60 Years of Art and Still Curious (Philip Slagter)
Philip Slagter, a visual artist with over six decades of experience and a pioneer in pop surrealism, shares his journey from New York art director to full-time painter, embracing AI as a creative tool, overcoming profound personal loss, and why radical honesty is the foundation of meaningful art.
Dedicated to Maya Slagter.
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Transcript:
Mike:
Hey Philip, how are you?
Philip:
I’m good, thank you.
Mike:
Thank you so much for being on the show. I was really excited when we connected because your story is remarkable. You’ve been a professional artist for over 60 years — six decades — and became known as a pioneer in pop surrealism.
But what really surprised me is that you’ve embraced AI. Most people might assume someone with your background would reject it. Instead, you’ve been curious and have incorporated it into your work.
Philip:
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it. I’ve lived through so many different eras of communication over the last 79 years that this is just another one. It fascinates me.
You type a few words, click a button, and suddenly a kind of mass human-consciousness hallucination appears. As someone who is a visual junkie, I find that incredible.
Mike:
You’re using it both for marketing ideas and video generation using your artwork, right?
Philip:
Yes. The video generation is the fun part. But it’s also a great brainstorming tool. I would never copy and paste what it gives me — that would be ridiculous. But it opens doors. It sparks a line of thinking you can follow.
I’ve even had deep philosophical conversations with it. It’s quite an amazing tool.
Mike:
Some people get angry at AI.
Philip:
They don’t get angry at a hammer, do they? A hammer can hurt someone or build a house. AI is just another tool.
Mike:
Your inspiration for art came from your grandparents, correct?
Philip:
Yes, from both of them. One of my grandfathers was what you’d call a Sunday painter. He liked painting wildlife — birds, quail, pheasants, things like that.
My other grandfather was a rough-and-tumble kind of guy. He started an oil company in the late 1940s during the war, and after the war he continued it and became quite successful as an independent oil producer.
Because of that, I traveled a lot as a kid. I remember being on yachts in the Bahamas. I went to Paradise Island in Bimini when I was five or six years old, and at that time there was nothing there — just one little fisherman shack and wild hogs running around the island. Now it’s huge casinos and hotels.
I haven’t been back in 30 years, but I can’t imagine what it looks like now.
Mike:
Was your family supportive of you becoming an artist?
Philip:
My mother was supportive. Pretty much everyone else thought it was a silly endeavor.
But my siblings and I were always allowed to pursue whatever we wanted. I have four siblings, and we were free to explore our interests.
The grandfather I mentioned earlier — the Sunday painter — actually hated the kind of art I do. He once told me that abstract painters were disgusting, like Picasso.
Mike:
And you weren’t really exposed to that type of work until college, right?
Philip:
That’s correct. When I went to Indiana State University and started taking art classes, I was exposed to it through art history courses. Once I saw it, I just ran with it.
I’ve always had the curiosity of a child. Even now, anything new that appears — I want to explore it.
Mike:
What stood out to you about abstract art when you first encountered it?
Philip:
Pretty much everything about it fascinated me. The work itself was something I had never seen before.
I also loved reading about the lives of the artists. Their stories were just as interesting as the art.
But I didn’t really choose to become a painter. It wasn’t a conscious choice. It was more like an obsession — something I couldn’t stop doing.
Mike:
What did you major in at Indiana State?
Philip:
Commercial art. That’s what it was called back then.
Things weren’t quite as specialized as they are today. Commercial art encompassed a lot of disciplines. My minor was ceramics.
That turned out to be very important because ceramics teaches you about three-dimensional structure. When you’re throwing clay on a wheel, the piece collapses if the structure isn’t balanced.
I carried that understanding of structure into my paintings and into life in general.
Mike:
It’s amazing how skills from different disciplines can influence each other.
Philip:
That’s actually my definition of intelligence. Intelligence isn’t knowledge — it’s the ability to combine knowledge, move it around, and create new insights from it.
Mike:
After college you ended up working in graphic design. Was that the expected path at the time?
Philip:
As far as I knew at the time, yes.
During my senior art show in college, a man named Russ Deanna came to judge the show. He was a creative director at a major publishing company.
He liked my work and gave me a couple of awards. Before leaving, he told me that if I ever wanted a job I should come see him in New York City.
At the time I didn’t take it very seriously. After graduating I went to Colorado first and spent about four or five months in Denver.
Then one day I thought, “You know what? I think I’ll go to New York.”
So I got in my car and drove there. I didn’t call him beforehand or anything. I just found his apartment and knocked on the door.
Mike:
That might be the best job interview story I’ve ever heard. Did he actually give you the job?
Philip:
He did, although it wasn’t graphic design right away.
My first job was doing paste-up mechanicals — something nobody in the computer age would understand today.
Back then, when producing books, the text had to be sent to a typographer. The typographer would send it back in long rolls of paper, like giant rolls of toilet paper.
We would cut those apart, wax the back, and place the text onto boards so it could be printed. If there was a typo, you had to cut it out with an X-Acto knife and replace it.
My desk was actually in the hallway because there wasn’t enough room in the art department.
But that didn’t last long. Within a few months I became a graphic designer, and eventually I became the art director for two divisions of the company.
Mike:
How long did that take?
Philip:
About three years.
It came naturally to me. I enjoyed working with people, and eventually I had seven artists working under me.
Back then everyone worked together physically in studios and agencies. Today, of course, agencies can be scattered around the world.
Mike:
Did you feel fulfilled in that role?
Philip:
No, not at all.
There was a moment during a large board meeting that changed everything.
A professor from the University of Michigan had written a textbook. The executives started telling him that the book was too long and too expensive to produce.
They wanted him to cut chapters and remove tests.
The professor said those sections were essential for students’ learning. But they insisted he cut them.
I stood up and walked out of the meeting and quit my job right there.
Mike:
That must have been a tough decision.
Philip:
I just stood up, collected my things from my desk, and went home.
I believed we were damaging students by removing important educational material.
Maybe it was a harsh position, but that’s how I felt.
Mike:
So what did you do next?
Philip:
I became a freelance illustrator.
Back then the process was very different. You carried around a physical portfolio — a large book with your artwork.
You would call art directors, schedule appointments, and show them your work.
I did illustrations for publications like The New York Times and New York Magazine. I even worked on an album cover for the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits.
Things took off fairly quickly.
Mike:
Most people would consider that an incredible career milestone.
Philip:
But it still wasn’t fulfilling.
As an illustrator, people tell you what to create. They give you an article and ask you to illustrate it, or they provide a sketch or storyboard.
You’re not creating your own work. You’re essentially a tool — like a brush or a pen — executing someone else’s vision.
After several years of that, I decided it was time to change my life.
I moved to northeastern Connecticut, deep in the woods.
I found an old sea captain’s house near a lake called Billings Lake. The wind literally blew through the walls.
And that’s where I began painting my own work.
I never looked back.
Mike:
So you moved out to Connecticut and started focusing entirely on your own paintings. A lot of artists dream about that moment — being able to create their own work and hopefully make a living from it.
But this was before the internet, before social media, before any of those tools existed. And you were living in the middle of nowhere.
How did you promote your work back then?
Philip:
I showed it to people.
I bought an old press camera — one of those beautiful bellows cameras — and I photographed my paintings as four-by-five color slides. I carried around maybe 20 or 30 of them.
There’s actually a funny story about that. I was invited to visit the studio of a very famous sculptor. I can’t remember his name right now, but he was well known in the 1960s and 70s for making large plaster sculptures of human figures.
A friend of mine was purchasing a piece of work from him for New York City, so I went along.
At one point he asked me, “What do you do?”
And I remember thinking, “Oh boy, I probably shouldn’t have opened that door.”
But I pulled out my slides and showed him about 40 images of my work. He looked at them and said something like, “That took some guts.”
But he was very encouraging. He told me he liked what I was doing and that I should keep going.
Mike:
It sounds like from the very beginning you weren’t afraid to show your work and take opportunities when they appeared.
Philip:
Every time. And I still do.
Fear isn’t a good place to approach anything from. Fear is really just imagination — an imagined future.
Mike:
That’s a great way of putting it.
But there’s still the question of how you go from showing work to fellow artists or galleries to actually having collectors purchase your art.
How did that transition happen?
Philip:
Mostly the same way — just showing people.
You’d call galleries and say, “I’d like to show you my work.” You’d make an appointment and bring in a few originals along with slides.
Back then there weren’t nearly as many artists pounding the pavement the way there are today. So galleries were more open to meeting people.
I doubt you could do that now without some kind of introduction.
But back then we were much rarer than we are now.
It’s interesting — the word “artist” has changed over time. Originally it mostly referred to visual artists. Then musicians started being called artists as well.
Suddenly the definition expanded.
Mike:
That’s interesting — I never thought about that. The idea of a “music artist” being a relatively newer interpretation of the word.
Philip:
Labels are tricky things. Once you accept a label, you close a lot of doors.
It’s the same with beliefs. If you hold a rigid belief, you’ve slammed doors on the universe.
In my opinion, that’s a mistake.
Mike:
You mentioned earlier that you were in group shows but not necessarily solo shows early on.
Philip:
Correct. I was in group shows for a while.
But most of my work sold through word of mouth. For example, Caroline Newhouse — from the Condé Nast publishing family — purchased quite a bit of my work.
She would tell people about it, and they would come to my studio to see it.
That’s really how most of my career has gone.
I’ve only been represented by galleries two or three times, and honestly it never worked very well for me.
Mike:
Word of mouth seems to have been a huge part of your success.
One part of your story that really stood out to me is the work you did in Las Vegas. You were commissioned to do work for places like the Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, Luxor, and even the Venetian in Macau.
How did that come about?
Philip:
That happened after I returned from Thailand.
I came back with my wife and our two-year-old daughter. I met a man who owned a studio that created architectural pieces for Las Vegas casinos.
He asked me if I could carve.
I said, “I have no idea.”
The only thing I had ever carved was a rattlesnake handle on a wooden door.
But he invited me to try. And it turned out that I could do it.
I ended up producing a huge amount of work for places like the Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, and Luxor.
If you go to Mandalay Bay today, every column and panel was designed and carved by me personally.
Mike:
That’s incredible.
Philip:
I remember one particular moment when it really hit me what was happening.
I was working alone most of the time. The owner of the studio was rarely there. I’d be alone with a six-pack of beer and carving tools.
One day I was carving a massive panel — about 16 feet by 8 feet — of Egyptian-style relief carvings.
As I worked, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I suddenly had the strange feeling that I had done this before — maybe a long time ago.
It felt completely natural.
Mike:
That must have been a surreal experience.
Philip:
It really was.
I don’t know why it came so easily to me. But it did.
Mike:
Looking at your work, it definitely speaks for itself.
It seems like the quality of the work has always been the core of everything you’ve done.
Philip:
Creating good work is actually simple.
You just have to be honest with yourself.
That’s the most important thing.
You never look at your art through someone else’s eyes. You never ask yourself, “Will people like this?”
When you’re young that’s hard to avoid, but eventually you learn that you should never create for someone else’s approval.
Mike:
I know you’ve experienced some very difficult moments in your life. There was a period where you went through a profound tragedy.
You had spent your entire life painting and creating art, and then suddenly everything changed.
How did you navigate that period?
Philip:
I didn’t lose my passion for art. In fact, it was one of the few things that kept me going.
My daughter passed away in an automobile accident. She was a senior in high school and was driving to school one morning.
Around nine o’clock that morning four policemen came to the door.
My wife woke me up and said, “There are policemen here who want to speak with you.”
We had been helping a teenage boy who had Asperger’s and some difficulties, so I assumed it was about him. I said, “It’s a little early to talk about that, isn’t it?”
And the officer said, “It’s not about that. It’s about your daughter. She’s passed.”
At that moment I died.
I literally died inside. I lost my soul. I lost my perception of beauty. I lost my feelings.
It was the strangest experience I’ve ever had because I had always lived through my emotions. Suddenly I felt nothing.
My wife handled it slightly better than I did, but we both internalized the grief. We didn’t know how to share it with each other.
Eventually that grief ended our marriage.
For about four years after that, I lived in a state where I barely remember anything. I know I painted several large works during that time, but I have almost no memory of creating them.
I spent those years painting and drinking beer — just painting and drinking beer.
I could walk outside and see a beautiful sunset here in Montana and feel absolutely nothing.
The wind used to feel beautiful blowing across my face. But during that time, I felt nothing.
That numbness lasted about four or five years.
Eventually I started learning how to live again. But it took a long time.
The first four years were numbness. Then another eight years of simply existing — not really feeling.
Eventually my finances collapsed. I couldn’t afford the house I was living in anymore.
I reached a very low point — the kind of bottom people talk about — where I considered ending my life.
A friend suggested that I try something called DMT.
I had read about it before. People like Graham Hancock had written about these experiences in the Amazon with ayahuasca and DMT ceremonies.
He suggested I try it.
The experience itself only lasts about 20 or 30 minutes.
During the experience I saw these little beings — silly little creatures running around in colors and lights.
But one of them came up to me and asked a very simple question:
“Do you want to live or do you want to die?”
And I said, “I think I’ll choose living.”
When the experience ended, I didn’t think much of it. I just thought, “Well, that was interesting.”
I went to bed.
The next morning I woke up in the most incredible state of bliss I’ve ever experienced.
I sat on my couch for four hours smiling. I felt overwhelming love and peace.
And that feeling has never left.
Before that moment, if I drove down the road where my daughter had the accident, I would cry.
Now I feel acceptance. I still miss her, of course, but the pain is gone.
It was a remarkable experience.
I’m not recommending that anyone take that substance. Everyone has to make their own decisions.
But for me, it acted like medicine.
Mike:
Thank you for sharing that story.
You’re still creating today. How many paintings do you think you’ve made over your lifetime?
Philip:
I honestly don’t know. Probably thousands.
Mike:
And what are you working on now?
Philip:
Right now I’m trying to figure out how to make enough money to get a studio again so I can paint full time.
After I lost my apartment, I had nowhere affordable to live. A close friend of mine and his family took me in, and I live in their basement now.
I’m learning social media, which is very complicated.
I’m planning a crowdfunding campaign to try to raise funds for a new studio.
But crowdfunding is also complex. It’s not as simple as making a page and asking for help.
I also opened a clothing line using my artwork from the past six decades.
But opening an online store is like opening a shop on top of a mountain and expecting customers to appear.
You have to figure out how to get people there.
Mike:
That’s one of the big changes in today’s creative world. Decades ago, if you had the right location or gallery representation, people would discover your work.
Today anyone can open a storefront online, but the challenge is getting attention.
Philip:
Exactly.
I’ve been studying marketing for the past six months — reading everything I can.
But it’s an enormous skill set. Understanding social media algorithms is practically a full-time job.
Unless you happen to be a young person posting viral content, it’s very difficult to gain visibility.
Mike:
But even then, visibility doesn’t necessarily translate to real supporters.
Sometimes five people who truly care about your work are more valuable than five thousand who just scroll past it.
Philip:
That’s one thing I’m still learning — how to find a niche audience and connect with the right people.
I’ve spoken with marketing agencies that could help, but I can’t afford them.
Mike:
Funding definitely helps amplify things, but understanding the process yourself is extremely valuable.
It protects you from being taken advantage of and helps you make smarter decisions.
Philip:
That’s something I’ve already experienced.
There are many scammers in the crowdfunding and marketing space.
I’ve gotten quite good at identifying them.
At one point we hired a marketing team from India, which turned out to be a mistake.
They were talented people, but they had no understanding of American culture or the audience I was trying to reach.
It didn’t attract a single customer.
But it was a good learning experience.
Mike:
Learning experiences are invaluable.
Before we wrap up, I have a couple of fun questions.
Do you have a favorite museum?
Philip:
The Metropolitan Museum in New York is extraordinary.
But the Natural History Museum is also fascinating.
Museums show you how culture is defined through art — through sculpture, architecture, and visual expression across different civilizations.
Whenever I see ancient carvings or temple walls, I always wonder who created them and why.
That curiosity made me want to travel.
I spent most of my travels in developing nations because I wanted to experience cultures completely outside my own.
For example, I once flew to Thailand on my way to Bali. The plane stopped in Bangkok.
A man sitting next to me asked if I had ever seen Bangkok.
I said no.
He said, “I’ll show you Bangkok tonight if you take a plane tomorrow.”
So I got off the plane with him.
Five years later I left Thailand.
Mike:
That’s incredible.
Last question — if you could give just one piece of advice to creatives, what would it be?
Philip:
Be honest.
Not small everyday honesty like telling someone you can’t make dinner plans.
I’m talking about deep honesty with yourself.
Don’t be afraid of who you are.
If you can truly understand yourself, then you can express that through your art.
Otherwise you’re just copying what others are doing.
When you’re starting out, imitation is part of learning.
But eventually you have to move beyond technique and discover your own voice.
Mike:
I completely agree.
Being honest with yourself sounds simple, but it can be incredibly difficult.
Philip:
It’s difficult at first.
But once it starts rolling, it becomes very easy.
Mike:
Philip, thank you so much for being on the show. It’s truly been an honor hearing your story.
Philip:
Thank you, Michael. It was an honor meeting you.