Featured Artist

Figurative painter Susan Rand works within a visual language of quiet observation and pause. Her figures, often viewed from behind, invite the viewer to inhabit their vantage point and look outward through their eyes. A subtle hesitancy runs through the work, as though we momentarily step into another’s shoes. Her canvases glow with vibrant color, and a sense of joy radiates from the figures larking about in the water. At other moments, a gentle pensiveness emerges as we watch those who themselves are watching, creating a layered sense of curiosity that draws us into the unfolding narrative. We caught up for a studio visit after a snowstorm as we begin to settle into the winter season. Rand had just hung her latest show at Sweet Williams in Salisbury, CT. 

So, what pulled you into painting?

Well, I’ve always been creative, but my visual journey really began with photography. In high school, I landed a January-term job shooting for a local newspaper, which was such a fun introduction to working behind the camera. Later, I studied fine art photography at Goddard College, where I really learned to push myself visually.

Was there a mentor or teacher who inspired you?

My group was very tight-knit, the critiques were strong, and my teachers pushed us in all the right ways. It was the cohesive group that inspired me. I slowly began drifting toward painting. I started shooting SX-70 Polaroid film and manipulating the images, scratching into them, then coloring over them with oil pastels. They felt like paintings, even though at the time, I knew little about drawing or color, just that I had an instinct for it.

Eventually, I was commissioned to create three paintings for a house that was under construction. However, when on site, I took one wrong step, fell backwards 12 feet, and severely injured my right arm. The healing was a slow process as my wrist needed to be rebuilt. I also worked in real estate because, as you know, it’s nearly impossible to live solely off your art; I’ve been involved in real estate for over 30 years. But I always painted alongside it. I needed painting for my sanity; so many artists have a ‘real job’ to support the work that feeds their soul. 

When I was in the hospital, they gave me morphine, which I couldn’t stand, but through the fog I kept hearing this voice shouting in my head: Quit your job and go paint. Quit your job and go paint. After surgery and discharge, I couldn’t drive, and my arm was terribly painful. But eventually I started studying painting with Joan Griswold in Great Barrington. She ran an open studio every Friday afternoon. It was a wonderful group. I was determined to learn how to paint, but I quickly realized that painting is something you never finish learning.

I’m really interested in the narrative of what pulls you to make work, what art means to you, and what motivates your practice?

I often feel a strong emotion when I make art. I think that’s important, because the emotions that surface aren’t always pleasant. We’ve all had experiences that shape us, and those experiences, especially the difficult ones and the process of working through them, feed the work. The discipline of the practice is a huge motivator too: the daily act of showing up, picking up the brush, and being in the studio, even if all you do is read books. I thrive on the sense of purpose that comes from making work.

Many artists work in creative fields without fully realizing why they are drawn to them. People who have gone through something emotionally difficult often find a way to express it through their work, without ever having to talk about it directly. When I look at all the great artists, so many of the truly compelling ones have had arduous journeys. What the artist experiences isn’t always visible to the viewer, who doesn’t have the same emotional attachment to the narrative. But the energy of the emotion is in the making, and that does come through.

Yes, emotion is an essential component of my work. Sometimes I look at a piece and think, Wow, that’s dark. I’ll show it to a friend in the studio and say, “Don’t you think this is dark?” And they’ll say, “No, what are you talking about?” They don’t have the emotional attachment to it that I do. The energy of the emotion is in the making, even if viewers don’t consciously perceive it.

Do you photograph images and then work from those?

I spend time at the beach watching people’s interactions. I take so many pictures and often think, Ooh, I’d love to do a painting of that. For a while, I had a little pochade box I would bring to the beach. I don’t like to sit in the sun, and I get bored just lying there, so if we were going for a few hours, I’d bring my little box and paint landscapes right on the beach. I loved doing that. I was always so careful carrying everything back to the car. 

Eventually, I decided to leave the paints at home. Instead, I started sketching quickly in pencil – loose figures, fleeting impressions – and later developed paintings from those sketches. That process is what ultimately led me into the swimmer series.

Yes, you had a show of the swimmer series at Standard Space. The motivation for that show came from those daily trips to the beach.

Exactly. When I started painting, I focused on getting the perspective and scale right, and I’m terrible at both; I’m not a good renderer. So, I finally decided to let go of that, forcing myself to loosen up, and now I’m much more forgiving of myself. We impose many constraints on our work. After my injury, when I had to write and paint with my other hand, I loved the freedom that gave me. My handwriting looked childlike, but the message felt adult. That looseness opened something up for me.

Yes, a different part of your brain is working when you’re doing that; it brings something else out. When I’m painting, I use both hands, and I switch the brush back and forth. Do you have a favorite time that you work?

I like to start my day off working because if I don’t, I might have a harder time getting into the studio later in the day. But that doesn’t always happen. There are times when I’ll come down and go for two hours, which can easily turn into five hours.