Creativity Q+A with Mary Fortuna
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
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?
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.
