Creativity Q+A with Jil Johnson
Jil Johnson, 63, is an outsider artist: no formal training, works in a naive style, wants to make beautiful things by hand. She lives in Traverse City. She wants “to live to the fullest, and that means being authentic, and that means knowing who you are.” She does.
This interview was conducted in December 2024 by Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC Gallery Manager, and edited for clarity.
Pictured: Jil Johnson
Describe your work.
Technically, I’m an outsider artist, that is: somebody who has no [formal] training.
You work in 3D, sculptural forms.
Not always, but it seems to be what I’m currently doing. Sometimes I’ll make a painting. Sometimes it’s sewing. Sometimes it’s fiber. There’s not one answer, but for the most part it’s 3D work that involves some woodworking; there’s always paint involved.
Outsider art — and I looked to Wikipedia for this — is art “made by self-taught individuals who are untrained and untutored in the traditional arts with typically little or no contact with the conventions of the art worlds.” What parts of this definition accurately reflect how you view yourself, and your practice?
All of it. Every bit of that.
Do you use found objects?
No. It’s important to me that I make everything by hand. So, it depends on the found objects. If I wanted to embellish something with raw diamonds, or a meteorite, that would be something I’d use that I did not make.
Why is it so important that you make every element that goes into your composition?
There’s this idea that I’m cheating if I don’t make every single thing on there. I’m sort of a purist. But there’s more to it. Everything I feel — energy, vibration — goes into that. There’s so much value in a handmade stitch. Or laboring over a tiny leg of a doll I carved myself. I feel there’s something I’m putting into the piece by doing that. It’s really important to me. There’s so much alchemy in that.
You’re your own art supply store.
I go to art supply stores. I need paint. I need brushes. There are a lot of things that I’ll find there that I will use: google eyes, because they’re funny to me. [Generally speaking] I don’t like something that’s fresh and new. I want my hand involved in every bit of [the creation].
What draws you to this work?
It’s some sort of pathology, no doubt. It’s something that I absolutely have to do, and a lot of it has to do with repeating objects, putting things in a row. I have this thing about lining things up and repeating a pattern over and over and over. I don’t want to put a negative slant on it, but there’s some sort of obsessive quality to it, but that’s part of the Outsider artist label, which makes me an Outsider artist as opposed to a folk artist.
Did you receive any formal training in visual art?
No.
What kind of work did you did before you threw yourself body and soul into your practice?
I have a hard time being and staying employed. It’s random stuff. There’s not one thing that I did. I would do the thing until I couldn’t stand it anymore and move onto other things.
How long have you been focused on your practice as your primary activity?
Twenty-five years ago, I stopped drinking and doing any kind of drugs, and then it all came out again. I’ve always been an artist, but I just pushed it away. It wasn’t anything I ever considered doing as a job until I sobered up. I thought I’d be a tattoo artist. The first thing I did was put together drawings of some tattoo [designs] I was going to take into a tattoo parlor, and then it became a painting, and then I brought it into a gallery [the now-defunct Watermelon Sugar Gallery in downtown Traverse City, Michigan], and it sold. I started doing more and more and more, and I haven’t stopped since.
Describe your studio/workspace.
It’s my bedroom, with a big architect’s table in it. I also have an outside area — a woodworking area — that I don’t paint in. I do a lot of assembly work there.
Are you a hand tool or a power tool gal?
I like Dremels. If I’m carving, I’ll use hand tools, but for the finer, detail work, I’ll use a Dremel tool. It saves my body.
What themes/ideas are the focus of your work?
That’s tough. Sometimes it’s a visual image I want to repeat, a pattern or a shape. A lot of times it’s a feeling I want to get out. Sometimes it’s a straight-up inspiration: I get a picture in my head I need to reproduce, and that’s easy, and fun, and I love it when that happens. That’s a field day. But when this is your job, you can’t wait for that. I want to keep my hands moving at something every single day. Lately, I think: What can I make for somebody that they will love, that will be very special? And then, with that, something just happens. My hands tell me what I want to do: Do I want to paint? Carve? Hammer nails? Push clay around?
What part or parts of the world find their way into your work?
I’m very inspired by the city, and I don’t live in the city anymore. I’m in my own little bubble here. I’m not influenced by what’s going on in the outside, but I was — very much — when I lived in the city. Chicago, for instance. Very inspired by the grittiness. Landscapes don’t inspire me. Nothing inspires me. It’s all coming from the inside.
You talked about the city’s “grittiness.” Is it a vibe?
It’s a vibe, for sure. It seems like there is a certain patina that’s found in an urban environment that’s not seen here on a regular basis. It feels like when I walk down the street I can look at the side of the of a building, and see a pattern, a patina, that’s been sitting there forever; the side of a wall with old stenciling on it, or an old window. I just don’t see the same thing here that much. There’s an edginess to a city that’s not here. This place is very pristine, very clean, and clear, and fresh. But I love it here.
What’s your favorite tool?
Sand paper. It adds so much life. It changes things profoundly, in a way that is very satisfying.
Sketchbook? Art journal? Do you use anything like that to make notes and record thoughts about your work?
Rarely. If I’ve got a commission, I have to write down ideas, for sure. That takes research and homework, which I write it down, and make lists. Sometimes, if I get an idea, I’ll write it down, but I don’t do a lot of that.
Your work is deeply hand-built with lots of moving parts and mechanical novelties. Talk a little bit about how you make your work?
I guess it depends on what I’m making. There’s so many different types of things I make, but I’ll say this: Oftentimes, unfortunately and inconveniently, I’ll have something made, and then I’ll get a new, how-about-this? idea, and then I’ll have to back up. I have to almost create my work backwards. I don’t have it planned out in my head. I’ll make something, let’s say it’s a horse that I’ve already stuck onto a board, and I’ll say, Wouldn’t this be cool if it were mechanical and could move? So now, I have to figure out a way to engineer that without removing the horse from the board, or ruining it. It’s all backwards, and makes it very difficult. I’m often having to carve around things, or paint underneath things, and I can’t mess it up.
Do you know when to stop?
Yes. Definitely.
There’s nothing ambiguous about that? You know when you know.
Right. But so much of the work just creates itself. I start with something, and then it starts creating itself, and I go, I wish I’d known this sooner before I’d screwed it all together.
Why is making-by-hand important to you?
It’s very fun. It’s also challenging. I love the challenge of excruciating work that requires hand-eye coordination of a surgeon. The tinier, the more articulated, the more I have to struggle to make this thing work — that’s really, really satisfying to me. The process of hand work is very satisfying. It would not even be interesting to take something I’d found, and stick it on a board. I have to do something with it. And, once I think it’s done, I’ll find something else to take [the process] even further and further. How far can I go with this? How much unnecessary work can I put into this? How hard can I make this for myself?
I like that you give yourself permission to go back in and work on a piece after it’s “finished,” even after the piece is affixed to the substrate.
Oh absolutely. There’s no “breaking” it. I made it in the first place. I can always fix it, and any kind of fix or repair just adds to it.
That’s very freeing.
I look at these things [on which] I’ve spent a lot of time, and think, It’s just not special enough. It’s just not interesting enough. It could be better or more. So now I’ve got to wreck everything I’ve done by doing something outrageous to it, and it always works out for the better. It is very freeing. I’m always glad I did it. I’ve never been sorry when I’ve “wrecked” something that wasn’t really speaking to me.
I think about that as the gateway to more interesting ideas that are just waiting to be birthed.
One-hundred percent true. That’s how I figured out my process, how I figured out what I like, by making mistakes and wrecking things. I did a painting once. It was enormous, and I hated it. So I took it outside, sprayed it with a hose. I took a brick to it, and had a tantrum. I ripped it apart into tiny, little pieces, and then I used all the tiny, little pieces as mosaics to create a whole new image. It was amazing, and so much fun.
Why does working with our hands remain valuable and vital to modern life?
This is such an important question: It’s how you access the soul. It’s a way to authentically connect with people. It’s such an important avenue. It’s utterly meaningFUL as opposed to something being meaningLESS. It’s everything. It’s a way to keep things alive, and vital energy flowing in the world.
Anyone who looks at your work can’t help but understand that it’s intensively hand built. Does it take people by surprise? Are people estranged enough from handwork, in our modern times, that they find your work a mystery? Or an amazement? What’s the perception?
It’s assumed that [her work is made of] found objects. They’re not. I have to say that many times. I get that a lot from people. They seem to be amazed that I’ve made all these little things.
What role does social media play in your practice?
I use Facebook a lot. And, I’ll put pieces of art on it, which sometimes sell. I like Facebook. It’s a social outlet for me. I’m home. Alone. I don’t know that I use it for [inspiration for] my work. I feel like the art is coming from something inside of me. It would behoove me to promote my work more on social media a lot better than I do. I should have a website. I should have an Instagram. I should be promoting my work all over for financial gain. I have no interest in that. But the owner of the gallery [Shanny Brooke of Higher Art Gallery in Traverse City, which represents Jil] does, so I’m happy that she does that.
Talk about why you don’t have a website.
It’s not what I want to do. I’m not interested in being a businesswoman. I’m not good at it. It doesn’t speak to me. Marketing doesn’t interest me. That’s a whole other job. I sell my work through galleries, and they get half of my money, but they’re doing all that stuff for me. And Shanny has a beautiful website.
What do you believe is the visual artist’s role in the world?
Depends on the visual artist. There are millions of answers to that. Some people have a message to send. Some people are political. Some people want to change the world with their ideas. Some people want to share love. Some people want to entertain.
You seem very clear on that.
I am.
How do you think you get so clear? Is it all that quiet time alone?
I’ll tell you why: I want to have a great life. I want to live to the fullest, and that means being authentic, and that means knowing who you are. That’s my priority, every day, all the time.
How does living in Northern Michigan inform and influence your creative practice?
I don’t know that it has anything to do with living in Northern Michigan. I would be the same no matter where I was living.
How long have you lived here?
I don’t know. Thirty years?
Did you know anyone, when you were growing up, who had a serious creative practice? Somebody you’d consider to be a role model.
Both grandfathers. One grandfather did beautiful landscapes with oil paints. Self-taught. The other grandfather did some painting, but he sewed clothing for his children. He had another job. He was a pastor, so [painting] was a side hobby. My father was an opera singer, it was his full-time job. He sang all over the world. My father was instrumental in helping me navigate, psychologically, what it means to be an artist, that struggle, how it’s OK, and how you came out on the other side. It was difficult for my father. He was married, and he had a full-time job at Avon, and a family, and a house in the suburbs [Glenview, Illinois], and children, and a wife not loving that he wanted to quit the full-time job to go be an opera singer.
Who has had the greatest and most lasting influence on your work and practice?
I want to say God. That’s my answer. Either that, or it’s my mother. My mom was always pushing me to be an artist, as a job. She was very supportive, and enormously encouraging. The God answer: “God” is a generic term for some sort of universal energy that flows through me, and inspires me.
Where or to whom do you go when you need honest feedback about your work?
I don’t need feedback. I know if it’s good.
Have you always had that level of confidence about your work?
Yes.
And when people come up to you and say, “You should …”, you think what?
Sometimes it’s a good idea, but otherwise I’m polite and accept they have an idea. It doesn’t happen very often. If I get a “you should,” it’s usually about doing a better job of promoting myself. It’s never about the work. It gets me every time because they’re right. I know who I am, so it’s OK. I can’t produce a lot of these things. It takes so long. I don’t think I could have a bigger business. If I had a website, I don’t think I could keep up with the work.
In some ways, exhibiting is a form of marketing. How does exhibiting your work fit into your practice?
This is my job, so if I want to sell it, I have to exhibit it somewhere. It’s very practical. The work is not for me. I never want to keep any of it. It clearly has to go out somewhere. That’s what it’s supposed to do.
How do you feed/fuel/nurture your creativity?
You know the book The Artist’s Way? The “artist’s dates” — where you take yourself out somewhere, and walk around deliberately looking for inspiration. I haven’t done it a lot lately. I know what’s going to sell in the gallery, and I make those things. Inspiration hits. I don’t have to work that hard to come up with something new. I already have something I know will sell, and I enjoy making those things. Anymore, I just go with the flow, and don’t sweat it too much. I don’t have to work so hard, and try so hard. There are other, easier magic tricks. If want to be inspired, I can sit and do a little mediation about being open to some new inspirations, and boom: it happens.
What drives your impulse to make?
There’s a practical answer, and that’s: money. There’s an obsession: I have to do this. But then, there is something more artistic: the desire to create something really, really beautiful. That’s the artist’s answer: I’m feeling something inside, and wanting to put it out there because it’s going to be beautiful.
Jil Johnson is represented by Higher Art Gallery in Traverse City, Michigan. Directly experience Jil’s work there.
Sarah Bearup-Neal develops and curates Glen Arbor Arts Center exhibitions. She maintains a studio practice focused on fiber and collage.
