BILL THELEN “RISE UP” Interview @PSS 5/22/26
Interview and translation by Anna Tomita
-What were some of your earliest memories of expressing yourself visually?
I drew constantly as a kid. My brother was a really good drawer, but what I became obsessed with were sports mascots and team colors. It wasn’t really the sports themselves. It was the visual identity of them.
That was probably my first introduction to color. I was fascinated by how sports teams paired colors together. The Green Bay Packers being dark green and gold, for example. Around third or fourth grade, I became obsessed with drawing every high school’s mascot in our conference. I’d find them in yearbooks or the local paper, redraw them by hand, and color them in myself. Eventually I covered an entire wall of my bedroom with them.
Looking back, I think I was drawn to the combination of color, illustration, and graphic identity. Those mascots were often hand-drawn, and copying them is really how I learned to draw. My favorite was the Burlington Demons. They were black and orange, which felt incredibly cool to me at the time.
My dad was a coach and physical education teacher, and my brother was a wrestler, so I spent a lot of time around sports. While everyone else was focused on the games, I was sitting on the sidelines drawing. I loved everything visual about sports more than I loved the sports themselves.
- When would you say you identified that you wanted to pursue being an artist?
That’s a tough question.
My art teachers never really talked about artists or showed us contemporary art. In a way, that was a good thing because it kept the focus on developing your own craft.
Honestly, I never thought I could make it as an artist. I felt like my skills were so limited. Art was just something I did. And honestly, I’m almost still in that state of mind today.
Am I an artist? I still struggle with that question.
I’ve done a lot of different things. I’ve curated exhibitions. I ran Lump for thirty years, which often took me away from my own practice. Even now, if I met someone, I probably wouldn’t introduce myself by saying, “I’m an artist.” I’d say I teach, I curate, I do this, I do that.
The word “artist” carries a lot of weight. Growing up, my parents and a lot of people around me believed that if you couldn’t make a living from your art, then you weren’t really an artist. So eventually I came to my own conclusion. I don’t necessarily want to be an artist in the conventional sense. I just want to be able to keep doing what I do for the rest of my life. I wanted to keep my work as pure as possible. I didn’t want sales or commerce dictating what I made. I never wanted to create something simply to pay rent. So in teaching, I found another way of living alongside art.
That perspective really started in undergrad. My background is actually in film and video. My BFA was in an experimental, non-narrative film and video program. It was housed within the fine art’s department, but it wasn’t focused on traditional disciplines like painting, drawing, or sculpture. The work wasn’t really about selling anything. You’d make films and videos and hope to show them in screenings or film festivals someday. It was more about experimentation and exploration than commerce.
Even now, after getting my MFA, teaching art, and running a gallery for decades, I still have a complicated relationship with the label “artist.” Deep down I think I am one and I’m living a very art-centered life. But for a lot of people, being an artist is tied to commercial or critical success, and I never wanted that to define what I do.
- In the mid 90s, you opened a gallery for emerging artists. Tell us about Lump Gallery.
I had moved from San Francisco to Raleigh because my partner was from there and was pursuing his PhD. Before moving, I had been interning and working at alternative art spaces and nonprofits in San Francisco. I originally moved there to be part of the film and video scene, but once I arrived, I quickly took a different path.
At that time, there was an exciting scene happening around artists like Barry McGee, Margaret Kilgallen, and Chris Johanson. I became really interested in street-based work and immersed myself in that culture. I was tagging quite a bit myself and was heavily influenced by artist-run spaces and alternative galleries.
When I moved to Raleigh, I wondered what I was going to do there. I first thought about finding a studio. Then my partner found a building that had been marked down dramatically in price. He suggested that if I managed the building, I could essentially have a studio there for free. Artists never have much money, so that was a huge opportunity. The building cost about $40,000, and the mortgage was only around $400 a month. There was a large extra space in the building, and I thought, “Maybe I should start putting on exhibitions.”
I’d already been organizing informal shows in my living room in San Francisco, inviting artists I admired to come over and exhibit work. So opening a gallery wasn’t some grand plan I had to become a gallerist. I simply wanted to be around other artists.
I was also lonely in Raleigh and didn’t know many people, so I started inviting artists to visit, make exhibitions, and spend time together. There wasn’t much emphasis on selling work. The focus was on community and having meaningful experiences together.
The gallery happened very organically. There was never a moment where I said, “I want to run a gallery.” It simply evolved. Thirty years later, it’s still going.
A lot of that approach came from my upbringing and from punk culture. My mother grew up during the Depression and was incredibly resourceful. She taught me to work with what you have and make the most of every situation. At the same time, I wanted to create a place that treated artists well.
I was heavily influenced by the ethos of TeenBeat, Dischord Records and the DIY culture surrounding it. That philosophy shaped Lump’s model. It wasn’t really about commercial success. It was about building community and creating the kind of space I would want to work in as an artist.
The idea was simple: artists could come in and do whatever they wanted. No pressure to sell. No contracts. For thirty years, we’ve operated largely on trust. I’d tell artists, “I love your work. Here’s the key. Do whatever you want.”
That became the ethos of Lump, and it remains that way today.
- Who were some of the artists that have shown at Lump ?
There are so many I would like to mention! We have hosted hundreds of artists throughout the years. It’s so difficult but I will choose a few. Chris Gentile, of course, and Mark Mothersbaugh/Devo, Jason Polan, Barry McGee, Mark Robinson/TeenBeat, Tony Lewis, Elijah Burgher, Hudson/Feature, Jason DeHaan, William E. Jones, XiuXiu, Richard C and Ray Johnson, Ludwig Schwarz, Kirsten Stoltmann, Leanne Shapton, Sheppard Fairey, Tammy Rae Carland and Barnstormers to name a few.
- How did you come up with the name for the Gallery?
After undergrad, I moved to San Francisco. I had been tagging before that too, and I was doing a lot of graffiti, mostly stickers. I was really big into stickers. When I moved to San Francisco, it was the place for tagging, both stickers and spray paint.
My tag was Lump Lipshitz. Basically, it came from Lipshitz, which was Ralph Lauren’s original last name that he threw out and changed to sound more culturally acceptable. So I thought, “Well, I’m going to pick that out of the trash and use Lump Lipshitz as my tag.”
In San Francisco, I was mostly stickering things up and drawing a lot under the Lump Lipshitz tag. Eventually, I reduced it down to Lump, but I continued to work under Lump Lipshitz probably until I graduated in 2000. I never used my own name until a gallery said, “I think you should start using your real name.”
But Lump was supposed to be my studio. When I got to Raleigh, it was going to be a capsule for every project I wanted to work on. Later on, people told me that in German, Lump means “beggar” or “thief.” And I thought, “Yes. Perfect.” It all synchronized. If you follow things that sound right and feel right, you can’t go wrong.
It’s such a good word. Everyone would ask, “Why would you call a gallery Lump?” And I’d say, “If you’re asking that question, it’s already answered itself.”
- You were close with late artist Jason Polan who was known for his prolific drawings of people in his attempt to draw every person in New York City. What kind of influence has Jason had on your career?
Jason came down around 2007, when he had first moved to New York City. I met him when he came down with Max, who was the studio manager for David Ellis. David Ellis and the Barnstormers had done a show at the gallery, and Jason came to help Max pack up the show and take it back to New York. He was doing odd jobs at the time.
My studio was there, and he saw my work and said, “Who did this?” pointing at drawing of the Hulk. I asked, “Do you like it?” He said, “Yeah, it’s amazing.” I said, “That’s mine. You can have it if you want.”
He was still a young kid, right out of undergrad, excited about the world and excited about drawing. I was so inspired by the way he approached drawing. It was different from how I approached it, but we found common ground. We kept corresponding. As soon as he got back to New York, he sent me one of his notorious packages.
We would send things back and forth through the mail. Like Ray Johnson, who was a big influence on both of us, Jason loved using the U.S. Postal Service as a way of communication and as a way to send art back and forth. There’s a new book out about Jason and his relationship with the post office right now, check it out, it’s amazing.
Jason and I ended up collaborating. We made eight zines together, and I got to see his career take off. He did three shows with Lump before anyone really knew who he was. He was like a kid brother to me. Every time I thought about Jason’s engagement with drawing, it was like, “I found my person.” When we got together, it was just, “Let’s draw, talk about drawing, and think about drawing.”
We had this shared love and deep engagement with drawing, whether it was street art, a random drawing someone left on the street, or super conceptual work. That changed me forever.
I miss Jason dearly. We’ve done a couple of memorial drawing sessions. We did one at Pilgrim in Brooklyn before the launch of his new Postal Box last September. It was small, with people who had drawn with him and really knew him.
Jason is often associated with very famous people, but there were also people he admired who aren’t famous, who are amazing drawers. One of Jason’s and my favorite drawers is Daniel Davidson. He should be world famous. He’s probably the best living drawer I’ve ever met.
- You also are involved in a project called “Drawing Room”. Tell us a little more about this and how did it start?
Around 2015, Lump switched over to being a nonprofit. During that time, I had stepped away from the gallery and had all this time on my hands. In 2015, Jason and I curated this huge drawing show at the Contemporary Art Museum in Raleigh called “The Nothing That Is”.
Jason had his famous Taco Bell Drawing Club, but he and I would always come up with clubs. We both had a big love for Ray Johnson, who created all these fictional clubs, like the Bette Davis Fan Club and the Paloma Picasso Fan Club. He had lists of clubs. So if Jason and I were drawing together at Wendy’s, we’d call it the Wendy’s Drawing Club.
His Taco Bell Drawing Club took off and became this amazing, huge thing, and it’s still active today. But with Drawing Room, I wanted to do something a little different. I wanted it to be a place that encouraged people to draw without thinking about sales or making complete drawings. A place where people could get together, draw, give each other prompts, and work together.
I never really liked drawing in public until I met Jason. I didn’t like people looking over my shoulder. People would think, “You’re drawing, so you must be really good,” and then they’d see my work and be like, “Oh, not what I expected.”
Drawing Room evolved from wanting to do something that wasn’t part of Lump, something devoted only to the act of drawing. After a while, I realized there were Drawing Rooms all over the country, and I thought, “Great, that doesn’t distinguish us that much.” But I also thought that was kind of beautiful, because it’s not really about authorship. It’s about the act of drawing and creating a drawing community.
My studio was basically Drawing Room for the first couple of years. We also have a wall in the back of Lump where we can put on drawing exhibitions. It’s just a tiny space in the back. Before I had that space, it was in our house. I would take everything down from one wall in my studio and let people put up a show. Then we would invite people over. I think we’ve done around 40 exhibitions.
We also used to do something called Second Sunday, which was a drawing salon. Whoever was showing at Lump would come and talk about their practice, specifically their drawing practice. Then they would give us a prompt, and we would all draw around the table. It was always open to the public, regardless of skill level. It wasn’t about teaching people how to draw. It was more like, “You already have some kind of drawing practice, or you can come observe and start developing one.”
- Have you been influenced by any Japanese artists?
Getting to go to the Hokusai Museum, to be in a place where he worked and lived blew my mind.
I should also talk about how deeply influenced I’ve been by Japanese culture. When I found out who Hokusai was, it changed things for me. Everyone thinks of the wave and Mount Fuji, but his manga was so influential. He drew until he was 90 years old. He’s one of the most influential drawers I’ve ever seen. He never stopped drawing until he died.
He was all over the place. Designs for combs, how-to-draw books. He flattened things out for printed culture. He revolutionized art, and you can see his influence on the Impressionists.
At the Hokusai Museum, I read a story about how an artist discovered his work because his prints had been used as wrapping paper for ceramics or glassware. They found these incredible drawings wrapped around a cup or a plate.
I never stop learning when I look at his work. The fact that he kept going and always aspired to get somewhere else is incredible. He seemed humble. He never had time to stop and think about it. I wonder what he would think about his influence on the art world and popular culture today.
My students have anime and manga clubs, but they don’t know who Hokusai is. I tell them, “Wake up. They’ve been doing this for hundreds of years.”
- Tell me about this show at Pilgrim. Is there a concept, or is it a collection of your current work?
This is actually my third time doing something with Pilgrim. I did something at the old Williamsburg gallery, Over Under, and I loved that show. Chris has been such a good friend and so kind to me. He’s another person who has always believed in me, even when a lot of people haven’t.
Chris then invited me to do a show at Pilgrim’s Paris showroom for fashion week, and I looked at the project almost like a residency. He gave me free rein to do whatever. That’s when I met Taka and his team from Tokyo/Kyoto.
It was a magical experience to be in Paris with friends and meet the people from the store for the first time. There was a kindness and openness there. I’ve always felt good vibes with Pilgrim. It’s not just about clothes. It feels like family. People take care of you.
I knew I was going to come to Japan eventually, and Taka had said, “If you ever come to Japan, look me up.” When anyone opens even a tiny door, I remember that door. So I thought, “I’m coming to Japan. Is there any way I could do something?”
I asked Taka if it would be possible to do a show at the Shibuya store. He said yes. From there, it became a collaboration. Since I had never been to Japan, I wanted him to be involved in the process. I was open to listening. I knew the Brooklyn store, but I didn’t know the store here or what it was about. I just knew they had walls and had done exhibitions.
I told Taka, “Look at my work. If anything sticks out to you, let me know.” Taka and a couple other people spent time looking at my website. Taka really responded to the “Rise Up” piece. He knew what was going on back in the U.S.
I’m glad Taka responded to that piece because it’s about rising up on a daily basis and fighting the good fight, but not always in an overtly political way. Sometimes it’s just by showing up. Sometimes just existing is all you can do.
“Rise Up” came from that daily question: How do we survive this? Of course, that can mean showing up politically, voting, going to protests. But that’s only a small part of life. On a daily basis, how do we get through knowing someone is out there trying to wreck the country in the name of “the good of the people”? For pacifists and people who believe in peace, how do we exist in a world where money is the bottom line?
People make some of the best work in times of great distress. I’m not saying, “Great, now I can make work.” It’s more that I can respond to what’s around me. I wake up and think about beauty and humor. Humor is important too. It feels like they want to strip us of our humor, our laughter, our ability to be with friends.
Most of the pieces in the show celebrate the beauty of the world rather than destruction. They focus on finding a way forward: seeing beauty in everything, whether it’s a piece of garbage on the street, another artist who inspires me, music, or high culture. Even if people only see the work as a beacon of hope, or as something that says, “Keep living, keep moving,” that matters. We will get through this somehow, even when it feels dismal most of the time.
For me, finding beauty and humor among the chaos is the only way I’ve known. When I graduated high school in 1984 and met Keith Haring in 1989, he was already HIV positive. Artists like David Wojnarowicz, ACT UP! and so many others were living with what was basically a death sentence. Artists had to do everything they could while they were still alive.
That overwhelmed me with great sadness, but joy too. People are making it and finding their way. Some people are doing better than others, but hopefully they will find it. In the end, which is always inevitable, you leave something behind that people can take with them and find peace, love and kindness in it.