Glen Arbor Arts Center’s “Whose Story” exhibition offers a reckoning

Stephanie Schlatter’s “I Dissent” features late U.S. Supreme Court justice, and feminist icon, Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

By Katie Dunn

Sun contributor

HIStory/HERstory: Whose Story? The Glen Arbor Arts Center (GAAC) poses this question in one of its most profound and timely exhibitions to date. Whose Story? is not simply an art show. It is a reckoning.

The exhibition invites artists to examine who exactly shapes the narrative—to explore identity, legacy, and power. At its crux lies the question: who determines which stories are immortalized and which are relegated as derivative.

The opening reception on August 15, while well-attended, felt distinct from a typical GAAC gallery gathering. There was a palpable solemnity. Visitors moved more deliberately through the space, lingering over pieces, with conversations punctuated by thoughtful exchanges. The artists’ statements pulled the audience in, as much as the art itself.

Peg McCarty, long a central figure in the Glen Arbor arts community and former GAAC board president, was in attendance and witnessed the exhibition’s profundity.

“The artists’ statements illustrate how point of view explains so much about why it’s often difficult to understand another’s perspective and begs the question, whose story is it anyway? To me, the exhibit provides a reminder to be a thoughtful listener and ask empathic questions when trying to understand someone else’s story or experience,” she said.

Under the curatorial vision of Sarah Bearup-Neal, GAAC gallery manager, Whose Story? is framed less as a search for answers than as a provocation. What emerges is an ensemble of voices demanding attention, insisting on recognition, and claiming space that feels as necessary as it is overdue.

“This exhibit challenges all sorts of delivered truths, sacred cows, and long-unquestioned assumptions,” Bearup-Neal explained, emphasizing that the works on view prompt critical thinking and encourage viewers to contest established assumptions.

For Bearup-Neal, the impact is cumulative. “Every time I visit the exhibit, I find a new piece that speaks loudly to me. I’m reminded of how many voices aren’t heard, and how many of their stories are left untold because they don’t advance or contradict or are inconvenient to the official narrative,” she said.

Bearup-Neal herself contributed two works, both contemporary quilts, titled Utility Quilt [Wimmins Werk] and Utility Quilt [Not A Painting]. In these pieces, she interrogates the hierarchy of artistic mediums. Quilts, closely tied to women’s domestic labor, have often been dismissed as merely functional rather than recognized as expressions of creativity and thoughtful design. By contrast, materials such as oil paint or bronze have been elevated—viewed as more complex, prestigious, and valuable.

As Bearup-Neal observes: “The first time a quilt got serious consideration by the big guns was 1955, when Robert Rauschenberg affixed one to a stretched canvas, then threw paint at it. Rauschenberg’s work, Bed, was heralded as an inventive, aesthetic breakthrough; darn-near pure creative wizardry. Oh, and BTW: He didn’t make the quilt. Bed is part of MOMA’s permanent collection.”

That Rauschenberg’s appropriation was celebrated, while the original quilt maker remained invisible, exposes the exploitive tendencies of art history toward certain forms of creative practice—and, by extension, gender. Bearup-Neal’s contemporary quilts respond directly to this legacy of erasure, reclaiming the medium as legitimate, conceptual work in its own right.

This very same sense of gender-based inequities informed the juried decisions of Whose Story? The three award-winning pieces—each addressing a different facet of women’s experiences—speak powerfully to the exhibition’s themes. From societal constraints to personal outrage to historical erasure, they converge to amplify visibility and agency.

Martha Liddle-Lameti of Sanford, Michigan, earned “Best of Show” for Constriction: Embracing the Feminine–Unnatural Beauty. The sculptural assemblage takes the form of a corset, crafted from reed, bark, and felted fiber, edged with thorns and laced with lichen. Positioned below is a small egg adorned with porcupine quills, a singular component that carries deep personal meaning—a tribute to her daughter.

Liddle-Lameti explained, “This represents my daughter. I hope that I have somehow helped to influence her to be the strong, independent woman that she has become. I have never wanted her to be dependent on anyone but herself. We as mothers have the responsibility to do just that.”

Constriction evokes the physical and societal constraints historically imposed on women. “The constriction of the corset caused permanent deformities in many women…It also held women back from competing with men which was another way for men to control the female of the species,” she said.

Liddle-Lameti links this history to contemporary pressures–from celebrity ideals that leave people “feel[ing] somehow ‘less than’” to broader injustices, including anorexia and sexual exploitation. Through the interplay of materials, historical context, and personal symbolism, Constriction embodies the exhibition’s focus on “her story.” The work also situates Liddle-Lameti’s vision within the broader history of women’s struggles and resilience.

Traverse City artist Judith Shepelak’s colored-pencil work, Hell Hath No Fury, commands attention with its intensity and scale (24” x 35”). The piece channels decades of frustration and resolve, reflecting personal and generational battles for women’s rights. Shepelak speaks candidly of her rightful outrage:

“Tired of being a second-class citizen. Disrespected. Questioned of my knowledge. Intelligence. Worth. Furious that I don’t own the rights to my own body. Yes. I’ve been an ANGRY woman.”

Shepelak positions her own experience within the larger historical continuum, tracing the fight for equality back to the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848:

“Since the Seneca Falls Convention…I’ve been trying to get the right to vote, equal access to education and employment, freedom from violence and discrimination.”

Notwithstanding the intensity of Shepelak’s angst, the piece is ultimately about persistence, self-determination, and a refusal to be compartmentalized. “But with this anger, I will keep fighting for myself, my daughter, and all other women,” Shepelak proclaims.

For its raw emotion and historical grounding, Hell Hath No Fury was recognized with one of the exhibition’s two Merit Awards.

The exhibition’s second Merit Award was presented to Beulah artist Gail Hunter for her acrylic painting, The Barcelona Chair. Hunter’s work restores visibility to, and champions, Lily Reich, the masterful Bauhaus instructor who co-designed the famed chair with Mies van der Rohe for the 1929 Barcelona International Exposition.

“But are you familiar with her name? Like most of the ‘forgotten women’ of the Bauhaus Modern Movement, her name has been resigned to the shadows of her collaborator. One hundred years later, the Barcelona chair remains one of the most iconic pieces of furniture today. Manufactured by Knoll Furniture since 1953, it sells for about $8,500. Each chair carries a stamped facsimile of only Mies van der Rohe’s signature,” Hunter rightfully points out.

Hunter’s painting quietly seethes with the injustice of Reich’s erasure: her indispensable role in designing the Barcelona chair has been consigned to the margins, glaring in stark contrast to the fame of her collaborator. Through her work, Hunter exposes this imbalance, transforming a historical omission into a striking visual testament.

In addition to Bearup-Neal’s two pieces and the three award-winning works, Whose Story? features the creations of 20 other artists. Capturing the full sweep of these voices would be nearly impossible, but within this constellation of creativity, several pieces warrant particular attention.

Carrie Betlyn-Eder of Maple City unveiled You See Right Through Me, an assemblage that examines the parallel histories of women and nature, illuminating a delicate balance of endurance and vulnerability in both.

She shares, “You See Right Through Me is an exploration on growth and containment of women and our art historical correlate, nature. For centuries, both have been defined and displayed from a perspective not their own, often unseen for what they truly are. My materials illustrate their tenacity and fragility; the dried flowers, ephemeral as life itself, while the plastic form that contains them endures forever.”

Stephanie Schlatter of Glen Arbor presented I Dissent, an acrylic-and-collage meditation on Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg and the erasure of women’s voices. Her work insists on recognition and remembrance. Schlatter exhorts, “Women’s stories have historically gone untold. Period…It might seem as if women never made art, but they did; it’s just that men wrote the history books and overlooked women’s contributions.”

With She Chose Love, a mixed media piece, Jessica Kovan of Empire, crystallizes a life philosophy into three luminous words. “If the legacy that I leave is that I always chose love—whether in my art, in my daily interactions with people, in my teachings, in my activism—then I can still remain true to myself,” Kovan shares.

It Was a Man Who Said, “It’s A Man’s World,” proclaims Shanny Brooke of Traverse City. Her oil and cold-wax painting depicts a woman with arms outstretched and her hair rising—a striking gesture to recognize inequities and assert women’s agency.

Brooke further inquires: “Why is it habit for us to label a little girl’s leadership skills, or confidence, as ‘bossy’? Why are positive characteristics most often applied to males? A female showing an unapologetic and strategic level of ambition in the workplace is often labeled a ‘bitch.’ Whereas if a male is promoted. We are witnessing once again the fear of man. Fear of losing control of us and our bodies. We must continue to write our own Her-Story because they are trying to erase us.”

Lake Ann artist Cherie Correll shared Temptation—Expulsion, a collage diptych comprised of watercolor paper, acrylic, chalk, colored pencil, and photo transfers. It reimagines the Genesis story through a modern lens.

Temptation—Expulsion channels the early Renaissance frescoes of Florence’s Brancacci Chapel, specifically Masaccio’s The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise (c. 1425–27) and Masolino’s The Temptation of Adam and Eve (c. 1425–27). Like these masters, Correll engages with foundational stories, urging viewers to consider how history has framed gender relations.

Correll probes: “Was this when it all started?” She delves even deeper: “Was it the serpent’s idea to persuade Eve to eat the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden? Did Eve hear the serpent’s voice in her head, then offer the fruit to Adam?” Correll further considers whether these moments marked “the beginning of the struggles between the sexes, of humankind’s interaction, and of life as we know it today.”

Correll’s piece affirms the importance of including women’s perspectives at the center of history, a placement essential to equity.

The exhibition’s exploration of gender, power, and visibility is not limited to women’s voices. Four men—among the 24 submissions—add their own complementary perspectives to the conversation.

John Murphey of Empire contributed a watercolor-ink-on-paper piece, Over the Mountain, No. 4, which traces the intimate, overlooked decisions that migrants face. His work recognizes that “often, women are at the center of these decisions,” portraying the personal dimensions of displacement and offering insight into the human experiences behind migration.

Frankfort artist Bradford Sprouse’s bisque sculpture, Fractured, features a bust named Bluestone that unexpectedly imploded in the kiln. Initially prepared to discard Bluestone, Sprouse instead gathered the pieces, glazing and reassembling them, to create a work that allowed its voice to emerge. For Sprouse, the reconstruction of Bluestone became a way to reflect on the “dreadful” mistreatment of Native Americans—whose culture was often silenced through dislocation, racism, and abuse—so that “these toxic voices, louder than others, delivered a FRACTURED message.” Once riven, the sculpture now tells a story of transformation and remembrance.

Nik Burkhardt, a Maple City–based artist, created a urethane-on-charred-red-oak piece titled It Doesn’t Have to Be Like This. The phrase has since become a mantra for him: “I don’t have to accept circumstances as the way they will always be. In the midst of dysfunction, it is essential (though sometimes hard) to see the facts, especially when these facts are buried in limited or biased histories.”

Burkhardt scaled the piece to evoke a protest sign, and constructed it out of red oak to “better withstand literal fire.” The font is in his own handwriting, serving as a reminder—to both himself and others—that change is indeed possible.

With his oil painting, A Conversation With My Daughter, Todd Lininger of Leland turns inward, exploring the resilience and grace in his daughter’s multifaceted life. His work creates “a conversation, not in words, but in presence,” celebrating her tireless dedication as a doctor, mother, and partner. In doing so, Lininger honors the often-unseen labors and strengths of women, underscoring the multiple roles women navigate every day.

While Whose Story? unmistakably emphasizes women’s voices and experiences, the works shared by the four male artists demonstrate that empathy, sensitivity, and nuanced understanding are not limited by gender. Those contributions prove that male voices, too, carry weight, and cannot be discounted.

In highlighting these examples of inclusivity, Whose Story? reveals how far the art world has come—and how historical practices have often fallen short—most notably with one of the most fabled institutions and foundational pillars of the art world: the 19th-century Académie des Beaux-Arts.

The Académie dictated the narrative of art, establishing accepted subjects, styles, and techniques. It favored classical painting and exalting the works of men, consistently diminishing craft, applied arts, and any other forms of art outside the prescribed hierarchy of genres. Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres exemplified the Académie’s Neoclassical ideals, while Édouard Manet challenged them with modern subjects and unconventional brushwork, drawing criticism and censure from the Académie for defying its strict conventions.

Women were entirely excluded from the halls of the Académie, a policy that prompted Rodolphe Julian, a painter and teacher, to establish the Académie Julian in 1868 as an alternative. The school offered a more flexible and inclusive environment, welcoming female students and providing instruction in professional art techniques—opportunities previously denied to them. By expanding access to those marginalized by an entrenched system, the Académie Julian became a transformational institution.

Just as the Académie regulated who could create art and what was deemed as acceptable, the historians who chronicled those legacies ultimately determined which artists achieved lasting recognition and influence.

For decades, Horst Janson’s History of Art, first published in 1962, has served as the definitive textbook. Its depth, breadth, and scholarship are undeniable, and it became the bedrock of art history education for generations of students.(While studying pre-Renaissance art in Florence in the early 1990s, I learned from Janson’s book—a volume I still keep in my art library in Chicago.

Still, Janson’s account was predominantly male; his interpretation privileged male artists. He decided which artists belonged in the canon, and which voices were subordinated.

By contrast, Helen Gardner’s seminal 1926 work, Art Through the Ages, already sought to broaden the frame with a more global and inclusive lens. Yet, Gardner’s work is too often relegated to the category of “alternative,” when in truth it stands on equal footing with Janson’s. The canon should not rest on hierarchy, but on a plateau where diverse voices and visions stand equally.

This very same imbalance is evident in the lives of artists themselves. Consider the following creative duos:

Jackson Pollock and Lee Krasner, where his mythic status was consistently elevated above her brilliance. Pollock was acclaimed for his drip paintings, while Krasner’s pioneering work in abstraction was just as vital. However, her name remains far less recognized.

Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, whose partnership is often remembered through his monumental murals, even as her uncompromising self-portraits—more than fifty in number—have come to define her singular legacy. “I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best,” Kahlo explained, underscoring the deeply personal nature of her work.

Willem de Kooning and Elaine de Kooning, where she championed his career while simultaneously developing a formidable style of her own. Yet it was Elaine—not Willem—who was commissioned in 1962 to create a portrait of President John F. Kennedy for the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library in Independence, Missouri. The portrait is now housed at the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C.

The relationship of Auguste Rodin and Camille Claudel, in which Claudel—a technical prodigy with an intensely expressive style, and a decisive creative force in Rodin’s late work—was dismissed in her time as pupil, assistant, or lover. Yet only later were her significant contributions widely recognized by historians.

Milton Avery and Sally Avery, whose reputations diverged: his celebrated as one of America’s great modernists, hers quietly brilliant yet eclipsed. One of Sally Avery’s paintings hangs in my Chicago home, a reminder of her artistic brilliance that thrived alongside his renown.

At the Bauhaus, Josef Albers became a towering figure—painter, color theorist, and later a professor at Yale—his name firmly inscribed in the modernist canon. Yet his wife, Anni Albers, was equally groundbreaking in her own field. Working in textiles, she revolutionized weaving by treating it not as a decorative craft but as a modernist, experimental art form. Ironically, she had been steered into the weaving workshop at the Bauhaus, as women were barred from pursuing painting or architecture despite the school’s avant-garde ideals.

For decades, Anni’s contributions were overshadowed by Josef’s more traditionally “serious” medium of painting, a disparity that mirrors the broader imbalance of whose work is legitimized in art history. Only in recent years has her pioneering role been fully recognized, culminating in a major retrospective at Tate Modern in 2018 that firmly established her as one of the twentieth century’s most innovative modern artists.

This dynamic is not confined to collaborative partnerships. Even as individual artists, women have faced persistent undervaluation.

Mary Cassatt, an American artist, struggled to gain recognition among her French Impressionist peers. Her accomplishments, though substantial, were dwarfed by the fame of male contemporaries—particularly her trusted ally, Edgar Degas. The two shared studios in Paris and collaborated closely, with Degas offering guidance and support while acknowledging her talent. Cassatt’s innovative compositions and intimate portrayals of women and children showcased her mastery and challenged the male-dominated art world, ensuring her enduring legacy despite the historical imbalance in recognition.

Similarly, Marie Laurencin was a vital voice within the Cubist milieu. She studied at the Académie Humbert in Paris alongside Georges Braque, and the two became early collaborators in Cubism, even as Braque’s later association with Pablo Picasso would dominate historical narratives. Closely connected to both Braque and the poet Guillaume Apollinaire, Laurencin’s artistry was often characterized as “feminine” in a pejorative sense. Her use of soft pastels and curvilinear forms—central to her aesthetic—contributed to this bias, diminishing the perceived sophistication and influence of her work.

Together, these examples illustrate a persistent pattern: female creativity and contributions systematically undervalued, obscured, or absorbed into the legacies of the men alongside whom they worked.

To be sure, HIStory/HERstory: Whose Story? does not pretend to offer tidy resolutions to centuries of erasure, nor does it attempt to soothe. Rather, it insists on the work of listening—deliberate, discerning attention that can begin to loosen the hold of inherited narratives.

“When I began working on this exhibition idea more than a year ago, I did not imagine what would simultaneously unfold in the world outside the GAAC’s Main Gallery. The HIStory/HERstory exhibit provides a microcosmic illustration of national events, but its small size doesn’t cancel out the surreality of this exhibition reflecting the seismic events unfolding in the background. I’m not prescient. I just had an idea. And, I’m thunderstruck by the timing of it all,” Bearup-Neal reflected.