into my older years I feel more like I need to paint, and walk in the woods [versus] travel, and teach. Will I continue to teach? Yes. I have enough [local] teaching opportunities to keep me going.

While you were teaching in public school, did that drain any of the creative energy you had for doing your own work in your studio?

Especially when I taught in the public school, it was my goal to do a good job. Some days were totally exhausting. To do a good job, it took a lot of energy, so there were times where I didn’t have the energy to paint evenings. I’d paint on the weekends, or call in sick, and paint all day. When summer arrived, I only took one day off. School ended. The next day of summer I took that day to rest, relax, and the next day I went straight to the studio and put 8-to-12 hours in, all summer long for 30 years. It’s that work-ethic thing. Growing up, I can remember my dad saying to me, No matter what you do, be sure you work hard at it.

How did the work of your day job cross-pollinate with the work you did in your studio?

Especially as a high school art teacher, you have to be able to teach all of it. Printmaking, painting in all media, jewelry making, metalsmithing, ceramics, I had to be able to do all of that to be able to teach it. Am I good at all that? Not really. Teaching during the day, against vast expanses of concept, processes, and media, informed what I do visually. I’m still there, but it’s all painting, collage, and two-dimensional now. What I do, and the ideas I have, are broad — just like in the teaching days. It informed. I guess it still does.

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Read more about Mark Mehaffey here.

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

 

 

Traverse City artist Mary Fortuna, 66, draws on a number of inner resources to fuel her creative work — chief among which might be a self-identified weirdness. Over the years she has found teachers who encouraged, and helped her cultivate and fully embrace it. Today, Mary translates weirdness into an array of soft sculpture beasts, insects, demons, and other fiber works. “I’ve always been drawn to the weird,” she said. Her beasts “have a life of their own. They’re not asking me permission to do what they need to do. It’s my job to give them the arms or legs they need to get it done.” This interview was conducted in September 2022 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

Pictured left: Mary Fortuna in 2013. Photo/Jeff Cancelosi

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On your website you describe your work, e.g. what you make in your studio, this way: “Sculpture, dolls, puppets, paintings, strange objects and other weirdness.”

That pretty accurately describes it. A lot of textiles, currently. Soft sculpture. I’m currently obsessed with insects.

[NOTE: Some of Mary’s current insect obsession is on display in the GAAC’s Small Works exhibit, November 4 – December 15.] 

Why are you obsessed with insects?

I spend a lot of time in my garden in the summer, and I just observe them. Right now, [her obsession is with] grasshoppers. I should be making a grasshopper. They’re all over. And, they’re so important. They drive life in nature. They are a critical element. I don’t kill spiders. I love spiders. I just let them do what they need to do.

There was a 2015 Detroit News article about you, specifically about your soft sculpture dolls. Vince Carducci [editor of the Motown Review of Art and a dean at the College for Creative Studies] was interviewed, and I think he gets at an important thing. He said, “Dolls are supposed to be girly … But some of Mary’s are a little vicious. There’s something almost kinky about them — like fetish items.” When people hear the word “doll” then it’s all over. They think of something other than what you make.

I’ve always been drawn to the weird, the anomalous, the scary. I love Vince’s word “vicious.” That completely nails it. Vince knows me as well as anybody in Detroit does. I made dolls when I was a kid. I made puppets and marionettes. I read books about dolls. My sister and I loved the Rumer Godden books about the doll’s house, about Miss Happiness, Miss Flower, and Little Plum. Pinocchio was one of my favorite books when I was a kid. The puppet that comes to life is an image I always loved. But I like things a little bit scary, a little bit threatening, a little bit menacing. I’m not a fan of all-out, bloody, dripping horror, but I like some teeth, and claws, and things.  A little bit on the edge of uneasiness, uncanniness, and strangeness.

Any particular reason?

I’ve just always been drawn to it. This is going to sound weird: I can watch endless murder mysteries and serial-killer movies, but I don’t like real vivid, gory horror. I like things that are more psychologically scary. Dolls have always had a strangeness. Even as they’re beautiful, and cute, and kids play with them, they always have an odd presence — as if they could come to life, or have thoughts of their own, or they could be doing things you don’t know about when you’re not in the room.

In the work you make, there’s an acknowledgement that these little beasties could be real. That sounds like the thing that informs your making of these objects.

That’s the synthesis. They have a life of their own. They’re not asking me permission to do what they need to do. It’s my job to give them the arms or legs they need to get it done.

What draws you to the medium in which you work?

I was lucky to have [two sisters] older than me, and my mom, who were all very handy. My sister and I also had a pair of friends who were also the same ages. We’d get together in the summer, and make marionettes. Do little plays with them. My interest in them was the making of them. I didn’t have a ton of toys. I had a few dolls, but much richer than that was to have a box full of any random stuff. My mom would throw things in a box, and hand it to me. It would be paper, and tape, and crayons, and corks, and weird little objects.

You work primarily in textiles, fabric and fiber. What draws you to that media?

I love the feel of fabrics in my hands. This summer, I was playing with a lot of velvet. It’s just the way it feels. You can influence [fabric’s] shape so readily and easily. You don’t need a lot of big, heavy equipment. I can sit in a chair, and turn a flat piece of fabric into any kind of a form. I can add appendages. I can tuck things in, and tighten them. There aren’t many limitations. I probably couldn’t make something you could cut with out of fabric, but offhand, that’s about the only thing I can imagine not being able to do

Did you receive any formal training in visual art?

I did a [Bachelor of Fine Arts] at Wayne State University [graduated in 1992]. I was a non-traditional student. I was 35 at the time, and the rest of the students were in their 20s. I’m kind of the no-bullshit person: Get out of my way, I’ve got work to do. Stop all this talking.

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

It gave me the discipline to generate an idea, and explore different ways to approach it; take a path and follow it, and see where it went; then take another path and follow that. I really learn how to develop ideas, and not think the first thing you think of is the greatest idea. I was observing the way my teachers worked, as much as I was other students. They gave me the ability to work out possibilities for something before you decide you’re done with an idea. That’s key to how I work. I also learned that any idea can be a good idea if you push it enough. There’s nothing that’s not valid fodder, or a source of inspiration. It can be anything.

Describe your studio/work space.

Catastrophic, right now. I have one room. I call it The Wet Studio. I used to call it the Messy Studio. I have one room in my small home where I do painting, papier mache, wet sculpting. Almost the rest of my home — apart from the kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom — used to be a dining room/office situation. Now, it’s shelves with bins of fabric, and a table with my sewing machines, and beads, and buttons, and notions, and tools. It’s all over, all the time, but I do go back and organize it. I’m surrounded by it. I can take 10 steps from where my fabric is stored, and sit down in a chair, and get to work.

It sounds like there’s no separation between your domestic space, and your creative space. Is that intentional?

Yes. It suits me to work this way. Any place I’ve lived in, I could have tried to keep things separate, but I can’t stop my work from encroaching. It just has to bleed into wherever I am. And, I just love working this way.

On your website, you describe the themes and ideas on which you focus in your work. You wrote:

“My visual vocabulary draws from world mythology, the spirit world as conceived by people everywhere, and the infinite variety of life forms that make up the natural and supernatural worlds.”

That gets to the heart of it. I take on an obsession for a while, and chew on it until I need to set it aside, so I can play around with [another idea]. Currently, my focus is 3D soft sculptures of insects and animals. I love magical and mystical symbols, amulets, talismans. Snakes are huge — an image of a snake has been important to every culture, and every spiritual practice throughout the world for as long as we have populated the world. There’s something about a snake that really gets into who human beings are, and how we behave. They’re revered, and feared. They’re holy. They have so many multiple meanings. And, it’s really fun to draw a snake. I have dreams about snakes.

What prompts the beginning of a project?

So many things. It could be an image I run across at random, whether I’m online, or reading, or watching a movie. There could be an image that pops up. Recently, I’m waking up in the morning, and kind of half asleep, and images are drifting into my head. Something will settle, and I’ll start to develop it visually in my head, and I have to get making at it as soon as I can.

Is it tiring, always being on alert for any inspiration that might come across your brain pan?

It could be tiring or overwhelming, but — somehow — I’ve figured out how to manage that for myself. A lot of times it’s by ignoring parts of the world I’m not interested in. I sometimes don’t even see something that wants to intrude. It could be piles of dishes or laundry. There are so many things that I’d rather be doing other than sorting baskets of laundry. I just don’t care.

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

Very often. I usually have a couple things going on. I make a part, leave it aside, and muddle on it for a little while, then I’ll go back and pick it up somehow.

Do you work in a series?

Very often. It’s a way of getting an idea to its completion. One piece will leave to the next idea, and the next idea, and the next idea. They’ll have some connection, more or less tenuous or concrete. I’ve learned to get out of my own way, and let things roll.

What’s your favorite tool?

My hands. And, my tiny, super-sharp scissors. My really good, sharp fabric scissors: Don’t ever touch them; if you use them to cut paper I will cause damage. I have one particular little needle I’ve been using for weeks now. It’s just the right thing, and if I lose it I’m going to be a real mess. I probably have 3,000 needles in this house, but this particular needle is the one that I need right now. My tools are as much of the fun to me anything else. My dad was a tool guy. He had this great workshop, and I used to sit and watch him working. He instilled in me a reverence for tools, and for the right tool for the job.

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

I don’t really do much of that. If I have an idea that has a lot of components to it, I might do preliminary sketching. I tend not to be much of an archivist. I don’t consider that stuff precious. I’m more likely to do a loose drawing, transfer that to the paper I use to make patterns on fabric. I’ll hang onto those templates that I make, but I like things to be really immediate. Spending time making preparatory drawings — that almost sucks the life out of it before I’ve even started. [Making] is a very spontaneous process for me. I just want to cutting and sewing as quickly as I can.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

It goes back to both of my parents. Both were extremely handy. Dad could make or repair anything. I have lots of memories of my mom doing tole painting. She, also, was a very accomplished watercolor painter. She would make us paper dolls. She’d draw these beautiful, Vogue sketches of paper dolls, and then show us how to make dresses for them. [Making by hand is important] because I can rely on myself. And, I love the way things feel in my hand. Apart from gathering some images, I use my computer [as a resource]. I don’t need external machines of any kind. I might sit at the sewing machine to put some basic parts together, but it’s the sitting down and watching the parts come together. There’s power in my autonomy that is really important to me. I could do this, if I needed to, sitting on a rock in the woods, and I could make something. All that’s required is myself, and I like that.

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

Don’t get me started. I think our reliance on buying cheap disposable garbage has destroyed the soul of our culture. It’s one of the most insidious evils in the world: disposable consumerism. If mountains of plastic in the oceans aren’t enough to make you want to go back and sew with pine needles and birch bark, I don’t know what is. It has affected us emotionally and psychologically in really bad ways to have lost this connection to what we can do for ourselves with the things we already find around us. It’s important to get as much life as possible out of anything that has already been produced. It’s right at the heart about what I believe about the world, and what I was taught as a kid. My dad never threw out anything. I inherited his jars of nuts and bolts and screws. It’s so vital to myself that I can’t separate it from what I am, and what I believe.

When did you commit to working with serious intent?

The decision to attend Wayne State, and go after the BFA had everything to do with that. I was exposed to serious, professional, practicing, exhibiting artists in a way that I hadn’t been before. I developed relationships with these people, and was showed a pathway. Even though I didn’t always see it modeled at Wayne, or at other schools, I gave myself the idea that anything I wanted to pick up, I could turn it into something valid. Jim Nawara, who was a phenomenal painter at Wayne, told us in our painting class, if we are still making anything — not even exhibiting — 10 years out of school, we could consider ourselves successful artists. That was tremendously helpful to me. I go back to that if I have doubts about the weirdness or the silliness of what I make.

What role does social media play in your practice?

It’s a great tool for staying in touch with a couple of my friends who are very creative [through Facebook and Instagram]. We message, and trade images back and forth. It’s a way to make connections when I’m separated physically from friends. I’m up North, and a lot of them are downstate. I left a lot of people behind when I moved up here [from Detroit in 2016].

What’s social media’s influence on the work you make?

Randomly coming across images that interest me can spark a whole body of work. Just seeing some random thing can get a whole chain of ideas going.

What’s social media’s influence on how you let the world know about the work you make?

I find it a simple and convenient way to — if I have a show coming up, I can post images of the work that will be in it. I can share information about when something’s going on, events. If people use this tool fruitfully, it’s a great way to get things happening. It’s so much easier than it used to be. You used to have to design an invitation and write a press release, and lick envelopes, and stuff them with letters and press releases, and photograph slides. It just so much simpler now. You used to need to have a three-week deadline to get an image into somebody’s hand so they could start generating something.

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

I see it as vital as farmers and fishermen. It’s important for everyone in the world to have the ability and means to decide what their voice is going to be as a human being, and how they will contribute to the world. It’s about contributing and adding to the world as it exists, instead of just constantly consuming. The critical thing is to develop your own voice and authentically present it to the world, whatever the outcome may be. It’s a big trend in recent years to do social engagement in your art practice. To me, that is not something that feels comfortable. I’m interested in letting ideas about current events, or the state of the world [into her work], but I don’t listen to people standing on soap boxes, and I’m very uncomfortable standing on a soap box myself. I don’t feel like I have the most-perfect, correct solution to any issue. There always can be things I haven’t thoughts of, so I tend not to make strong pronouncements.

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

Everything that’s around me. The natural world, history, stories, mythology all of that finds its way in. Even watching the news, and being aware state of the world —that gets in there, and has a way of influencing or coloring what you do.

You lived in Detroit for decades, then moved to Northern Michigan in 2016. How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?

I live much more slowly up here. I made a very conscious decision to slow down, and step back from extraneous activities that weren’t the things I wanted to do. I continue to work — full-time for a couple years, but now I’m semi-retired [from Oryana Food Cooperative]. The easy access to the woods, and beaches in particular, has a lot of influence. It has driven me to use my observation of the natural world as my biggest source of inspiration. Having a place to have a little garden is everything to me. The quieter pace has a big impact on my life.

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

My dad was a film producer both in the army and for Jam Handy, which was a huge marketing, PR, and advertising firm in Detroit. During [World War II, her father] got to know some animators from Disney, and that was his real interest. There was a guy from Disney named Ray Cavallero, who was in Detroit. One day, my dad took us to his studio, and this guy became my instant hero. This is an artist. This is how an artist lives. He was making stuff. He supports himself.  He even let me sit at his drafting table, and hold a pencil.

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

First and foremost, Peter Williams, who was a painting instructor at Wayne State. He was a towering figure, both physically, and — for me — in every way. He detected weirdness in me, and encouraged it. There was an early bond and friendship. I would tell him, years after I was out of school, his was the voice I would hear in my head when I was doubting what I was doing, or I couldn’t figure out a creative solution to a problem. He was always the one who would tell me to just-knock-it-off, and work harder, and get busy, and look again, and find a way to do it.

Another person was Gilda Snowden. She studied painting at Wayne, and she was a huge figure in Detroit. She taught painting at [the College For Creative Studies] for many years. She influenced almost any artist who came through Detroit. She was extremely generous with her time, and encouraging.

Jim Pallas  is an incredible artist — first, in Detroit, and now, in Oregon. He always pushed me to celebrate the weird in my work, and to bring it out in any way I could. Jim is a real free-thinker, and somewhat cantankerous, and sometimes gets himself in trouble with people, but that’s another thing I value — his willingness to authentically be who he is, as hard as he needs to. He continues to be a real friend, and a strong influence on how I think, and how I permit myself to get things done.

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

I have a couple of very close friends who are artists themselves, and they’re willing to give me a real, serious critique. If something’s not working, they will tell me. I value that honestly more than people who tell me,That’s so cool, that’s so great, keep going.

What is the role of exhibiting in your practice?

It’s huge for me. I love getting it out there. I love having people see it. I like getting feedback on it. I get a little shy about being at openings, and having conversations in the moment. Sometimes, the opportunity to have a show, will get me going on a whole body of work, and I’ll create all new work just because I have the opportunity to do that.

In the last couple of years, I’ve done this thing where I’ll have a couple of friends in mind, and will throw out a loose idea/theme, throw out a proposal, and everybody gets busy doing their own work. We might critique each other’s work, but there’s no close shepherding of what everybody is doing. It’s: Everybody do your work, and it will come together, and be good because it was a good idea, and because you are interesting artists. I’ve had a couple of really great shows in the last year that were generated that way. I love that way to work: Have particular people in mind, find a place to show it, and then just get busy and do it.

How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?

I go outside, and take a good long walk. I walk on beach or in the woods — that’s why it’s so valuable for me to be here. I get out in the garden, and clean things up, and look at what’s growing. I cook something. I talk to a friend, or write a letter. I go to books full of images that I love. I will sometimes have fairly lengthy periods of needing to fill the well again. A lot of that comes from books, and just soaking in images.

What drives your impulse to make?

Being alive. I don’t know anything else. The sun, moon, stars, trees, flowers, bugs, animals, birds, fungus, woods, beach, sky, water, rivers, streams, lakes. Seeing turtles on a log. What doesn’t?

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Read more about Mary Fortuna here.

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

 

Blacksmith Scott Lankton [left] was “hooked on hot steel” the first time he worked with it. The Leelanau County artist, 66, went on to find a vocation in the forge, pounding metal into domestic objects of great beauty. Scott Lankton also found that this old art + craft form can be put to use in the pursuit of peace, and be a way of raising awareness about gun violence — as he raises the profile of his calling, who is a blacksmith, and how it is more than an historical craft form demonstrated in museum settings. This interview was conducted in July 2022. It was conducted by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.

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Describe the medium in which you work.

I work iron and steel, but I’ve also worked in copper and bronze, in silver and gold, most metals really, but iron and steel my favorites. I’m a blacksmith. I do custom metalworking.

What draws you to blacksmithing and working with metal?

I started out in jewelry, working in gold and silver, but when I saw some guys working with hot steel, I was hooked. They let me try it, and I was hooked for life.

What was it about the hot steel that hooked you? 

It was the spontaneity. The fact you have to think ahead and work quickly, literally strike while the iron is hot. You have to have a plan in mind, but you also have to adapt quickly to changing circumstances.

Did you receive any formal training?

I got a BFA from Western Michigan University in jewelry and metalsmithing [1978].

Did you have any coursework in blacksmithing?

I was studying small metals — the tiny, shiny things, like gold or silver. But I started working in copper, making vessels, raised hollowware. And, some other students had a forge set up in one of the garages at one of the university buildings. I though it looked neat, that I could make bigger things. My teacher, [the late] Professor Bob Engstrom, encouraged me. 

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

I think that it did. There are many blacksmiths who’ve had a university education, and higher education, but many haven’t. Having an experience in art school taught me how to draw, it taught me how to see things better, how to think about art, doing critiques.

Describe your studio space.

My studio [Sleeping Bear Forge], which is my fourth studio, is big, well lit, well equipped, and lets me do just about anything I want to do with metal working. I wish I’d had it earlier in my career. It would have facilitated me to do more work. It’s warm in the winter, and many studios were not. For many years, it was either you work or you freeze.

What themes and ideas are the focus of your work?

Nature, by far, is really the biggest influence. I’ve always liked nature: the animals, the trees, the birds, the lake shore here is pretty inspirational because of its vastness. Nature has been the biggest thing to inspire and motivate me to make things. So much art is an imitation of nature. I’m no different.

You moved your life, and yourself, and your family to Northern Michigan from Ann Arbor.

It started in 2016. I bought property [in Leelanau County]. And built the studio first, and then the house.

Ann Arbor is a different place than Northern Michigan. It’s called the City of Trees, and in that respect, nature is a big part of living in Ann Arbor. But you said nature is the biggest influence in your creative life. So, how did working downstate differ from working in Northern Michigan?

Ann Arbor may be the City of Trees, but still a rat race. It’s a great town. I lived in the country a little ways out of town, so I was still living in nature even though I was near the city. But the whole feeling you have when you live in a place full of cars, rushing around, doing their business, it’s a completely different thing than living in a place where people are not rushing around, where nature is far more dominant than commerce. It’s a much more relaxed, and contemplative environment to work in.

What prompts the beginning of a project?

An idea is like a spark. You have to act right away, or it may go out. If you want to build that spark into a fire you have to do something with it. Sometimes I don’t have an idea,  but I’ll simply light a fire, start working on something, and ideas comes from the work itself. The process itself is full of ideas. The fire and the anvil and the hammer have been some of my greatest teachers. Just the experience of doing it.

How much pre-planning do you do in advance of beginning a new project?

That really depends. If I’m just making a small thing, very little. If I’m making something functional, like a hook for the wall, there really isn’t much planning. I might do a quick sketch in chalk on the table. I’ve done a lot of large architectural work. [For these projects] there are meetings, and discussions, and drawings, and renderings depending on the needs of the client to understand it. Truly, blacksmiths often do something called sketching in iron where you actually make a small piece, which will answer many of the questions. If a photograph or drawing is worth a thousand words, the object is worth a thousand pictures. So to actually put something in someone’s hand, and let them touch it and feel it and see it, and see what the colors are, it’s a completely different thing. I do some sketching, not much. I do it as necessary to communicate with the customer.

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

I usually have many projects going and underway, but I find that I work best, and can only really concentrate well, on one thing at a time. So, once a project has begun, that project will be worked on to completion — unless something else takes priority.

Do you work in a series?

Not usually. Most works are one-of-a-kind. A lot of my work has been functional in nature, stair railing and things like that. So, each one of those is unique, and it’s kind of a promise to the customer that we’re not repeating this design. This is your design. This is your piece. It’s not that we wouldn’t make anything that’s related or similar because I can’t help that. It’s still coming from the same source.

What’s your favorite tool?

A 1,000 gram hammer. It’s about 1.2 pounds, a typical cross pein, blacksmith forging hammer. I think it’s Swedish pattern. It’s a hammer I’m comfortable with. It’s a hammer I’ve done the majority of my work with. Blacksmiths have a lot of hammers. We have hammers like Imelda Marcos had shoes. We like to have hammers, but you’ll find one or two, or five or six are the favorites. Of those, I can usually pick one that would be the go-to hammer for most work.

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

Not really. It’s a great idea, and I wish I did sketch and draw more. It’s a a wonderful way to have ideas. Usually there’s not a shortage of ideas.

Why is making-by-hand important to you?

The satisfaction. I feel best when I’m making something. I’m sure it’s tied up with a lot of things: work ethic, creativity, it’s pleasurable to see that I can make things. I feel best when I’m doing something, and that doing something is often making something.

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

It really does [remain valuable]. The satisfaction of working with one’s hands — it’s very much in concert with working with one’s brain. There’s a lot of high, mental functioning going on. There’s tremendous satisfaction for anyone doing anything with their hands. Whether it’s cooking or painting, humans are innately geared to [work with their hands]. An awful lot of people do wonderful, valuable important work in our society today, but there’s not much to show for it. There’s not much to see. It disappears down a memory hole, it goes into a computer, into a file, and they don’t get to see what they made. It’s not easy to show people what they made. With an artist, at the end of the day, whether it’s good or bad, you literally get to see the fruits of your labor. And, that’s a valuable thing. The satisfaction of knowing I did something today, and I know what it looks like, that’s valuable. People miss that often in life.

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

I started doing metalworking. I was lucky enough to get a job when I was 14 working at [Hodges Jewelry Store in Carrollton, Kentucky]. The people at this jewelry store taught me to size gold rings, to do engraving, to make things with my hands. When I was a kid, I was artistic. I was into drawing, sketching, and painting. I’d paint the horse. I’d paint the cat. The metalworking, the physicality of that, the direct working in the materials was attractive. I didn’t think about it too much. I went to college. I was going to study engineering like my father and my brothers. I went through a year of engineering school and said, “I don’t like this.” So, I started taking art classes. I transferred schools, to a school [from Ohio State University to Western Michigan University in 1974, graduating from [WMU with a BFA in 1978] where they had an a better art program, and got a degree in art: metalsmithing and jewelry. That’s where the blacksmithing came.

At that point, I was pretty much committed. This is what I’m going to do for a living. How I was going to do that, I didn’t know. Saying you’re going to do something can cause it to happen. Saying I’m going to move up north caused it to happen. I didn’t have a great plan for a career as a blacksmith. I didn’t know what it was going to be. What I tell [blacksmiths] starting out is: You make a piece, and you sell it. Then you make another piece and you sell that. And, you make another piece and you sell it. You just keep going like that. If you were to write a book about how to do this, it would be a blank book, and on the first page it would say, “Do the next thing.” Whatever that would be. By making a statement [I’m going to be a blacksmith], you can become a blacksmith.

It’s the build-it-and-they-will-come approach.

What I made changed a lot. Out of college, I bought an old blacksmith’s shop [in Hart, Michigan, 1979] that had done repair work. That’s what people came to the shop for, so I learned to do electric welding, and arc welding, and things I was not trained for in art school. I learned about making knives [by visiting an exhibition at Cranbrook Museum]. So, I saw [examples of] “art” knives, very fancy, jewelry-like knives, and I got interested in this. My professor Robert Engstrom encouraged me to do it.

There wasn’t an a-ha moment. I got a degree. I was making things. I started selling a few things. I did art fairs. I saw that I could make things, and people would buy them, and I could buy food. It was a simplistic progression. There wasn’t an inspirational moment. By deciding at a young age that I was going to do this for a career it made it happen. It was an evolution into: What can I do to put food on the table? Some of it was practical. And: What can I do to please myself aesthetically at the same time?

What role does social media play in your practice?

It does. For better or worse, and I have very mixed feelings about social media because of the way it has influenced our elections. But it does a lot of other things that are good. So, I still use Facebook. It lets me communicate with my colleagues around the country, around the world — there’s a worldwide and nationwide community of blacksmiths and blacksmiths’ organizations. And, we share information. Social media allows me to see the work other people are doing, how they’re doing it. Obviously, there was nothing like this 30 or 40 years ago, when I first got started. We had one or two books on blacksmithing. Now, there are dozens and dozens of fantastic, inspirational books. With social media and YouTube, there are videos on how to do almost anything. We were sort of lost [in the pre-social media days].

There was a renaissance in the American blacksmithing movement that started more than 40 years ago. An organization was formed called ABANA [Artist-Blacksmith’s Association of North America.] These 20 guys got together in Lumpkin, Georgia, and they formed this association, and they started having meetings, and conferences. I started going to these things in the early 1980s. There were hundreds if not thousands of blacksmiths there. There were Germans, and Swiss, and French guys doing this much more artistic blacksmithing than American colonial smithing. Social media has allowed us to share. The Forging For Peace Project we’re doing has been promoted well on social media. We that to show others what we’re doing, and get them interested. As a communication device, it’s really great. It is somewhat like trying to get a drink of water at Niagara Falls.

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

I think artists, to a large extent, have always reflected aspects of society they feel are important.  They’re holding up a mirror, in many cases, to social issues, to beauty issues, to aesthetics. Often, art is disturbing or controversial. Some of it’s hated at first, then accepted decades later. The role of the artist is to comment, and say something about society, and say it in a way that is not just with words.

Talk about the Forging For Peace Project in the context of this question.

Forging For Peace is an international project. It was initiated by a friend and colleague of mine, Alfred Bullerman, in Germany. He started Forging For Peace in 2015. It was in response to his friend’s workshop in Ukraine being destroyed in the first Russian invasion [in 2014]. We’re forging large nails because nails are a symbol of connection — among blacksmiths, and in general. We don’t think we’re going to stop a war by making big nails, but what we’re trying to do is get people to raise their awareness to think about why we have such a violent world, a violent country in the United States, why we have wars still. For smart people, we seem to be living in a very dumb way. And, I’m not sure why that is. We could do much better. Some of that is starting a conversation with people about why this is happening? And, what we could do about it? How could we slowly change this, and evolve into a more peaceful planet? I’m not thinking this is an easy thing, but I am thinking it’s a possible thing. I think it could happen if enough people get connected. Most people would like to live in peace, to live without the fear of getting shot going to the grocery store. It’s absurd we can’t find the political will to do something about that — as a community, as a country, as a world.

Forging For Peace is the latest, but not the first [peace project in which Scott has been involved]. In 1999, I got involved with an apprentice of mine, and we smashed guns. This was before Columbine. We were trying to get a conversation started about gun responsibility. About keeping guns away from children. It has been a long-term interest of mine.

Forging For Peace is mostly what I’m doing with my forging now. Making more things for people’s houses is not so interesting to me anymore. I’ve done it for 40 years, and this is a project worth working on. I’m devoting my time and resources to Forging For Peace, to help victims of war. But more than that, to start a conversation where we end up where there are no more victims of war because we have no more war. That’s a tall order, but we have to start somewhere.

The nails are a way to start the conversation. We’re doing these demonstrations because it’s interesting. People like to see blacksmiths hitting hot metal, and that draws them in. And, once they’re there, we say, “Well, I like peace. How ‘bout you?” Most people would agree with that.

You have some feelings about how blacksmiths are perceived, and the role of blacksmiths in the present day. Discuss.

There’s this stereotypical image of blacksmiths as big, always male, burly. They’re practicing this art, but everyone thinks it’s a dying art. In fact, there’s a huge, blacksmithing renaissance happening around the world now. A lot of blacksmiths now are women. It’s not unusual. Now it’s common as can be. And, historically, there are many women smiths in history. But we have this American idea that they’re horse-shoeing, knife-making brutes. Some blacksmiths would like to think of themselves as artists, and they’re reaching for the highest aesthetic expression as any other medium. It’s a very modern thing. Sure. We all use fire and hammers, but we use lasers and computers and CNC Machining. Blacksmiths have always embraced technology as it came out. Immediately. They do a hard job, and anything that makes it a little easier is usually welcomed.

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

No. Not until I was an adult did I start looking around and [registering] that there are artists, and they make stuff. I was fortunate when I was a kid. I went to Italy, and saw the works of Michelangelo, DaVinci, Caravaggio, all these fantastic Renaissance artists. So, I was aware of art, but those weren’t people I knew personally. Working at the jewelry store taught me something. It wasn’t about art, but it was about craftsmanship, and quality, and doing quality work. That has always been my goal. I never thought I would be the best blacksmith, but I would be the best that I could be. And that has worked. To always do your best work is a good road to success.

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

There were two people: Professor Robert Engstrom from Kalamazoo. He taught me a lot about doing good work. He taught me a lot about aesthetics. He showed me joie de vivre — how to love life and enjoy it. Bob was a World War II vet. He was a prisoner war, and they just about starved him. And, he loved food, and good living. So, we’d sit around, and have a glass of wine, and open up the safe and get out the rubies: Do you think this wine is more the color the Ceylonese rubies or the Burmese rubies?

The other major influence was Manfred Bredohl. Manfred is a German blacksmith, and a diploma’d designer — working more with pen, pencil, paper, and drawing, and very interested in modern design and aesthetics. He use traditional blacksmithing techniques to do things in a very untraditional design way. I worked with Manfred for four months in Germany [1985] but he [opened up] this European opportunity [to artists internationally] at his workshop in Aachen, Germany. He allowed us to work in the shop. We stayed in an apartment next door. Learned an awful lot about the blacksmith business — how much of that is in the office, how much of that is with the clients, and how much of it is in the work itself.

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

My peers. It would mostly be on the internet today. If you really want honest feedback, you have to ask for honest feedback, otherwise people will say something nice if they like it; they might not say anything at all if they don’t like it. Honest feedback would always come from my blacksmithing colleagues and peers.

How do you feed and nurture your creativity?

It’s pretty easy. Just living here. That was the overall, easy way to influence my work: move to a new place, to live in a new way. I didn’t intend to retire when I moved up here. I thought I would keep plugging away doing [architectural commissions]. What I found, taking time off to do that and build my home, it allowed me the space to breathe to think about what I wanted to do. A certain amount of that is simply walking on the beach, or walking in the woods, or hanging out with my partner, Karel. Doing these things is inspirational. And, if it doesn’t inspire me to make new work, it’s good enough all by itself.

What drives your impulse to make?

It’s a good question. Part of it is the selfish, good feeling I get from making things. It’s the stimulation, what it does for my brain, mind, body. My body feels better when I’m moving, and working. When I’m active. You get that endorphin rush working physically the same way runner, bicyclists, and other athletes do. The mind and the body are inseparable. What affects one, affects the other. Having my body do things physically affects my mind, and makes it feel better. It just really feels great to make things.

The satisfaction of seeing what you’ve done in a day — whether it’s good or bad, sometimes it’s a failure, but you learn from the failures. I don’t try to do things the right way first. I just make an attempt at it, and I learn something from it, from the process. From the process shows me a better way that I might do what I want, then I modify it, and do it again. That’s critical. The working itself is the fun, is the therapy. The object you produce in the end — OK: that’s the proof of that.

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Read more about Scott Lankton here.

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