TB Ward on Art, Authenticity, and the Ironic Hustle of Being a 'Professional Human
What does it mean to be a "Professional Human"? Is it a bold statement of self-actualization or a just a wry jab at the endless hustle of creative survival? TB Ward revels in that ambiguity, teasing out the tensions between artistic integrity and the need to exist within a world that demands an exhaustive amount of constant self-promotion. A musician-turned-painter, a storyteller caught between analog expression and digital oversaturation, Ward’s work—both visual and sonic—wrestles with the paradox of making something deeply personal while resisting the pressure to package it for mass consumption.
English-born, New York-based artist Ward has recently showcased his latest creative reckoning, Professional Human, to Upstream Gallery in Hastings-on-Hudson, NY. His fourth solo show features seven oil paintings, each infused with his signature mix of raw intimacy and quiet rebellion. But he’s not stopping at the canvas. True to his multidisciplinary roots—having spent years touring the world in various bands—he’s crafted an accompanying EP, a sonic counterpart to the visual experience. Featuring four songs and five spoken-word pieces, the record captures the same themes of artistic tension, self-exploration, and the beauty of imperfection. The music is pressed on vinyl and available at the show and maybe - if you're lucky - you can still snag a copy at his website (only 100 were pressed).
In this conversation, Ward lays bare the contradictions that fuel his latest project. From his days handling masterpieces at the Whitney Museum to his ongoing rebellion against the tyranny of "personal branding," he shares insights into why art should retain an element of mystery and how slowing down can be the ultimate act of defiance. His portraits, raw and unfiltered, are an antidote to the manicured realities of social media, while his spoken-word pieces and stripped-down recordings serve as a reminder that truth often lies in artistic imperfections.
But here’s the twist: even as Ward critiques the hyper-commercialization of creativity, he’s also navigating its waters—releasing an EP, exhibiting his work, and, yes, even engaging in interviews like this one. Is that irony or just the unavoidable reality of being an artist today? Read on as he unpacks the contradictions, the revelations, and the occasional absurdities of being a Professional Human, whatever that is.
Evan Toth: Professional Human is a provocative title. How did you arrive at it, and what does it encapsulate about the themes that you explore in the show and on the accompanying record?
TB Ward: Ha, I’m glad that you think it’s provocative! I basically used the title idea as something to push against, it gave me energy to attempt to create work that had some gravitas. I think it’s a funny title. As an artist there’s a sense that you not only have to create meaningful work but you also have to be a force of self-promotion in order to be a success. Ideally, the work itself should be enough, and if it’s not, then maybe it’s not doing its job. Should I have to commodify my thoughts in order for people to like it and understand it? I find that antithetical to actually retaining any mystery, and mystery, the invitation to use your imagination, is what I love about art.
ezt: You describe the show as a reaction to the idea of a "personal brand" and the fake realities we create online and you’ve referred to this show as a "rebellion" against oversaturation. What was the moment or experience that triggered this specific exploration for you?
TB: Over the last couple of years I’d gradually arrived at a point where I became irritated with the weird external pressure - mainly driven by social media - to feel as if you have to come up with something fresh and exciting to say every five minutes. Do any of us have meaningful things to express every day? I’m ambitious, I want to do something good and be recognized for it, so naturally I find myself looking for that recognition, but at the same time it’s not what drives me to create. I think in the past I’ve tended to expect myself to make a lot of work to justify my life as an artist but after 20 years I wanted to slow down a little, make fewer pieces, but spend more time within each one of them. At the risk of repeating myself, I wanted the work to speak for itself and not hide behind any manufactured narratives.
ezt: You worked at the Whitney Museum, a place teeming with creative energy and history. How did being immersed in such a rich environment shape your artistic approach or worldview? Were there any unexpected lessons from that period?
TB: I began working at the Whitney as an art handler a year or so after I’d moved to the US in 1999. Pretty much everyone who worked in the art handling department was an artist or musician, so that was great in terms of a common sense of team spirit. More often than not, I was stationed at the warehouse where the entire collection was stored and I really loved that because I was working up close and personal with really important pieces. There were also chunks of downtime where I could kinda browse through the racks of paintings - it was cool. And I’ll be honest, there was a part of me that thought, “you know, if I apply myself, I can do this.” Ha! At that time I was coming out of a decade when I wasn’t really making art (because I was playing so much music) but I’d just started to pick up a brush again, and my time working at the museum really solidified that desire to get back into making paintings.
ezt: Do you think art in general—and portraiture in particular—still has the power to question the status quo and challenge perceptions, or has that power been diluted in the modern age of mass media and digital content?
TB: I think we have to wade through so much outside information that it’s difficult to slow down enough to concentrate and ‘read’ a piece of art. Some art is simply decoration and that’s fine because the viewer can skip over it, but there’s a struggle to engage in if you want to go beyond that. Most days when I go to the studio I have to sit down and do nothing, detune for half an hour, until I start to believe my paintings are important again, and subsequently worthy of the time I need to keep working on them. I recognize that that time is me kinda re-engaging with the work.
I believe the beauty of a painting is the physical reality of it and that once you do capture someone’s attention they very much appreciate the tactile and layered nature of what is in front of them. I’ve discovered that using portraiture has been an amazingly effective genre for communicating one of my principle messages (especially with the subjects of the paintings themselves), that the paintings are almost like some kind of strange analogue antidote to modern life, and people really seem to respond to it. I try to tell myself that, in what can seem like a sea of indifference, individual pieces can become important to specific people and that is worth something.
ezt: You've chosen portraiture as a way to strip away the imposed storylines and "crafted perceptions" around individuals. But - as you know - the very act of painting someone imposes some of the artist’s narrative onto them. How do you reconcile the tension between the subject's reality and the artist's interpretation?
TB: Honestly the initial goal was to challenge myself. It was all about me! I wanted to step away from abstraction - to prove to myself and others that I could make a different type of art. I liked the idea of potentially exposing my weaknesses as a painter but I thought that if I could make a portrait that resonated with the subject then that’d be very fulfilling. I have an innate belief that I have an ability to read people (not sure I’d be able to do it otherwise) and that gives me an initial confidence to set about a painting with no fear.
The tension that you’re talking about between the subject’s reality versus the artist’s interpretation in a way is an unbridgeable chasm that I fundamentally had to put to the back of my mind or I might have found it paralyzing. In many ways, the willingness of the sitters to be observed for posterity felt so positive and deeply human that to me it seemed as if we were in it together. There was an openness and vulnerability to it and I quickly realized that I had a deep responsibility to each person. Ultimately that is what made the process so challenging and interesting and the proof of the pudding was in their reaction to the finished piece (the reveal was always nerve wracking) which so far has been positive. I take that as a win - although I’ll never get complacent.
ezt: The intersection of visual art and music is central to this project. The accompanying EP has four songs and five spoken word pieces. How do these pieces of sound complement the messages in your paintings, particularly the spoken word pieces? Was the music written specifically to accompany the exhibition or vice versa?
TB: A few months before the show I found myself thinking it’d be cool to make a 7” single that people could take away from the show. Just an off-the-cuff idea, but I liked it. As I continued to work on the portraits and the intimate nature of them became apparent, I started wondering how I could take this intimacy into the recordings of whatever it was that I was going to make. The 4 track was perfect for that. I started writing and recording and really enjoying the stripped down nature of the sound - it felt as if there was no hiding place. I wasn’t using any effects, it was just pure performance, and that totally aligned with how I felt about the paintings - there was no hiding place. I wrote the songs as I went along.
I guess I used the process and rawness of the sound as energy, and the stories (of which I have many from the past 10 or so years) seemed to have that little spark of magic once I started recording them. I love the stories, they encapsulate many things for me, not least that they feel more of an obvious vessel for my humor and worldly observations than the paintings and songs. But, my gut instinct is that all of my creations, whether they’re paintings, or songs, or stories, come from the same place. I’ve spent many years separating them but with this show I didn’t want to do that anymore and it was quite freeing.
ezt: Your work challenges the pressure to constantly produce and "sell" in the digital age, yet this show, with its EP and vinyl release, seems to be actively participating in the very system you're critiquing. Do you see any irony in that? How do you navigate the line between creating with intention and engaging with a culture that often feels at odds with your message?
TB: Of course! The whole point of the title is this duality. I totally see the irony and I was very much aware that perhaps I am the embodiment of the professional human! The main issue for me is that I’m still at a phase in my art life where I’m trying to build a reputation and I don’t see any route other than to reach out to people in whichever way I can. I wasn't born into a family with art world connections, I didn’t have an art school experience that helped me, so I’m pretty much completely self reliant and have to use whichever tools are available if I want people to see and hear my work. I’d love to be at a stage of my career where I could be more elusive - that’s really my natural state - but I have to find a balance.
Obviously my focus is to make good art but the reality is that I have to engage in the consumer world somewhat in order to keep moving forward to the place I want to be.
ezt: In a world where authenticity is often commodified and "personal brands" are manufactured, do you ever feel like your own exploration of this concept in Professional Human could be read as a commentary on the art/music world itself—where even the most genuine work can become part of a larger marketable narrative? Do you have any personal examples of the sweet spot between artistic excellence and marketable commercial product (either musical or visual)?
TB: The only thing I can control is my own attitude to making art. I try to improve, I work hard, I think about art constantly. I only ever make things that I feel compelled to make, and the end goal is always to try and create something that excites me. I try to maximize my chances of making work that does that by having a good work ethic. It’s a quest that comes with doubts and frustrations. Beyond that is the ‘art world’ over which I have no control. I often wonder how I might be able to break into it but also think maybe it’d be best to remain an outsider. The show is definitely a commentary on this conundrum and conflict of interests.
I can’t say I’ve ever hit that sweet spot that you’ve asked about! Looking back, I sense that the band that I was in in England during the 90s (Elevate) was close to that moment. In 1998 we were putting together songs for what would have been our third album. At that time we were signed to Sony Publishing and those songs were a little more, dare I say, mainstream, than our first two records (Bronzee and The Architect). The only snag was we split up before the record was ever recorded!
ezt: Looking back on your journey from Barnsley to New York and now back to England, how have your experiences as a musician and a visual artist shaped your understanding of identity, both personal and artistic? What does "being human" mean to you today?
TB: Interesting question. I always knew that I’d be a visual artist - I’m never surprised that I’m in a studio making paintings. But I never thought I’d become a performing musician. I was in a band because I was simply totally committed to being in one, but I never considered myself a musician - it was weird. I loved the adrenaline of playing shows, making a noise with my friends, and I look back and think how amazing it was that we all totally committed to this thing simply because we believed in it. I think my willingness to put myself in uncomfortable situations was born of naivety but it made me into a different type of person - and after all, I ended up living on a different continent because of it. I became a musician because my life making music made me into one, if that makes any sense. Take that same principle into the world of painting, I tap into that same logic, to keep creating, keep taking that leap of faith, keep believing in something. That’s what being human is, isn’t it?
Comments