Former shoe factory houses artists
SULLIVAN — Mark Seeley is one eager beaver in the lodge of alternative lighting.
But why work like a beaver when you can have beavers do the work for you? It’s a philosophy that illuminates Seeley’s artistic approach as he collects bits of tree chewed by the waterproof rodents and turns them into gnarly lamps.
“Now that is the first light I ever made,” he says, showing off a particularly tortured-looking piece of willow that twists and turns and is studded with what look like tiny chisel marks. “Those are beaver teeth marks right there,” explains Seeley, 58.
“We were tearing out a beaver dam on my brother’s property, and this piece of wood just popped up out of it, and I thought, `Well, I could make a lamp out of that,’ “ he recalls.
The retired Caterpillar Inc. welder first saw the artistic light four years ago and now, when he isn’t camping, fishing or helping out on a friend’s farm, you will find him toiling away at illumination in a vast former shoe factory in Sullivan. The second floor of the place is home to Seeley and 22 other artists in a kind of art construction colony called The Factory Art Studios.
The first studio inhabitant was Seeley’s friend, fellow artist and furniture craftsman John McDevitt. He welcomed Seeley aboard two years ago after a show featuring Seeley’s lamps was a hit. “It was so well received, and Mark had a good time,” said McDevitt. “And he said to me, `I think I need to stay up here full time,’ and now he is.”
The duo have since worked together to create the Factory Art concept, and Seeley is enjoying being surrounded by other artists while occupying a prime corner spot lit by vast banks of shoe factory windows and his extraordinary lamps. In addition to postmammalian cellulose processing, he has lamps made from electrical conduit with shades formed from metal tubing used for clothes dryer vents. There’s a lamp made from an old civil defense helmet, a chandelier crafted from musical cymbals and a heavy-duty standing light whose body is an engine cylinder out of a Cessna aircraft.
There is also a large lamp made from a kid’s tricycle and a Frosty brand root beer box, of all things, and he was once so struck by the appearance of clear plastic-handled toilet plungers he now has a plunger line of free-standing LED bathroom night lights.
“I call it the `Flush Light,’ “ he says proudly. “I am always seeing things in everyday stuff, things that could be made into lamps. That’s my problem, really, because I walk into a hardware store, and I’m in trouble.”
Even if he manages to lead himself not into temptation, news of his lamp talent has spread, and he has plenty of enablers. Next door to the Factory Art Studios is a Habitat for Humanity ReStore, where Seeley is seen so often he’s like an adjunct staff member. “And if I don’t come over to get what I want, they will bring me things,” he adds.
“And then I have other people who come in here and just leave stuff on my desk. That’s how I got three sets of drum cymbals.”
His lamp prices range from $45 to $100, and he undertakes custom work if you have a bright idea and need an eager beaver to turn it into reality.
His love of artful repurposing further extends to vintage radios, which he reworks to keep their cool retro looks while reprogramming the insides so modern owners can play their iPod or smartphone through them. By way of demonstration, he fires up a 1960s-era “Musaphonic” from General Electric and his corner of the old shoe factory fills suddenly with the Doors belting out the psychedelic 1968 rock lyric “Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name?”
The name of the game for Seeley isn’t making money but lighting the way to a profound sense of satisfaction as he uses his talents to illuminate and reorient things in ways nobody else imagined. And sometimes he feels he is being guided by a higher calling, a shining sense of humanitarianism to lighten the souls of his fellow man or, in some cases, their ears. By way of example, he offers up a lamp with a lampshade made from old vinyl records that have been melded and fused together.
Peering at one of the old 33 rpm albums, he points to a label that boasts of a rare singing performance by Clint Eastwood. His grating singing voice, however, has a quality that would have the average listener pointing a .44-caliber Magnum handgun at the record player and asking it the immortal question: “Do you feel lucky?”
“I did listen to it first and thought, `No, we’re gonna melt that,” recalls Seeley.