Drawing was one thing I could do as a kid,” says artist and Detroit native Joe Borri. “I wasn’t great at math, but the nuns at school would send home notes (saying) I had artistic ability.” Borri, of Farmington Hills, ended up receiving a BFA in illustration from Northern Michigan University.
After college, he was a freelance editorial illustrator for seven years, but a turning point occurred, he says, when he was commissioned to create an illustration for The Detroit News’ Sunday magazine. “I got the assignment on a Wednesday and had to get it to them by Friday for the Sunday paper. I got paid $400. But a light bulb went on; I knew I couldn’t make a living doing this, as I’d have to get a ton of these types of commissions.”
He then became an artist representative, writer, and creative director for 40 years, working at a variety of studios and accepting private commissions on the side.
With four grown artistic children and a wife who’s an RNat Corewell, Borri now creates everything from wilderness paintings to cabin signs, pet and people portraits, and more. Lately, he’s been inspired to paint loons and herons, and says a young bear he spotted near his cabin in Curran, which is in northeast Michigan’s Alcona County (see his essay on his beloved lake in the accompanying story), may be the next thing he puts on canvas. The area is known as the “Black Bear Capital of Michigan,” yet Borri has only seen one in the 30-plus years he’s had a cabin on Crooked Lake. “I was driving down the road not long ago, a half mile from my cabin, and I sensed that I’d see one. It was so weird because I could feel it — and before I knew it, there he was, climbing up a tree.”
Inspired by the views and wildlife sightings he takes in from his knotty pine cabin, which is surrounded by a rock wall that he built, it’s easy for the mixed-media artist to come up with subject matter. “Every time we go up to the cabin, there’s an anticipation of being there,” he says. “During the drive, you can feel your tension and worries leave you.”
Every year, two loon families paddle Crooked Lake, providing Borri with ideas for paintings. The artist says he never knows what he might see just hanging out at the end of his dock. He smiles as one memorable scene that could be right out of a wildlife documentary comes to mind: “I was standing there, and I saw an eagle come down and grab a baby loon. Mother loon flapped like crazy at the eagle and the baby was dropped,” he says.
Other moments he treasures include sightings of pileated woodpeckers, fox, and owls.
Borri says some of the cabin/cottage signs that he creates feature an address number, the homeowners’ names, a catchy title, and an image, while other signs are for hanging indoors — like a brown trout sign he created for a fly fisherman whose cottage is on Higgins Lake.
“Cabin signs are fun; they can be campy,” Borri says.
A recent sign with a powerful-looking eagle against a verdant green pine tree backdrop was presented to a family for their inland-lake cottage. The family spots eagles regularly and they love to watch the swooping birds of prey, so Borri suggested an eagle address sign. He also created a sign for a woman who loves owls. Depicting a great horned wwl, it reminds her of what she calls her spirit animal.
His wildlife projects showcase Borri’s attention to negative space (the background and space around the main subject), which he says brings more interest to what he’s focusing on. He also tries to capture a sense of movement with paint and brush strokes. “When you see an animal in the wild, they enter our field of vision and then they leave, so my goal is to try to paint that sense of a fleeting moment.”
He’s especially fond of animals’ eyes. In fact, when it comes to painting the windows of the soul, Borri says he tries to bring the focus to them. “I tend to add maybe more highlights there, more light and color,” he says.
Many of his signs are created on dried cherry wood. “I’m more than happy to paint on things that clients provide, too,” he says. He also fashions designs for signs that he turns over to other artists, such as metalworkers. His own cottage driveway features a metalwork piece with two deer by Moose Creek Metals’ Jim LaLonde, one of Borri’s favorite metal artists.
When not painting, you might find Borri fishing for salmon in the Betsie River. For bass, he’ll head to Fletchers Pond (aka Fletchers Floodwaters), south of Hillman, where there’s “a tremendous amount of bass.”
Or he can be found behind the grill at his cabin, whipping up a delectable dinner using his own sauce or rub. “I really enjoy cooking,” the artist shares.
When asked about the recipes he uses in his artwork, he’s quick to note that while it’s realistic, it’s also expressionistic. Several dashes of texture often come into play, via either modeling paste or a medium for building impasto texture in oils. “And I’ll use color that you don’t necessarily see in a photograph or real life,” he adds.
When asked if he has a favorite piece, he says a wolf painting he created a few years back is one of his best-loved works. “I think I captured something there,” he says. 
More Information
Joe Borri’s wildlife/animal works can be seen at motorcityjoe.com. If you’d like to commission a cabin/cottage sign or a specific painting or portrait, email Borri at jborri@att.net. You can also follow him on various social platforms at @motorcityjoe.
My Cabin
By Joe Bori
My cabin sits on Crooked Lake (pictured above), a no-wake fishing lake in the northeastern Lower Peninsula in Alcona County. The lake is quiet, as there are no jet skis. In fact, there’s not much noise aside from chainsaws and pontoons.
The shoreline is bordered by oak and birch trees, many of which are wind-bent toward the water, and pointed stumps from long-gone beavers. Returning loon families have fought off bald eagles for the 30-plus years I’ve been here, and surely were sparring long before my family’s arrival.
There’s a massive 75-foot rock wall that I made when I was a younger man, set from local fieldstones. Our place was built in 1992 by a legendary Mennonite named Dwight Handrich. It features knotty pine with custom woodwork and is filled with pieces from my great friend, Upper Peninsula metalsmith Dale Wedig.
In years past, my wife, Maria, and I brought our four kids up here as often as we could between school, swimming, and football.
The lake level fluctuates on a 20-year cycle and it’s currently on a slight decline. I get somber at the too-obvious metaphor, knowing if I live long enough to see it at its next peak, I’ll be 80. When I’m up there, my mind wanders, imagining the lake 100, 200 years ago. In the early 1960s, during one of the lake’s low cycles, my next-door neighbor’s mother says she saw something sticking up from shore. It was a birchbark Indian canoe whose tribe’s origin is unknown. That always fuels my imagination, conjuring images of trapping and shoreline encampments where our kayaks now sit.
Despite the disappointing sight of solar lights on the lake, it still gets inky black at the dock, and the Milky Way is sometimes so bright it appears as a cloud until your eyes finally adjust to the infinite stars. When the loons cry out at night it’s truly a spiritual feeling. I always feel grateful when I’m at the cabin.
