Face Value

Tim Biskup’s path to art wasn’t linear – it moved through punk shows, animation studios, and years of experimentation before settling into something instinctive and self-defined. From Face Guts to graphite drawings, his work is driven by intuition, emotion, and a commitment to making without overthinking what it’s supposed to be.

Your parents were both creative, and you and your brothers all became artists. How has that family dynamic evolved over time?

My parents had pretty conventional jobs when we were kids and then, about the time that all three of us boys were getting out of high school, they quit and started raising llamas. It was quite a shift. They always loved camping but wanted more time in the woods. Llamas were how they got that. It was inspiring to see them go after a wild dream. Our image of what was possible got a jolt.

I was always interested in art but didn’t have a specific direction in mind. I was 35 when I started showing in galleries. It took many shifts to get there. My brothers took similarly meandering paths and we all make art now. I always felt supported and that was the vibe. Trying things out to see what felt right and no shame if you redirect.

You studied at Otis in the ’80s, but it didn’t feel like the right moment to pursue art and you stepped away. What were you looking for at that time?

When I got to art school I had a very vague idea of what it meant to be an artist. I was naive. I had been to a bunch of museums in Europe on a family trip the year before I started. I knew I wanted to make art but I didn’t know how it worked. I thought they would guide me toward being an artist. Instead I felt like I was being presented with roadblocks. I heard all of these proclamations about what art had to be and how I had to think. It was stifling.

“Emotions are at the core of expression – it was okay to be wild and unpredictable.”

Do you think the ethos of punk has stayed with you – allowing you to trust instinct over more conventional paths?

The big revelation that punk gave me was that emotions are at the core of expression. I was attracted to the raw anger of it. Being in the pit was my version of sports. We knocked each other down and helped each other up. It was okay to be wild and unpredictable. It was encouraged. My dad dropped me off and picked me up from gigs, too. So I felt like it was okay to push the boundaries.

Music has always been a constant – DJ’ing, collecting vinyl, experimenting with sound. What role does it play alongside your studio practice?

I played in bands before art school and continued while I was there. The restraints that I felt in art school were just not there in music. When I left school I connected with one of the teachers (Carole Caroompas) and we made an album together. Working with her was a very low-key art lesson. Two years of collaboration and navigating creativity. She talked to me about her career and life like it was normal. We also worked with Chas Smith, who was very inspiring and fun. Music was my focus for several years after the disappointment of art school. I had a label and a store for a while. When I started focusing on visual art again I let music be a hobby. It still is. Face Guts has a PA built into it and a stockpile of instruments, so it can turn into a music studio or venue at any time.

You spent time working in animation early on. What did that environment teach you about discipline, systems, or storytelling?

When I saw Ren & Stimpy it was like my visual art components got turned back on. I met John K and he told me to focus on drawing. I trained myself based on his suggestions and eventually got an animation job. It was challenging in a very healthy way. Being surrounded by incredible artists who only judged me based on my ability to do my job was transformative. I improved rapidly and started making personal work that I was confident in. From that point I just slid over to the art gallery world as smoothly as I could.

Your work moves between vibrant color and monochromatic graphite, often circling around creatures or symbolic forms. Do those images feel intentional, or do they emerge from somewhere less conscious?

I’m constantly surprised by what I make. My graphite technique has been a key to accessing my subconscious. The materials are cheap so I don’t feel much pressure to make anything useful. I experiment and see what happens.

What’s behind the name Face Guts?

At first I just liked the way it sounded. Then my brother pointed out that opening a space where I could explore all of these personal parts of my art was a way of facing my true self. That made total sense. Of course, that fits with my intuitive way of working. My subconscious chose the name.

In the beginning you were building things in the window to intrigue passersby, and it’s since evolved into a more open project space. What were you looking to create there?

I think I was training myself to express more intuitively. I wanted to present people with something compelling but there was no message or anything. I started doing those window displays in 2009. When I finally put the name on the window it was 2017. I didn’t call it a gallery or anything for several years. I wanted it to be flexible. I did whatever I felt like doing and it was fine. The only constant was that I was open on Sundays from 12–6pm. Just before Covid I was starting to make it a bit more professional. I started calling it a gallery. During lockdown I tightened the place up and when people could come back I was ready to be a gallery. Now it’s a functional business with a long history of natural growth.

Each year you publish a limited edition book as a visual snapshot of Face Guts – no text, no framing. What feels important about documenting the space that way?

I like having a hard copy of the vibe. Words present a whole other element that doesn’t need to be there. Like a record cover without the band name. If you like the art you might like the music. If you like the music maybe you want to know more. It’s not necessarily that strategic but when convenience and strategy align I don’t question it. I just make the book in a way that feels how the year felt. At some point I’ll make annotated versions, though. That seems like it will be fun. I like working with words if I have the time.

With such a long and prolific career, I imagine you’re constantly revisiting and archiving your work. Does that process feel overwhelming, or is there something therapeutic in it?

The first thing I had to do to get Face Guts open was to organize the space. It was daunting and long overdue. I had to get over the idea that there is an end to that process. I take my time and do it in ways that I enjoy – like stacking things so they look interesting rather than following someone else’s idea of order. That way my whole space looks like art. It’s a creative practice, kind of like those books that I make. They’re one person’s perspective and that’s all I need for now. It’s also a form of self-care. My mental health has improved dramatically since I exited the grind of exclusivity working with other people’s galleries.

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