Interview conducted by Megan McDermott with assistance from the art team
I first encountered Amy Brakeman Livezey’s work last academic year, which means I’ve had the pleasure of being able to sit with it–its approaches, implications, and complexities–over several months. This semester, Blackbird’s art department took on two undergraduate interns, which means in addition to my perspective on the work changing with time, it’s been transformed by conversation with others. When our whole team came together to ask questions of the work, one of our interns pointed out an aspect of these paintings I hadn’t yet considered.
Livezey’s figures (White women standing, or lying, or leaning together; a full-skirted White woman holding a gun; an Indigenous woman riding a horse; a Black man, seated, holding an ax; a cluster of chickens, to name a few) are sometimes–as our intern pointed out–divided against themselves by elements of her abstract backgrounds. Possibilities spring to mind about how to interpret those divisions. Is it a reminder that the figures are multi-faceted? Are they being violated? In the interview below, you’ll see Amy’s thoughts on this quality of her work and learn a bit about her own framework of fracture.
This idea of fracture feels essential to me when thinking about the challenge of making art–or living a life–that contends honestly with American history. We are far from wholeness, as a society and as a nation; a part of our lack of wholeness comes from the inability to be truthful about the dynamics of racism and white supremacy that have been foundational to this country’s past and continue to run rampant today. Thinking about these tender and expressive paintings by Brakeman Livezey, I wonder about my own creative work as a White woman; how do I, and others like me, reach back towards our origins with the very human desires of self-understanding and connection…without shying away from the truths of oppression–the legacies in which we stand? Whatever we do, perhaps we must do it in pieces, or at least by recognizing the piecemeal nature of our ancestors, split and severed by dehumanization of others or the imposition of dehumanization.
-Megan McDermott, Lead Art Editor
Depicting the history of the American West has long had potential to stir up strong feelings; in recent years, though, the stakes around this imagery have seemed higher than ever. For example, in a 2025 article in the Washington Post, Natalia Baulescu-Bogdan, director of the Migration Policy Institute, described the Department of Homeland Security as using paintings of the West to “invoke the mythology of a shared past,” particularly mythology related to who is considered “true Americans.”
In this cultural milieu where conversations about American history are so complex and emotionally charged, how do you think about exploring history without glorifying that history? How do you see your work contributing to a nuanced engagement with the region you’re depicting?
My maturation as a woman who has adopted the western region as home includes my own journey of historic discovery. The more I learn about history, the harder it is to simplify it. Considering colonization, genocide, legacy trauma, cultural mingling, and cultural beauty creates an incredible web of complexity. It is chaotic, a mess, brutal, yet full of connections and opportunities. While once I could celebrate the story of a woman homesteader, now it is complicated by the fact that the land she settled was taken from people who were sustained by it in a much longer and connected cultural story. This journey of mine is ongoing, and my growing awareness can’t help but inform how I paint. Offering some variations on historic western imagery from a contemporary, expressionist viewpoint is a way to honor our shared humanity. I want the paintings to generate questions. If you are willing, you can linger and start to ask “What’s going on here?” and “How do I feel about it?”
Across different images, we noticed instances of figures appearing, to a degree, severed or split by something like a harsh line or a sharp collar. For instance, take Happy Returns, where both figures are criss-crossed by various lines. Could you share a bit about the relationship between these images and ideas like fracture or multiplicity?
Breaking up realistically rendered figures with random lines or layered textures, patterns, or papers is a way of integrating them into the overall abstract logic of the paintings. That said, my willingness to do so also signals to the viewer that the figure can be seen through different lenses. I’ve accepted a fractured realism as closer to the truth of reality. There are many ways of seeing our world, our human experience–through time, through cultural expectations, and through the viewer’s own experience bank. Fracturing a realistic depiction is a way of honoring the complexity. There are no simple, one-dimensional beings. By upsetting the realistic image, I invite the viewer to fill in the gaps and engage in their own process of putting the human experience back together (creating their own version of the story). I think we are wired to want to do this, to make humans whole and build connections.
While you do not exclusively depict women in your work, we were very interested in the paintings of women, especially their relationships with each other and the ways they seem to depart from conventionally or stereotypically feminine imagery. What do you hope your work provokes in viewers’ contemplation of ideas related to womanhood? How does this work around gender–though done through a historical lens–engage with your own life experience?
My work offers up a counterpoint to the feminine imagery we’re inundated with in mainstream culture, for sure. For me, that means female figures in action, female figures in groups, as in solidarity, and women evoking some emotion or charisma. I like to see women as subjects in and of themselves, not simply as objects at the mercy of patriarchal judgement. This is a basic building block for my work, because I’ve had a gender awareness my whole life as the youngest of five and the only girl. I was always sensitive to media depictions of femininity and unable to comprehend how I fit into that picture. I was confused about “how to be.” I was hyper-aware of that pressure and eager to combat it, even as a teenager.
In many of these paintings, we noticed the presence of fashion–both the literal fashions of the figures, but also patterns in the background that resemble swatches of fabric. How do fashion and fabric inform your creative vision? Have you found anything surprising in your observations of, or learning about, historical fashion?
When I look through historic photographs of the late 1800s and early 1900s, I enjoy combing through all the clues of that moment in time, including the clothing. I think about the feel or weight of the cloth, how the fasteners work, the immense yardage of some clothes, and, of course, the style and what it says about class. This is all great inspiration, and the details transport me in a way. Since making clothes was so often deemed women’s work, I see fabric and pattern in my paintings as a nod to domesticity, an indicator of the historically feminine world. By presenting them in broken or unusual ways, it’s another invitation to re-think our views about womanhood.
Animals show up in many of these images, often interacting with (and being used by) people. Even in one of the paintings where people aren’t present, High and Low, there’s a marker of humanity: the printed text in the background. What about the human-animal relationship–perhaps especially in the times and places you’re depicting–draws you in as an artist?
Animals were part of the work and commerce of everyday life at the turn of the century, in a way few of us experience today. I’m inspired to imagine what that was like. Whether as companions, workers, or sources of sustenance, the animals necessitate connection. That’s an emotional marker that’s meaningful to me in my portrayal of figures. I think our relationship with animals expresses much about what it is to be human.
One of the most striking elements in these paintings is your expressive use of color. You take historical scenes we most often see in black-and-white–or perhaps imagine through a dusty, sepia-like sheen–and infuse them with vibrancy. One might say you don’t just have an eye for color; you have an imagination for color! Has color always played such a prominent role in your imaginative, creative life? What is your experience of color like in day-to-day life?
My work rarely begins with a chosen color palette. I start with an embrace of experimentation, staying open and trying anything. To invite color into my work, I may choose colors that I don’t typically reach for. This can propel me into the “ugly phase,” but I often get surprised by my efforts. In finalizing a piece, all the formal elements come together to make some kind of sense, and color is a big part of that.
Working with color this way in the studio has led me to be more open to color in the world. I once had to purchase a water bottle in a pinch, and the only color option was not a color that excited me at all: teal blue. After a few months of it always on the periphery in the studio, I started noticing that the same teal blue seemed to turn up as the perfect solution to color issues here and there in my work. That was a big lesson for me about not judging colors too soon, in and out of the studio.
Your work draws on the traditions and techniques of both abstract and realist representation. What has helped nurture your capacity to integrate both abstraction and realism? Are there other artists combining these modes that you find inspiring?
About 10 years ago I took a workshop with abstract painter Nicholas Wilton that opened up a new process of art making for me. Abstraction–which I’d always liked, but didn’t know why, and certainly didn’t understand how to make–turned out to be the thing that charged my work with meaning. My earlier interest in portraits and figures in oil transformed into a practice that now incorporates a much broader pool of passions and materials.
Many artists are finding expression with disrupted realism in this digital age, where our time and attention are highly fractured. Artists who inspire me these days are Ben Pease, Zoey Frank, Alex Kanevsky, Julie Chapman, Amy Dury, Bisa Butler, and John Wentz, among many others.
Your process involves drawing on archival photographs. Can you walk us through a bit of what that process is like–both finding the images that you’ll use, and then how you end up using them while you create?
I can’t overstate how much the act of looking through old photographs stirs something within me: a joy of curiosity, connection, empathy, and revelations that only come through scouring observation. I carry the emotional energy of that activity with me when I paint. That passion for looking started with a collection of my own ancestors. I soon recognized that I was equally drawn to historic photos beyond my own family and seek them out now at garage sales, antique stores, and regional archives. I may look at 50 photographs and find a connection with just one or two of them. It’s a feeling in my gut that I’m after: a yearning to know more, or a strong feeling of recognition in a gesture or expression. These inspirations stack up and find their way as references in paintings once they are already starting to find some direction in terms of interesting marks, shapes, or colors. At my freest, I try not to overthink what figure will inhabit a work, but let my choices flow easily in response to what’s already on the panel. Once a figure is present, the painting moves forward and becomes even more an expression of the present.
