A Q&A by Olivia Weeks, The Daily Yonder, November 22, 2024
Jeffie Brewer is an East Texas sculpture artist whose book Joy Machine was released in November from K.Co Press. Enjoy our conversation about junk yards, carnivals, and creatures, below.
Olivia Weeks, The Daily Yonder: Tell me about yourself — who are you, what do you do, and where do you live? Also, can you tell me about the name “Jeffie”? When’d you pick that up?
Jeffie Brewer: I’m just an artist specializing in colorful, silly, sometimes thoughtful sculptures that bring a touch of playfulness to public spaces, private homes, galleries, and museums. I live and work in East Texas, where I make things out of metal, often inspired by my childhood, the natural world, and whatever is rattling around in my brain at any given moment. The name “Jeffie” is my chosen moniker; it reflects the slightly playful, and hopefully more accessible side of my work, encouraging people to see art as a bit friendlier and more approachable. My given name is Jeffery, my mother’s maiden name was Jeffcoat, and my grandfather went by Jeff (as do I by most people who can’t say, “Jeffie”). I was called Jeffie as a kid and started signing my work that way in college. I had a museum director (Eloise Adams) in graduate school tell me to keep using it, she said it was endearing and I always listen to strong women.
DY: Can you tell me about your town, Nacogdoches, and maybe a little about East Texas in general?
JB: Nacogdoches and East Texas in general have a character all their own – there’s something deeply rooted, raw, and nostalgic about the place. It’s home to lush, dense forests, rolling fields that stretch endlessly, and a lot of Texas history. The area has a quiet charm that speaks to a slower way of life, full of folks who are deeply connected to this place. The landscape, with its history and understated beauty, finds its way into my work, often through materials and forms that echo the surroundings. I grew up in East Texas and spent the last 29 years specifically in Nacogdoches — I speak the language. At my core, I am a redneck, with a thin veneer of culture and worldliness. It’s a delicate balance between the art world and the rhinestone on the buckle of the bible belt. I try to be a bridge builder.
DY: You write in your book about growing up on a junkyard, and about how formative it was to your work. What were those early artistic explorations like? Did they all start with other people’s junk?
JB: Growing up in the junkyard taught me to find beauty in the overlooked, to take pieces from the past and either repurpose them or simply collect them. It was more a place for learning about industrial tools and working with my hands than a place for making “art,” per se. I didn’t have any concept of what art was; I was just drawn to beautiful things and held them as precious. Hood ornaments from the ’40s and ’50s transfixed me — I had piles of them. I didn’t know why; I only knew they were too beautiful to be crushed, melted, or discarded. The junkyard offered a space to destroy and rebuild, almost like a lens to see the world through. It gave me skills and memories that would later shape my understanding of what art could and would be.
DY: You seem to have always been into monsters and animals and creatures of all kinds — I’m thinking of your lovely “Burds.” Where does that come from? And what’s your relationship like to the characters? Do they have personalities to you?
There’s a little monster in all of us so we tend to relate. Also, everything I do is a bit of a self-portrait so they tend to be manifestations of my personality.
DY: Your parents were carnies. Do you think growing up in that festival atmosphere influenced your artistic sensibility at all? There’s something childlike in your sculptures, clearly, and I wonder where you think that comes from.
JB: My parents were carnies for a brief period in California, where I was conceived. Thankfully, stronger winds prevailed, and they moved back to Texas before I was born. My father, Ray – known around Palestine, Texas, as “Crazy Ray” – kept the personality of a sideshow barker his entire life. He was something of a grifter with an addiction to making money, though never in a greedy way. Over his lifetime, he swung between pauper and prince more times than anyone should have the chance to. So, in short, I grew up in a metaphorical carnival you could say. With way fewer clowns, thank goodness.
The childlike quality in my sculptures likely stems from being an only child in a world that was super quirky, imaginative, and a bit unconventional. Growing up surrounded by towers of metal and junk cars honestly gave zero real creative influences, I had no idea what art was. I found joy in making others happy with my drawings and in sharing that gift. Knowing people appreciated my doodles made me want to keep creating because praise is all a child needs. I think that same spirit carries through in my sculptures — they’re an invitation to others to embrace that sense of wonder and to see things as a child might, with fresh eyes.
DY: Finally, you wrote about how much poetry means to you. Has anything new (to you) really inspired you lately?
JB: Poetry has always inspired me; it distills emotion and experience into a few powerful words. Lately, I’ve been trying to step outside my comfort zone, seeking unfamiliar voices and perspectives. In a world where algorithms cater so easily to our tastes, it’s a challenge to find something truly new. There’s so much content, and I often find myself down rabbit holes, wading through noise for those moments of genuine aesthetic impact.
I used to feel embarrassed by how deeply art could move me — whether through music, film, painting, you name it — but I’ve come to see this as essential. Art’s ability to reveal truth and beauty is uniquely human, a way for us to help each other understand the world. While I’m disheartened by much of what I encounter lately, I’m also still deeply inspired. For me, this is what we’re here for: to create, to feel, and to share that sense of wonder with each other.
This article first appeared on The Daily Yonder and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.