Artist Residency in The Bob Marshall Wilderness Complex

Bri (she/her) smiles from behind an acceptance letter to the Artist Wilderness Connection program for summer 2023.

This summer has whirled by, leaving many a drafted blog post unfinished — including an announcement of a thing that has now been completed. Since my intermittent writing here is no indication of my excitement around the experience, I’m coming back to edit and share now: I was selected as Artist in Residence for the AWC collaborative program supported by the Bob Marshall Wilderness Foundation, Swan Valley Connections, Flathead National Forest and Hockaday Museum of Art.

For a few years I’ve been seeking an artist residency embedded in nature. It took many an adjustment to internal dialogue and friendly artist meeting to convince myself of being a worthwhile applicant. Then a whirlwind of life full of reckoning, grief, loving and exhaustive healing made it a necessity. I’ll attempt to spare details here to surmise: adjusting from what can be simplified as a compulsory heteronormative life to one with space for queerness has not been simple, easy, or bright. While it has reaffirmed relationships that hold the most importance for me, none have remained untouched or otherwise avoided being redefined in some way. Growing pains is an understatement. I am so proud of how navigating this shift with love, radical honesty, curiosity, and unconventional relational dynamics has played out with those willing to share in approach — particularly the shift between husband to a new role that lacks appropriate terminology; something along the lines of a best friend connected in karass-like ways, to borrow a phrase from Vonnegut. All that said, it’s been exhausting and resulted in a level of heart and head-fog I have no business sorting on my own, left to what little devices I have. And no space I’ve held has been without complication.

Self In Process (winter 2022-2023) was the first time Bri returned to self portraiture since undergraduate studio time.

Spending time between spaces curated by past selves and spaces of others compounded feelings of disconnection to place for me. Inhabiting new physical spaces while attempting a full investigation of identity and lost sense of self — at least versions of self I’d defined for myself through my life until this point — has been disorienting to say the least. When in Maine, I was surrounded by memories of a happy life that no longer fit, relationships irreparably broken, others renewed, and multitudes of missed expectations; no choreography number could dance around emotional minefields without stepping in a few on even the shortest track. In Montana, I found myself inhabiting spaces defined and designed by others, living from bags and making small attempts at grounding that ultimately were ineffectual, and attempting to connect with people who had no memories of me, and also lacked the closeness that trust and knowing provides in familiar relationship — things I needed while actively falling apart. Most spaces were incredibly lonely, no matter where I found myself. Every sense of “home” as informed by a space outside of myself was lost. With so much of my life up in the air, I craved spaces I knew and who knew me in my fullness. Most of these spaces existed beyond human curation, deep in nature. And here I was, 3,000mi away from the familiar streams, brooks, and rivers that had guided me back to myself. I needed to create connections in the natural spaces around me, and finding a nature-based artist residency program seemed like an opportunity to do so with curious, open presence guiding the way.

In the early exciting, optimistic, and hopeful days of reconnecting with myself in a more embodied and honest (very queer) way, I was spending my time in new waters throughout Montana for work and for fun. I felt enlivened by the dramatic and uncompromising scenery, and strangely entangled early on as fishing skills translated readily to fish encounters. I was building back confidence in self, love of self, and wanted more canvas to draw out the life I could inhabit. One such place I was introduced to was the north fork of the Blackfoot river, on the edge of the Bob Marshall Wilderness.

Bri heard about The Bob after the first Confluence Collective Outcast Campout, initially attempting to catch cutthroat trout on size 20-something dries with 16’ leaders. This all took place after a formative experience in Yellowstone, backpacking with friends Gabaccia and Ileana before making their way to Montana.

Here, casting to feeding cutthroat trout in crystal clear water, I felt myself reconnect with nerves and tendons, remembering the motions, and applying what I knew of myself to tease out new discoveries. Mending line over gentle cross-currents; pausing between fly changes to squat and marvel over rocks of red, purple, green, mustard, and turquoise; rummaging through riverbank undergrowth for ripe thimbleberries. I felt the filters I’d placed over myself lift, and a bubbling of unmitigated self overflowed. In these places, I returned to myself in ways I simply could not outside of nature.

Fast forward through months of heartbreak, reckoning, and general emotional chaos, I knew being close to the water would provide the emotional and physical balm I craved; since no childhood blanket could wrap me tight enough these days to weather the storm, giving in to the inherent shifting nature of ecosystems carved by water felt more comforting as waves of emotion and sensation carved new currents through my bones. The familiarity of a current held many reminders of how natural a process I was experiencing and navigating, even when socially others challenged, avoided, or full on rejected unfamiliar dynamics I was establishing (spare a few core humans, xoxo). And so many more nature-spirit connections no text here can express in adequate depth…all of these were lighting a fire under me to find ways to be outside, far from human-curation. A wilderness began to sound downright homey.

view of a distracted angler, excitedly looking at westslope pebbles and rocks while not catching fish

In early August, right in the middle of busy programming season and on the tassels of a massive completed scientific illustration project (more on that to come!) I found myself at the Hungry Horse Ranger Station. I had driven the 2+ hours from Missoula and met with a conference room table full of people, all supporting a program that only 2 humans participate in annually. Faces connected to email signatures, Forest Service radio communication expectations were set, the term “untrammeled” was thrown about, maps were spread out and trails traced by excited fingers of those who knew them firsthand. I had selected a site within the Bob Marshall, known for prolific grizzly populations as a rule, but the little corner of the Flathead I would find myself on for two weeks is home to the highest concentration in the whole wilderness complex. Cool cool cool. I listened intently as biologists shared encounter recommendations and stories from the field. I asked about less-than-friendly human encounters, and felt less-than-assured. Regardless of all details, I would find myself at the trailhead a few weeks later to build relationship with new-to-me waters in the Great Bear Wilderness.

From left to right: Bruce, Bri, Mark, Herb and the pack team prepare to hit the trail at the start of the AWC experience. Artists in this experience are supported by pack teams to help bring in materials, supplies, and gear to remote administrative cabin placements in the backcountry.

In what became known as typical moody fashion, the middle fork of the Flathead meanders through canyon in foggy trappings and rainy skies.

The privilege of this experience is not lost on me; in no world I define as reality would I be able to hire a pack team to take in supplies to a backcountry cabin for a few weeks that is otherwise closed to public use. I, like many, have a hard time shutting off work-wise: out of office messages are few and far between, and my inbox suffers as a result. Nor can I set aside time in my freelance schedule to not work towards some kind of income without feeling it. While the bandaid of evening fishing adventures and weekends outside maintained some level of normalcy in my nervous system this year, I wouldn’t describe it as rejuvenating or restful — nor would I describe my “normal” as working for me anymore. In a life season of overhaul, committing to two weeks in the backcountry in near solitude sounded like a more effective prescription, and one I had been needing. The guide in me could bolster my confidence in my capabilities. The child in me could get revel in the lack of time limits for picking through rocks on the riverbank. The angler in me could be excited to meet fish where they’ve lived for thousands of years, without the pang of more concentrated fishing pressure or regular human encounters stressing them. The forager and birder in me could look and listen with attention to mosses, trees, and conditions I’d only just begun recognizing. As preparations continued, more and more parts of self showed up with enthusiasm.

evening light fades on the Granite USFS Administrative Cabin I called home during my residency, perched atop a red and green rock overlooking the middle fork and surrounded by thick vegetation.

signs from past visitors to the cabin in the form of claw marks and tufts of fur left behind as a message to others inhabiting the community.

I have so much more to still process of the experience, which will require more time. For now, I do want to share a few images from my time as glimpses of what is occupying my attention, artistic/creative and otherwise. I find myself sitting with feelings of humble grace for this body I inhabit, in humility to my small role in this world, in gratitude for those supporting me and encouraging me to show up authentically and completely, and in continued currents of change I will continue learning and moving through. I am renewed in my efforts to facilitate relationship building with the water, as I continue to benefit from my ongoing entanglements with rivers, streams, oceans, and still water every time I return to them. I am here in many ways, because of them.

a deep pool is touched by early light, dancing on the riffles and sparkling with every slow eat from hungry cutthroat trout.

an angler’s view of the middle fork of the flathead as seen on foot, wading towards the next pool…and the next…

a healthy and relatively unbothered westslope cutthroat trout swims back to the safety of a deep pool after brief encounter by way of dry fly

up close and personal with the rocks of the region, full of deep red tones and surprising shapes and forms

one of the many butterflies animating the shorelines as they bounce between late-summer blooms

a closer look at the dense vegetation climbing up from the water to dense coniferous forest

a colored-up cutthroat breaks the surface of the water as it swims away from the riverbank

Allowing for some emergent practice, I’ll walk away from this post now and return with more rumination guiding my typing fingers. In the coming weeks of autumn, I anticipate more artwork (beyond what my mirrorless camera could support) to fill the page, and more digested stories to sift through the newness of it all. Not to spoil any surprises, but I’ve got some work to do on getting my guts back in functioning shape, and mind back in assured state. I am learning to care for myself in ways that have been needed for so long. Thanks for being around for the journey here!

Bri

Science + Art = Grassroots Conservation x2

In an ongoing collaboration with Keep Fish Wet, I’ve had the opportunity to collaborate on grassroots conservation campaigns around species-specific best practices guided by fish wellbeing, ultimately aimed to reduce harm we as anglers inflict through fishing activities. The latest iteration on this partnership is now launched: Steelhead In Our Hands translates science on the challenges the species face — including through human interaction — and provides accessible information on how to make small changes with big impact as a community.

The logo for the Steelhead In Our Hands campaign was created in the style of a woodcut or linocut with blocky imagery and handmade feel. With the focus of the campaign being to empower individual anglers to improve the outlook of the fishery, centering human interaction with fish in the central imagery was a priority.

In this collaboration, the Wild Steelhead Coalition came together with Keep Fish Wet to synthesize scientific research and create generalized guidance for larger steelheading angling community. The campaign is one intended to focus on empowerment rather than shame as tips telling people what to do typically evoke emotional response and perpetuate problematic power dynamics.

The opportunity to work alongside science community in crafting copy, tweaking language, and supporting it all with clear visuals is one I don’t take lightly; art has the capacity to communicate complication and movement in ways language can struggle, and involves an audience in different ways. I’m hopeful these visual elements allow anglers to see themselves in each best practice, and recognize with familiarity what we are talking about. Since I haven’t personally fished for steelhead before, it was important for me to do extensive research on the morphology of the species depending on gender, life stage, location, and every other contributing factor that shapes the fish we interact with. Learning from involved parties on seasonal shifts as well, such as how these fish move from chrome colors fresh from the ocean and slowly shift to more rainbow trout palette once in the river system, was especially interesting for me and hopefully informs design clearly for this summer season campaign release.

Steelhead parr are featured in the campaign in branded palette. These juvenile fish can have distinct differentiations in appearance from freshwater-bound local rainbow trout species.

Access to information is a big personal connection between myself and partners at Keep Fish Wet; with so many pieces of research and findings stuck behind paywalls, the general public has incredibly limited access. Keep Fish Wet and Confluence Collective share a mission in shifting access, knowing more informed anglers make better decisions when they are personally empowered. For this reason, the campaign’s infographic is free with public access to print and display. Campaign pointers are shared through social media for more exposure, and community voices are encouraged to contextualize what this campaign means for them locally by sharing themselves. Recognizing the strength of appeal for those who are in relationship with a community, it makes sense for this campaign to ultimately be owned by community.

This design was particularly fun to construct, continuing a sense of place and thread of branded aesthetic approach while communicating key pressures to the fishery.

More information on the campaign can be found here (as well as all over social media) and will continue to expand throughout the summer and winter fishing seasons. I look forward to seeing community events organized, merchandise offered, and other touch points for the campaign.

The Flyfish Journal Feature

Bri (she/her) holds a copy of The Flyfish Journal from this autumn featuring her artwork on the cover and expanded gallery feature. Accompanying words written by Jesse Robbins.

Hello! Somewhere between good program chaos, spending more time out west, and not keeping up with my blog/website, this feature came together. And now you can see some of my favorite work in print!

I fished with the editor of the journal this spring as part of a brand’s product release we both attended, and after some tiny fly frustration in strong winds on spring creeks, business cards were exchanged and anglers parted ways. A little while later, I was approached to share a compilation of my work including the Birds With Flies series to be included in a future issue of the journal. A few images turned into a full on interview and gallery, and this lovely warbler on the cover.

Honestly, I was terrified by the possibility of things I made being shared far beyond my personal reach, beyond those I have opportunity to build relationship and understanding. These pieces are highly personal, my bird series still feels full of unexplored potential, and my attempts to carve out more working time for art making have typically been compromised for one last cast on the river or one more email. I haven’t exactly felt like a practicing artist. I’ve also maintained a strong habit of downplaying this side of my work, perhaps to rationalize other professional prioritizations or protect myself from the kind of vulnerability creative process taps into. Finally, I’ve felt uninterested in having eyes on me given the stage of deconstruction, healing, and rebuilding going on in my personal life.

You can’t really choose a timeline in this life, and though I’ve held this truth to some degree, I’ve learned new depths. Suggestions of structure or control are fabrications to maintain a false sense of predictability and order, benchmarks are often not self-determined with intentionality — rather, typically determined by an outside perspective looking to take advantage — and in the end the inevitable unexpected still knocks us down. In conversation with some of my closest humans, we’ve reflected on how happiness has often felt more synonymous with relief, rather than a feeling of joy. By the time relief washes over, we’re exhausted by all the running of scenarios that we cannot meet the moment with openness or play, but rather necessary rest.

This summer, while not updating the blog, writing newsletters, answering emails or sending invoices in a timely manner, or working on websites, I expanded my understanding of joy. I moved with more embodied direction, opted for what felt good and what supported healing, I offered myself more grace when burnout imbalance upended any sense of work and life separation; more, but not enough. I’m starting to accept existing more in process. I’m starting to chase joy rather than relief.

Perhaps this is an unrelated elaboration to my work being published in a magazine, but writing this raw feels okay, and perhaps contextualizes who I am without a promise of static being moving forward. How you see me represented here is a moment, an interpretation, and remains in flux. Each thing doesn’t need to be all the things. I’m excited for what this is: a humbling feature where I worked with people I respect, with another dear friend among the pages, and lots of room to grow from here.

If you want to grab a copy for yourself, please do so by supporting your local fly shop! Even better: grab a print of the featured art from me.

Blackburnian Witch is one of seven from the series featured in The Flyfish Journal. Prints are available for purchase here.

On Continuous Linework in Drawing

For warm ups recently, I’ve been loving sketches where I don’t pick up my pen from start to finish. It started as a way to add more risk and expressive qualities to digital pieces, and get the gears going at a time where multiple commissions are coming due — pressure is on. This time of year is also transitional, moving from past-paced summer into intentional + personal reflection of fall; integrating some highly personal work to daily routine has been helpful in maintaining my presence as more repetitive finishes are required on complicated works. It’s nice to just let things flow on something specifically for me before pouring my heart into something for someone else.

The warm up turned into a habit, and is now begging to be pushed further. This can happen from time to time when I hone a style and get entrenched in how far it can communicate concepts. In a moment of indulgence, I decided to really let loose, take some risks, and develop aesthetic into a large scale piece for a friend. It was so much freaking fun, and not like much work I’ve shared publicly in the past where I focus intently on depth, detail, and tangibility. Nope, this was all feeling, ethereal, dreamy vibes hinting at a sense of place — not enough to put you back there, but more like the memory of it swirling and morphing in the back of your daydreams.

Even as a departure, I kind of love it. 24” x 36” — another indulgence for simplistic practice and single toned work. It needed to be bold, like we all need to be from time to time when our patterns hold us back.

Science + Art = grassroots conservation in action

Over the spring months, I’ve been counting down to the striper migration up the Atlantic coastline. It’s hard not to: these fish put more bend in a 9wt than I ever expect after months of tiny rods through holes in the ice followed by spring trout. As my first few casts slap the water and I make adjustments to throwing more weight around, casting into the ocean tends to feel like a lost cause — until that first fish. It’s like meeting up with an old pen pal, giving them a huge hug, and laughing at the prospect of summer fun ahead in each other’s company.

Thankfully, I had an excuse to chase that feeling a bit more vividly through a collaborative project with Keep Fish Wet and Maine saltwater guide on the salt, Kyle Schaefer.

I was invited to join collaborators down in Cape Cod at the end of May for the schoolie tournament, which felt like pre-season for summer stripers. Coming together as a group connected only by Zoom for so long, and getting to finally see each other for a few days of fishing? Pretty great. Even better because we could see our work take shape, and get outside eyes on the project. Suddenly, days — weeks— obsessing behind screens became stickers, posters, websites, social campaign materials, and moments of connection between anglers.

There have been many projects and initiatives happening behind screens, and surely I’m far from alone in this. To finally see things come together AND be able to see each other in person was overwhelming. It definitely made things feel “real”. It was that first fish moment, and the promise of more swimming just offshore.

A view off Cape Cod looking out over tidal flats, clouds overhead as a reminder of a cloudburst that has just passed

The focus now is to get this work out into the world. With science-based best practices coming from fisheries scientists themselves (without expensive + restrictive academic paywalls) the hope is to empower every angler with the information they need to have positive impact on the fishery as a whole. The striped bass fishery is at a 25 year low, which is daunting to imagine. Like many problems we face in our world today, issues run deep with systemic and institutional harm — it can feel helpless as an individual to move the needle of change. But we can’t individually solve the big problems; collective action can get us closer, and we can all contribute to that in a meaningful way.

The Stripers In Our Hands campaign brings people together through connection to the fishery, may that be through fly fishing, spin casting, or any other form of angling that targets stripers. It’s for people who fish for keeps, and those who practice catch and release. It’s for people who have caught hundreds of fish, as well as those preparing for their first catch. At the root of this campaign, it’s about access to information that can help us each make the most of every interaction we have with the fish; thoughtful actions, intentional movements, and recognizing that we can manage impact by knowing what a fish needs to swim away healthy.

A collection of photos shared by Clinchy Creative after the Cheeky Schoolie Tournament. A group of anglers and industry leaders joined on the beach to hear from Sascha Clark Danylchuk + Andy Danylchuk on accelerometer tracking of fish movements post-release, providing important data markers of fish health + strength after handling.

The campaign will build over this summer and likely into autumn. Members of community and fishing industry are encouraged to spread the word far and wide, and with a goal of reducing catch and release mortality by just 1% we can increase the striped bass population by 250,000—280,000. We can do that, right?

Check out the full campaign webpage here, and dig into the fisheries data here.

The completed infographic is available with public access rights. Industry and fishery professionals are encouraged to share with clients and colleagues, and individual anglers are welcome to reference this in their own communities.

SPRING THAW

This winter and spring have been a swirly of painful turbulence and mundane apathy. We’re farther from each other than we’ve perhaps ever been, slowly going blind from constant screen time, paradoxically numb and on fire with anxiety, and desperate for meaning behind any glimpse of interaction we do encounter. Or maybe I just need some sun. All this to say: finding hope and optimism has been a challenging scavenger hunt filled with booby traps. And it’s been all consuming.

Thankfully, temps are rising, my J&J vaccine happened more than two weeks ago (woot woot) camping doesn’t feel like a sentence to hypothermic death, and fishing is back. a few projects have been keeping me going as well, and I’m excited to share some exciting glimpses into what’s ahead:

the Credit River in Ontario is vulnerable to residential and industrial development. Native brook trout use this watershed for spawning, and a sewage treatment facility threatens this sensitive environment. Here’s a page created for the local Trout Unlimited chapter to raise awareness through education.

ECOSYSTEM COLORING: after spending most of my childhood watching things grow and live in the woods, I know observation and education is key to understanding the interconnected ways of our world, and access to these spaces is not always straightforward. In winter months, my mind regularly travels back to watersheds I’ve explored in the warmer seasons, and being able to represent those complicated ecosystems on paper has been a great way to stay connected and share knowledge. As such, ecosystem coloring pages are being added to the growing coloring book project, and hopefully bringing families together to learn about these delicate environments and their inhabitants. Here’s one:

BRANDED COLLABORATIONS: stoking the fire of others is a favorite past time. I’ve been gifted with the opportunity to serve as visually-inclined cheerleader to a few local entrepreneurial projects here in Maine, spanning queer-affirming birthing practices to heart-guided agricultural projects. It’s a friggin blast, and a wonderful opportunity to flex muscles across illustration styles and guide definition of branded identity. While our collaborations are fluid and evolving, here are a few snippets of process that have been particularly fun:

FISHY FUN: revisions to educational resources and illustrated components to support group events is always on the back burner. Thankfully, a few elements were pulled to the font as gatherings in 2021 look more and more feasible, especially in outdoor spaces.

A few simple illustrations have been added to Confluence Collective resources such as a beginner’s questionnaire for gear needs, and branded elements spanning spin casting to fly fishing now grace event materials for the Outcast Camp Out, taking place August 5-8th.

STRIPERS: following along with their east coast migration, I’m working with a group of guides and scientists to advocate for more mindful fishing interactions and call for more research on fishery population. Living on the coast of Maine has meant lots of time surfcasting to stripers and riding the tides through tributaries. I’m infatuated with striper fishing. I’m also very aware of how disconnected slot limits are from state to state, and know the perception of bass being tough fish has resulted in less than gentle handling on many occasions.

COMISSION FUN: this one is taking a w h i l e to come together. Thankfully those receiving this piece are flexible, and as more migratory birds make their way back to the north, details are coming together. Here’s a sneak peek at a favorite element, which might also give a sense of who else will show up in this natural scene.

These are just a few of the many balls in the air. I’m looking forward to more visual projects, storytelling opportunities, and even some editorial work coming up — more on that later. Until then!

Introduction: The Thalweg

Homepage of The Thalweg’s website, full of thoughtfully curated content and ways for you to get involved/order!

Earlier in the depths of doom scrolling through social feeds, a spark of collective creation came up and demanded pause. A group of individuals, many guides, all individuals somehow called to nature and inspired by it. A beautiful connection of creators, poets, academics, artists, and so many other intersection of human existence and the outdoors were called together by a “tadpole” of an idea, in the words of Founding Editor Seneca Kristjonsdottir.

Nelson approves.

An international pandemic changed a lot with the initial concept gaining traction just before, and while we took time to grow, learn, ground ourselves, speak up, or whatever took up our time during this unending Monday of a month/year/moment. Thankfully, the resiliency of artists and dedicated caretakers persisted.

I’m going to keep this short as the voices included in this publication speak for themselves — and you should read them! Go check out The Thalweg and order your Fall 2020 issue of the publication, including a Junior Guide to juvenile trout species and hallmark flies by yours truly. It’s a stunning artifact I can’t wait to dive and squirm around in. I hope you find one in your mailbox someday soon.

The Joy of Collaborative Commission

I had the distinct honor of being commissioned for a custom piece of studio work. For individuals otherwise outside of social circles to entrust personal story and connection for artistic interpretation is a responsibility I take seriously, gratefully, and of course with my typical dedication to overthinking.

A peek into process, and the final piece ready for a new home

Beyond our time in nature, I believe people are what make our worlds expand: they bring us into novel spaces, dynamics, different lived experiences and knowledge banks — they push us from stagnating and remind us of the importance of interaction. And in this case, people were what brought me to revisiting fine art practice and to the decision of dedicating more time towards this work, and tasked me with the difficult process of recognizing self and practice. In the past, I’ve connected art making to competitive energy and felt it centered individual fulfillment. The solitary physical nature of art making set the act up to be self indulgent, relying on the tools put to use by an individual to create whatever worlds, interactions, messages, dreams, and whatever else might be bouncing around in their head. Why are these art makers so special to wield this power and have such thoughts take physical form and exist? And what responsibilities must be embedded in this interaction?

Self portrait copper plate print circa 2012 following 6mo living on the Big Island of Hawai’i. This piece speaks to the internalization of our interactions in nature, and nods to the importance of sharing breath.

This power felt uncomfortable to me as I worked through fine art education. I saw myself driven by motivations that seemed selfish: my own artistic progress in skill, my own conceptualization of the world, my own competitive standing in the class, my own statements…and so forth. And with artistic practice often relying on repetitive prompts like self portraits, it all seemed too individually focused, self-benefitting and involved. This distracted me from unpacking my own discomfort. It’s much easier to cast a far-reaching judgement to avoid the fear underneath. At the end of the day, it was my hand that was holding the paintbrush, and my interaction with the canvas that would be recorded. Why was that interaction scaring me, when it also held the potential for liberation and fulfillment? The insecurity was so deep that I took every avenue to avoid displaying my ‘complete’ work in spaces I inhabit, knowing the discomfort of observing where I could have done better or pushed farther would be in my face constantly. Imagine the pressure on each piece [and on self] to embody ALL the things, all the time, in order to earn a spot on the wall.

Revisiting the cringe, I’ve made more sense of what my relationship with art can be outside of the rigid perception I held previously, and how my approaches can directly challenge the very concerns mentioned without the need for me to abandon the practice. And this required a more loving, compassionate and fluid view of self, of growth, and of possibility. This re-visioning could only be accomplished by leaning into the cringe and making sense of it. Artists certainly can approach their canvas with self-benefiting intentions, and seeing the commodification of artwork further complicates avenues for this kind of interaction to take place. It’s also okay to seek personal benefit. This last part has been a difficult one for me to recognize, as my impulses of embodying what is “good” has resulted in an abandonment of what I might need, where I might benefit from support, my internalized conceptions of self worth, and the pressures I put on myself. I found myself assuming negative outcome of myself when I stepped into the work, and my inner voice was ready to remind me of the possible failures. And with art resulting in a publicly consumed artifact, the anxieties of managing external perception could often be overwhelming.

Then I came back to self. I was kinder in my dreaming, and more open in my approaches to potential. My anxieties were helping me avoid the harm I myself or others had received in interactions with art, and by investigating and knowing this harm, my actions could be informed to further evolve my practice. I could stop the impulse to commodify a piece and revisit the canvas as a space for reflection and instigation. I could also create work for commodification, and know I was worthy of compensation for the pieces of my heart I was open to sharing in this kind of interaction. I could at once maintain high regard for visionaries and cultural challengers while recognizing the glimpses I had that were influencing me were only a small part of their existence, and refocus my research on the imperfectly human elements. For my discomfort of individual agency, I could seek collaboration within my concepts, or very tangibly in my process. Possibilities flooded back, and suddenly my art concepts notebook came back to life. My watercolors no longer scared me. And my learning was worthy of the materials cost.

Collaborative commissions are one way I hope to further challenge self and world through the tools of art making. In this initial piece, I am humbled by the creative trust bestowed on me in this process, and maintain a responsibility of open communication around process, concept, and message. This commission embodies just one possibility in this kind of interaction, and I’m thankful for the overlap in interest and visual metaphor. Let’s dive in to the details:

Complete composition of the latest custom commission piece bound for a new home in Shoshone-Bannock, Apsaalooké (Crow), Salish Kootenai (Flathead), Cheyenne stolen land known as Big Sky, MT

A simple suggestion of place was incorporated to maintain focus on the interactions and players

The piece brought together shared passions of fly fishing and birding, which I am thankful to have access to as a language of connection between myself and clients. With joint focus on interactions within nature, and recognizing individual journey and growth possible within observations of our natural world, we could collectively indulge in celebrating and communicating through welcome friends found outside. And this interaction could be the focus, knowing a sense of place is best achieved when holding physicality, though possible as an ethereal reminder through natural forms.

Incorporating surface tension of the water itself and many of bubble forms throughout challenges the intention of knowing space to a journey of reflection. We see the forms within this scene reflected, distorted, and morphed into the bubbles themselves, both as a reminder of how our interactions in nature are a reflection of our own meaning making, and as these interactions leave impact [even when quickly passing] on the space we inhabit. This is a line of inquiry for the viewer to progress on their own, to make sense of their own manifestations in nature and how individual identity plays a role in the spirit of interaction accomplished.

Reflective bubbles were such a fun part of the art making process for this piece

Detail of the bubbles surrounding the juvenile brook trout, distorting and pulling apart what signifies it’s identity when seen through the lens of nature/water

This piece would take on a journey from Maine to Montana in the hands of those who commissioned the piece, with a destination of a new home for their son in what is currently known as Big Sky. This son’s life could be followed through shared family passions of birding and fishing, expanding even more as he gets to know his new habitation context. We invited forms of birds emblematic to the Gallatin River such as the nutcracker and magpie as recognizable new neighbors for the client, while also nodding to east coast roots through the bluebird, which can be spotted in both locations.

We also incorporated elements of journey through the trout species included: the brook trout, embodying a younger, juvenile form here evoking a childhood adventuring around the native habitats of the trout. This form is shown hooked on a Purple Haze, a staple dry fly in Montana waters; this interaction represents the individual’s new connection and pursuit of living in Montana. We also welcome a hefty cutthroat trout, strong and lively, representing the son’s current human state in new waters. The cutthroat chases an emblematic Maine fly — the Gray Ghost — showing a tether to home and persistence of this influence on self and influence on action, regardless of geographic location.

An adult cutthroat trout chases the Maine Gray Ghost streamer fly here, maintaining connection to roots in different waters and how this can inform further introspection and growth in new physical context

Here we have birds wielding flies made of feathers, working together to interact with fish below the water’s surface. A subtle suggestion here could be that we already have the tools we need to grow, provided we learn how to use them and do so in community spirit.

Interaction between air and water offers an undercurrent of nature reclamation and interconnected living. Here, the birds wield the line and flies which are made of their own feathers to invite interaction beyond the sky with entities otherwise out of reach. By having the birds control feather-constructed flies, viewers can challenge the relationship they might have with these tools and honoring their sources. Much like a slowly re-wilding space after human impact, these forms take back what is theirs and utilize their actions as a reminder of sustainability and responsibility each angler might choose to embody. Furthermore, by engaging with beings below the water’s surface [and thus outside of the comfort zone for these birds] we have a subtle sense of connection and relationship held by nature’s inhabitants, beyond the interaction of prey and predator.

Detail of the magpie — a moment of indulgence through subtle color layering

The playfulness and observed teamwork between birds to manage their interaction is a suggestion of thoughtful, collective action. This collaboration is an intentional challenge to the perceived solitary nature of fly fishing: many may conceptualize an individual, alone in a natural environment, casting flies on an individual journey to prompt interaction. Rather, the act of fly fishing is one of observation and constant interaction, working in unity with the natural environment to make decisions, guide actions, and ultimately color interactions with any river inhabitants that may come into contact.

I’m writing this all having parted with the piece just a few days ago, and awaiting feedback from the family once it is gifted this holiday season. I’m excited to share I’ll be working on a second commission for this same client, and look forward to exploring more through the interaction of bird and fish, knowing receiving audience will bring depth and meaning beyond my own. And I’ll be taking this on with a more loving and solid sense of agency for myself as collaborative art making grows within my practice. Cheers to that.

Resident art critic Nelson shares his thoughts and requests a snuggle