Interview with Artist Annette Bellamy

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To begin, what brought you to Alaska and how did you become interested in making art?

I was born and raised in Seattle and was 21 years old, studying at the University of Washington, when I decided I wanted to have an adventure. I came up to Homer, Alaska, to work for the summer and never left. I met my husband Marvin within the first two weeks and six months later we bought a fishing boat together. I had never fished. I was studying urban planning and environmental issues. Marvin grew up on a homestead in Homer and had fished his whole life. For the next 15 years we fished together on our little 34-foot wooden boat and to this day continue to fish a small boat with one or two other crewmembers.

The excitement of such a dramatic life style change inspired me to begin a journal. Early on I couldn't write enough to describe all the new experiences. I began drawing. For years I have filled sketchbooks journalizing my life.

The first several years in Homer were occupied with building a log house. The next big project was rebuilding our wooden boat. Marvin and I worked with a shipwright underneath a plastic tent we framed. We made a steamer to bend the frames and steam planks, and learned an awful lot about wooden boat construction. All of these experiences have added up over the years and are reflected in the work I do now. My show at the State Museum is certainly a reflection of all these years of living in Alaska.

I started taking ceramics in 1976 at the Community College in Homer and was hooked immediately. I set up a ceramic studio in Homer in 1978. The making of useful objects that are objects of beauty was very appealing to me and continues to be. I also believe that it is the biggest challenge to make good pots.

Drawing continues to be something I do all the time. It is a way of making art wherever I am. Art is essential to my life. As an artist friend once said to me: "What else is there?"!

What or who has been your biggest influence?

Alex Combs became a life long friend and mentor after we moved to Halibut Cove in 1980. He had just recently retired from the University of Alaska Anchorage Art Department. My first exhibit was a shared exhibit in Ketchikan at the Gathering Gallery with Alex. He had salt-fired pots and I had my drawings - colored pen and ink.

I was told to ask you about your “Homage to Julia” piece, (stoneware cooking utensils), which refers to Julia Child. Is there a story here?

“Homage to Julia” was preceded by a very large installation titled “Ode to Julia” - seventy kitchen-tool forms that covered an entire wall. These were made with found metal and clay. I began a tool series in 2000 and began with mending needles from our fishing boat. The kitchen tools followed. I have always loved to cook. Our fishing boat is well-known for the good meals onboard. When we started taking on crew and, for just a few years, ran a larger boat with six crew, I wrote Julia Child and inquired about the value of cooking school, explaining my work on the boat and desire to learn more about food preparation. She wrote me back a lovely letter and recommended three schools. Two major culinary institutes with two-year programs and another alternative cooking school in San Francisco that offers short workshops with internationally acclaimed chefs. I did go to one session at the San Francisco School. More than anything, I always admired the enthusiasm with which Julia Child approached the core of cooking. The implements of cooking--a spoon, a turner, spatula--become invisible to our eyes even though we handle them every day. The series on kitchen tools was meant to honor the craft of cooking our own food. There is a parallel in my thoughts on “our own food” with a piece that I did in 2008—“My Refrigerator.” It is 8 ft. x 4 ft. x 12" and filled with food that is typically spilling out of my refrigerator in the Cove. Fresh vegetables and fish, oysters, berries--a postcard for the Slow Food Movement.

In “Home Economics” I particularly like the patterns and stripes that are built up by the different colors of fish skin. Where do the colors come from? And, how did you decide on the arrangement and number of the larger composite vertical strips?

“Home Economics” was done over six months. It is a journal of all of our meals of fish. We caught all the fish on long-lines or gillnets, and had it blast frozen and vacuum sealed in packages for our meals over the winter. The variety of fish provided abundant colors and textures. Yellow-eye rockfish, ling cod, Pacific grey cod, sablefish, halibut, and all five varieties of salmon--chinook, sockeye, coho, chum and pink salmon. The rich amber strips are skin from cold-smoked sockeye. I skinned the fish while it was still frozen and then let it thaw for the meal. It is easier to skin fish that is frozen. I kept the skins in the refrigerator and sewed them together in about two-foot sections. These are sewn in the order of our meals. I tried to sew them in a design that represented the way the fish was served. For instance, a large king salmon steak was kept as a steak so I kept the strip of skin as one long strip. My sense of humor caused me to put these horizontal to add an exaggerated look of a cross. Other fish was cut into squares for a curry or stir-fry and that was reflected in the way I cut the skin up in squares and sewed it together to reflect the pattern of the preparation of the fish. I seemed to get into more detail as I went, maybe to keep from being bored with the work. As I completed each section--maybe about a week of meals per section-- I would tack the section to a board and let it dry. The fish skin is quite a beautiful material and has a lot of stretch to it. These sections of drying skins reminded me of hides that are stretched out to dry. When I hung the pieces on the wall, I liked the swings and turns of the sections. It felt like there was a movement to the work that echoed the movement of the ocean.

Are you especially interested in fish skin as a medium to work with, like some other Alaska artists, or are you more involved with your sculptural concerns?

I will continue to use fish skin, but not in any traditional way. Fish skin has metaphorical significance for my sculptural work. Fran Reed was a fish skin basket maker in Alaska who died of cancer several years ago. Two months before she died, she invited a group of ten artists to a special workshop to learn her methods. I was one of the artists. This was a great introduction and has given me inspiration for new work.

Most of your pieces, for instance “Long Lines,” “Home Economics,” and the “Blades” piece seem like they could be variable in the way they are installed; in fact there is a photo of “Long Lines” installed in a different configuration (link to other image) than in the current exhibit. What are your thoughts about this?

Most of my pieces are made up of multiples and they could be variable in the way they are installed, but I also have ideas behind the way I place the pieces. “Long Lines” has only been installed twice. I first hung it to be photographed and then again for the State Museum exhibit. The piece hangs from an armature so all the lines are in a pattern, with the longest row on the backside and tapering into the front line which is the shortest. This reflects the way hooks hang on racks, but it stops at the taper--they dive straight down to the "bottom." Your perception of a different hanging was merely a different angle from the camera lens. “Home Economics” can be hung with variation but there I want it to have a sense of movement, and, as with the “Large Blades,” there is also an aesthetic to the balance and pattern of placement that I pay a lot of attention to. The fish skins were also hung in the pattern of use. Placement is one of the ways to lead the viewer in how the work is perceived.

To further make my point on this, I will use the example of the placement of rocks in a Japanese Garden-there are a lot of rocks (and) there is a very structured placement of these.

There is an interesting variety in your work, say between the more intimate, crafted objects that are very tactile and ambiguous, and seem to be more about “content”…to the larger installation-type pieces, like “Home Economics,” which is meant to be looked at, is more painterly even, and seems to be more about “form.” What are your thoughts about this? And how do you feel about your viewer’s relationship to your work?

The interesting variety in my work reflects my love of both craft and art. The cup is one of the most intimate and sensual objects-- handled and brought to our lips. There is a special weight and design of the handle and shape of a cup's body that fits an individual. Pots have informed me on form. I have always had more of a two-dimensional way of perceiving the world. The negative space and lighting of my work is important. The shadows of the hooks in “Long Lines” are like calligraphy that is telling the story of how we catch fish.

(Regarding the) viewer's relationship to my work--I want the work to have meaning to the viewer but I want there to be "air to breathe" in the ideas and meaning that the viewer finds in the work. I especially like to have the work hit the viewer in the gut. My titles and statements give the viewer more specifics, but (in) the initial viewing of the work I want curiosity and interest to hold the moment, before explanation.

The choice of cast iron for the “Hand Tools” piece gives them a sense of weight and endurance and irony, being as they are made from the same material as some tools. What are your thoughts about how you go about deciding what material to compose a piece from, or is it just intuitive?

“Hand Tools” was a piece that I thought I might slip cast in clay, but early on I realized that it just didn't work in clay. They lost their life and strength--clay shrinks 10 to 12 percent after it is fired. I received an Individual Artist Award from the Rasmuson Foundation and wanted to explore casting techniques. I went to Santa Fe and researched options for casting these hands in metal. The commercial foundries would cast in bronze or aluminum. Neither of these metals had meaning for me. I needed a more common material that is used in work. The hands in this series are well worked hands -- fishermen, artists, a wood worker--and iron was what I wanted to cast them in. After a lot of inquiry, I found a way to cast these in iron. David Lobdell, an art instructor at the University of New Mexico, agreed to help me cast these in iron if I helped him with the International Iron Tribe Symposium. I worked with David and a group of students over two months. We received forms to cast from all over the world from invited artists and made lost wax ceramic molds to cast them in iron. I went to scrap yards to gather cast iron, and helped with the mold making and the iron pour and setting up the exhibit. It was a fabulous experience and in the spirit of the “Hand Tools.”

I am hesitant to cast in iron unless it is essential to the idea. The energy that it takes to pour iron is enormous. It is quite wonderful that iron can be melted down again, though, and reused. Clay of course is fired and that is it.

In the “Mending Box” there is an interesting mix of real materials with “imitation” ones. Sometimes it isn’t clear which is which. Why did you decide to combine real items with those that you made?

The found objects in the “Mending Box” are the first time I have ever used found objects in my work. The old mending needles have a great amount of meaning for me. They were given to me by a neighbor in the Cove and inspired me to begin a long series on tool forms. I have always said you can't manufacture history--these found objects have years of use and a beauty of form that has derived from design for a specific function. The scrap of leather for a shoe repair came with our old house here. The old square boat nails and oakum reflect the years of work on wooden boats. The cast glass hand shows a fragility of the material world. I like the ambiguity of what is found and what is sculpture--I hope it causes the viewer to gain a new appreciation for common objects.

The materials in the “Mending Box” represent a broad range of mending--convergent realms of repair and mending. I like the idea of breaking down divisions and making connections with sometimes seemingly divergent activities. This reflects my lifestyle as an artist and a fisher person. The commercial fishing industry is so different from the art community. I have always loved the contrast and make a point of talking art with fishermen and fish with artists. Everything is interconnected in this world but we seem to build fences.

Is “Large Blades” a purposely ambiguous title? They look like either whale shoulder blades or very large stone scrapers. But the piece is mostly about shape and surface, it seems, so maybe more open-ended. Since none of the pieces in the show are dated, this made me wonder what was the most recent, and what sense do you have of what direction your work might be headed?

The “Large Blades” were done at the same time as the “Hand Tools.” They are very much about surface but also about strength and endurance of ongoing activities. The use of axes, knives and scrapers is still common. The size of these throws an impressive shadow. I want to make these really huge but would have to use a different material and surface would probably be running rust. “Long Lines” and “Out of the Mending Box” are the most recent pieces. It is always hard to say where ideas are going. I have an exhibit in July and one piece that I am just finishing is 100 pod shaped vase forms that will be hung off the wall -each vase has a metal hanger it sits in. I will fill these vase forms with flowers. It will be a wall of memories. Where did this come from? We have lost several friends recently as well as one of our best horses. Life. Also I love flowers and I love pots. I won't explain too much about this in the exhibit--the title will be it. Also, I’m working on a large wall piece that is in clay and will be titled “Village Project.” It will look like a wall of swallow nests. These both use the vessel as metaphor.

You seem to have integrated your life as an artist with your home and fishing life. Do you have any insights to share? Are there any major difficulties, or pleasures, with making art in Halibut Cove, which is pretty remote by some standards?

Fishing has provided a huge amount of financial freedom for me to work as an artist with my own agenda. As I have already stated, I believe that everything is interrelated and I have found great inspiration from my years of fishing that are reflected in my artwork. Living in Halibut Cove has been a good setting for me to work. I do well in solitude-- working in the studio. It is also very important to travel and socialize intermittently. Homer is a short boat ride across (Kachemak Bay) and a lively art community that I am well connected to. Year-round residents in the Cove number around 20-25. We have a book club and the mail boat provides a social day twice a week to town. It is a very routine life in the winter but the opposite in the summer. This community is interdependent in many ways and has the trials and tribulations one goes through with a small community, but also the great reward of having a strong sense of community. It has been quite a change from my background as an urban dweller, but is now a part of who I am.