Crude Conversations

In the mid-90s and early 2000s, Josh Medsker documented the Alaska punk scene. He started out as a fan, attending as many shows as he could, and then he began documenting the scene. For about three years, he wrote for the University of Alaska Anchorage student paper, “The Northern Light,” the city’s alt-weekly, “The Anchorage Press,” and for his own publication, “Noise, Noise, Noise.” Articles, interviews, anything he could do to help tell the story of punk in Alaska. The scene was so vibrant and the energy was so infectious, that he felt a responsibility to capture as much as he could. 

There were bands with names like Skate Death, Psychedelic Skeletons and Filipino Haircut. There were bands interested in the occult, bands interested in performance art, bands interested in making genuine punk music. There was even a band that lit themselves on fire. And they were all performing in venues and eventually warehouses. But for it to be sustainable, there needed to be the right mix of culture bearers and promoters. Bands that created the music, venues that hosted shows, an alt-weekly newspaper that promoted the shows, and a college radio station that played the music. It was a mixture that sometimes worked out and sometimes didn’t. When it worked out, the scene would flourish; when it didn’t, the scene would fade. 

Josh looks back on that time as some of the happiest moments of his life. He remembers going into local music stores and buying local music. How special it was to buy a tape and listen to a local band, knowing that these musicians were walking the same streets that he walked. They understood his interests and his point of view.

Crystal Worl is fresh off of two big projects. A mural in downtown Anchorage and a commission for Google. The mural depicts and applies traditional Alaska Native traditions and symbols — the formline art of the Tlingit, Haida and Tsimshian, for example. It’s 120-feet long, the largest thing she’s ever designed. The Google skin, titled “Primary Ravens,” depicts ravens, which represent the Creator and are always playing tricks. What she likes most about these pieces is that they’re public. They don’t belong to just one person, they belong to the communities that they’re made for. So, anyone has access to them. Both designs utilize traditional and modern techniques, something Crystal makes a point of combining in her work, and they’re part of a larger idea to indigenize public spaces.

Crystal says that having her murals displayed downtown is significant because that’s where people come together. It’s where locals hang out, do business, have dinner, and it’s where visitors are often introduced to Alaska. In many ways, art helps us understand a city, the land and the history of both. She says that the art of formline can help us understand the future of Alaska. It can help us visualize and plan for the future of a state that reflects our ideals and our values. Her mentor, Haida artist Robert Davidson, taught her about the power of visualization. He told her to focus on the end goal, not the process because so many things will test your strength along the way, so it’s important to be persistent. To imagine herself standing in front of the finished piece and celebrating it.

In this one, Cody talks to big mountain snowboarder Ashley Call. As a kid, he was familiar with his home mountain, Eaglecrest, because he’d be there pretty much every day from 6:30 in the morning to 6:30 in the evening. For over 20 years, his dad was the director of ski patrol. So, while he helped ready the mountain for the day, Ashley ran around the lodge and caused trouble. Until the mountain opened and the lifts started spinning. Then it was time for Ashley to ride the mountain all day long.

Priscilla Hensley is a writer and a documentarian. Before she started working on documentaries, her job history was varied — she had worked in communications and, having made a few short films herself, had some prior knowledge of filmmaking. There was also a period of time when she considered herself a poet. All these jobs have helped her to become a jack-of-all-trades. Her time in communications has helped a lot with her documentary work because so much of filmmaking is about logistics and making things happen. Her poetry has helped with her screenwriting. She says that the most important thing she’s learned about screenwriting is to start. Just put the story on paper. You don’t need to have great spelling, you can drop words, and you don’t need to storyboard everything. Just start writing. And then, later, you can worry about editing and rewriting.  

Priscilla grew up recognizing and honoring her Inupiaq heritage. Her dad, William Hensley, is a key figure in Alaska Native land rights. He’s known for his role in the creation of the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act. As a result of the act, Alaska Natives retained 44 million acres of land and about 1 billion dollars to settle Indigenous land claims in Alaska. Growing up around all of this is a big reason she pursues telling the stories that she does. The first documentary she worked on, for example, was “We Up,” a film about Indigenous hip hop of the circumpolar North. It was produced by the Anchorage Museum. In addition to it being a family affair — her husband also worked on the film and their children tagged along — it introduced her to the power of filmmaking.

Priscilla has tattoos that commemorate her roots and her heritage. She gets them with her cousin every time she goes back to Alaska. The most recent one is on her hand, so she sees it when she’s writing or operating a camera. She says that she loves seeing her tattoos when she works because they’re a visual reminder of who she is, how she wants the world to see her, and her responsibility to being true to herself, her family and her community.

Melissa Chimera creates mixed media paintings and installations that are research-based investigations into species extinction, globalization and human migration. Her portraits are fictional, but they’re based in empirical fact. She combs through the public record of peoples’ lives, collecting information to better understand them beyond what DNA can tell us. She includes elements and details of what she finds into her paintings. She says that the Philippines are a confluence of so many tragedies. Politically, economically and environmentally. There’s really no work for the people who aren’t middle class. So they move, they immigrate for opportunity and to send money back to their family. This is the story that Melissa is telling, the one she’s trying to better understand. As a descendant of Filipino and Lebanese immigrants herself, it’s a personal one.

She’s currently in-residence at the Anchorage Museum, exploring the Filipino diaspora through research and interviews. To help make sense of all this information, she’s putting two podcasts together. “Drift: Immigration and Identity in America” is an interview series, and “Land and People” looks at practitioners and people with ancestral ties to the land. There’s also a component of cataloging what the land looks like right now for future reference. She says that as she’s interviewing people they’re also unpacking the psychology of internalized racism and what that looks like and what it feels like. It’s complicated because there are so many facets to this project — there’s immigration, there’s the socioeconomic issues, the cost of living and it’s all under the umbrella of capitalism.

Photo courtesy of Josh Branstetter

In this one, Cody talks to Tlingit artist James Johnson. Before he got to the level he’s at now, James taught himself the fundamentals of the Tlingit artform — he taught himself how to draw, how to carve, how to sharpen his knives. He taught himself the fundamentals of formline. His dad taught him the importance of traditional knowledge — that when you create a piece, you create it for your clan. Be it a paddle, a bowl, a bentwood box, a mask, a rattle, a totem pole. He says that in the old days, once the carvers were finished with a totem pole — once it was raised — they could no longer touch it because now it belonged to the people. James’ dad told him that when he finishes a piece, to let it go and, like a balloon in the sky, that piece will go where it needs to go. The main thing is to focus on skill and that your skill is going to improve with every piece you do.

Everything that he’s doing right now — whether it’s talking to an auditorium of 500 people or hosting a workshop for youth or working on a commission for Google — it’s bigger than him. It’s for his ancestors, for his culture and his traditions. It’s a reminder of the destruction and human toll of colonialism. It’s more than creating a beautiful piece. It’s about understanding history and sharing Tlingit knowledge. He does it for his clan, for his family and for his contemporaries — all of the other northwest coast artists striving to reach the golden age of their artform that occurred in the 1700s and early 1800s, after steel was introduced to their culture during the fur trade.