For much of her childhood, Holly Berry was an only child who didn’t mind the solitude because she was always drawing and painting. By the time her sister arrived, Holly was twelve and already had found a mentor and role model in her art teacher. This was life-changing because Holly did not come from a family with artistic roots. Holly went on to the Rhode Island School of Design, earning a degree in illustration because she was determined to get a job in art. And she did, starting at The Providence Journal. That led to her freelancing for educational publishers in Providence and Boston as a designer and illustrator. And that, in turn, led to her illustrating books which she still does today. But before she graduated from RISD, Holly also took a class in block-printing. She fell in love with the medium which she also still does today when she is not illustrating. And this work, mostly landscapes, can be seen in museums and in galleries both in Maine and around the country. Like many in Waldoboro, hers is a cobbled life -- a little of this, a little of that, and a little of something else. For Holly, it’s a medley of illustrating, designing murals, printing, and teaching. Holly lives on the blueberry farm where her great aunt Laura Mank used to live. Holly loved that farm as a child. It was a world away from Kennebunk where she’d grown up. And so, when Laura Mank died, she passed it on to her great niece. It is still Holly’s favorite place in the world.
I really love winter. Visually, it’s not a season that enters my work. But it does spiritually. It’s the time of year when I slow down, hunker down, and go within. It’s when I’m excited to get going and get things accomplished in my warm den. And it’s when I find the most solace. It’s dark early and I go to bed early. As for the weather, I just go with it. And before I know, it’s spring.
To me, making art is the practice of getting up and committing myself to my work every day. Even if I’m not in the studio, I’m looking, collecting things, and making mental notes that I bring into my work when I’m in the studio. And I think that’s what I got most of all from art school – having a discipline of practice and working every day. Because it is a habit, a practice – no different from how an athlete trains or a musician practices.
Every day is different, but basically, I get up, drink a lot of coffee and come into the studio. Almost always I have a project – either self-imposed or an assignment that I’m working on. If it’s a book, I’ll spend three or four months designing the storyboard, the book’s outline. Those are the weeks when I need to be quiet and work without any distractions. But once I move on to doing the drawings, I’ll listen to music and podcasts.
If it’s a block, I’ll draw the design on paper of where things are going to be, and then I’ll transfer it. It gets fun when I start to carve, because that’s when I’m making decisions about what to take away and what to leave. Recently I’ve started to proof as I go along so I don’t overcut the wood or linoleum. And now I proof constantly. It’s like having a dialogue with the image. And that keeps it exciting because I don’t really know what I’m going to get until the end. The image exposes itself.
If, at the end of the day, I can feel satisfied with what I’ve done, it’s a good day. That doesn’t mean that I won’t come in the next day and hate it and have to start all over again. It only means when I can end the day feeling I’ve made some progress, I feel good.
I clean my studio on bad days. Tidy things up. Try to get re-focused. I used to be upset by those days, but I’ve come to see that they just mean I need space and time. And my studio always needs to be cleaned.
But I’ve had moments when I’ve lost faith. September 11th happened when my children were little. At the time, I was busy with a 3-book contract. Which was great, because I really needed something to work on. But then, once I’d sent my kids off to school, I’d go into my studio and look at my work, and it just seemed so trite to me. So unimportant. And I wondered, “What am I doing? Why am I doing this?”
I couldn’t find the bigger value in what I was doing. One day I admitted it to my mailman, and I remember him saying, “No, this is what you do. It’s important. The world is still going on. And your book will reach people.” That helped.
But I still get those feelings. Making art can feel incredibly self-indulgent. People might think it’s fun — and it is fun — but it’s still work.
Nobody cares if you’re an artist, as any artist will tell you. You’re the one who’s got to care. Your motivation has to come from within. For me, making art is a way to create things, to engage with people, to connect with the world. At least, that’s what I tell myself in those moments of doubt which helps point me back into the work and keep going.
What gives me hope is that the sun comes up every day, whether we see it or not.
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