Interview with Artist Margo Klass

Back to exhibit

Basic bio: Where are you from? Where did you attend school, for what, graduated what year?

I grew up in Western New York, in Lockport, a small town in the snowbelt. I suppose that accounts for my comfort with cold weather and long winters in Alaska. College took me to the Midwest, considered traveling far from home in the 60s, where I spent both college and the first of my graduate school years in Big Ten schools—Purdue and University of Michigan—studying art, German, and art history. I loved those big schools. They were open doors to all sorts of new ideas, people, and experiences for someone from Lockport.

I left Purdue with a BA and a teaching certificate, but instead of teaching I wanted to pursue art academically. At Michigan I took what was supposed to be a detour to study art history. I became totally immersed, in both medieval art history and museum studies. Five years later I had two masters degrees, an internship at the Toledo Museum of Arts, and an offer to come to Bryn Mawr College for a PhD to pursue my interest in medieval art. At that moment it seemed as though studying art had superseded the actual making of art. In fact it had—for the moment. It took several years—the completed PhD, a marriage, and two small children—for me to realize I had to get my hands back into making art. I was lucky. I found jobs teaching art where I was living in the Washington, DC area, in private schools where professional development funding was generous and readily available to teachers. I took full advantage of opportunities to study at local colleges, Penland, Haystack, Pyramid Atlantic and other book arts centers. My career as teacher culminated with 18 years at an all-girls prep school teaching ceramics, serving as department head. Eventually a sabbatical led to the Virginia Center for Creative Arts (VCCA). It was there that the switch was forever flipped. Almost 20 years of teaching, studying, and experimenting on my own somehow coalesced – at the VCCA I created my first fully formed, stand-alone box constructions. In hindsight, the magic of that moment had precedents: I had developed a preference for working 3-dimensionally; I had been making and showing artist books for several years, many of them incorporating found objects; and I had begun to make architectural artist books with doors (“book covers”) that opened to architectural spaces (“pages”) within. New to my work was the idea of a single sculptural image within a frame, an actual window into a physical space into which the viewer is invited. With these box constructions I could tell stories, honor memories, inspire contemplation.

My residency at the VCCA was life changing for another reason. That’s where I met Alaskan writer Frank Soos. A collaboration of my images and his texts emerged from that meeting and within a couple years led to my first solo exhibition in 2004 at the Dadian Gallery in Washington, DC. That year also marked our marriage, my retirement from teaching, and my move to Alaska. Much of our early work together is documented in Double Moon: Constructions & Conversations, published by Boreal Books in 2008.

Where did the idea of An Alaskan Book of Hours come from?

I conceived the Alaskan Book of Hours as a series of visual meditations inspired by the Alaskan landscape. While it is based on the medieval Book of Hours, my interpretation is specifically Alaskan. The Hours of the day—Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, Compline—become reflections of the seasons as we pass from winter’s snow and its dawn of light (Matins), to the rebirth of plant growth at green-up (Lauds), the triumphant arrival of spring (Prime), the ever-present light of Summer Solstice (Terce), the fullness of summer (Sext), the harvest time that follows (None), the grey light of late fall (Vespers), and finally the absence of light at Winter Solstice (Compline).

The landscape inspirations are largely those from Interior Alaska, particularly my home in Fairbanks. Matins – Winter, for example, is based on skiing my favorite wooded trails at the University, a perfect combination of exercise, relaxation, and meditation. Terce – Summer Solstice reflects my feeling for the open spaces and incessant light of summer. Vespers – Fall reminds me of those weeks just before the arrival of snow when the land is shriveled and grey. Compline – Winter Solstice expresses a quiet reverence for our long dark days and awareness of cosmic vastness.

How did you choose the other works included in this exhibit?

While the Alaskan Book of Hours, is central to this show, the other pieces also reference my experiences living and traveling in Alaska. I had never seen a sundog until, standing in the parking lot of Sam’s Sourdough Café, I looked up and was startled by this strange phenomenon. Fishing on Nome Creek, where I found it difficult to walk on its slippery and shiny tailings, inspired the imagery of Then: Nome Creek. Sometimes the objects themselves suggest an experience or place. Mendenhall Glacier, inspired by my first trip to Juneau, came together instantly when I combined an icy blue-green wooden form with the arc of a whitewashed bone.

Your work includes a lot of found items—can you elaborate on what some of these items are, and how you used them? Where did the materials come from? Were you looking for them, or did they find you?

I find it curious how some people ask me exactly what the objects are, while others are anxious to tell me what they are. To me neither function nor history matter. They are forms. They have color, texture, and relate to one another in terms of scale and dimension; in combination they create space, positive and negative. They suggest, reflect, express my intentions, but leave open, an expressly encourage, the interpretations of others.

I like that you asked if the objects “found me.” In fact, they do. Whether in one of my favorite junk shops, or on a beach or riverbank, my eye first snaps to a stick, stone, or other object of interest. Then I pick it up, turn it over several times, and automatically know. My studio is well stocked—it has to be—with objects. Many, or maybe most, are organized and where I can see them, then the same sort of process happens as objects combine to form images.

What is your favorite piece in the exhibit and why?

I have to admit I am partial to the Alaska Book of Hours. These pieces have been long in the making. In late 2008 I received a Rasmuson Artist Award to do this series. I had no idea it would take the better part of three years to complete. To be sure, I was working on other pieces and shows at the same time, but each piece in the series had to wait for the “right” objects and those only emerged over time. When I see the series in its ordered succession I sense the passage of time and how I have become bound to this landscape and the rhythm of its seasons.

Can you describe your process? Does it differ when you are working on a specific narrative as opposed to a more abstract idea?

I’m frequently asked the chicken and egg question: what comes first, the box or the objects? In this I am consistent. The image remains primary and its composition is a product of idea, intuition, space, and choice of objects. Overall I intend my images to be spare, quiet, and contemplative. I want viewers to be up close, to experience the space one-on-one (because of their small scale, a box generally accommodates only one viewer at a time). Once the image is composed, then the space around it is designed. The relationships of objects, and objects to surrounding spaces are important in this part of the process. Wood and hardcore display board are used to construct the boxes. Joining the interiors with the outside world are skylights and windows, typically made of mica. Handmade Japanese papers cover the box structure inside and out.

How did you get the idea to blend medieval art with Alaskana? Seems an unlikely combination—do you think so? Why or why not?

When I left behind the opportunity to have an academic career as a medieval art historian, I thought I had put that knowledge aside forever. But I see aspects of those years of study constantly reflected in my work. Above all, a predilection for hierarchical and symmetrical compositions. Look at any apse in an early medieval basilica and you’ll find a composition arranged hierarchically and symmetrically along its central axis. Consider also that I often use medieval terms to describe my forms, such as altarpieces, reliquaries, and icons. And, especially in my earlier work, my titles reflect medieval iconography, like Resurrection, Transfiguration, Sanctum Sanctorum, even though the real subjects of those pieces have nothing to do with the Middle Ages. So, yes, the unlikely combination of medieval art and Alaskana persists.

An influence in my work that to me is equally strong, and not at all illogical is that of Japanese aesthetics. My travels in Japan, mostly in out of the way places, are reflected specifically in some of my early constructions, and more generally in the structure, minimal composition, use of light, and contemplative space that unite all of my work. It’s possible that the whole idea of my constructions was set in motion by the many little box-like shrines I saw along the roads of rural Japan.

You mention frequently working with miniature essaying Frank Soos. Can you elaborate on the nature of your collaboration?

Our collaborations begin with my constructions to which Frank responds with words, and for the most part there is no 1:1 relationship of image to text. I’m often surprised, and almost always delighted by what he finds in my images—subjects like an appreciation of rust, awareness of certain light, fly fishing in Alaska, and reflections of his own growing up in Virginia. Although he has not yet written in response to any of my Alaskan works, I am hopeful that he will.

Which do you find more enjoyable, mixed media sculpture or bookmaking? Which do you find more gut-wrenching?

Actually there are few differences in approaching both categories of work, especially because the required skills overlap. Except for the artist books that are more traditional in structure—configuration of two-dimensional pages between front and back covers—I find myself working three-dimensionally, measuring and cutting accurately, sequencing the process, and mindful of the details of craftsmanship. The major difference is that with a box construction I’m thinking in terms of a single dominant image, and with a book, I’m thinking about its multiple images and issues of sequencing, placement, and binding them together.

What role does Alaska play in your work? In other words, how does it influence you? Same questions re: Fairbanks? How does Corea, Maine fit into your narrative?

My experience of Interior Alaska, and specifically Fairbanks, is the springboard for all the work I am currently doing. The Alaskan Book of Hours has been my focus in recent years and the same Alaskan focus continues in works that are waiting execution. The more I see of Alaska on road trips, and as we ski, fish and camp, the more inspiration there is for continued work.

Maine, too, plays an important role. I’ve been going there for pieces of summer since the 70s. Corea is a small lobster village on the coast, giving me access to ocean, ledges, and rocky beaches. The work I produce there reflects the surrounding landscape in the same ways as the work I create in Alaska.

Thoughts on having an exhibit at the Alaska State Museum?

Two years ago I came to Juneau for the first time for a solo show at the Juneau Arts and Humanities Council. Juneau’s warm and welcoming community encouraged me to think about coming again, so I was pleased and honored to be selected for a solo show at the State Museum. Frank and I agree that we need to come more often, to explore more of your fishing streams (Kowee Creek was wonderful) and hiking trails, especially at a time when we could also kayak. Trips like this expand my sense of self as an Alaskan.