The Unibrow Interview: Sarah Miska and the American West

Sarah Miska has been in the observational trenches for years now. Her subjects, mostly, are horses and the culture around equestrian life. In the past, we see a tightly controlled, concise, regal depictions of the English variety of that life, where Miska oversees a world of proper attire and centuries old traditions. But in her new show at Night Gallery, Happy Trails, Miska enters a completely different world: the American West. Spending six weeks on a working ranch in Wyoming, Miska found a different world to observe and inhabit, one of a more frontier minded, expansive and loose, yet still controlled world of labor and love. Here we see not only just horses, but cows and cowboys, and the quiet and intimate conversations between animals and trainers. It’s a subtle shift, but shows a new universe to her work.  

We sat down with Miska last week as part of a video series we started on social media, but wanted to share the conversation in full here today. We talked about the patience of the work, photo documentation, her experience in Wyoming and the ever-shifting perceptions and dimensions of the true American West.

The Unibrow: At what point in the process do you realize you have to start talking to people about the work? When you're alone in the studio, and suddenly it hits you, “These are going to go out into the world, I'm going to have to talk about them.” When does that kick in?
Sarah Miska: That kicks in about a month or two before the show happens. You're so focused in the studio, and then suddenly you have to do a press release, get interviewed, and divulge all these thoughts you've had over the last year or two—sum it all up. It's hard, because you're in such production mode leading up to a show. For this one, I was thinking about it for about two and a half years, then went into full production about a year out, while still juggling other things. It's a strange reset—you have to use a different part of your brain.

TU: Does the work ever change for you once you have to start writing and talking about it? Does something new reveal itself?
SM: I do really well letting thoughts brew for a long time. I always regret not writing an idea down in the moment, but honestly that's a good thing, it lets things develop in a non-linear way, and you stay open to outside influences. The writing process itself is beautiful, though—sitting in the studio quietly with a cup of coffee, and suddenly something becomes linear instead of abstract. But you don't want to take away the mystery and define every part of the work, because that's boring—for the artist and for everyone else. People want to come to the work and discover something. It's not like looking at a PDF.

TU: Would you consider these to be slightly fantasy paintings?
SM: Absolutely. Escapism, absolutely. The times are rough, that's not news. Reading the news is so intense; we all need to be informed, and yet we have to dissociate from it. Going to Wyoming to gather source material for this show was partly a midlife crisis—running away from the ordinary, everyday experience of being plugged into the news all the time. I was totally isolated, no reception, couldn't see any news, and it was six weeks of an incredible break. I think every human needs that kind of immersion in nature. If you can't do it often, just take a week out of your life and go be in the mountains.

TU: What was your idea of the American West before you went to Wyoming? We've talked about how different it feels to say "American West" versus "the West Coast"what was your preconceived idea before spending six weeks there?SM: Conservative. I was actually scared to go, and I made sure to keep my mouth shut in certain situations, because I really went there to learn, completely open-minded. I wasn't there to teach anyone anything, just to observe. I think that's the best way to go about life generally. I was doing research for the show, trying to expand my understanding instead of going in with my own idea of what a "conservative cowboy" looks like, whatever that means. And it wasn't that, in the end. There were ranch hands from Norway, and everyone was incredibly cultured. That was probably specific to the ranch I was at, but it was a lovely, generous, knowledgeable group of people. This is their education—they went to college to study horse science. It was totally different from what I expected.

TU: What surprised you most about the experience?
SM: How progressive and generous the group I was with turned out to be. I wasn't expecting that kind of welcome, and I think people were surprised that I, a "city girl," was so interested. They wanted me to learn about land conservation, the respectful way to treat a horse, how to humanely handle cattle. They do what's called a "check day" and try to make it as quick and easy on the animal as possible, because it's normally such an ordeal. I didn't see the butchering side of things, since it's a working ranch, but I did watch how gently they move the cattle through the acreage and the mountains—it's so much better for the land than industrial-scale ranching.

TU: You said you did a lot of interviewing while you were there. What did you take away from what people told you?
SM: What I learned, in the end, was really about communication. So much of my earlier work was about control—how we present ourselves, put-together and composed. It's there in the little details, like a stray flyaway hair, and in how you can't fully control this creature that's so strong and so intelligent, even as we're constantly trying to control our own image. Out there, I had to let go of that, because it was a culture I wasn't used to. I watched them communicate with the horses without words, what's our body language, what's theirs? Ears pinned back means they're upset with you. It's this whole other language. That whole trip was really about listening,  bouncing ideas off people I didn't know, trying to understand what a universal language between species might even look like. It made me think about how humans dominate and control everything around us, and how we're destroying the planet in the process. I don't usually speak about that directly in my work, but it's there.

TU: How did that show up visually in the paintings?
SM: I did a lot of horse studies, really looking at the horse's essence, and not forgetting that this is a creature, which I don't think I'd fully done before. I typically don't like showing a rider's face, maybe a glimpse, and I like painting a horse from behind, or the back of someone's head. But with this work, it became about the full frontal view, the eyes. A soul connection, maybe. Sounds cheesy to say.

TU: Your earlier work drew a lot from the English riding tradition, which is so much about control—posture, precision. With this show, it feels like you got looser. Can you talk about that shift?
SM: It's controlled in a different way, honestly. If you get into barrel racing or any competitive Western riding, it presents as rugged and loose, but it isn't really. I love thinking about the sponsors for English events versus Western ones, the idea of class within English riding is Gucci, luxury watches. With Western riding I've seen Budweiser, PBR, even Border Patrol. It's such a different culture. What does that reflect about what each world values—luxury, or just living your life? Neither is better than the other, but it's a completely different context. That's part of why I was drawn to the Western world, it's a facet of the equine world I'm not part of. I'm a voyeur, an observer, almost like I'm watching a nature documentary. And I can paint. It's an excuse to paint, really.

TU: There's so much intimacy in what you're describing, in your own process, obviously, in the detail and care in the paintings, but also in what you're observing between rider and horse, or caretaker and horse. Can you talk about that?
SM: We did a photo shoot with a woman named Natalie at her stable, and it was the way she communicated with her horses that struck me. She knows not to pick up her phone around a horse, because it senses you're not paying attention, her horse's ears pinned back the moment she looked at hers. She told me not to touch the horse while I was on mine. It's like the dynamic you build with a dog or a cat, you learn their body language, what they need. My daughter had to learn the same thing with our dog, who's a rescue and pretty reactive. She learned not to touch him while he's eating. These small, intimate dynamics we build with another creature,  that's intimacy.

TU: And they're smarter than we think.
SM: Exactly. If you've been to the orca exhibit at the Natural History Museum, they compare the human brain to an orca's, and we come out looking pretty unremarkable. That creature has a massive brain it actually uses—intricate family structures, social dynamics, hunting tactics. Who's really living the smarter life? We're destroying the planet, and they have this glorious existence under the ocean. Of course they have conflict too, like all of us, but we need to be learning from them.

TU: If you were a photographer, you could just show someone what you're making. But as a painter, you're essentially asking someone's permission to go home and paint an idea of them. Does that require a different kind of communication?
SM: Completely different. I tried photographing an actual rancher who was herding cattle down the road, and he started laughing when I asked—he thought I was some influencer about to post it on social media. I told him no, I'm doing a show about cowboys. I had to build an actual relationship with him before he felt comfortable being photographed in action. I'd say I'm uncomfortable in front of a camera myself, and I think most people are if they're not used to it. So it's about earning trust, not unlike building trust with a horse, first to feel safe photographing someone's horse, then to photograph them. And painting seems to land differently with people once they know that's what you do, there's a sense that they might become part of art history. I hope my work does that for people. That'd be lovely.

TU: What did you learn about yourself doing this work in Wyoming that felt new—something you can bring back into your practice?
SM: Mostly just not talking, just observing. I have ADHD, and I'll ramble for days and forget to let anyone else speak. A lot of it was learning to be quiet and watch more. I'm fairly observant already, but also just—be kind, be gentle. Stomping through the world doesn't get you anywhere.

TU: Why the horse, as a subject? What is it about that fascinates you?
SM: Honestly, it's an excuse to paint. But I also think it's a beautiful metaphor for much bigger things. It was a fantasy of mine growing up—Lisa Frank, Black Beauty, "wild hearts can't be tamed." That kind of ultimate fantasy for my generation. I think almost everyone has a horse story, whether they're terrified of horses, grew up around them, used to ride, or wish they still did. It hits something specific in people. I get asked a lot when I'm going to stop painting horses. Does it matter? I'm just going to keep painting them.

TU: You've shown work around the world. Do you notice different reactions to it in different places?
SM: Honestly, I don't get to see that side of things much, I don't interact directly with collectors or audiences very often when I have a show. I will say, doing a residency in London, the conversation was different, people were talking about auction prices for racehorses and hunter-jumpers, these enormous numbers. I've painted for families with a legacy of racehorses, painted their racing silks, painted their horses. It's a fascinating glimpse into a world I'm not part of. I'm a total voyeur;  it's part of why I source so many images from Instagram, looking into these different worlds, different classes, whatever that even means, and just observing. 

TU: You mentioned ADHD earlier. Has that shaped how you work, or led to particular studio strategies?
SM: Definitely. Everyone romanticizes the artist in the studio listening to cool jazz. For me, it's trash TV through headphones, and it has to be something I've already seen, or I can't focus. It's a kind of noise input; my dad does the same thing. My work involves a lot of repetitive movement, and I hyperfocus, so it actually works in my favor. I can spend fourteen hours painting lines and love it. It drives me a little crazy if I don't have the right show going, but that background noise is essential. My focus breaks easily otherwise.

TU: What about when you're not deep in small details, when you're thinking through something more abstract?
SM: My old studio had white walls, which helped me focus; I'd lose all track of time, which is both good and bad. My new studio has green space outside and natural light, which is lovely but also more distracting, though maybe better for the soul. I'm a 9-to-5 person about it, honestly—I treat it like a job, keeping kind of a boring schedule. I have a kid and a family, and I've had to stay disciplined about not letting the work take over, because it wears on them otherwise.

TU: What's your favorite part of the process?
SM: Being in a groove, doing a fourteen-hour day. I miss being able to do that as much as when I was younger. When my family's out of town, I just work—though I love spending time with friends, too. But when a show's coming up, I work.

TU: Last one — did anyone have an opinion about a Californian showing up in Wyoming?
SM: Immediate judgment, whether it was said out loud or not. I got pulled over doing five over the speed limit, and the officer just went, "Oh, California." We have a bit of a reputation out there.