American artist Trey Speegle was originally a full-time, self-taught designer who learned the ropes by working for magazines from the age of seventeen. He is now a full-time, self-taught fine artist who uses one of the world’s largest collections of vintage paint-by-number paintings as inspiration and raw material. Trey explores themes of hope, love, longing, and transformation using humor, affirmations, double entendre, and wordplay that resonates with a broad, pop appeal.
He has collaborated on projects with Fred Perry, Stella McCartney, and Anthropologie Home. He shows his originals on paper in Jonathan Adler shops across the United States and in London. His work is widely collected, and the Microsoft Art Collection recently acquired his iconic You Are Here painting for the lobby of their San Francisco headquarters. He divides his time between New York City’s Meatpacking District and his converted barn in the Catskill Mountains—both of which he shares with his Brussels Griffon, Lamonte.
JC—Which artist’s work/life/career are you most jealous of (dead or alive)?
TS—Warhol (dead), Koons (alive). So many people might say the same about Warhol . . . and Koons too, maybe: not his paintings, but I would like a studio setup like he has . . . with his nearly unlimited resources.
JC—Do you feel comfortable calling yourself an artist?
TS—I never called myself an artist until about eight or nine years ago. All of my friends were artists, but I felt I hadn’t earned it. When I had a good idea and started making good work (good on my own terms, not anyone else’s), then I could call myself an artist and not feel like a fraud.
JC—How did you make the hop from designer to fine artist?
TS—I worked as an art director for years, primarily for magazines. I’d been doing graphic word art for years, and after I inherited my paint-by-number collection, I had this idea to use paint-by-number as a visual vocabulary . . . the work is not about them, but I use them as raw material and transform them and, in the process, myself. Once I had this realization (I literally had a vision of twenty-five years’ worth of ideas in front of me), I couldn’t let it go. After having a certain level of accomplishment in the world, I realized that my ideas were just as good as other people’s, and I should put my energy into my own work.
JC—Where did your amazing paint-by-number collection come from?
TS—I was given two hundred of them from my friend, the original head writer of SNL, Michael O’Donoghue, in ’94. I’ve grown the collection to somewhere in the neighborhood of three thousand . . . kinda lost count, honestly.
JC—Are creative blocks ever a problem for you?
TS—I don’t get blocked so much because I’m constantly creating new work in my head and also in digital mock-ups. But I did a workshop (which I’m not supposed to describe, but . . .) called How to Make Better Mistakes, conducted by artist and illustrator Laurie Rosenwald. It involves drawing without much time to think, and somehow the exercise unlocks and unblocks idea in a way that is hard to describe. A whole body of work poured out right after finishing the workshop.
JC—Where do you find inspiration?
TS—I find inspiration in living life, appreciating and paying attention to what I like and why. I can be inspired by a vintage paint-by-number, or a phrase someone says that triggers an idea. I can get inspired by looking at masses of artwork, not by the work but by the over-arching ideas (or lack thereof) and the presentation. I never want to copy another’s ideas, but the way it’s framed or installed can give me an idea about my own work—very often the artwork itself has very little or nothing to do with my own work.
JC—What are your methods for working? Do you have any advice about process?
TS—Over time, I’ve developed different methods. Some work, take my word pieces, are very controlled and have endless variations (I choose the word or words, a font, and then an image). I have the entire English language, and then thousands of vintage paint-by-number paintings. Just those variables are enough to keep me busy. Ultimately, you have to set up the narrow parameters that you work in, and then within those, give yourself just enough room to be free and play.
JC—Do you ever equate your self-worth with your artistic successes?
TS—When I worked at Vogue and Vanity Fair early in my career, I saw that people were impressed that a twenty-one-year-old had that kind of job. And part of me didn’t like that, because I was basking in the reflected glow, so to speak. So I never stayed anywhere very long because I didn’t want to be too associated with my employer, or any one job. It’s the opposite when it’s your own work. You are the work and vice versa—so if I toiled for twenty-five years without any recognition, I might feel worthless—but I just do what’s in front of me and I don’t take any perceived success too seriously. It’s always on to the next thing.
JC—How do you feel about criticism?
TS—I’m OK with it, if people “get” where I’m coming from—but so often it’s a knee-jerk reaction without knowing much. “Kitsch” is a word that is often applied to my work. I can see where that comes from, but I think they are stopping at the surface. I’m a bit like the girl with big boobs who likes to get noticed, but then is, like, “Hey, my eyes are up here!”
You have to set up the narrow parameters that you work in, and then within those, give yourself just enough room to be free and play.
