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John Michael Byrd holds an MFA in Studio Arts from the University of Massachusetts - Amherst and is also an alumnus of Louisiana State University, with a BFA in Painting and Drawing. He is primarily a painter, but has also worked in drawing, collage, objects, performance and printmaking. John Michael’s work has been featured in numerous regional and national exhibitions, and he has mounted almost a dozen solo exhibitions in Louisiana, Oregon, Massachusetts and New York. Also, he has been awarded several grants and scholarships, including the J. Kenneth Edmiston Memorial Scholarship and the Carl M. Thorp Memorial Art Scholarship. His work can be seen in the pages of: The Oxford American Magazine, Studio Visit Magazine, Hyperallergic, The Sewers of Paris, Painters on Painting, Kolaj Magazine, The Tulane Review, The Manifest Annual, WordSmiths Literary Review, DIALOGIST, Starry Night Programs Artists To Look Out For, Fresh Paint Magazine, CountryRoads Magazine, Together Underground, 21st Century Queer Artists Identify Themselves, Art Business News, 225 Magazine, The J.O.S.H., The Ivory Tower Magazine and The Advocate. John Michael Byrd’s work is focused on absurdity and the uncanny, in an attempt to resolve the gap between the artificial and the real, juxtaposing appropriated imagery in various media. John Michael works as an Academic Advisor at SVA and is constantly painting, writing and reading Tarot cards in his spare time.
Published on April 1st, 2025. Artist responses collected in months previous.
Talk about some of the logistics of your art practice. What systems do you have in place to help streamline your workflows?
I've created a unique blend of refined rituals and playful processes in my studio practice, much like an artsy Swiss Army knife. My sketchbook is my most valuable tool, filled with notes, charms, sketches, and watercolor splashes. The rituals I follow when starting and finishing each book are comforting. They harken back to a time when I was blissfully unaware of the formal art world—when “critique” was just my aunt’s take on my fashion. I've also built expansive files overflowing with intriguing sources, images, readings, and snippets of thought. On my phone, I keep a file for stream-of-consciousness poetry that I write while riding the train—because nothing says “artistic genius” quite like staring off into space and appearing mildly mysterious next to my fellow commuters. Since 2020, I’ve dived into collages, documenting my compositions and transforming them in Photoshop, a process I call “digital alchemy” or “playing Photoshop Tetris.” I love cutting up vintage coloring books to create new stories, proving that those hours spent coloring outside the lines were worthwhile.
What is some advice for someone who does not have any experience who would like to pursue a career like yours?
The other day, I chatted with a former student, and we stumbled into the existential topic of "desert times." You know, those peculiar spells when opportunities are as rare as finding a camel wearing knee socks, deadlines have disappeared, and encouragement feels like it's hiding behind a dune waving a tiny white flag. During these sandy stretches, it's vital to cultivate contentment with the creation process itself. Because let's face it, the journey makes the adventure worthwhile, even if it occasionally feels like walking barefoot on the hot sands. Oh, and let's not forget the curious trap of comparing our artistic escapades to the glittering accolades of others. It's like trying to measure rainbows by their colors. Diving into creativity is embarking on a quest, where you might discover that the real treasure is that half-finished drawing that looks more like a potato than a Picabia. Every brushstroke, every note, is a spark of joy—or at least that's what I tell myself while trying to figure out why my painting looks like it was done by a gorilla armed with finger paints at that exact moment.
What was the lowest point in your art career and how did you overcome those adversities?
After graduate school, I dove into the professional world, quickly realizing it was full of confusing advice. It took a decade to reevaluate my accomplishments and stop viewing them as just fleeting moments of seemingly having it all together. I constantly chased the next shiny opportunity, forgetting to celebrate past triumphs. You'd think I'd stride confidently after finishing school, but I often felt like a confused duck in a cornfield. Ideally, I'd be present and zen, enjoying some tea, but instead, I found myself distracted by other's Instagram posts and wallowing in rejection letters. I would never dampen someone's creative spirit, but the journey is often complex, requiring deep self-reflection. Starting over sometimes feels like my version of cardio, and I frequently need to hit pause and binge-watch the Muppet Show to recharge. There are moments when you must tune out the noise, embrace your inner artist, and say, "This is my vision, and if you don't understand it, that's fine—more snacks for me!"
How did you come into the type of artwork you are doing now?
My work has three main branches that have sprouted from the wild jungle of my creative mind over the years. First, there are my dream paintings on mylar and paper — think of them as what happens when colorful nightmares get together for a happy hour. Then, my intuitive collage works are like exquisite corpses but with a twist: it's a party where I'm the only guest, other than the more fragmented images. And finally, there's my writing practice, where I aim to make sense of it all or at least attempt to understand why I just put a bird in a tractor seat on a sinking ship. These creative outlets come from the same wacky source but take wildly different roads, depending on how much coffee I've had or how many existential crises I'm juggling. They all explore themes of mystery, play, confusion, doubt, symbolism, and humor — the ingredients I adore, like a chef who only makes dishes from the clearance section of the supermarket. What a world!
What was an epiphany in your art practice that took you to the next level?
In recent years, I've realized that humor in art is not just valid; it's essential for survival—like wearing pants in public! We need to tackle serious issues while juggling life's absurdities. In school, I was in an environment where humor was frowned upon, and the closest thing to a joke was an awkward silence. Instead of embracing playfulness, we referred to our art as "experiments," almost like an excuse for spilling paint on the dog. At heart, I'm a goofball who finds humor in everyday moments—like tripping over my feet or making accidental eye contact with a stranger on the bus while missing my stop. It's a comedy show nobody asked for! Humor is my secret ingredient for connecting with others, probably why I always end up with the last slice of mystical pizza. My most significant breakthroughs often come after a good laugh—like when I drop a book, only to have it open to the exact page that reveals my future. Spoiler alert: It's mostly just me still trying to find what words to use next to not sound like a total alien.
Talk about some of the logistics of your art practice. What systems do you have in place to help streamline your workflows?
I've created a unique blend of refined rituals and playful processes in my studio practice, much like an artsy Swiss Army knife. My sketchbook is my most valuable tool, filled with notes, charms, sketches, and watercolor splashes. The rituals I follow when starting and finishing each book are comforting. They harken back to a time when I was blissfully unaware of the formal art world—when “critique” was just my aunt’s take on my fashion. I've also built expansive files overflowing with intriguing sources, images, readings, and snippets of thought. On my phone, I keep a file for stream-of-consciousness poetry that I write while riding the train—because nothing says “artistic genius” quite like staring off into space and appearing mildly mysterious next to my fellow commuters. Since 2020, I’ve dived into collages, documenting my compositions and transforming them in Photoshop, a process I call “digital alchemy” or “playing Photoshop Tetris.” I love cutting up vintage coloring books to create new stories, proving that those hours spent coloring outside the lines were worthwhile.
What is some advice for someone who does not have any experience who would like to pursue a career like yours?
The other day, I chatted with a former student, and we stumbled into the existential topic of "desert times." You know, those peculiar spells when opportunities are as rare as finding a camel wearing knee socks, deadlines have disappeared, and encouragement feels like it's hiding behind a dune waving a tiny white flag. During these sandy stretches, it's vital to cultivate contentment with the creation process itself. Because let's face it, the journey makes the adventure worthwhile, even if it occasionally feels like walking barefoot on the hot sands. Oh, and let's not forget the curious trap of comparing our artistic escapades to the glittering accolades of others. It's like trying to measure rainbows by their colors. Diving into creativity is embarking on a quest, where you might discover that the real treasure is that half-finished drawing that looks more like a potato than a Picabia. Every brushstroke, every note, is a spark of joy—or at least that's what I tell myself while trying to figure out why my painting looks like it was done by a gorilla armed with finger paints at that exact moment.
What was the lowest point in your art career and how did you overcome those adversities?
After graduate school, I dove into the professional world, quickly realizing it was full of confusing advice. It took a decade to reevaluate my accomplishments and stop viewing them as just fleeting moments of seemingly having it all together. I constantly chased the next shiny opportunity, forgetting to celebrate past triumphs. You'd think I'd stride confidently after finishing school, but I often felt like a confused duck in a cornfield. Ideally, I'd be present and zen, enjoying some tea, but instead, I found myself distracted by other's Instagram posts and wallowing in rejection letters. I would never dampen someone's creative spirit, but the journey is often complex, requiring deep self-reflection. Starting over sometimes feels like my version of cardio, and I frequently need to hit pause and binge-watch the Muppet Show to recharge. There are moments when you must tune out the noise, embrace your inner artist, and say, "This is my vision, and if you don't understand it, that's fine—more snacks for me!"
How did you come into the type of artwork you are doing now?
My work has three main branches that have sprouted from the wild jungle of my creative mind over the years. First, there are my dream paintings on mylar and paper — think of them as what happens when colorful nightmares get together for a happy hour. Then, my intuitive collage works are like exquisite corpses but with a twist: it's a party where I'm the only guest, other than the more fragmented images. And finally, there's my writing practice, where I aim to make sense of it all or at least attempt to understand why I just put a bird in a tractor seat on a sinking ship. These creative outlets come from the same wacky source but take wildly different roads, depending on how much coffee I've had or how many existential crises I'm juggling. They all explore themes of mystery, play, confusion, doubt, symbolism, and humor — the ingredients I adore, like a chef who only makes dishes from the clearance section of the supermarket. What a world!
What was an epiphany in your art practice that took you to the next level?
In recent years, I've realized that humor in art is not just valid; it's essential for survival—like wearing pants in public! We need to tackle serious issues while juggling life's absurdities. In school, I was in an environment where humor was frowned upon, and the closest thing to a joke was an awkward silence. Instead of embracing playfulness, we referred to our art as "experiments," almost like an excuse for spilling paint on the dog. At heart, I'm a goofball who finds humor in everyday moments—like tripping over my feet or making accidental eye contact with a stranger on the bus while missing my stop. It's a comedy show nobody asked for! Humor is my secret ingredient for connecting with others, probably why I always end up with the last slice of mystical pizza. My most significant breakthroughs often come after a good laugh—like when I drop a book, only to have it open to the exact page that reveals my future. Spoiler alert: It's mostly just me still trying to find what words to use next to not sound like a total alien.
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