Chatter Marks: Recent Episodes
Anchorage Museum
Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, dedicated to exploring Alaska’s identity through the creative and critical thinking of ideas—past, present and future. Featuring interviews with artists, presenters, staff and others associated with the Anchorage Museum and its mission.
Author Lily Tuzroyluke is from Tikiġaq, also known as Point Hope, a community on Alaska's northwest coast that has been home to generations of people for thousands of years. It’s widely regarded as one of the oldest, continuously lived-in settlements in North America. As a writer, Lily often begins by imagining the land itself—not as it exists today, but as it existed centuries ago—meditating on everything a single place has witnessed across time. Then comes the research, uncovering the details that help bridge imagination and the historical record, giving shape and substance to the images that first arrived in her mind. In that way, storytelling becomes more than preservation, it becomes an act of reclamation, restoring voices that have too often been left out of Alaska's history.
In her debut novel, Sivulliq: Ancestor, Lily imagines a mother and her children fleeing their homeland after it was devastated by smallpox. They set out across the ice, moving north to the coast, where they become whalers, adapting the knowledge and traditions their ancestors developed to hunt mammoths to harvesting the bowhead whale. But along the way, they’re attacked by whalers, who leave the mother for dead and kidnap the daughter. What follows is a story of loss, love, and survival, and it’s shaped by Lily's connection to Point Hope. This is an important distinction from many of the other people who have written about Point Hope. Very few of them were actually from the community and intimately familiar with its people, its traditions, and the land. But Lily is.
Corinna Cook is an essayist whose writing follows the stories embedded in the borderlands of Southeast Alaska, northern British Columbia, and the southern Yukon. Drawing from history, natural science, and personal experience, she asks what the landscape can teach us—how it preserves memory, how climate reshapes our understanding of place, and how the painful histories of colonialism continue to shape life in the present. Her essays remind us that history and the natural world are inseparable, that the past lingers in rivers, forests, permafrost, and the traces left behind by those who came before us. And rather than searching for tidy conclusions, she approaches each essay as an open question, using it to better understand the North, the stories preserved in its landscapes, and what it means to live within the long arc of geologic time.
Her recent book, Permafrost Is an Archive, is a collection of essays about turning toward the land. Moving through the boreal forest, thawing permafrost, and the invisible lines that divide nations, she asks what the land remembers and what it can teach us about the painful histories we carry, the ones that continue to shape how we see each other and the world around us. She doesn't offer easy answers. Instead, her essays become meditations on home and displacement, deep time and human history, and the difficult work of building more honest relationships with each other. As climate change reshapes the North, she argues that our ability to adapt may depend as much on how we confront our shared histories as on how we respond to environmental change. At the heart of the book is a question that echoes throughout her work: Now that we know, what do we do with that knowledge?
Tom Kortbeek and Roos Meerman are the founders of Fillip Studios, a Netherlands-based interdisciplinary design studio whose work sits at the intersection of art, science, technology, and human experience. Together, Tom and Roos have spent more than a decade exploring what happens when artists, designers, engineers and scientists are invited into the same conversation. Their projects explore everything from human connection to healthcare to public ethics, environmental responsibility, and the future role of design in society. There’s Tactile Orchestra, an interactive installation that turns touch into collaborative music; there’s Kozie, a sensory object that’s being used in dementia and Alzheimer's care; Holland's Next Embryo invites the public to grapple with the ethical questions surrounding reproductive technology and genetic selection; Commissioned by Earth explores what changes when the planet itself is treated as the client; Arabidopsis Symphony transforms plant biology into an immersive musical experience. And other projects that challenge audiences to reconsider the relationship between people, nature, materials, technology, and the systems that shape our lives.
But beneath all of those projects is a simpler question: How do people come together? Not through argument or instruction, but through touch, play, curiosity, wonder, and shared experience. It's a question that sits at the center of much of Fillip Studios' work and is reflected in its guiding philosophy: Impact Through Wonder. In the studio, this starts with creating an atmosphere where creators are comfortable to explore and discover. Here, Tom and Roos’ role involves helping people work through a creative process, uncovering new questions and perspectives along the way. The result is a body of work that invites people to come together, and that some of our most meaningful insights aren't always something we think our way into, they can also be something we feel our way toward.
Anchorage Historian David Reamer has spent years digging through archives, newspapers, and forgotten corners, recovering stories that might otherwise disappear. From his early days of sharing historical stories on social media to his long-running Histories of Alaska column in the Anchorage Daily News, he’s documented everything from vanished neighborhoods and local legends to racial covenants, labor struggles, oddball characters, and the everyday moments that shaped Alaska's largest city. His work reminds us that history doesn’t just live in textbooks or monuments. It survives in fragments — rumors, newspaper clippings, photographs, old advertisements, property records, fading memories, and oral histories. Through those fragments, he explores what Anchorage's past reveals about its present and what it means to preserve the memory of a city that has spent much of its life reinventing itself.
Anchorage is difficult to define because it never stops changing. It was founded in 1915 as a railroad tent city—a place of laborers, opportunists, and people eager to get in on the ground floor. More than a century later, that spirit of reinvention remains. The challenge in seeing the full picture, David says, is that we rarely see the present clearly while we're living through it. Only with distance do the patterns emerge. So, he’s skeptical of the neat narratives that often follow official histories because, for him, history is messy. And he embraces that messiness, challenging conventional wisdom and uncovering histories that are both profound and absurd. Like Anchorage's brief obsession with raising chinchillas.
Ashley Saupe is the host of the Sharp End Podcast, a show built around firsthand accounts of accidents, near misses, survival, and the complicated psychology of risk in the outdoors. But before she started the podcast, she was studying the mistakes of others, reading Accidents in North American Climbing, an annual publication by the American Alpine Club that documents climbing incidents, what went wrong, and the lessons people take away from them. She became fascinated not by triumphs or summit photos, but by the thin line between routine and disaster—the small decisions, overlooked details, and human tendencies that can shift a situation toward danger. Eventually, she began to think: someone should turn these stories into a podcast. That idea became The Sharp End.
For more than eleven years, she’s been listening to people recount moments when things fell apart, and in the process her own relationship to climbing, risk, and the outdoors has changed. In her twenties and early thirties, she was more concerned with reaching the summit, but now, as she nears 40, she’s learned to enjoy the journey. These days, success means facilitating wilderness experiences for other people and getting down safely. She’s less interested in collecting accomplishments than she is in what the outdoors reveal about fear, ego, vulnerability, and identity. Now, she often spends time alone in the backcountry, where the silence and isolation force her to confront these things directly. She says time slows down in the mountains, that survival depends on paying attention: listening to your body, the weather, your partner, the rock in front of you. That way of moving through the outdoors has also shaped the way she thinks about Alaska, how it’s scale and mythology often distorts people’s judgment and can lead to a dangerous kind of confidence. Many people refer to this as “The Alaska Factor.”
Sue Aikens is the warden of Kavik River Camp, a remote, self-sufficient outpost on Alaska’s North Slope. A collection of bunkhouses, fuel tanks, generators and equipment set against a wide, treeless, and unforgiving landscape defined by wind, cold, and distance. Just open ground, shifting weather, and a constant awareness that survival depends on preparation and respect for the elements. Hunters, scientists, photographers, and adventurers all travel there for work and pleasure, and it’s Sue’s job to help them navigate the landscape and prepare for whatever they came there to do. She’s spent nearly 30 years of her life here, long enough to know it down to the smallest detail. Every rock, every barrel, every bend in the river. And for more than a decade of that time, she’s shared her life with the world in Life Below Zero, a reality show that gives people a glimpse into what it takes to live in the Arctic.
In her new book, North of Ordinary, she writes about a difficult upbringing, abuse, abandonment, resilience, and the unlikely path that led her to Kavik. And what emerges from that story isn’t just about survival, it’s a way of thinking. About solitude, about fear, and about what it means to rely on yourself when there’s no one else around. Like the time she was attacked by a grizzly who was trying to assert dominance around Kavik, at one point biting down on her head so hard she could hear her skull crack. After the bear left her for dead, she crawled back to camp and lay there for days until help eventually arrived. The injuries that resulted from that attack left her rebuilding her body piece by piece. It’s the kind of experience that would send most people running. But rather than pushing her away, it seemed to root her even deeper in that place. She had survived. And for Sue, survival isn’t just relief — it’s proof that she belongs in Kavik.
Caroline Van Hemert is a wildlife biologist, writer, and researcher whose work moves between science, story, and the lived experience of wild places. She’s based in Alaska, where she’s spent years studying migratory birds and the shifting ecosystems they move through, paying close attention to how climate change is reshaping patterns that have existed for generations. She’s also the author of “The Sun Is a Compass,” a memoir that traces a 4,000-mile journey she and her husband made from Washington State to Arctic Alaska under their own power—by boat, ski, canoe, and foot. Across her work, whether in the field or on the page, she’s asking a version of the same question: how do we find our way through a changing world, and what can the natural world teach us about movement, attention, and belonging?
Caroline’s writing merges the personal with the scientific, a perspective shaped by her early research into beak deformities in black-capped chickadees. That work led to a broader focus on wildlife health, studying everything from parasites in polar bears to harmful algal blooms and their effects on seabirds — and how disease, toxicants, and environmental stress ripple across entire ecosystems. Because a change to one species is never isolated, it’s a community-level shift. For a long time, that work felt heavy, like serving as a gatekeeper at the morgue, documenting decline. But more recently her focus has begun to shift. In her new book, tentatively titled “Upwellings,” she looks for moments of surprise, places where the natural world resists the expected ending. Because she believes that by recognizing what’s possible in the wild can reshape what feels possible within us. It’s a shift that also reflects a deeper question about science itself: whether data alone can still move people, or whether it requires a more engaged, more human voice.
Don Rearden is an author and an educator whose work is rooted in Alaska—its landscapes, its communities, and the complex realities shaping life across the North. His writing—both fiction and nonfiction—blends elements of survival, culture, and environmental change. Whether he’s exploring a pandemic unfolding in the Arctic or a coastal village on the brink of relocation, his work is grounded in lived experience and respect for place. That respect comes from his upbringing in Southwestern Alaska. He says he’s haunted by it, in a good way. Looking into homes left behind after an epidemic, running a dogsled team out across the ice to set a fish trap, how there was only one telephone in his entire community. Images like these he can return to anytime, not just for inspiration, but as a way of staying connected to where he comes from.
He jokes that writing is his drug of choice because he’s able to step outside his body, away from old injuries and the noise of the world, and can move freely through story. It’s something he’s always turned to as an escape. It’s his way of traveling back to his youth in Southwestern Alaska, back to the tundra, the mountains, and the places that have defined him. It’s a place where survival wasn’t abstract, it was part of daily life. That time in a tight-knit community and nature has been a constant reminder of how much he still has to learn. It's also a reminder that Alaska isn’t a place of extraction, but a place rich with stories, culture, and meaning. Across his writing, he returns to these themes again and again. There’s survival, love, an appreciation for the fleeting nature of time, and a kind of magic rooted in the mystery of the world. He says that for too long these stories have been told from the Outside, but now it’s time they’re told from within.
Sam Davenport writes the AK IRL newsletter. It dissects Alaska reality television as entertainment and as a cultural lens that shapes how Alaska is perceived from the Outside — an idea often signaled right from the start in show titles filled with buzzwords like wild, survival, and frontier. As if there’s a checklist for how Alaska gets branded and sold. She writes about the manufactured drama, the narrative structure, the way reality TV can feel like a funhouse mirror — recognizable, but distorted. And yet, within that distortion, there are moments of truth. Shows like Deadliest Catch have introduced millions of viewers to the commercial fishing industry, offering glimpses into lives they might otherwise never encounter. There’s a reason people keep watching these reality shows about Alaska: there’s a fascination with remoteness, solitude, escapism, and the idea of living outside the noise.
But Sam also looks at what gets left out of these shows. The recurring image of Alaska as an empty, unpeopled wilderness erases the Alaska Native communities who have lived on and stewarded this land for thousands of years. She points to how exaggeration, assumption, and spectacle can flatten the complexity of a place into something consumable, and how that flattening has consequences. Some shows approach that responsibility with more care than others, but the broader pattern of Alaska as novelty, extremity, and myth persists. From fishing boats to gold mines to even dating shows, the state has become a stage where outsiders project their fantasies. And what Sam’s newsletter does is turn that image back onto itself, reflecting both Alaska and the assumptions and expectations of the people watching it.
Julia O’Malley is a journalist, a cook, a baker, and lately she’s been researching and re-creating Cold War cakes. During the Cold War era—roughly the decades between the end of World War II and the early 1990s—cake mix transformed a food once associated with luxury into something democratic, something anyone could make at home. Julia says that those boxed mixes, and the recipes people built around them in the ‘70s and ‘80s, are more than just dessert. They’re cultural artifacts that reveal how women navigated creativity, expectation, and changing ideas about domestic life. They reflect a moment when women were entering the national conversation from within domestic space. Experimenting, adapting, and reshaping expectations. That shift raised a question inside the kitchen itself: What happens when packaged ingredients, appliances, and new food technologies promise women time—time to work, to control their finances, and to claim a larger role in public life?
In Alaska, where fresh ingredients were often scarce and communities had long relied on shelf-stable foods, brought in through supply chains and institutional systems, cake mixes made a lot of sense. For generations, Alaskans have adapted to what’s available—working with canned goods, powdered ingredients, and foods designed to travel long distances before reaching the table. A box of cake mix fit easily into that reality. Julia has been tracing these stories through old cookbooks and community recipes, even digging into ones from boomtown Fairbanks in 1909, to understand how something as ordinary as cake can tell us about women’s lives, shifting ideas of feminism, and the creativity that unfolded in Cold War kitchens. Because food, Julia says, is always a story. It’s one of history, origin, climate, and longing. And in the Cold War kitchen, when the threat of nuclear annihilation hovered in the background of daily life, even something as simple as baking a cake could feel like a small act of reassurance.
Jeremie McGowan is an artist, designer, and researcher. Amund Sjolie Sveen is an artist. And together, they created Real. Arctic., an exhibition that examines how the word “Arctic” is used in branding, institutions, geopolitics, and everyday consumer products — and how the use of that word shapes what we think we know about the arctic. Their work blurs the line between critique and commodity, asking who gets to define the Arctic, who profits from it, and what gets flattened in the process. Throughout the exhibition, the work shifts form — from displays of “Pure Arctic” deodorant to an expanding archive of Arctic-branded objects — asking viewers to reconsider what is real and what has been manufactured. It explores how art and design can both construct and unravel powerful narratives about place, and what responsibility comes with working inside those systems.
Jeremie and Amund collect and document products from around the world that call themselves “Arctic,” or borrow the image, the light, or the myth of the Arctic to sell something. Even when those products have no connection to the place itself. Deodorants that promise Arctic purity, chewing gum that offers polar freshness, outdoor brands that are marketed around rugged endurance and masculine extremes. Again and again, the Arctic appears as clean, untouched, and invigorating — a blank canvas for refreshment or conquest. As Jeremie points out, much of that marketing is driven by an outsider fantasy: the idea that you’re the first, the only one to witness the wilderness or the Northern Lights, even as that experience is packaged and sold en masse. Amund says that the Arctic’s power as a word may lie in its perceived remoteness. Because it feels unknown, it can be filled with whatever we want it to mean. And in that process, the realities of the place itself and the people who live there often fall away and what remains is a brand. And then, beneath all of that, is a deeper question about power: who gets to define a place, and whose version of that place becomes the story that guides our understanding of it.
Paul Koberstein is a journalist, whose recent book, “Canopy of Titans,” explores one of the most overlooked ecosystems on Earth: the Pacific Coastal Temperate Rainforest. Stretching roughly 2,500 miles from just north of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge to the western Gulf of Alaska, it’s the largest temperate rainforest on the planet. Fueled by Pacific storms and cool ocean currents, it supports towering redwoods, Sitka spruce, western hemlock, and cedar — some of the largest and oldest trees in existence. Acre for acre, these forests store more carbon than tropical rainforests like the Amazon, with vast reserves locked in massive trunks, deep soils, roots, and centuries of accumulated woody debris. But even though it’s one of the most carbon-dense ecosystems we have, and a critical buffer against climate change, it remains largely overlooked in global climate conversations.
Paul pushes back on some of the most common narratives about forests and climate. He points to those industry ads that promise for every tree cut down, three more will be planted. It’s an argument that sounds reassuring until you realize a young sapling can take a century to store the amount of carbon held in the massive tree that was felled. Trees are about 50 percent carbon. Through photosynthesis they pull carbon dioxide out of the air, lock that carbon into their trunks and roots, and release the oxygen we breathe. Southeast Alaska’s Tongass National Forest alone holds more total carbon than any national forest in the country. That scale of storage is central to Paul’s point: the science doesn’t say we’re powerless. It suggests that we can still influence the climate back toward something more stable. If fossil fuels loaded the atmosphere with excess carbon, then forests, if protected and restored, can help draw it back down. Forests have stabilized the climate for thousands and thousands of years. Whether they continue to do so depends largely on us letting them do their job.
Emily Sullivan is a writer, a photographer, and a director whose work is grounded in questions of land, community, and responsibility. Throughout her work, she focuses on uplifting Indigenous perspectives — not by speaking for communities, but by listening to what people are already saying and doing. Her first film, Shaped by Land, is currently screening at festivals. It’s a documentary about Greenlandic skiers and their connection to place, set against the backdrop of the new Greenland Tourism Act — legislation designed to protect land, center local ownership, and resist extractive tourism. Emily’s interest in Greenland is shaped by her experience in Alaska, where many of the same tensions play out under different economic structures. In both places, people arrive seeking experience, adventure, and meaning, often without reckoning with what those desires take from the communities they move through.
Emily’s path to this work started when she was just a kid. She’s always been an observant person, someone who noticed small shifts in light and weather — that’s where her photographic eye comes from — and that sense of awe never really left. It grew out of curiosity, and later, into a belief that anything capable of stopping you in your tracks is probably worth paying attention to. And then, through her work and time spent in Alaska, climate change became personal and immediate — visible in rivers that don’t freeze when they should, unstable ice, unfamiliar weather patterns, and disrupted fish runs.
Much of her education in climate change came from Alaska Native peoples, specifically women who have been leading this work for generations. That learning shaped Emily’s commitment to bringing Indigenous knowledge, solutions, and sovereignty to the forefront of her storytelling — using careful observation and conversation to explore the forces shaping our collective future.
Kevin Lane is the executive chef and co-owner of The Cookery and The Lone Chicharron Taqueria in Seward, and he was recently named as a James Beard Award semifinalist. Reflecting on that recognition, he says it wouldn’t have been possible without his team at The Cookery, or the kitchens and crews from his past that shaped the way he cooks today. Those roots stretch back to California’s Sacramento area, where he was raised on crockpot meals, black-eyed peas, and lentil stew, before he found his way into kitchens in San Diego. Around nineteen, he was eating street tacos, shucking oysters, and learning the pace of restaurant life — first on the cold oyster bar, then on the hotline, where teamwork and discipline took root. Those early experiences still show up in his food today — the steady presence of Mexican influence, the belief that cooking is ultimately about making people happy, and he’s still shucking oysters.
He was still early in his career when he moved to Juneau to work as a sous-chef. There, and later in Sitka, he recognized the realities of Alaska’s food system, how kitchens relied heavily on frozen and canned goods because they were dependable. Orders had to be placed seven to ten days out, and even then, fresh vegetables and herbs might arrive frozen and mushy. It was a lot different from working in California, where you could order produce in the morning and expect it that afternoon. The learning curve was steep, but learning to adapt is what good cooks do. So, given Alaska’s abundance of fresh seafood, he adjusted his cooking and learned to let fish become the focus. And now that there’s more access to farm-fresh produce than ever before, the constraints that once defined cooking in Alaska have eased, expanding what’s possible on a menu.
Peter Dunlap‑Shohl's career traces a remarkable arc, from daily newsroom deadlines to personal, long-form storytelling. For 27 years, he worked for the Anchorage Daily News, drawing editorial and political cartoons. He produced thousands of comics focused on, more often than not, the worst things he could find in Alaska politics and in the pages of the newspaper — the biggest screwup, the clearest malfeasance, the loudest troublemaker — and then he’d satirize it by cartooning it. This is how a newspaper cartoonist does their job. But he also worked on the comic strip Muskeg Heights. The strip was about a fictional Anchorage neighborhood, and it allowed him to step out of the editorial page — away from politics — to explore the emotional aspects of living in Alaska. He worked on that for about a decade, until Parkinson’s made it too difficult to keep up with the weekly pace of the work.
In more recent years, he’s authored two graphic memoirs: My Degeneration, about his Parkinson’s diagnosis in 2002, and Nuking Alaska, about the nuclear dangers Alaska faced during the Cold War. Both books were something Peter never thought he’d be capable of creating after being diagnosed. But he says that with the help of medication and brain surgery, he’s been able to curb the effects of the disease and accomplish some of the most rewarding and successful work of his life. But he’s careful not to frame the disease as a gift because it’s not. In My Degeneration, he writes that "it’ll take everything from you, everything it has taken you a lifetime to acquire and learn." What is a gift, though, is his reaction to it — the power of medicine, human ingenuity, and perseverance are incredible things. Overall, it’s taught him that he’s not in control, and that on his best days he’s sharing the wheel with Parkinson’s.
Charles Stankievech is an artist, a writer, and an academic. He teaches at the University of Toronto, and his art takes him into some of the most remote landscapes on earth. Places like CFS Alert, the northernmost permanently inhabited place in the world. He describes the Arctic as occupying two parallel spaces in our cultural imagination: one built on myth and fantasy, and another grounded in harsh, physical reality. He says that most people will never set foot there, which means our understanding of it comes from ideas rooted in medieval tales of magnetic mountains, science-fiction fortresses carved out of ice, or the general sense that it’s a blank, unreachable expanse. But beneath that fantasy is a real landscape shaped by nature and human activity.
One of Charles’ early Arctic projects was about the Distant Early Warning Line, a network of Cold War radar stations built across the Arctic to detect incoming Soviet bombers. He began thinking about how the remnants of that global conflict were already entangled with what he called an emerging “Warm War,” where rising temperatures and melting sea ice would turn buffer zones into contested shipping routes and resource frontiers.
Sound is one of his primary tools for understanding these places. He says that what you hear often tells a different story than what you see, and so his work uses sound to help people experience aspects of a place that visuals alone can’t capture. That instinct connects back to his own life — long days spent alone in the Rockies with his dog, camping, hiking, and snowboarding in the backcountry. Those solitary experiences were a refuge, a place where existential questions emerged naturally. It’s where he learned that when you confront the world on your own terms, you gain a clearer understanding of yourself and the people around you.
Kikkan Randall is a five-time Olympian and an icon of U.S. cross-country skiing. But before all the medals and podiums, she was a high schooler with dyed hair, face paint, and a nickname that captured her energy: “Kikkanimal.” Her teammates gave it to her as a nod to the edge, spirit, and unity she brought to the team. Cross-country skiers understand that it’s a sport that rewards time spent—refining muscle memory, living in a zone of discomfort, and building toward the kind of performance that only shows up after years of hard work. Raised in a family that loved the outdoors, Kikkan found herself drawn to this community of grounded, like-minded people. And as her competitive fire grew, so did her sense of camaraderie—training alongside rivals, and becoming genuine friends with competitors from places like Finland.
When Kikkan crossed the finish line to Olympic gold, it was a breakthrough for American skiing. What once seemed out of reach had become reality. But her team had done more than stand on a podium, they’d changed the culture. They trained together, got to know each other outside of training, and showed up to races in face paint, neon and novelty socks. And in that show of teamwork and connection, they built something so strong that other national teams started to emulate.
That same spirit followed Kikkan beyond sport. After retiring at the top of her game, she faced a breast cancer diagnosis, and her athlete mindset took control. She broke the treatment into pieces, taking it on one small battle at a time. It kept her focused on the day-to-day work rather than the big picture. It’s the same mindset that carried her through five Olympics—one that relies on optimism and patience. Today, she’s back where it all started, leading the Nordic Skiing Association of Anchorage and shaping the future of the sport she helped redefine.
Alev Kelter is a rugby Olympian. She grew up in Eagle River, Alaska, playing varsity boys' hockey because there wasn’t a girls’ team. That drive to compete at the highest level has carried her through a career that spans multiple sports. She played soccer and hockey at the University of Wisconsin, and was part of U.S. national team programs in both sports—earning spots on the U.S. hockey national teams and joining the national player pool for soccer. After just missing a spot on the U.S. Olympic hockey team in 2014, she pivoted to rugby. She’d never played the game before, but because she was surrounded by a supportive coach and teammates who believed in her and helped her learn, rugby became the next chapter in her story. Now, nearly a decade later, she’s helped lead Team USA to its first-ever Olympic medal in women’s rugby at the 2024 Paris Games.
Alev’s story isn’t just about winning or switching sports, it’s about staying grounded and leading with intention. A lot of that mindset comes from her mom, who taught her the power of discipline and the value of seeing things through. Whether it was encouraging her to try out for boys’ varsity hockey or helping her reframe setbacks as stepping stones, her mom’s belief in her gave Alev the confidence to pursue whatever path she chose. That, combined with a natural gift for athleticism and a relentless work ethic, shaped how she moves through the world. These days, Alev carries a philosophy of being kind to herself, staying mentally tough while also giving herself grace in hard moments, and always pushing the edge of her own potential.
Ben Weissenbach is an environmental journalist and the author of “North to the Future.” It’s a book about Alaska, but also about uncertainty, responsibility, and the quiet, sometimes uncomfortable process of learning how to see. Ben spent time in the Brooks Range and Fairbanks with Roman Dial, a professor of biology and mathematics; Kenji Yoshikawa, a permafrost scientist; and Matt Nolan, a research professor and founder of Fairbanks Fodar, a remote sensing and mapping company. What Ben came away with was a better understanding of climate change, and a deeper reckoning with what it means to pay attention, to feel out of place, and to try to belong in a world that’s changing faster than we can map.
Ben grew up in Los Angeles, where he rarely questioned the role nature played in his life. It was just background, something peripheral to human activity. But years later, after spending time in the Brooks Range, that perspective shifted. He began to grasp the scale and the power of natural systems, and how his own lifestyle—comfortable, urban, and screen saturated—was directly connected to changes happening in some of the most remote places on Earth. He reflects on how many people today, especially younger generations, are growing up in a world mediated by screens, and how that can make it harder to engage with nature. He says that the tools we rely on are easy to use, and they’re culturally reinforced, which makes stepping away from them feel unfamiliar, even alienating. But it was that discomfort, of feeling out of place in the wild, that ultimately opened the door to seeing it more clearly.
Luc Mehl is an adventurer, educator, and the author of “The Packraft Handbook.” He’s traveled over 10,000 miles across Alaska using only human power — by foot, ski, paddle, bike, and even ice skate. He’s traversed all of the state’s major mountain ranges, competed in more than a dozen Wilderness Classics, and has become one of the most trusted voices in wilderness risk management. But what makes Luc’s story especially compelling isn’t just the miles he’s covered, it’s how those experiences shaped his philosophy around safety, decision-making, and the responsibility we all carry in wild places. He says that it took the loss of a friend for him to wake up to the dangers of packrafting. So, over the past 10 years, he’s made a point of developing a safety culture within the packrafting community, and within the Alaska recreation community at large.
Luc has shaped his entire life around the wilderness, in the miles he’s traveled and in how he approaches risk, safety, and growth. These days, it’s not about proving himself — it’s about what it means to be a good partner, to make it home safely, and to keep going year after year. He’s hesitant to call himself an explorer, knowing the deep Indigenous history of Alaska’s landscapes, and instead calls himself a visitor — someone who’s still learning. And what he’s learning now isn’t just coming from trips or new tech, but from sociology and self-help books — tools that help him slow down, stay aware, and better care for himself and the people he travels with. Because progress comes from the lessons that follow our mistakes, the moments that remind us of how awareness, humility and patience are what keep us moving forward.
Tessa Hulls is an author and multi-disciplinary artist, and she recently won the Pulitzer Prize for her graphic memoir, “Feeding Ghosts.” It’s about three generations of women in her family — her grandma, her mom, and herself — and the ways their lives were shaped by political violence, migration, silence and survival. The book moves across continents and decades, weaving together personal history and national trauma. It examines what it means to be stuck in time, and carrying the reverberations of inherited trauma. It also confronts the fallibility of memory — what we remember versus what actually happened — and the tension between being Chinese and being American. Tessa’s grandma would have been the keeper of the family’s history, but she was a locked box — often medicated and unable to speak much English. So, at 30, after spending most of her life running from the weight of her family’s story, Tessa realized that if she didn’t confront it, she risked becoming the next generation of collateral damage.
Tessa’s been coming to Alaska for the past 14 years, and says that there’s nothing that makes her feel more at home than being alone in the backcountry. Drawn by the scale of Alaska’s wild places and the way they offer a kind of perspective she hasn’t found anywhere else. It provides her with moments that dissolve ego — when the vastness of the landscape reminds her of how small she is. The people are in tune with change, and the shifting seasons shape daily life and identity. It’s freeing and grounding at the same time.
The outdoors has shaped nearly every part of Tessa’s creative life, and it played a major role in the writing of “Feeding Ghosts.” It offered her the solitude and clarity she needed to confront her family’s story, and it was during a stint working as a chef in Antarctica that she first began teaching herself to draw comics. She says she didn’t have a choice when it came to writing it — it wasn’t a passion project, but a responsibility. She felt summoned by her family’s ghost to break the silence and carry their story forward. And while she has no plans to write another book, she’s now thinking about how to use the attention the memoir has brought her to uplift other artists in Alaska.
Photo courtesy of Gavin Doremus
Nicholas Galanin is a Tlingit and Unangax̂ artist and activist whose work includes sculpture, installation, music and performance — and it’s always in conversation with history, land and power. He creates art that honors Indigenous traditions and confronts the structures that have sought to erase them; it challenges colonial narratives while inviting reflection on language, identity and the legacy of removal. He says that art can be a driver of change, a way to shift perspectives and push systems toward accountability and transformation. Whether he’s calling out institutional inaction, reclaiming ancestral knowledge or amplifying a suppressed language, his work insists that Indigenous culture is not a relic of the past, it’s a living, evolving force for justice and transformation.
Nicholas is also a musician, a collaborator in projects like Ya Tseen and Indian Agent. He talks about music as something fleeting but emotionally precise, capable of transmitting what words often can’t — that it’s a mindful practice rooted in listening, gratitude and presence. He describes the creative process as a kind of alchemy, where different skills and experiences come together in unexpected ways to produce something that transcends the moment. Be it through art or music, his work challenges artificial boundaries — between genres, between people and between past and future. He unravels divisions that are often rooted in systems of control rather than necessity, and makes room for something more fluid and expansive — something grounded in genuine connection, shaped by feeling and driven by the possibility of imagining a different way forward.
Elizabeth Merritt is the founding director of the Center for the Future of Museums at the American Alliance of Museums. It’s her job to track cultural, technological, environmental, political and public health trends — and figure out what they might mean for museums and the communities they serve. She thinks about things like: what role could blockchain play in the art world? Could it allow artists to permanently bake royalties into their work, so that they get a share on future resales? Could museums help lead that kind of change? For Elizabeth, this is personal work: growing up, museums were her favorite places to learn and explore. She did well in school, but she learned more wandering the halls of the Cleveland Museum of Natural History on her own. It was a space that nurtured her curiosity. And that curiosity, a belief that museums are places where we can choose to learn, shapes how she sees the future.
Elizabeth says that she approaches her work like a classic futurist: she reads widely — from academic research to news articles to social media — absorbing as much as she can across disciplines. She also draws inspiration from science fiction, especially dystopias, usually the ones that highlight problems and pathways forward. But her job isn’t just about anticipatory practices and strategic foresight, it’s about preparing museums for the future. So, she’s careful to distinguish trends from fads — trends have direction and persistence, while fads fade. For example, when it comes to climate change, she sees museums as cultural institutions as well as potential anchors of community resilience, helping people adapt to extreme heat, cold and severe weather. Still, she says the biggest challenge right now is twofold: how museums can remain economically sustainable and intellectually independent — and, more importantly, how they can hold on to public trust. Museums are among the most trusted institutions in American life, and she believes that trust is a powerful tool for reshaping a better world.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Julie Decker is the director and CEO of the Anchorage Museum. But before that she practiced as an artist and ran her own art gallery. Since then she’s fostered a belief in the power of museums to spark action — whether that means picking up a paintbrush, reading a new book, or seeing the world differently. Her connection to the Anchorage Museum runs back to childhood, when it was little more than a single room with a borrowed collection. Her dad was a visual artist and an art teacher; he was her earliest and most influential guide into that world. He taught her to be an observer — to notice the small things — and she watched as his own work appeared in solo shows and juried exhibitions at the museum. So, for Julie, the Anchorage Museum isn’t just a workplace; it’s been a constant presence in her life, shaping her sense of art, community and possibility.
In the work she does now, Julie envisions the Anchorage Museum as less a keeper of artifacts and more of a living platform for Alaska’s stories. It acts as a collaborator and a partner — a place that listens to communities, amplifies the voices of Alaskans and connects local narratives to global conversations. In her view, Alaska’s relatively small population allows individual creativity and innovation to ripple widely, making it vital to highlight imaginative thinkers, cultural disruptors and non-Western ways of knowing. That means rethinking what it means to collect — not simply holding objects, but being a responsible host and steward of the stories they carry.
In Alaska, where the natural world shapes identity and guides daily life, the museum’s role is to reflect how environmental change, Indigenous lifeways and community resilience intersect. Some projects take the form of exhibitions, others emerge as films, books, podcasts, newspaper series, or collaborations with musicians. Whether the work is local or part of an international conversation, Julie believes it must be rooted in place — fluid, adaptable and focused on a shared future that feels possible and inhabitable.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Annesofie Norn is the Head of Communications and Lead Curator at the Museum for the United Nations, or UN Live for short. With a background in placemaking and art practice, she specializes in designing experiences that resonate across borders and mediums. Her work often explores how art and storytelling can serve as powerful tools for social transformation on a global scale. Before joining UN Live, she worked on art exhibitions and contemporary theatre productions, which often explored hidden stories by posing unexpected questions and making surprising connections. She brings that same curiosity and creative instinct to her work today, helping reimagine how global stories are told and shared.
At UN Live, Annesofie is helping shape what she calls a “borderless museum” — one without a physical building — designed to meet people where they already are. UN Live operates through the power of popular culture, creating immersive experiences that extend beyond traditional museum walls. It aims to tap into the cultural spaces people already love — like music, film, sports and gaming — and use those genres to spark awe, empathy and meaningful action. Rather than asking people to enter a curated space, UN Live enters theirs, collaborating with local communities and cultural traditions to develop initiatives that feel relevant and transformative. Whether it’s amplifying unheard voices or suggesting new ways of being in the world, the work of UN Live is about using the material of society to imagine better futures.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Mike Radke is the co-founder and executive director of The Ubuntu Lab, a global education nonprofit that teaches people how to navigate cultural differences with curiosity, humility and empathy. Mike approaches the world with a learner’s mindset, believing he almost always has more to learn than to contribute. For him, that belief isn’t abstract, it’s personal, shaped by years of travel, work in public health and education, and a formative interaction nearly two decades ago with Archbishop Desmond Tutu in South Africa. The two met after a sermon in Cape Town, where Tutu spent hours speaking with Mike about his research on post-apartheid reconciliation. That conversation planted a seed: that forgiveness and collective healing aren’t just moral ideals, they’re practical tools for building communities that can hold disagreement, endure pain and still move forward together.
The Ubuntu Lab began as an academic project, Mike’s dissertation on nonviolence. It’s since grown into a living, breathing network of workshops, learning spaces and small-scale initiatives in over 40 countries. Its mission is to foster empathy and understanding — especially among young people — by encouraging honest, sometimes uncomfortable conversations about identity, belonging and conflict. At its core is the African philosophy of ubuntu: “I am because we are.” Mike and his collaborators co-create experiences that are less about delivering answers and more about sparking dialogue — sessions built around provocation, open-ended questions and the idea that everyone in the room has something to contribute. Rather than build a single institution, they embed within communities, remaining flexible, responsive and grounded in relationships.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Dr. Stefan Brandt is the Director of Futurium in Berlin, a hybrid museum experience and public platform dedicated to exploring the future. With a background in literature, philosophy, cultural studies — and a lifelong interest in music — Dr. Brandt has worked at the intersection of culture, science and civic life. Before leading Futurium, he held senior roles at major cultural institutions across Germany, where he championed interdisciplinary thinking and public engagement. He says it’s always been his intention to make a change, to improve the institutions he leads and, more broadly, to contribute to a better society. At Futurium, that mission continues: creating a space where people are invited to learn about the future and how they can help shape it.
Futurium isn’t a traditional museum, it doesn’t have a permanent collection or fixed exhibitions. Instead, it operates as a dynamic, evolving space designed to spark curiosity and conversation about the future. Dr. Brandt describes this absence of static artifacts as both a freedom and a challenge: it allows Futurium to be more agile and responsive, but it also requires continual reinvention. At its core is a question posed to every visitor: “How do I want to live?” To help people grapple with that question, Futurium presents ideas and scenarios grounded in science, media trends and public discourse. Each major theme — like the future of housing, health, nutrition, or democracy — is developed over time through in-depth research and collaboration with experts. Rather than offering definitive answers, Futurium encourages people to imagine and help shape a sustainable, participatory future.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
In this episode, we explore the lingering impact of the Cold War on Alaska, a state that stood on the frontlines of a global standoff. Through perspectives rooted in art, journalism, history, and geopolitics, we trace how Cold War-era decisions reshaped Alaska’s communities, economy, environment and sense of identity. And how it continues to influence Alaska’s security policies and relationship with the rest of the world.
Ben Kellie is an entrepreneur, a writer and someone who’s spent a lot of time thinking about how to build things that matter. He grew up in Alaska, learning to fly planes with his dad. It was a hands-on education in problem-solving, resilience and staying calm under pressure. That mindset carried him through early work on rocket launches and landings at SpaceX, and later, into founding The Launch Company, a startup that developed modular, scalable launch systems for rockets. He sold it in 2021. These days, he’s working on a new venture called Applied Atomics, building compact nuclear power systems that are designed to provide energy-intensive industries with clean, reliable power. More than anything, though, he’s interested in where Alaska fits into the global future: how we move beyond boom-and-bust cycles, invest in our own talent and create businesses that are both rooted here and relevant everywhere.
Ben says that the investment he’d like to be known for hasn’t happened yet, but his goal is to demonstrate what’s possible in Alaska. That includes moving beyond our dependence on oil, and considering where Alaska’s people and economy might be in 50, 100, or even 1,000 years from now. While the specifics of future technology are hard to predict, some needs remain constant: food, clean air, clean water and reliable energy. These are the issues he focuses on when he thinks about the problem he would like to be known for solving. They’re ones that meet basic human needs. And writing helps him work through these ideas. He says it’s a tool for making sense of complex decisions, checking assumptions and mapping the long view. It’s also how he slows down, reflects and emotionally processes what he’s building. Because, for him, it all comes back to family and community.
Jamar Hill is a coach now, but before that, he was a pro baseball player in the Mets organization. He grew up in Anchorage, where playing baseball wasn’t always easy: limited facilities, long winters and not much opportunity to play year-round. He says that in Alaska, you get about a quarter of the playing time compared to other places. But in a way, that made him love the game even more. As a kid, he followed the Alaska Baseball League, one of the best summer leagues in the country. It brought in top talent every year — future first-round draft picks — and watching those games gave him an early sense of how the baseball world worked. By the time he was 16, most of the teams he played on included at least one future Major League player. And by the end of high school, he was drafted by the Mets. He became one of their top power prospects — a lefty bat who hit right-handed pitching especially well. He went on to hit over 100 professional home runs. But beyond the stats, it was his early exposure to high-level talent, and his ability to adapt, that shaped his perspective. That perspective is still with him today — as a coach, a mentor and someone who’s all about creating opportunities for the next generation.
Today, Jamar is focused on giving back to the community that raised him. As a youth coach and founder of RBI Alaska, he’s spent the last 10 years helping young athletes grow — as players and as people. He’s currently leading the development of the Mountain View Field House, a year-round indoor training facility that will give local kids access to the kind of resources he didn’t have growing up. For him, coaching isn’t just about skill development, it’s about building character, creating opportunity and showing kids that their environment doesn’t have to limit their ambition. He mentors with intention, using his own experiences in professional baseball to help young players navigate the mental, emotional and physical sides of the game. Through that work, he’s helping shape confident, resilient athletes who are prepared for whatever comes next, on the field or off.
Roman Dial is a scientist, educator and pioneering adventurer. For more than four decades, he’s charted paths through Alaska’s most remote and unforgiving landscapes — sometimes alone, sometimes with students, friends or family. He came to Fairbanks in the 1970s, a place he says was a hotbed of outdoor innovation — a kind of ground zero for reimagining what adventure could look like in Alaska. In the ‘70s, backcountry travel still looked a lot like it had for decades — heavy leather boots, wool layers, metal-frame backpacks and cumbersome skis. And then, in the 1980s, things started to look different thanks to a small community of skiers, cyclists, runners and packrafters who began to experiment with lighter gear, faster travel and more self-reliant approaches to the backcountry. They weren’t following guidebooks, they were writing the playbook as they went. Influenced by competition, camaraderie and a love for the land. And through it all, Roman was taking photos — capturing the people, places and moments that would come to define a generation of exploration.
This May, the Anchorage Museum will be exhibiting a selection of Roman’s photographs from his early days exploring Alaska. These photos, many of them taken during the 1970s, 80s and 90s, document more than just rugged landscapes and remote journeys, they capture the spirit of youthful exploration, innovation, backcountry friendships and the raw beauty of Alaska before GPS, satellite phones and other digital safety nets. When Roman looked back at these photos, he didn’t just see the wild places he traveled through, he saw his wife, his kids and the partners who shaped his journey. It was a reminder of how those relationships influenced not only the paths he took but the person he became. These weren’t just snapshots of adventure, they were glimpses into a life built on trust, shared risk and curiosity. His adventures took him across tundra and glaciers, into rainforests and river valleys, and his perspective speaks not only to the power of wild places but to the relationships that shape our journeys through them.
Photo by Taylor Roades
Dr. Matt Haney is the Scientist-in-Charge at the Alaska Volcano Observatory, where he leads the charge to monitor and communicate the activity of Alaska’s volcanoes — some of the most closely watched in the world. He explains that there are several ways to count Alaska’s volcanoes, but one of the most striking is this: 54 of them have erupted in the last 300 years. That’s more than any other U.S. state. Most of these volcanoes are found along the Aleutian Arc, a seismically active chain that stretches from Mount Spurr — just 80 miles west of Anchorage — through Cook Inlet and out across the Alaska Peninsula and Aleutian Islands. A few outliers, like Mount Edgecumbe in Southeast and Mount Wrangell near Glennallen, add even more complexity to tracking volcanic activity across Alaska.
As a volcanologist, Matt is part of a network that assesses volcanic risk using the National Volcano Early Warning System, which ranks volcanoes by threat level. In Alaska, five volcanoes are classified as “Very High Threat” — including Mount Spurr, Mount Redoubt and Mount Augustine — not just because they’re active, but because they’re near population centers and critical infrastructure. Mount Spurr is currently under close observation due to signs of volcanic unrest, making it one of the most closely watched in the state. When Spurr last erupted in 1992, it launched ash clouds up to 60,000 feet into the sky and shut down Anchorage’s airport for nearly a full day. Ash fall can disrupt air travel, damage engines and electronics, clog air filters, and cause respiratory problems. Today, with Anchorage serving as the second busiest cargo hub in the U.S. — and the fourth busiest in the world — the stakes of an eruption are even higher.
Bathsheba Demuth is an author and historian. She grew up in Iowa, a place she describes as having an extremely cultivated landscape — shaped and managed by people at nearly every turn. Her first exposure to the North came through the writings of Jack London, books her parents read to her aloud. As a kid, London’s tales of adventure resonated with her, but as she got older she began thinking about his reflections on how economic and political systems can crush people. At 18, she made the decision to head to the Arctic. There she spent time mushing dogs in the Yukon. She says that experience was utterly transformative. It shifted her idea of what it means to be a human being — not as a lone agent of individual destiny, but as a life that is part of a broader ecology.
In her book “Floating Coast: An Environmental History of the Bering Strait,” she compares how Soviet Russia and the United States approached the Arctic, specifically around the Bering Strait. What she discovered was that despite their ideological differences, both nations treated animals and sealife in similar ways — primarily as resources to be managed or harvested. For those living outside the Arctic, the region has undergone a series of shifting narratives, it’s gone from a place of extraction, to a geopolitical flashpoint during the Cold War, and now, to the forefront of global climate change. Both of those perspectives stand in stark contrast to how many Indigenous Arctic communities have historically related to the sea and the land, their focus being on reciprocity rather than domination.
Pulitzer Prize finalist Éowyn Ivey is the author of "The Snow Child." The book captivated readers with its blend of folklore and the Alaska wilderness. Raised in Alaska, Éowyn’s connection to the land is woven into her storytelling, creating atmospheric and emotionally resonant narratives. Before becoming a novelist, though, she worked as a journalist and then as a bookseller. Both shaped her approach to research and storytelling. As a journalist, she says she often felt constrained by the need to report just the facts, realizing that the full story often involved emotions, complexities and more nuanced truths that couldn’t always be captured in a news story. This naturally led her to fiction, where she could immerse readers in themes like isolation, survival and the mystical interplay between humans and nature. Her latest novel, "Black Woods, Blue Sky," continues her exploration of myth, survival and the untamed beauty of Alaska.
She says that there’s a power in fiction, an empathy that forms between the book, the reader and the author. As a storyteller, she strives to create feelings and experiences that resonate — moments where a reader might think, “That’s exactly what I felt, but I’ve never been able to put it into words,” or, “I’ve never felt so seen.” This is true for situations she’s personally experienced and ones she hasn’t — that’s where her research comes into play. For Éowyn, writing is about more than just crafting a narrative, it’s about discovering the metaphors and the poetry within the concepts she explores. When she set out to be a novelist, she never imagined it would go beyond the Pacific Northwest. But it has. Her writing is known by people all over the world. But at heart, she still writes for her fellow Alaskans.
Libby Riddles was the first woman to win the Iditarod. Back in 1985, she made the decision to push through a storm — a choice that would cement her place in history. While others hunkered down, she bet on her team’s strength and her own resilience, forging ahead into whiteout conditions and brutal winds. It was a bold, calculated risk, and it paid off. But for Libby, just doing the Iditarod was a big deal. She says that as long as she did her best and gave it 100 percent, she really didn’t care where the chips fell. And part of that was breaking the race down — not thinking about the entire 1,000 miles, but just getting to the next checkpoint. Manageable goals. That mindset, along with her deep connection to her dogs, helped her make history.
Her deep relationship with her dogs helped carry her to victory in the 1985 Iditarod, and in the years since, she’s become an advocate for the sport, working to help people understand what dog mushing is really about. These days, it can be tricky for people to grasp — most of us see dogs as companions, not as athletes bred for endurance and work. But those who rely on working dogs, like service animals, tend to understand the dynamic better. And when people see sled dogs in action — on a dogsledding tour or in a race — they get it. They see the excitement, the energy and the joy these dogs have for running, and they start to understand why mushing isn’t just a sport, it’s a way of life.
Howard Thies is the founder of Arctic Man, a winter race that combines snowmachines, skiers and snowboarders. It takes place at Summit Lake in Paxson, Alaska and it pairs a snowmachiner and a skier or a snowmachiner and a snowboarder. It’s one of the fastest and most unique races in the world. Skiers and snowboarders start at 5,800 feet and descend to the bottom of a canyon. There they link up with their snowmachine partner, who passes them a tow rope and hauls them uphill for over two miles. Once they’re at the top, skiers and snowboarders separate from their snowmachiner and point it 1,200 feet to the finish line. The fastest competitors have reached speeds of up to 90 miles per hour.
The idea for Arctic Man came from a bar bet between Howard and two other guys. He wagered he could beat them to the bottom of the mountain. So, they all gave the bartender $100 and agreed the winner would take all. Howard won that bet and soon after created what would become Arctic Man. The first one was in 1986. 10 teams competed that year. The next year, there were 25 teams. And then in the 90s, there were 65 teams. It kept growing, becoming more and more popular among racers, families and partiers. For the racers, it was an opportunity for glory and cash; for families and party people, it was spring break. Over the years, it’s become a lot of different things to a lot of different people. And Howard’s been there the whole time organizing and keeping the peace.
He’s 75 now and he’s amazed at what Arctic Man turned into, but he’s unsure of how much longer it will continue. This year, maybe next year. Maybe even the year after that. It’s just so much work and he’s getting older and can’t do everything he once did — setting the course, for example, by putting up fences, flags and gates. Even the idea of passing it on is funny to him. He laughs and says, “First of all, nobody’s that stupid.”
Jason Borgstede is one-half of JB Deuce, a local snowboard and skateboard video that ran from the late-1990s to early-2000s. It was funded by Boarderline Alaska Snow and Skate shop — a retail business host Cody Liska's dad owned — and featured snowboarders and skateboarders from Alaska. Jesse Burtner was the other half of JB Deuce, and together he and Jason filmed their own video parts for it. They also produced all seven videos: Polar Bears, Dog Sleds and Igloos was the first. Then came Northern Exposure, 100%, Survival of the Tightest, The 49th Chamber, In For Life and Steezin’ For No Reason. At first, the video premieres were small — projected onto a screen outside of Boarderline in Dimond Center. But as they grew, so did the venues. Until they were selling out the 4th Avenue Theatre in downtown Anchorage.
To this day, Jason and Jesse have continued to pursue their love of snowboarding and skateboarding. Jason is the owner of Blue & Gold Boardshop in Anchorage and Jesse is the co-founder of Think Thank, a series of snowboard videos with the motto "Progression through creativity."
Skater Micah Hollinger and snowboarder Andre Spinelli also join this conversation. Micah is one of the most celebrated skaters from Alaska. He filmed for all seven JB Deuce videos and went on to bring a unique, creative and artistic vision of progression to skateboarding. Andre, also known as Big Air Dre, filmed for numerous snowboard videos, including JB Deuce and Think Thank. His signature style involves hitting big jumps in the backcountry.
This conversation was recorded in front of a live audience in the Anchorage Museum Auditorium on Friday, January 17, 2025. That event was brought to you by the Northern Boarder’s exhibition. The exhibition celebrates snow and skate culture and community in Alaska through art.
A lot of people helped make this episode possible. Julie Decker, Alex Tait, Danni Crombie and Max Kritzer at the Anchorage Museum. DJ Spencer Lee, and everyone on the panel.
A quick note about the episode: About 42 minutes in, DJ Spencer Lee asks a question, and at the end of the episode there’s an audience Q&A. There, you’ll hear questions from Ollie Burtner, Sharon Liska and Les Burtner.
Photo by Hank Davis
The best way to describe Merrick Johnston is that she’s an athlete. Rock climbing, ice climbing, snowboarding, mountain biking, gymnastics, surfing, whitewater kayaking. You name it, she’s probably at least tried it. But professionally, she’s a skier and a mountaineer. It all started at a young age. She showed interest in the outdoors and her mom was more than happy to oblige because she loved being in the natural world too. So, Merrick learned about the outdoors from her mom. Always pushing her to go bigger, higher and faster. Together, they would do month-long trips skiing across the arctic or teaching cross-country skiing. And then when Merrick was 12, she became the youngest person to summit Denali. Her mom’s teaching style was spartan, sure, but it never overshadowed her love and compassion for her daughter.
For 20 years, she’s been a ski guide in places like Alaska, Wyoming and Norway. When she was 14, she worked as an assistant guide, and her first trip was to the Alaska Range. It was a bit of a disaster. She and another skilled mountaineer were multi-pitching a mountain called Dragon Spire in an area known as Little Switzerland. It was 40 pitches and they were out for 42-hours, causing them to miss their pick-up, which resulted in a search party being sent out for them. That was actually the first time her parents grounded her. She’s learned a lot since then, though. Now, when she guides, she knows that it’s important to make a plan and to stick to it, to never take unnecessary risks, and that it’s important to design a trip so that it accommodates all skill levels.
She’s done a lot of work getting to where she is now. She’s a proud mom and a co-founder of Tromsø Ski Guides in Northern Norway. Along the way, there’s been sexism, divorce and death. But regardless of the drama and the tragedy life can bring, she knows she can always find refuge in the mountains.
Photo by Martin Andersen
Ever since Jonathan Kreiss-Tomkins was a kid he’s been interested in politics and sports. Electoral politics and baseball, to be specific. But when it came to politics, he was a prodigy. He could recite groups of politicians — the 50 state attorneys general and all 100 U.S. senators, for example. He was interviewed on NPR at 14, and at 23 he dropped out of Yale, moved back home to Sitka and ran as a Democratic candidate for the state House of Representatives. He would go on to represent Sitka and 21 other rural Southeast Alaska communities in the Alaska House of Representatives, until leaving politics in 2022. His self-proclaimed fanaticism toward sports is what drew him to politics. Like sports, politics is statistical, numeric, and there are winners and there are losers. But with politics, unlike sports, the stakes are higher. They shape the world we live in.
Jonthan credits the Sitka High School Debate Team for giving him the intellectual and ideological versatility that he still relies on today. He says that in debate, it’s common to flip a coin and on the basis of the coin flip you have to argue diametrically opposite sides of the same issue. So, you not only have to understand both sides of an argument, you have to be able to clearly communicate it. In 2014, House Bill 216 was signed into law. It made the twenty Native languages in Alaska official languages of the state. Jonathan sponsored that bill and his efforts were, in part, aided by what he had learned in debate. He says that, like all things in politics, it was accomplished through compromise and teamwork.
Monica Shah is the Deputy Director of Collections and Conservation at the Anchorage Museum. She’s interested in the things that we surround ourselves with, the things that bring us comfort, familiarity and memories. Manifestations of culture and identity. These materials are important to us because they embody our stories. In areas affected by war, for example, we see people rallying behind architecture, art and religious structures. These things are targeted because by destroying them you dehumanize the people they belong to and subjugate them. The opposite is also true, that by creating these materials people are reinforcing their connections with each other and with their community. These concepts — creation, destruction and subjugation — weigh heavily on Monica in the work she does at the Museum.
But why do museums have items from other cultures in their collections? This is an important question that museums around the world have been grappling with. For their part, the Anchorage Museum has put a lot of effort into decolonizing their collections. Sometimes this means working with Alaska Native communities to ensure that cultural materials are displayed accurately. Other times, it means giving them back. In both cases, the goal is to honor the origins of the materials and the culture and lifeways they represent. To understand this from a western point of view, you only have to imagine having something like a family heirloom or a personal keepsake or a diary taken from you without permission and then displayed for all the world to see.
Erin Marbarger is the Senior Education Director and Director of Climate and Sustainability at the Anchorage Museum. And for the last six years Erin, Museum staff and schools and communities have been collecting soundscapes from around Alaska. Anchorage at first and then other locations like Nenana, Nuiqsut, Portage, Seldovia, Sitka and Soldotna. They recorded sounds from rivers to traffic. Everything that punctuates an otherwise quiet environment because much can be learned from these sounds — weather patterns, animal behavior, human activity. It all shapes the world we live in, both natural and manmade.
How about climate change, though, does that have a sound? This is a question Erin has been thinking about a lot lately. She says that one way we hear it is in the lack of sound, an animal that no longer exists in a certain area, for example. Acoustic Phenology — the study of how climate affects plants, animals and microbes — is another way we hear it. Like with Springtime, we begin to hear birds and all their different songs. So, it’s important to record these soundscapes because they’re always changing and sound can be a measure of change. The soundscapes recorded today, for instance, could be completely different than they will be in 50 or 100 years. These areas could be more developed, causing it to sound more urban or industrial. Or if human activity is reduced, it could mean more sounds of wildlife and nature. It all depends on how we treat the natural environment today.
Jonny Hayes is the the Chief Design Officer at the Anchorage Museum. But before he was at the Museum, he worked in architecture firms where he preferred to spend his time on projects that improved peoples’ lives. Like playground design and transportation. He enjoyed what he was doing there, but the more he learned about the Museum, the more he appreciated it as a community learning space, a place of knowledge where people came to learn. And then he realized how much the local community could benefit from the knowledge that comes from the archives and the artists and the community members that the Museum works with. He believed then, as he does now, that by sharing more voices visitors get a better sense of who we are as Alaskans.
The work that Jonny does finds itself at a cross-section of people and the places they live. That includes how people interact with each other and their environment, and how both of those things shape them. But how do humans interact with each other and with their environment? For Jonny, this is an ongoing and ever-evolving question. It applies to the work he does at the Museum, as well as his insight into city planning. So, he’s always thinking about how the city of Anchorage can be improved, be it through building construction, public spaces, or how roads impact communities and transportation. Because if we’re better oriented to our environment — both natural and urban — then we’re more equipped to live within the world that’s around us.
For over 50 years, Mr. Whitekeys has been entertaining Alaska with his music, his shows and his books. He started playing music in Anchorage in the 1970s at Chilkoot Charlie’s. In those days, the bars didn’t close until 5 am. So, a band could play for as long as 7 ½ hours — from 9 pm to 4:30 am. Keys says that for a musician it wasn’t about the entertainment, it was an endurance contest. From those years spent playing at Koots, he learned how to read an audience, to understand what entertains them. Then in 1980, he opened The Fly By Night Club. It featured long-running shows that parodied Alaska like “The Whale Fat Follies” and “Christmas In Spenard.” They had original songs, costumes, props, sets and slideshows. You could even get a meal of Spam there. The goal was to provide Anchorage with a cheap laugh, some infectious music and a good time.
Alaska, as it existed in the ‘70s, continues to influence Keys’ idea of Alaska. There was a renegade spirit to it back then, he says, and there wasn’t much influence from the Outside. There were no food chains, no big box stores and people lived how they wanted to live. That’s why he came to Alaska and he never left. It was unpretentious, just like Keys. In fact, at one point, he had a rule that he would never go to any entertainment-related event if they didn’t serve nachos. So, he laughs when asked what he thinks his legacy will be because he’s just a normal guy looking for a good time. Not someone to be put on a pedestal. But he says that if he did have one — if he did have a legacy — it would be that he spent his life telling Alaska’s story.
Lael Wilcox is an ultra-endurance cyclist and racer, and she recently set a women’s Guinness World Record for fastest time cycling around the world. The trip was 18,000 miles long and it took her 108 days, 12 hours and 12 minutes to complete. She averaged 166 miles a day. And with the help of some friends, she planned her own route. She wanted it to include the kind of riding she likes to do, which is a lot of climbing in the mountains. It’s slower and it’s harder, but it’s the riding that inspires her. Her route was intense, rewarding and challenging. She was especially grateful for finishing without any injuries. Considering how much road Lael covered, staying safe around vehicles was among her top priorities because regardless of what happens, her main goals are to always stay safe and to finish regardless of her standing.
She says that each race is an opportunity to prove something to herself. Sometimes that’s overcoming her fear of the route — like with cycling around the world and the Iditarod Trail. Other times it’s about being capable of doing these increasingly long and difficult rides. Her desire to chase these rides, these proving grounds, is all-consuming. To the point that when she finds herself thinking about them, she stops eating or she stops talking to focus on the idea and her intent. She imagines it all fitting together like a puzzle — every piece is important and it all fits together to form a bigger picture. Sometimes that involves spontaneity — she loves that. Adjusting to weather, keeping an eye out for places to sleep, seeing wildlife, meeting new people, experiencing other cultures and visiting new places.
Mike Livingston specializes in the cultural heritage of the Aleutian and Pribilof Islands. His background makes him uniquely qualified for this position. He grew up in Cold Bay, Alaska, located on the Aleutians, and his family homesteaded where Trout Creek flows into Cold Bay. He says they didn’t have much money, so they lived a subsistence lifestyle and built their home using remnants left on the island from World War II.
At 21, he moved to Unalaska and worked as a police officer for three years, then he moved to Anchorage and was an officer for the Anchorage Police Department for 20 years. In that time, he worked in a number of different departments: burglary, theft, felony assaults, the crimes against children unit, and the major crimes unit. His work in law enforcement and his research into the Unangax̂ region — in addition to a local murder he remembers from when he was 16 — eventually led him to his work with Murdered and Missing Indigenous Persons.
More recently, Mike’s been focused on ways to integrate ancient sod housing design into the construction of modern houses. Traditional sod houses were used in the Aleutian Islands and the Alaska Peninsula for at least 10,000 years. They were so energy efficient that their carbon footprint was virtually non-existent.
He’s also been working on correcting historical inaccuracies of Benny Benson, the boy who designed the Alaska flag in 1927. The research he’s involved in found that Benny was not of Alutiiq heritage, like it’s been believed for decades, but of Unangax̂ heritage.
Kristen Faulkner is a professional cyclist and she recently won gold in two events at the 2024 Paris Olympics, women's individual road race and women's track cycling team pursuit. It was a dream come true. Ever since she was a kid — growing up in Homer, Alaska — she wanted to compete in the Olympics. As a young girl, she’d watch it on TV and it was the only time she saw women competing in professional sports. But it takes more than just a dream and a positive attitude to make it to the level that Kristen’s at now. She says there’s a process: You have to be humble and analytical and constantly learning. You also have to be willing to take risks.
In 2016, Kristen graduated from Harvard and then took a job in New York and then in San Francisco as an investment associate. She was in her mid-twenties when she quit that job and started pursuing a career in cycling. It was a decision that she agonized over — to leave a lucrative job for an uncertain one. But she eventually determined that the pros outweigh the cons, that she would rather live with no regrets.
Her approach to cycling, like everything in her life, is about assessing what you’re good at and what you’re bad at. And then when you’ve identified what you’re bad at, you focus on it until it’s a strength. This is one of the reasons she excelled in cycling so quickly: She made her weaknesses her strengths. She approached it with the mentality of, “It’s not that I’m bad at it, it’s that I’m just not good at it yet.”
Photo by Anouk Flesch
Paddy Sullivan is an ecologist, and every year he travels to the Brooks Range in northern Alaska to collect snowpack samples. The area he visits is remote and often inaccessible. The Salmon River, for example, is a place where bush planes rarely land. They’ll land outside of the watershed and then people walk in. Paddy’s been going here for 20 years now, and in that time he and Roman Dial — an adventurer and fellow scientist — have formed a hypothesis about why the area is changing so much: The retreat of sea ice fuels increasing snowfall and nearby landmasses, protects seedlings and improves soil nutrient availability. And all of this allows for shrubs to proliferate and trees to advance into the tundra. It’s called the Greening of the Arctic and it’s changing the land; It’s also changing how people and wildlife use the land.
In 2019, while Paddy and Roman were collecting their datasets they stumbled upon something concerning and out of place: The once gin-clear Salmon River had turned orange. They noticed other rivers and streams had turned orange as well. In all the years they’d been coming to the Brooks Range, they’d never seen anything like it. So, they decided that they needed to sound the alarm, to let other scientists know what was going on up there. And hopefully, with their help, they could figure out what the implications were for humans and the surrounding ecosystems. Because something like this — an occurrence that trickles down into other ecosystems — has the potential to trigger ecosystem collapse. This happens when the rules of an environment are altered in a way that forces wildlife and vegetation to change how they interact with their environment.
Laine Welch has been reporting on the Alaska fishing industry for 36 years, and during those years her goal was always to show where Alaska fits into the global commodities market because seafood is one of the largest commodity items sold throughout the world. Given Alaska’s commercial fishing market, there’s always been a real opportunity to be a major player in the global seafood market. But Laine says we tend to squander our potential profits. For example, there are plenty of revenue streams that could be taken advantage of in areas like cosmetics and pharmaceuticals. Or how almost 75 percent of all of the value from groundfish — Alaska’s number one species in terms of volume — goes out of state. Primarily to Seattle.
She says that when she first started reporting on the Alaska fishing industry she tamped down her criticism of it, and instead chose to be its cheerleader. But when she retired two years ago, she felt a new sense of responsibility and freedom to point out areas of the industry that could use improvement. She was no longer beholden to only reporting on the good or acceptable news. So, in retirement, she’s been focusing on issues like the lawful waste of seafood caused by bycatch — the catching and discarding of unwanted sealife. She says that every other protein industry has a philosophy of using the whole animal, what they call ‘from the rooter to the tooter.’ But in Alaska, they take the filet and the rest goes. This has always been important — avoiding waste and maximizing profit — but it’s especially important now, when the economy of Alaska needs new revenue streams.
Rose McAdoo is a pastry chef and an artist. But it wasn’t until recently that she started embracing the title of artist because she had identified so strongly with being a pastry chef.
She’s been working in kitchens since she was 14, and then when she became a chef she decorated wedding cakes in New York. It was a dream job, until it wasn’t. She realized that she wanted more out of her work, an opportunity to make a difference. So six years ago she took a job in Antarctica as a sous chef — today she splits her time between there and Alaska. Her surroundings and the scientists she worked around in Antarctica eventually inspired her to create something that could help share their science. That’s when she began creating cakes that convey scientific ideas.
She’s traveled to and worked in some of the most extreme and remote environments in the world — Antarctica, a volcano summit in Kenya, underground in the Australian Outback, on a ship in Svalbard. Rose says that nothing is controllable in these places, and that the control lies in the planning she does before she goes into a given environment. She has to be flexible and able to pivot because the weather and the conditions could change at any minute.
Given the seriousness of the environments she works in, she appreciates the levity of cake. How it allows people to let their guard down and be receptive to scientific ideas about issues like climate change. However, she does struggle with the potential impact of what she’s doing — she says she doesn’t want to be seen as a “little cake maker just posting on Instagram.” She wants her work to carry meaning and to create larger conversations.
Ray Troll is an artist, and he describes himself as a paleo-nerd. Ever since he was a kid, he’s been obsessed with dinosaurs. In fact, before he even learned how to spell his own name, he learned how to spell “dinosaur.” They were also the first things he remembers drawing. He says that as a child drawing was his superpower — it endeared him to his teachers and classmates. Then, around 5th grade, he got a hold of issues of Mad Magazine and Cracked Magazine. He was immediately drawn to the offbeat, dark humor. So much so that it was forever infused into his artistic style and sensibilities. It’s evident in one-liners like “Spawn Till You Die,” “Return of the Sockeye,” and “Baitful Dead” that accompany illustrations of humans and sea life.
He says he loves surrealism because it’s something you can’t really explain rationally. It’s bizarre, almost dreamlike, and it speaks to you on a gut-level. It might be visually appealing, it might convey a message or it might be a joke. Much of Ray’s art comes from a place of humor, but a lot of truth can be said in jest. Musings on deep-time and nature and culture all wrapped up in a dad joke. For him, art is about learning and cataloging — with planes when he was a kid and later with fish after he moved to Alaska in 1983. He says that drawing is about learning to see. It’s about the accumulation of knowledge and wisdom that you gain throughout your lifetime.
In this episode, Cody talks to Fred Roehl and David Holthouse about sasquatch encounters. Fred is a YouTuber and a Sasquatch, or Hairy Man, oral historian. His channel is called “The Subarctic Alaska Sasquatch and Alaska’s Little People” and in it he narrates Sasquatch encounters and also interviews people who tell their Sasquatch stories. At this point, he’s collected over 200 of them, and he says that there are a couple common themes throughout: Sasquatch is either pushing humans out of a territory or they’re watching them. To Fred, Sasquatch is an adversarial predator. So, sharing these stories is a form of public safety — similar to being bear aware. It’s a perspective and a healthy fear that he grew up around in Bristol Bay.
David Holthouse is an investigative journalist, and his perspective comes from the intersection of belief and propaganda. How the idea of Sasquatch can be used to enforce territorial claims, or as a warning to keep people in-line, as was the case with his 2021 docu-series, “Sasquatch.” The concept of the show is based on a story he heard in 1993, about a Sasquatch killing three people on a weed farm in Northern California — an area that David says reminds him of Alaska. The story goes beyond Sasquatch, though. At its core it’s about long-standing social issues like racism, the war on drugs, gangs and violence.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody talks to storytellers and knowledge holders about Sasquatch, in its many variations, and its personal and cultural importance to the people of Alaska.
In this episode, Cody talks to Dehrich Chya and Angela Gonzalez about the cultural importance of Sasquatch. Dehrich works at the Alutiiq Museum in Kodiak and Angela is an Athabascan artist and writer. Dehrich’s perspective is of coastal Alaska. He says that the Alutiiq people call Sasquatch or Bigfoot creatures Aula’aq, and its temperament ranges from being a threat to being a menace to being used as a cautionary tale. For example, parents might use stories of Aula’aq to warn their children away from dangerous areas. And stories of its appearance vary. Some describe it as tall, while others describe it as short, but it’s always hairy and many believe it to be a shapeshifter.
Angela’s perspective is of interior Alaska. Growing up, she says that talking about Bigfoot was taboo, but that there are certain times of the year — mainly winter — when it’s appropriate to talk about it. Bigfoot is a powerful being, so it’s important to give it a lot of respect. While the curious might seek out stories of Bigfoot, others will avoid them out of fear of inviting that presence into their life. Angela says that it comes down to respecting the land, the animals and the water. Because in order to survive, we must live in harmony with our surroundings; we have to respect the symbiosis that exists between humans and nature.
Jory Knott is the Executive Director of the Alaska Innocence Project. The Alaska Innocence Project started in 2008 under the direction of Bill Oberly, and it took seven years for them to get their first exoneration — it was the Fairbanks Four case, in which four Alaska Native men were wrongly convicted of murder and subsequently spent 18 years in prison. Jory says that that case involved a number of factors that led to a wrongful conviction, including eyewitness misidentification, incentivized witnesses, confirmation bias, racial animus, misconduct, and bad science. This was the case that got Jory interested in working with the Innocence Project — he was an intern then, but made the decision to go to law school so that he could work there full-time.
Studies that consider the number of people who have been wrongfully convicted in the U.S. since the late-1980s estimate that up to 5 percent of the prison population is wrongfully convicted. In Alaska, that would mean about 150 innocent people are in prison. Nationally, the average person who is wrongfully convicted spends 12 years in prison before they’re exonerated. And Alaska is among about a dozen other states that do not have a wrongful conviction compensation statute, so exonerees don’t get any money following their release. Even convicted felons receive things like re-entry services, recidivism prevention, education, job services and drug counseling. But Jory says that, despite all of this, he still has faith in the criminal justice system because, for the most part, it gets it right and wrongful convictions are rare.
In this episode, Cody and co-host Aurora Ford talk to Heidi Huppert. Aurora is a former journalist and currently works at Covenant House Alaska; Heidi is the Chief Program Officer at Covenant House. Heidi’s perspective on homelessness in Alaska is unique because, in her younger years, she spent time on the streets of Anchorage. Her mom had a violent and abusive boyfriend and Heidi didn’t feel safe at home. So, one night after an especially brutal domestic situation, she found herself wandering around Spenard, trying to figure out what she was gonna do. She was about 12 years old and she had school in the morning. Because it was open and because it was familiar, she ended up just hanging out at McDonald’s.
She says that, for a long time, she didn’t tell her story. It was just too hard to relive those memories, and the violence and the pain that came with them. But right now, she’s at a point in her life where she sees how much power and strength there is in telling her story. How it can potentially help a young person understand that they might be in the middle of the worst moment or moments of their life, but it won’t last forever. Things can get better.
Heidi says that the issues of homelessness and human trafficking — another issue that she deals with a lot at work — are ones that we have to care about because they involve young people and they are the future of Alaska. They will one day hold the political, economic and social power. So, if we want our state to be healthy, we have to care about what is happening to our young people.
In the late 1990s, Buddy Bailey became the face of his dad’s furniture business, Bailey’s Furniture. He was 7 years old when he appeared in his first commercial — the crew filming it realized that the furniture itself didn’t have much character, so they suggested that Buddy get in front of the camera. He was a natural — his charisma and affability came easy. He’d chat about furniture and deals, and he’d even spin a basketball on his finger while he did it.
As the years went on, he became a local child celebrity. He continued being in Bailey’s Furniture commercials, and he was becoming a rising basketball star. When he was 15 or 16 years old, he remembers the Anchorage Daily News came out with a list of the most recognizable faces in Alaska and Buddy was number two, right behind U.S. Senator Ted Stevens.
Buddy says the lessons he learned from working at Bailey’s Furniture helped him on the basketball court. In basketball, like in retail, you’re dealing with personalities and egos, but you’re not always worried about money. So, basketball was easy. All he had to do was focus on scoring points and winning. This mentality, as well as his skill on the court, brought him all the way to playing college ball.
Today, he no longer works at Bailey’s Furniture, he quit in 2013 to pursue a career in finance and then in 2020 he founded a virtual lease-to-own business. He no longer plays ball semi-professionally either, but he does play recreationally. He says he’s probably a better shooter than he ever was and a better overall basketball player. He plays one-on-one almost every day at his local gym. He also coaches both of his kids’ basketball teams, teaching them that it’s not always about winning, it’s about learning life lessons and values — accountability, work ethic, the ability to fight for what you believe in, and how all of that will eventually filter over to your family.
Cody and co-host Aurora Ford talk to Josie Heyano. Aurora is a former journalist and works at Covenant House Alaska; Josie is a member of the United States Advisory Council on Human Trafficking, a presidentially appointed position. She was the first Alaska Native person to be on the board. Every member of the board is a human trafficking survivor and advises and makes recommendations on federal anti-trafficking policies. Josie’s perspective and contribution to that conversation is Alaskan. She’s often thinking about rural communities and the human trafficking issues they face — she says that most of the trafficking she’s seen there has an element of substance use coercion, mental health coercion and/or forced drug trafficking. And because of the remoteness of these communities, it could take three days and a float plane and a boat ride to respond to a crime. In 2022, Josie, Charlene Apok of Data for Indigenous Justice, Prevention Now and Ride My Road started a yearly gathering called “The Alaska Data Summit: Translating Data into Action Against Trafficking Exploitation and Missing and Murdered Indigenous Relatives.” One of the missions of the summit is to decolonize data so that, in the future, Native communities can reclaim and own their own data. It’s about taking back information so that it can be used for healing. Josie says that it’s about “making the data tell our stories” and “making it be representative of who we are.” Because data is a universal language, it doesn’t matter what field you work in, we all can understand numbers and their prevalence. So, by creating a universal data system throughout Alaska, information can be shared within the community, paving a path for a deeper understanding and better solutions to human trafficking.
For years, Shyanne Beatty has wanted to move back home to Eagle, Alaska. It’s where everything started for her — her love for culture, language, art and music. Today, she sits on her property in Eagle, along the Yukon River, and she imagines herself as a young girl, running down the river banks with about 20 sled dogs or trapping marten out at 40 Mile or walking to school, singing to herself to ward off any curious wildlife. Reflecting on this, she realized that music has been foundational for so much in her life, it’s carried her and it’s protected her. Radio too. She remembers one Thanksgiving out at 40 Mile, she and her dad were listening to “Trapline Chatter” and they heard her grandparents wishing them a Happy Thanksgiving. The reach of radio had made its impression on her. So, when she left Eagle, that passion for radio and love for culture, language, art and music manifested itself in “Earthsongs,” the radio show she hosted on KNBA in Anchorage. It highlighted indigenous artists, musicians, and it was the first nationally-syndicated show out of the state of Alaska.
Shyanne is in the process of revitalizing her Native language, Han Hwechin Athabascan. There are only four people left who can speak the language, and she says the process of learning it has been difficult because people have been resistant to teaching her. This is because land, subsistence rights, language, culture and even children were taken away from her people. So, the insistence on guarding these things is understandable. To learn the language, Shyanne resorted to a more academic setting, mainly through classes.
Lately, for about six hours a week, she’s been working with her aunt to continue learning and documenting the language. Usually they get together and cook, chatting with each other in Han Hwechin the whole time. And for all this, she wanted to be back in Eagle, on her traditional lands; to have that sense of place and belonging. Because learning and documenting her culture and lifeways is one thing, but it’s also about creating a reservoir of culture that future generations can learn from.
Mario Chalmers is part of a small group of Alaskans to be drafted to the NBA, including guys like Carlos Boozer and Trajan Langdon. He’s won championships at every level: Two high school championships, one NCAA championship — the one where his 3-pointer put the game into overtime, with his team taking the win — and two NBA championships. He was in the NBA for nine seasons — seven years for the Miami Heat, one for the Memphis Grizzlies and one waived because of an injury. In those nine years, he was part of 99 playoff games. He played alongside guys like LeBron James and Dwyane Wade. He was the starting point guard for the Miami Heat when they won two championships in 2012 and 2013. He says that the only thing he has left to win is an Olympic gold medal.
In 2016, Mario tore his achilles tendon. It was a pivotal moment in his career, one that eventually led to him retiring from the NBA. But before he was comfortable with retiring, he tried making his way back by way of playing in G-League and overseas. Overall, he enjoyed his time playing outside the NBA, but he found himself reflecting on his career more than he was trying to regain it; he found himself being proud of his accomplishments and accepting this new chapter of his life, where he’s a full-time dad. He says it really dawned on him in 2021 when the Miami Heat signed him to a 10-day contract. He says that even though he didn’t get to play, it gave him the closure he was seeking — being able to walk off the court, healthy and on his own terms.
Angela Gonzalez is an artist and a writer, and through her beadwork, her blog — the Athabascan Woman Blog — and the Fish Camp Barbie dioramas she creates, she shares her heritage. She says that it’s all a reflection of the way she grew up. Fish camp was a big part of that. As a kid, that’s where she spent most of her summers, about 16 miles from her home in Huslia, along the Koyukuk River. While the adults were harvesting the fish, her grandma would put Angela’s Barbies in settings that resembled what was happening all around them — catching the fish, hanging the fish, preserving it, cooking it. And then once she was old enough, she helped out with those chores. Angela says that she didn’t realize how special fish camp was until she started creating Fish Camp Barbie dioramas for her own daughters. It was a way to share her life with them and to teach them how to be proud of who they are.
From her time at Fish Camp, Angela also learned the importance of work — that if you want to succeed, then you need to work. Today, this manifests itself in her beading. It’s easy for her to sit down for a few hours and focus on a project. She’s beaded earrings, pins, the tops of gloves, slippers, coasters. A recent project she finished included caribou tufting, raised beadwork and silverberry beads that she harvested herself. She says she’s inspired by the beadwork of her late grandmas and aunts. Their color choices, designs, and techniques. She likes to think about the stories and the experiences that led them to create their art.
Robert Stark is a former army infantryman and the author of Warflower, a book about his upbringing in Alaska and his time in the military. His upbringing was a turbulent one — his dad was absent, his mom struggled with addiction, his brother spent time in prison and his step-dad is serving life in prison for murder. He says he was known as the kid with the family of degenerates — people who drank alcohol, did drugs, stole, and went to prison. Eventually, he found himself struggling with his own alcohol and drug problem. So, he joined the army to travel and to learn more about himself. It was a part of his life that altered his way of thinking and understanding of the world.
It’s been 20 years since he served in Iraq, and he says he’s still working through it. He talks about an experience when one of his fellow infantrymen shot and killed an Iraqi man under questionable circumstances. It was a moment that made him start questioning everything — what they were really fighting for, and how was this man’s act so much different than the one that put his step-dad in prison for life? There was so much to work through after finishing his military service — on top of his family history, he was now thinking about the fog of war. So, he found himself dissociating from his memories and isolating himself for days at a time, smoking weed and drinking.
It took him years to step away from his substance abuse and to gain some clarity and accept the things he had seen and the things that he had done. He spent some time in India and Nepal doing yoga retreats and meditations. He would sit there and visualize the situations he struggled to understand — he would work through them as if he were the people acting them out and then he would embrace them with love and understanding of what led them to making the decisions they made. It’s a technique that helped him understand what he didn’t understand.
Today, in times of personal crisis, he regains his equilibrium by going on walks on his property in Happy Valley, Alaska. Peaceful walks in the woods, among the trees and the birds and the mountains in the distance. He thinks of his wife and his daughters and the man he wants to be — loving, dependable and present.
From the very beginning, Paralympic sit-skier Andrew Kurka was pushing his limits. He was the first sit-skier to ride down Christmas Chute at Alyeska, an in-bounds run with a 45-degree pitch that narrows to about 15-feet. And he’s never been afraid to get hurt. He’s broken his back, his ankles, his wrists, ribs, arm, femur. For him, fear doesn’t factor into his process. When he’s pushing out of the gate at a competition, for example, he’s focused on what he needs to do to win. He’s prepared himself for these moments, so that there are as few surprises as possible. It’s the reason he’s achieved gold medals at the Winter Paralympics, the World Championships and the World Cup. But it took time for him to get to where he’s at right now. He’s always been naturally talented, but he needed to learn how to nurture and develop that talent; He needed to learn how to temper his passion. Among others, he credits Challenge Alaska with not only introducing him to sit-skiing, but helping him realize his potential.
So much of his spirit and his determination comes from the ATV accident that rendered him a paraplegic. He was 13 when it happened, and he says it was the worst thing he could have imagined — going from being a champion high school wrestler to losing the use of his legs. But as time went on, he learned to adapt and the trajectory of his life changed course. He would continue to wrestle for a few more years before getting into sit-skiing.
Years later, trauma visited him again. When he made his first Paralympic games in Sochi, Russia he crashed and broke his back off the first jump. Not long after that, he broke his femur after being hit during training. He says that it was after this last injury — the broken femur — that he learned about the mental and emotional aspect of growth, that just because you failed doesn’t mean you’re a failure. Now, with all the failures and the successes he’s experienced, he looks back on his ATV accident as a learning experience because it made him who he is today.
Kaitlin Armstrong is the host of The Alaska Myth, a podcast that deconstructs the stories created during the Russian settlement and European colonization of Alaska that began in the mid-1700s. Utopian settler stories, stories of the rugged outdoors, ones of monetary opportunity and ones of lawlessness. These stories — often embellished or completely fabricated — have informed the Alaskan identity and sense of place for generations. Meanwhile, overlooking or ignoring the history and the lifeways of the many Alaska Native cultures. Kaitlin says that she’s been thinking about all of this for years, about how the idea of The Last Frontier is subtle and insidious because of what it hides. On the surface, these stories are ones of can-do spirit and gritty individualism, stories that reinforce our idea of Alaskan pride. But underneath all of that, there’s violence, resource extraction and the erasure of Native peoples and their cultures.
Kaitlin grew up in Homer, Alaska. She says she had an idyllic upbringing in the small, tight-knit community. But her understanding of what goes into creating this idyllic place changed over the years. That the land had to be conquered first and then it could be made into the place she grew up in. That knowledge and curiosity extended to her own Honduran heritage, of which she knew little about as a kid. Because, for so long, it was just too difficult for her mom to talk about. But every summer, Kaitlin’s grandma would visit and she would connect with her heritage through her. But, Kaitlin says, she always felt more Alaskan than anything else.
Christopher Michlig is a visual artist and a professor at the University of Oregon, and he recently released a book titled File Under: Slime. In it, he traces the origins of the idea of slime back to the early 1900s, with associations to ectoplasm, femininity, and sexuality. In his research, he found that people like HP Lovecraft and John Paul Sartre helped solidify the concept of slime within philosophy and pop culture, paving the way for it to be an analog, or a proxy, for describing the unknown. In the 1950s, for example, there were movies like The Blob, representing the social anxiety surrounding the atomic bomb. And then in the 1980s — with movies like The Stuff, Street Trash, and The Toxic Avenger — slime represented a fear of toxicity or the handling of toxic waste. Christopher says that what we choose slime to represent evolves over time. More recently, it has entered rap music through artists like N.O.R.E, from Capone-N-Noreaga, and newer guys like Young Thug. The way these rappers are using the word “slime” is different than how it’s been used in the past. It’s positive, it’s a substitute for friend or homie.
He grew up in Girdwood, Alaska, in the ‘80s. He remembers it being a small town back then, maybe about 400 to 500 people. It’s a place that instilled in him the idea of closeness and the importance of a supportive community, sentiments that continue to inspire and influence him. Recently, he’s been doing research on different Aleutian communities, trying to get a better grasp on his family history. He has roots, on his dad’s side, in the Aleutian Islands, before the Russian fur trade. He says it’s been a difficult process, that it’s confusing for him because of the complicated history of Aleutian communities as a result of colonialism and the displacement that occurred during and after World War II. How people who had been living in a place for generations were forced to upend their ancestral ways of living. So, he tries to imagine — even project himself — to the time of his ancestors on the Island of Unga. Without much oral history from his own family to go off of, his research is helping him better understand where he comes from.
Photo by Ilka Sankari
Professional basketball player Travante Williams says that everything in his life started with the environment he grew up in, in East Anchorage. There was good and there was bad. However, at times, the bad seemed to overshadow the good. His family, and many other people he grew up around and even looked up to, struggled with addiction and were in and out of prison. So, he had a fear of falling into that same cycle. A few people took him out of that mindset though. One was his mom. She always instilled in him a sense of his potential. Even throughout her own troubles, she made sure he knew he was loved and meant for better things. The other person was his grandmother. She was the most instrumental part of his life, Travante says. Every moment he was around her, she made him feel at home. To this day, her love and influence reminds him of all the work you need to put in to have anything that’s worth having.
His path to playing pro basketball has been one of perseverance, luck and opportunity. He tells this story from his college days that encapsulates all of this. He was working at a 24-Hour Fitness and he noticed these guys running the court during his lunch break. So he got in there and started showing everyone up. Meanwhile, a scout for San Francisco City Junior College was watching him. So, afterwards the scout approached Travante and got his number. Six or seven months later, Travante was offered a position on the team.
For the last seven years, he’s been living overseas and playing pro ball. He started his career in Tskaltubo, a city in the country of Georgia. Then he moved to Portugal, first playing for U.D. Oliveirense and then Sporting de Portugal. He says that, as a teammate, he has what he calls a dishwasher mindset. He likes to do the dirty jobs and he likes to work hard. That’s his way of leading by example. He tries to connect with all his teammates because, at the end of the day, this is a job and when one of them succeeds, they all succeed.
Professional wrestler Sarah States, better known as Freya the Slaya, says that she’s always gone by Freya, that her wrestling character, or gimmick, started out as more of a viking and then it transitioned to an Arctic Amazonian woman — tall, strong and assertive. The Queen of the North. And it all started in Palmer, Alaska. She’s from Fairbanks, so she would have to drive six hours to Palmer to do shows in places like train depots. The shows were small, like the Alaska wrestling scene at the time, and more often than not they were performing in front of families. It was fun, an entertaining hobby while Freya was also working as a middle school teacher. She loved teaching, but she encountered too many roadblocks in her work. Resources were always limited and her empathic nature predisposed her to wanting to do more for her students. Years of this took its toll on her mental health, until one day she decided to quit her job, sell her house and move to the states. There, she threw her whole self into becoming a pro wrestler.
She says that, more and more, she’s becoming her character. That her full-time job is being Freya the Slaya, even outside of the ring. She’s training, doing interviews, working on her merch store, making social media posts, she’s on Cameo. And this personality swap, it’s in her benefit. When she’s in the ring, for example, and she’s on live TV, where so much of the performance is improvisational, it’s easier to react naturally to the violent soap opera happening all around her. That’s what continues to draw her to pro wrestling, the physical and emotional rollercoaster of it all. And how it affects its audience, that when it’s done successfully and powerfully you can see it take people away from their every day troubles and immerse them into this fantastical world of wrestling.
Adam Hendrix is a professional poker player. He learned to play when he was a kid, at his grandma’s house in Homer, Alaska. Every time he would visit, he’d play penny poker with his aunts and uncles, but what really got him interested in it was the first time he watched the ESPN World Series of Poker Main Event coverage. It was filled with these unique characters — boisterous and stone-faced — sometimes wearing funny hats, headphones, sunglasses or costumes. It was a career unlike any he’d ever heard of before.
Fast forward to college and he’s playing $5 poker games in his dorm at Virginia Tech. There, he had a solid group of friends he’d play poker with. Sometimes they would travel to play poker too, they’d go to places like Atlantic City where they would play until all their chips were gone. Some days they would do better than others. Poker’s unique in that way, Adam says, if you can afford the buy-in, then you can play. And because of that, you get so many different people — from beginners to experts — that come to the table every day.
He says that his upbringing contributed to his worldliness and his understanding of people — both of which are essential qualities in a poker player. His dad worked in oil, so his family traveled a lot, living in a number of different states and countries. In high school, he lived in Egypt. It was an experience that introduced him to a lot of different people and cultures. Looking back on it now, he says that his time in Egypt made him the poker player he is today. Because, after all, poker is also a game of psychology. The better you can read people, the more formative a player you’ll be.
Photo courtesy of Omar Sader
Kristin Alford is a futurist and the director of the Museum of Discovery, or MOD., in South Australia. She says that MOD.’s main objective is to showcase innovative research that imagines multiple futures. This idea of imagining multiple futures involves anticipating where society and nature might be headed based on past and current trends. She says that it’s about understanding and recognizing opportunities, risks and downsides, and then thinking about the unintended consequences or possible actions that can be taken. In showcasing these futures, MOD. hopes to inspire young people to learn more about where technology, ethics and social issues might be headed so that they can make better decisions for their own futures.
When putting together an exhibition, one of MOD.’s main tenants is for people to leave with a feeling of hope, not one of anxiety or depression. Because these are big issues they’re tackling — populating other planets, climate change, the future. Next year, they’re opening an exhibition called Broken, about the general feeling of anxiety and ambivalence about the future. In order to instill hope in this exhibition, people are asked a series of questions based on psychologist Charles Snyder’s Elements of Hope: “Do you have a positive vision of the future that brings you forward?” “Do you feel positive about that vision?” “Do you feel like you have agency to make a difference?” And, “Are there multiple pathways for you to reach your goal?”
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Until recently, Lizzy Bakker was the senior exhibition maker at NEMO Science Museum in Amsterdam. NEMO is all about interacting with science and technology in order to better understand the world around us, to make its visitors curious about the mechanisms that shape their lives. It turns out, exhibition design conveys a lot. Research carried out by NEMO found that if an exhibition has an unsustainable look and feel to it — ultimately an unsustainable design — then people won’t take the message seriously. So, it’s important for them to work toward creating exhibitions that are as sustainable as possible.
Right now, NEMO is focused on sustainability and the climate crisis. This year, staff came together to create The Green Team, a cohort dedicated to putting sustainability high on the museum’s agenda. Among other things, this means creating sustainable exhibitions — reusing parts of previous exhibitions for future ones, for example. It also means helping to create exhibitions that talk about the climate crisis. Currently they have an interactive exhibition called Energy Junkies where you can make decisions about the world’s energy system that will determine a more or less sustainable future. The idea is for people to understand the climate crisis and how energy production is related to it, and the different solutions that are available for individuals, businesses and governments.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Anne May Olii is the Director of the largest Sámi museum in Norway, RiddoDuottarMuseat. The museum manages photographs, art and information on Sámi cultural heritage. Anne May says that the museum is thinking 100, 200 years into the future, about how what they’re documenting today will affect and inform Sámi people in the future. For example, the vitality of reindeer husbandry — something the Sámi people have been practicing for generations — is a concern. On top of climate change causing diminishing grazing areas, the Norwegian government is taking land from the Sámi people by putting things like windmills and power lines on their land.
Anne May says that the museum is focused on documenting these changes, to keep a record of the past and the present in order to inform the future. That there’s a strong possibility that northern countries will be looked at for guidance in a future affected by climate change. She has a vested interest in Norway. In addition to her work at the museum, she’s a farmer, her husband is a reindeer herder, her kids are farmers and reindeer herders, and she’s of Sámi heritage.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Miranda Massie is the Director and founder of the Climate Museum in New York City. The Climate Museum uses the power of arts and cultural programming to create an ongoing and progressive conversation surrounding the climate crisis. Her institution is committed to inspiring climate activism through art. The work she and her crew does invites people to recognize their own ability to act on climate change. It’s an advocacy museum, she says, where they hope their audience will take action, to consider themselves as climate ambassadors who actively engaged in climate change action.
Miranda says that appealing to a rationalist perspective doesn’t work. That’s actually how she found her way to creating the Climate Museum. It was 2012 and Hurricane Sandy was wreaking havoc on New York City. She lives in the city, so she watched as the effects of climate change were brought to her front door. Before that, she had understood climate change on a rational level, but faced with the destruction caused by the hurricane she was compelled — emotionally — by the urgency and the challenges of the climate crisis. So, she made a radical shift, she quit her job as an attorney and created the Climate Museum. Her mission then as it is now, was a deep civic shift toward climate dialogue across people’s personal and professional lives. A ubiquitous understanding and acceptance of the crisis that will lead to meaningful climate policy.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
Lath Carlson is the Executive Director of the Museum of the Future in Dubai. The Museum of the Future is dedicated to telling stories about how humans might adapt to current global crises. Right now, the climate crisis is the most pressing issue. For example, the main story takes people on a journey to 2071, where they experience a world where people have adapted to climate change by collecting solar energy from the moon and beaming it back to earth, giving clean energy to the majority of the world. In order to ensure the science behind these ideas, the museum worked with collaborators from around the world who vetted the science, including people at NASA and at the European Space Agency. Recently, Stanford University proved that this technology wasn’t just something created by a museum, it was actually possible.
The Museum of the Future opened its doors in 2022 and since then over 20 world leaders have visited. Lath says that this is important because climate change is an issue that requires international collaboration. These leaders are among the ones in a position to make changes that will positively impact their countries. Because climate change is an issue that requires large-scale structural changes, the best thing individuals can do is lobby their governments for change. Lath goes on to say that the best hope we have for addressing some of these complex challenges is more Indigenous knowledge than scientific understanding because scientific understanding and reductionist understanding is, in a lot of ways, what got us to where we are today.
In this Chatter Marks series, Cody and co-host Dr. Sandro Debono talk to museum directors and knowledge holders about what museums around the world are doing to adapt and react to climate change. Dr. Debono is a museum thinker from the Mediterranean island of Malta. He works with museums to help them strategize around possible futures.
John Gourley is the lead singer and rhythm guitarist of Portugal. The Man. He grew up in a cabin in Trapper Creek, Alaska, living close to the land. His parents ran the Iditarod — a 1,000 mile-long sled dog race through some of the most treacherous conditions in the world. It takes skill, endurance and fortitude. For John, it’s a lot like being in a band, but instead of making it to Nome, they’re trying to make it to their next gig. It’s its own endurance race that really only considers the present. It’s a lifestyle that lands somewhere between frugality and stardom. Between spending a dollar a day on food in their leaner times and performing at Red Rocks and Radio City in times of prosperity. It’s been a journey that was never about winning a Grammy or critical acclaim, it was always about the music.
John says that when he writes music, he thinks of snowboarding. Of cliffs, jumps, rollers and powder. Hatcher Pass — the mountains John grew up hiking and riding — is in his rhythm and the lyrics. That association is intuitive for him. Simply put, throwing yourself off a cliff or off a jump is like throwing yourself into music and performing. Sometimes you lose and sometimes you win. But you learn from your failures and you’re buoyed by your wins. And it’s in those winning moments that give you the strength and the reassurance to continue. Like snowboarding or the Iditarod, there are always gonna be struggles, but it’s how you work through those struggles that define you.
This new album, “Chris Black Changed My Life,” was marked by struggle and uncertainty. Three band members went to rehab, John broke his jaw, their good friend Chris Black passed away and John and Zoe’s daughter Frances was diagnosed with DHDDS, a rare neurodegenerative disease. It’s been a lot, and navigating it is ongoing. The three who went to rehab are doing much better now and John’s jaw is on the mend. Chris is missed and thought about often, and after an exhausting amount of research, Frances is in treatment.
Photo by Maclay Heriot
Cordelia Qiġñaaq Kellie specializes in cross-cultural communications. It’s a position that gives her the space and the opportunity to learn about how cultures interact at the community level. For the last two years, she’s worked as the Special Assistant for Rural Affairs for Senator Lisa Murkowski, where she helps to build and strengthen regional and statewide rural and Alaska Native relationships.
She says that in her line of work people often use the term “cultural conflicts” to describe disagreements that arise because of different values and belief systems. However, she prefers the term “cultural contrasts” because not all the time do those things conflict. She gives an example: Whenever her mom’s Inupiaq family would visit, she was expected to tend to and revere her elders, whereas when her dad’s parents would visit from Washington state they wanted to tend to the children. She recognized that these behaviors weren’t in conflict, each one just had a different set of expectations. So, it’s important to learn and to talk about the contrasts before they become conflicts. It comes down to recognizing, understanding and respecting other cultures — their values and their tenets.
Cordelia grew up in Wasilla. The first time she visited the lands of her heritage — Utqiagvik and Wainwright — she was a young adult. She remembers seeing the environment that her mom had been describing to her for so long and how striking it was. Her biggest takeaway was seeing other Inupiaq people. It was her first time in an Inupiaq community and so much of it reminded her of her family. It gave her an incredible sense of belonging because until that point the only other Inupiaq people she encountered were part of her family. It was the first time she realized that she was part of this bigger network of people.
Qacung and his brother, Philip, started Pamyua almost 30 years ago. The idea was to honor both sides of their heritage — African American on their dad’s side and Yupik Inuit on their mom’s side. The gospel music they heard in church and the traditional songs and dancing they experienced in their Native communities made a powerful impression on both of them. In fact, Pamyua’s sound would eventually be called tribal funk or Inuit soul music, and their performances looked a lot like a traditional ceremony with music and dance. The idea connected with people from the very beginning. Two weeks after they came up with the idea for Pamyua, they were performing in front of high school audiences, including the school they both graduated from, Wasilla High School. There were ten shows in all and they received $1,000 for all of their performances.
The only doubt Qacung and his brother, Philip, had in the beginning of Pamyua was whether or not their elders would accept it. They understood that they were making drastic changes to traditional dances and traditional songs. Their elders’ stamp of approval came quickly, though, and from that point on they never had any doubts that people would accept and enjoy their music and their performances. Qacung says this is because music is an international language, you don’t need to understand the Native languages being spoken or sung to receive its message.
Qacung says that he and his brother have become uncles to up-and-coming Native artists. They share industry knowledge, opportunities and even their own pitfalls throughout the years so that future generations have a better understanding of what works and what doesn’t work. It’s a position he takes pride in. He loves being able to advocate and support new artists on the ins and outs of the business end of things because it’s something he and Philip didn’t have.
Aaron Leggett is the president of the Native Village of Eklutna and the Senior Curator of Alaska History and Indigenous Culture at the Anchorage Museum. He grew up in Anchorage, so his memories of it involve all of the memorable and formative experiences that made him who he is today. The same is true for the other two people joining the conversation, Julia O’Malley and David Holhouse. They’re both longtime journalists from Alaska and from pretty much the beginning of their journalism careers, they were the voice of the people. Alaskans who reported on cultures and countercultures, crime, food and anything else newsworthy that happened in their close-knit community.
At its core, this is a conversation about what a place means to its inhabitants. How it shapes and molds them. It’s about why David, Julia, Aaron and myself all continue to try and capture the Anchorage we grew up in, before Alaska was so connected to the rest of the world. For my part, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to capture the essence and the feeling of the Alaska snowboard and skateboard scene of the 90s and early 2000s. Holthouse talks about his memories of the Anchorage punk scene in the mid-90s, another lively and sometimes provocative group of people. Aaron remembers a heavy metal group of Alaska Native guys who wore leather jackets, had long hair and smoked cigarettes. They were metal and they were Native. When recalling these stories, there’s fondness, melancholy and nostalgia — a feeling Julia says is a cousin of grief. That if you become too nostalgic, you might lose track of how to listen to the present moment.
Mary Mattingly is an interdisciplinary artist who builds sculptural ecosystems that address human consumption and resilience, with an underlying theme of how they might play into our ability to preserve through catastrophic events. Two of her past projects — Waterpod and Swale — were barges that periodically docked in certain areas of New York City. Both depended on a level of nomadism and self-sufficiency. She describes Waterpod as a self-sufficient living space on the water that was a shelter, grew its own food, cleaned its own water and was also a space where she could make artwork. Swale came next. It was an edible landscape and it applied many of the skills she’d learned from Waterpod. Things like navigating a large vessel though city waterways and how foraging for fresh foods could work in a city with so many rules and regulations.
Her artwork always comes from a personal place. In 2008, after numerous surgeries and trips to the hospital, she was diagnosed with Celiac disease. It was a painful journey. For so long, she didn’t know what was wrong with her. So, the diagnosis was a relief. She finally had a word to attach to what she was experiencing. That’s when she became interested in food. Specifically, she became aware of the inaccessibility to fresh foods — how expensive they are and how many rules and regulations prohibit people from growing their own food in public spaces. At one point, she learned about how a community garden had been shut down due to a real estate development. That was when she realized that spaces like that weren’t protected and could be easily taken away.
Her interest in the idea of consumption and resilience goes back to her childhood, when she didn’t always have the things she wanted. She was born in Rockville, Connecticut, but she grew up in Summersville. Both are small towns that are close to nature. She tells this story about how, when she was a kid, she and her siblings would make a game out of running as fast as they could to reach a neighbor’s barn before he let off a warning shot. So, when she moved to New York City, where manmade structures dominate the landscape and overconsumption is common, she began to think about how that affects us, how being so reliant on outside inputs can deprive us of our independence. The sheer scale of the trash cycle in New York City, for example, devastated her. Three nights a week, she would see trash piled up on the sidewalks, sometimes taller than her.
Former Olympian Rosey Fletcher grew up in Girdwood, Alaska, and remembers having an unconditional love for snowboarding. The riding, the friendships and the competition. There was nothing she wanted to do more and she had aspirations of being the best. So, she worked three jobs to pay for her coaching lessons — the video store in Girdwood, The Bakeshop, and a little restaurant in Bird Creek. As she got better at snowboarding and at competing, she started winning local competitions. Then, when she started winning those local competitions, she was invited to national competitions. When she started winning those, she was invited to competitions where she competed against the best in the world.
She competed for 15 years, from her late teens into adulthood. In that time, she reached the podium locally, nationally and globally. She received silver medals at the World Championships, World Cup gold medals, and a Bronze medal in the 2006 Winter Olympics. That same year — in 2006, at the Olympics — she made a decision to leave the world of competitive snowboarding. It was a quiet exit. She didn’t make a big deal out of it and she didn’t tell anyone. Instead, she savored everything about the experience — the stops at ski resorts, the hotels, the people she met and her fellow competitors. To this day, she doesn’t regret her decision to leave because she accomplished what she set out to accomplish.
She says that her strongest attribute is her perseverance. How whenever she’s faced with life’s obstacles, she keeps going. When she left the competitive snowboard scene, for example, she jokes that she didn’t have any life skills and that she barely knew how to boil water. So, she made a point of learning how to cook. Now, she loves everything about the process of cooking, down to the meditative practice of preparing the food. That same passion goes into her work as a health and wellness instructor. She approaches it like an athlete. She only gets an hour with her clients and she intends to use that time to its full potential.
Historian Ian Hartman is an Associate Professor and Department Chair at the University of Alaska Anchorage. He teaches history from the bottom up, meaning he looks for how regular, working class people have been agents of change throughout history. This is the opposite of how so much of history has been recorded, which has looked at it through the perspective of The Great Man Theory. The Great Man Theory, as it relates to history, looks at leaders and other perceived great men as heroes and the sole agents of change. Ian points to the Civil Rights movement and the general cultural upheavals of the 1960s and 1970s for shifting our understanding of history.
Ian is also a public historian known, most recently, for his work on the history of the Alaska Railroad and a book he co-authored with Alaska public historian David Reamer about the history of the black experience in Alaska. The book, Black Lives in Alaska: A History of African Americans in the Far Northwest, details how Black men and women have participated in Alaska's politics and culture since before statehood. How Black history in Alaska is almost by default a history of the bottom up. It’s a history that involves racial discrimination, but also involves people mobilizing themselves in the face of that discrimination. How they were, and are, agents who are capable of forging social movements and solidarity. They rose up and involved themselves in the workings of the state.
His work on the Alaska Railroad will soon be on display — along with the work of other experts — at an Anchorage Museum exhibition titled All Aboard: The Alaska Railroad Centennial. The exhibition highlights crucial moments, technological innovations and human stories connected to the railroad and its operations in Alaska. An interesting fact about the people who originally worked on the Alaska Railroad is that the majority of them came from Alaska. They were already in the state working the Klondike Gold Rush and, when that ended, workers — who were generally young, single men — found more work helping to construct the railroad.
Musician Zane Penny says that every creative endeavor he’s been involved in has led him to where he is right now. It goes back to 5th grade, when his mom heard about an audition for a short film. Zane was interested, but he’d never acted before, so he was nervous. So nervous, and full of doubt, that he almost skipped the audition all together. But then, at the last minute, he decided to go. Everything else has flowed from that moment. More acting gigs, filmmaking, creating music and joining Vitus Collective, a group of young musicians and artists based in Anchorage.
Joining Vitus Collective was an important milestone for Zane. It introduced him to a group of likeminded youth and it also helped him realize the importance of young artists, that their message and their perspective matters. There was a problem though, there was nowhere for them to perform. So, in high school, Vitus began hosting all ages shows. These shows were a success, at times bringing in around 300 people. Reflecting on it now, Zane says that when kids have the opportunity to support their friends, they show up.
A big part of the music, for him, is the fashion that goes along with it. When he was younger, he wore clothes that made him stand out — a hood with bunny ears, tank tops and metal chokers. He looks back on those choices now and he laughs, but he understands that that was his way of expressing himself back then. In fact, he keeps a lot of those clothes around his house to remind himself of where he comes from. The clothes, and other pieces of his past, help him fight his fear of forgetting. This fear of waking up one day and realizing that the world has gone on without him. Everything is different, but he’s the same. He thinks this fear stems from some of his family’s issues involving alcoholism. So, in general, he stays away from alcohol, and instead focuses on the thing that helps quiet that fear, his music.
Erin Ggaadimits Ivalu Gingrich grew up in Galena, Alaska, a place that continues to have an impact on her art. You can see it in her beadwork and the masks and sculptures she creates. They represent — among other things — birds, berries, caribou, seals and fish. In fact, when she thinks back on her childhood in Galena, fish are a big part of her memories. She remembers watching them being caught in fish wheels and by people along the Yukon River. She also remembers being told to be mindful of the river because of what it is — this thing of nature that brings bounty, but can also bring destruction if you’re not careful around it. Overall, she remembers the sense of freedom she felt growing up in such a rural place, being one with nature and with wildlife.
She lives in Anchorage now and talks about the importance of little, wild places. How Alaska is known for its size and its scale — its large, open spaces occupied by trees, grass, mountains and wildlife — but little patches of wilderness are important too. They can be an untamed patch of grass that grows on the sidewalk or a lake in the middle of town. Anything that brings you back to the earth, back to being one with a natural environment.
When Erin thinks about being one with her natural environment, she doesn’t recall one single image. She recalls moments and sounds that create a feeling — like running water or fishing in the rain with her mom. Thinking about this one morning when she and her mom were out dipnetting on the Kasilof River and it was pitch black, there were seals fishing in the water, it was raining and they could see dark clouds on the horizon and an incoming thunderstorm. She says that she felt in-community with the natural elements around her — with the seals and with all the other people who were out fishing.
Brothers Garrett and Jake Swenson are part of the hip hop group Brother Buffalo. They’re of Eyak heritage, with roots in Cordova, Alaska, but they grew up in Anchorage. As far as their understanding of their heritage goes, they didn’t have much to go on because so much of the culture was taken from their people and documentation of it was either destroyed or spread across a number of museums. So, it was hard for them to figure out what being Eyak actually meant. Their connection to their past was limited and their access to generational stories were few. One connection they remember, though, was having traditional headbands that they’d wear to weddings and to special get-togethers. But then, in 2008, after Chief Marie Smith passed away, the language was declared dead. She was the last fluent Eyak language speaker.
In the last 5 to 10 years, the Eyak language has made a comeback. For their part, Garrett and Jake are learning the language and using it in their raps. They’ve been taking language classes for a few years now. The group meets once every two weeks, learning and practicing the language. In these meetings, Garrett and Jake say they’re learning more about themselves and their people. For them, the whole thing — understanding their culture and creating their music — is about self-realization and reclamation. They call their sound Inlet Music because that’s where they grew up — in Anchorage, surrounded by the Cook Inlet. Except for they don’t acknowledge the Captain Cook part of Cook Inlet because of what it represents — colonialism and erasure. That’s why they named their most recent album “Our Inlet.” It’s a reclamation of what was taken.
Glen Klinkhart is a former homicide detective, and in 1981 his older sister was sexually assaulted and murdered at their home in Anchorage, Alaska. She had thrown a party at her house and after everyone left, a nineteen year old classmate returned. To cover up his crime, he burned down their house. He was later caught and sentenced to 75 years in prison.
Glen says that we can intellectualize why people commit heinous crimes as much as we want to, but the reason is ultimately very simple: People do it because they want to. Now, that choice might be corrupted by other things like anger, deviancy, mental illness or drugs, but at the end of the day it’s a conscious choice. The outcome of which is devastating to all those it affects. He says that, so often, the crime perpetrated on someone becomes their identity. It becomes all consuming and can result in a lifetime of guilt and bitterness. But recently, Glen has found ways to let go of those feelings. One of them is digitizing all of his dad’s 35 mm slides. He’s going through so many family photos and it’s giving him the opportunity to see his sister through a whole new lens, as the beautiful young woman she was.
Years ago, Glen was teaching a homicide class and one of his students asked him if having a murdered sister made him a better detective or did it make the job more difficult. He’d never thought about it before that moment, but he’ll always remember his response. He said, “You don’t have to have a murdered sister to be a good homicide detective, but it helps.” That became the first sentence in his true crime memoir, “Finding Bethany.” The book details his upbringing all the way to him becoming a detective for the Anchorage Police Department, with a focus on finding a young woman named Bethany Correira. He says that, in addition to his sense of duty to her and her family, working Bethany’s case — a case that had so many similarities to his sister’s — also helped him process his sister’s murder.
Ed Washington says that a lot of his music comes from a cathartic place — not necessarily from a need to be heard, but a need to express. He’s been that way since he was a child. In fact, there’s this video his dad took of him when he was a baby and he’s singing to himself. It was an early moment of something he would continue to do throughout his life, sing himself happy.
Last year, Ed spent a lot of time busking in downtown Anchorage. When he was out there, he sang his songs and he shared stories. He even did it barefoot because he wanted to be one with the city and the people. Connecting with people he encountered was important because he wanted to win them over and make their day just a little better. That’s what busking is, he says, you’re out there giving and not asking for anything in return. And if people feel compelled to pay you or take a picture, then that’s their choice.
For as long as he’s been doing music, he’s been a workhorse, dedicating every ounce of his time and energy to it. It’s something he took pride in — working to physical and mental exhaustion without paying any attention to his personal wellbeing. It took a bad breakup, a broken bone and working through his childhood trauma for him to refocus on his own health. He’s since reexamined old beliefs and techniques. The idea of perfection is a big one. He’s a believer that practice doesn’t make perfect. Perfection, or greatness, is in the fact that you show up and that you practice. The act of practicing is a way of life, and by doing it consistently Ed is seeking to perfect the process rather than perfecting himself.
As a kid, Martin Sensmeier would daydream about being an actor. His older brother helped influence that dream. He had the first laserdisc player and the first flat screen TV in Yakutat, Alaska. So, Martin would go to his house to watch movies with him. He remembers it being such a special event. It was also special to see movies in the theater, but there wasn’t one in Yakutat. So, the only time he was able to go was when he went to Anchorage, Juneau or Fairbanks. His mom would drop him off at the theater in the morning and he’d watch movies all day long. For two or three days in a row, he’d watch every single movie in the theater and some of them he’d watch multiple times.
Growing up in Yakutat, Martin always wanted to play in the NBA or be an actor. It was always gonna be one of the two. The path to being a professional basketball player just involved so much coaching, travel and practicing around those who were also pursuing it at that level. So, acting won out, but it hasn’t been an easy road. Before he made the move to pursue acting, he worked in longshoring, in a logging camp, in construction, as a welder and on oil rigs. He was actually fired from his job in Prudhoe Bay, something he now considers to be a blessing in disguise. If he hadn’t been, he might still be up there waiting on an opportunity or the courage to leave and be an actor.
He pursues acting like he does everything in his life, like a warrior. He’s of Tlingit and Koyukon-Athabascan heritage and says that, in traditional Tlingit culture, young men started their warrior training at the age of seven. They learned how to test their bodies by training, running and hunting. He mentions one exercise where they would sit in the ocean and soak in cold water. Thinking about what it means to be a warrior today, he says it means being responsible, having good values and being an example of what it means to be a good person. This goes for how we treat each other too. Rather than getting caught up in divisiveness, we can break negative stereotypes by creating positive new ones.
Lily Hope is a traditional Chilkat Weaver from Juneau, Alaska. Both of her parents worked as full-time artists, so she grew up around the hustle of entrepreneurship and the responsibility of carrying on tradition. Her mom, Clarissa Rizal, learned how to weave from the late Master Chilkat Weaver, Jennie Thlunaut. Lily says that her mom probably felt the urgency of her own mortality, that it was imperative to teach her daughter the art of weaving because in the last 150 years there have been less than a dozen Chilkat ceremonial robe makers. So, Lily was introduced to it at 14 or 15 years old. It wasn’t a pleasurable experience though. Her mom pretty much forced her into it, making her weave rows and rows before she could do anything leisurely like hang out with friends. It was a chore, but it also turned out to be her calling.
Whether she’s weaving among a group or teaching others how to do it, she finds her happy place in human connection. When she’s with a group of other weavers, there’s commiserating, there’s camaraderie, there’s knowledge sharing. When she’s teaching, she’s passing on tradition and she’s helping her students understand techniques. Seeing them finally wrap their minds around the intricacies of a technique and implement it is one of her greatest joys.
Lily weaves ceremonial regalia for museums now. She says that her mom helped her understand and be comfortable with the idea. That they’ve been making these Chilkat blankets and robes for hundreds, if not thousands of years, and many of them live in museums. And, for right now, museums operate as incubators, taking care of these pieces and sharing their stories, until it’s time for them to be released back into the world.
Nick Carpenter, of the band Medium Build, grew up in a religious household, so the church and its teachings ruled everything. Money was important too, but he says it was always just out of their reach. So, in many ways, that resulted in them idolizing it because so many emotions were attached to it. Obsession, fear, paranoia, shame. It influenced their perception of themselves and others. This led Nick to his fear of money — that if he didn’t remain vigilant and aware of the pitfalls of wealth, it would consume him. So, he and his brother made a conscious effort to undo a lot of what they were taught and, in the process, figure out who they are without those teachings. Today, he and his parents have found understanding in their differences. They focus on connecting on the things they enjoy — food, music, playing board games. They stay honest with each other and they remind themselves that they’re stronger together. When he was 8 years old, Nick started singing in front of hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people at his church. Then, when he was 15, he realized that he wanted to write and play his own music. He wrote a song and played it for a girl he had a crush on. She didn’t like him, but she liked the song. So, he knew he had an ability to entertain people and connect with them. He says that his songs are his journal entries. Historically, they’ve been self-referential, but recently they’ve become more fictional. Many times borrowing from people and situations he observes. It all helps him process his life and the world around him. He wants it to be his career, to travel around the world singing his stories. But he says that if it all stopped — if his manager left him and no one booked him for shows anymore — he would still play music. Most likely he’d be at the open mics around Anchorage.
Nyla Innuksuk is an Indigenous director from Canada and she recently released Slash/Back, a horror / sci-fi movie about a group of Inuit girls who save their remote arctic community from an alien invasion. She says that the horror genre has always been a big part of her life. Her mom — being a fan as well — introduced it to her, actually. One day when Nyla and a friend were having a sleep over, her mom rented Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds for them. They were 8 years old. That was the same year that Nyla and another friend would ride their bikes to the graveyard, they’d sit there and they’d write ghost stories. That’s how she spent most of her days until she was about 13 or 14. She lived in a town that was predominently Christian and realized that her love of witches and magic was probably not appropriate. But by then, she had moved onto writing scripts anyway.
Making Slash/Back was important to Nyla for a couple reasons. For one, she was able to film the script she’d been working on for years. It also helped her recover from a liver transplant. When she got the news about needing the tranplant, she was told that she had a 50/50 chance of surviving the month. It was a grim and scary situation, but she made it through the month and received a transplant in May of 2017. That September, she went to Nunavut and shot the proof of concept for the movie. She wasn’t wasting any time. Facing her mortality brought things intro focus and helped her recognize the things that she believes are really important in life. Friends, family and the relationships we build with them. It also helped her understand the importance of pursuing the things she wants in life.
Mossy Kilcher is a homesteader, a musician and an ornithologist. When she was young, she was afraid of nature. It was just so big and there were so many ways to die. But the more time she spent outdoors, the better she understood it. Making music and recording bird songs helped. She realized that it wasn’t about taming the wilderness or dominating nature — like her father believed — it was about living in unison with it. That if you take care of it, it will be there for you when you inevitably need it. Understanding her place in nature, helped her understand her role in it. For example, she found that if she sat still for long enough, she became invisible and she could see and listen to nature doing its business all around her. It carried on without her help. She says that this was a sobering thought: that everything is important, not just her.
She recently released a book — a memoir — that focuses on her upbringing. Homesteading in Alaska before it was a state, living off the grid and off the land. They hunted and they gathered. It was a self-sufficient lifestyle that her father sought out and he found it in Alaska, a place where he believed he could live simply. They settled on land about 50 miles from the nearest town and accessible only by a trail in the forest or on the beach at low tide. They used horses and a wagon to transport goods back and forth. Mossy says that she wanted to share all of this because it’s what led her to another way of looking at life, another way of looking at the world. That everything matters and we need to be good, thoughtful stewards of the planet. It’s a connection with nature that she has applied to every aspect of her life.
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.
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
Before he got to the level he’s at now, Tlingit artist James Johnson 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.
Dog musher Aliy Zirkle has always felt a strong connection to animals, dogs in particular. She tells this story about how when she was a kid and lived in Puerto Rico, there were a couple of stray dogs that pulled her around on a skateboard. Mushing was in her blood, even then.
For 30 years, mushing has been everything to Aliy. It’s been her passion and her career. And understanding her dog’s abilities and their limits has been key because if you break that — if you break their trust or you ask them to do too much — then they lose confidence in you as their leader. So, Aliy made sure she knew every one of her dogs — their individual personalities, their eccentricities and their limits. Skunk, Commando, Mismo, Mac, Pedro, Rubia, Beemer, Viper, Quito, just to name a few. She knew and knows all of them. They’ve taught her indispensable truths, like how to live in the moment and how to appreciate the present because that’s all we really have.
In 2021, she raced her last Iditarod. It didn’t turn out the way she anticipated. Her plan was to win — to be the first racer to pass under the Burled Arch — but about 200 miles into the race, she crashed, hit the back of her head on the ice and was dragged by her arm for an indeterminate amount of time. She had to be airlifted to the hospital, where she found out that she had suffered a concussion, something that she’s still recovering from.
As a musher, she has relied on her toughness — her ability to get through difficulties out on the trail on her own. That it’s her and the dogs — Team Zirkle, the fan favorite — out there in the Alaska wilderness. The team that always finishes the race. That’s been her biggest struggle throughout all of this — that she didn’t finish her last race. It weighs so heavily on her sometimes that it’s best just not to think about it. She says that the whole situation still seems a little surreal and that she’s still trying to make sense of it.
Rob Kinneen has been an ambassador for Alaskan cuisine through his guest chef appearances, speaking engagements, cooking demonstrations and private caterings. His work has revolutionized how people see and understand the state’s traditional foods. His understanding of traditional foods goes back to growing up in Petersburg, Alaska, where he remembers clamming with his uncles, fishing with his dad and picking berries. There was also venison and the first time he had fresh asparagus — it was so much better than the stuff that came out of the can.
He works for the food non-profit NATIFS now, where he promotes food relief, education, awareness and accessibility of traditional foods. He says that this position is a one-of-one, there’s nothing else out there like it. It’s not so much a job as it is what he does, and who he is as a chef and as a person of Tlingit heritage.
In his late-40s now, Rob says that he started to really notice the negative effects that alcohol was having on his body and his lifestyle. So, over two years ago, he became alcohol-free. He says that, right now, he’s proud of being exactly who he wants to be — he has more hours in the day, and his mind is clear and he’s confident.
Kim Rich is a journalist and an author. She wrote the classic memoir “Johnny’s Girl,” it’s about her tumultuous upbringing in Anchorage’s underworld. Back in the 1960s, her dad, Johnny, worked Anchorage’s nightlife — gambling houses, prostitution and get-rich-quick schemes. Her mom, Ginger, was an exotic dancer. She had mental health issues and spent years of her life in a number of institutions. Both of their lives — Johnny and Ginger — were cut short, leaving Kim to fend for herself at a young age.
Through research, interviews and recollection, Kim would write about her parents to try to work out her feelings and understanding of them. She found that her dad was a complicated man, and that her mom was a tragic figure — loving and caring, but in the throes of mental anguish.
She’s always put a lot of thought into describing and understanding Anchorage as a city and the people who live there. In her book, she describes it as neon — both physically neon and existentially neon. The bright, flashy lights of downtown Anchorage and the pioneer spirit of the 60s influenced her perception. It was a place of endless possibilities, where anyone could do anything; a place you could run away to and remake yourself in whatever image you wished.
Today, Kim says that she’s enjoying getting older and that she feels like she’s finally mellowing. She lives in Louisiana — teaching journalism and trying to get used to the fact that her kids have moved out of the house — but she still considers Alaska home.
Jimmy Riordan is a multidisciplinary artist and educator who’s currently in-residence at the Anchorage Museum, digitizing and archiving the work of Yukon-Kuskokwim Delta musicians, as well as all the other Alaska music he’s collected over the years. He spends a lot of time in thrift stores and going through junk bins and scouring the internet — anywhere old records might exist.
When he first started listening to old Alaskan albums and radio programs, he thought he was going to hear a lot of tourist music and songs about things like reindeer and caribou. But he soon realized that there was a lot of diversity in what he was hearing. There was hip hop, psychedelic rock, metal, punk. He even found a record of soundbites from people talking about their experience during the 1964 earthquake.
His motivation is that of a fan, driven by interest and excitement. If he can provide a service that is useful, in exchange for all the information and all the stuff that he’s getting, then that’s what he’s looking to do. His fascination with the music of Joe Paul is a good example. Joe Paul is a country and gospel singer originally from Kipnuk, Alaska, a community along the Kuskokwim River. And one day, while out digging for Alaskana, Jimmy came across one of his albums, “Eskimo Songs, Stories and Country Music.” He was floored by it and says that it rejuvenated his interest in collecting.
Nyabony Gat says that her immigrant story started 22 years ago. In 1992, when her parents and older siblings fled from South Sudan and found refuge in Ethiopia — the Second Sudanese civil war was going on between the central Sudanese government and the Sudan People's Liberation Army. It was a long and bloody war and it caused four million people to be displaced.
Nyabony doesn’t remember much from her childhood. She knows that she was born in Ethiopia and she knows that she and her family came to the United States when she was 3 or 4 years old. Other than that, she’s had to rely on stories from her parents and her aunts and her uncles. Those stories are helpful in understanding her identity, but they’re not a perfect substitute. She says that only personal experience can fill that void.
Today, she works with Alaska’s immigrant and refugee community. She helps them overcome challenges and achieve their goals. And in that process, she says, they’re helping her better understand her background and herself.
When interdisciplinary artist LaMont Hamilton was young, he drew portraits of figures that he admired — Jimmy Hendrix, Che Guevara, Malcom X. He called it “scribble art,” a term he invented to describe abstract art that, the longer you look at it, the more it reveals. Then, as he got older, he became interested in photography. But he says that his first love, the one that he considers to be the foundation of his work, is poetry.
He says that a lot of what he does cannot easily be translated to words. It needs to be experienced and understood through our senses. To sit with it and to meditate on it opens us up to its energy and allows ideas to gravitate toward us. When this happens, we create a situation that nurtures a deeper conversation with the world around us.
Right now, he’s in-residence, at the Anchorage Museum, working with poets, artists and musicians, and developing a light and sound installation called "To Hear the Earth Before the End of the World." It features sounds of elements — air, earth, fire, water, and aether. And field recordings from Europe and North and South America — sounds of our changing earth. He says that, unlike a painting, this exhibition is an experience that encounters you, you don’t encounter it because it’s going to be playing whether you’re there or not.
Charles J. Tice is a visual and literary creative in Anchorage, Alaska with an emphasis on photography and gonzo journalism. He's currently in-residence, at the Anchorage Museum, working on a project called Artist Proof #6. It’s a book that’ll feature 100 photographs of strangers, assisted by a narrative. The writing is important, he says, probably the most important part of the project. So, he works on a typewriter because it’s less about technical precision and more about getting his ideas onto the page. He says the project is a love song, and that it’s as much about discovering who he is as it is about representing his community.
Most of the work that he does is a first person narrative. He creates gonzo journalism, infusing himself into a story and becoming part of it. This was true when he quit a steady job to work on a political campaign that he believed in; It was true when he hitchhiked across the United States, photographing people and talking to them about their lives; It was true when he tracked down his birth mother; And it’s true now. Because, more often than not, his life and his work are one and the same — they’re forever intertwined and feeding off each other.
Photographer Young Kim says that it’s weird to live in a place that’s so big and so busy that people aren’t checking up on each other. He prefers smaller communities where everyone knows each other. His longing to be part of something tight-knit might come from his early childhood, when he and his family lived in Sand Point, a town of about 600 located along the Aleutian Islands.
Young’s sense of community has, at times, been reinforced by growing up in the restaurant industry. Specifically, he remembers the staff dinners, when everyone would sit down together for a meal after their shift. Today, Young is the co-owner of Akela Space, a community gallery and photography studio in Anchorage. It’s a place that he and his co-owner, Jovell Rennie, hope to be a hub for community and for knowledge.
The photography that Young is working on right now is about his mom and how their relationship is changing. When we’re younger, our parents are the caregivers, but as we get older those roles can switch. So, it’s important for our expectations to be flexible because things don’t always play out the way we imagine.
Rico Worl owns a business in Juneau that aims to distribute money spent on Alaska Native art back into Alaska Native communities. His business is called Trickster for the raven in Alaska Native culture that represents the Creator and is always playing tricks. Trickster began as a skateboard company, so there’s that association too. In fact, the idea for it started when Rico painted his clan crest onto his longboard and skated around Juneau.
Before the pandemic, Juneau saw about a million tourists a year. Many of which purchase what Rico calls knockoff Alaska Native art. A small percent of that money actually goes back to the communities that developed the art form. Rico recognized this and came up with a plan: He would design and sell art that blends modern and traditional styles and make sure the proceeds go back to the Alaska Native communities from which they came.
Cal Williams is an activist and community archivist. He sees his involvement in activism as more of a pull than a draw. He didn’t plan it, it just happened. Seven days after he was born, Pearl Harbor was bombed and most of the men in his life went to war. So, the influences he had at those early ages came from the women in his life. He saw how they did what they could to help the war effort.
He’s 80 now, and his list of achievements are extensive. They include the president of the NAACP of Alaska, the recipient of the St. Francis of Assisi Award and working with HistoryMakers, an organization that collects and preserves the well-known and unsung stories of African Americans. Considering his current work with HistoryMakers and the Anchorage Museum, Cal says that he chases the dead — he reads obituaries and attends funerals in order to collect the stories that would otherwise be lost forever.
Photo by Jovell Rennie
Ben Huff believes that photography is gloriously incomplete, that it has the potential to start a conversation, but it takes the viewer to finish it — to bring their own history and their own knowledge to the table and fill in the blanks. That’s one of the things that’s wonderful about photography, he says, it prompts a narrative. It introduces a concept or an idea for further examination.
Much of his work is interested in exploited landscapes, in the things that we’ve brought to places. His recent book, Atomic Island, details the U.S. military occupation of Adak Island during World War II and the aftermath of their departure that left so much abandoned infrastructure and debris.
James Dommek, Jr. grew up in Kotzebue playing basketball. Most kids did — it was and still is a big part of the rural Alaska experience. In the summertime, they played all night because the sun was out. And in the wintertime — despite the cold and ball going flat — they would still play. In 1996, James moved to Anchorage, where he continued playing basketball for a while, but eventually moved on to playing music. He became as obsessive about music as he was basketball and, after high school, he joined a rock band called The Whipsaws. And that’s where he spent his 20s, playing drums all up and down the Alaska road system at almost every bar that had a stage. He says that he realized he was a storyteller from those days on the road. If something memorable happened, he would be asked to retell the story because people had a tendency to listen when he spoke.
In 2019, James and his producers released Midnight Son, a true crime podcast that explores the story of Teddy Kyle Smith, who went from being an actor to a fugitive in a quick succession of tragic events. What followed was a case that involved Alaska Native folklore and the United States justice system. In the podcast, James talks about how this story gave itself to him — how it showed its neck. So, for two years he and his producers worked on Midnight Son — collecting interviews, listening to courtroom audio, writing and just generally wrapping their minds around the case. James says that he was genuinely obsessed with Teddy’s story and that if he didn’t tell it, he would regret it for the rest of his life.
Jennifer Loofbourrow is the owner of Alpine Fit, an Alaska-based outdoor clothing company that specializes in offering a variety of fit options for different body types. Jennifer’s active, outdoor lifestyle influenced her decision to start the brand. From 2004 to 2009, she kayaked the outer islands of Alaska's southeast coastline. In that time, she gained an intimate understanding of what basic gear is needed on those trips and how it’s important to consider things like weather and the duration of the trip. She’s actually been told that she’s the bullseye of her target audience.
She says that she lives her life like it’s an endurance sport, so finding a balance between work and rest is important. That balance hasn’t always been easy to find, but she’s getting better at it.
Julie Varee is the Community Outreach Archivist at the Anchorage Museum. So much of her life has been dedicated to helping others. She grew up in a household — back in Gary, Indiana — that put a lot of energy into philanthropy. In fact, her earliest memory is of tagging along with her mom and her grandmother to help the elderly people in her neighborhood. That sense of purpose and charity would define her professional life well into adulthood.
Julie got out of philanthropy and development at 60 years old and began pursuing another career with the Anchorage Museum. The first exhibition she worked on was "Black Lives in Alaska: Journey, Justice, Joy." It’s told through archival photos and collected materials, and showcases the richness and resilience of Black lives in Alaska. Julie says that exhibitions like this one can help people be more open to the stories of other people’s lives and experiences, that their way of experiencing the world is not the only way or the best way or even the right way.
Chloe Ivanoff is new to the kelp farming industry in Kodiak. She says that because it’s such a new industry in the United States, there’s always something to learn or something to innovate. The process of kelp farming, for instance, is still being tweaked. Kelp spores are gathered locally and brought to a lab where they’re grown. When they’re ready for a larger grow environment, the kelp is set in the ocean along a group of grow lines. However, once they’re in the water, they’re at the mercy of the elements. Unlike agricultural farming, kelp is grown in its natural environment, without constant surveillance. After it’s harvested and processed, the kelp, or seaweed, is generally used in food products like seasonings, sauces or even made into noodles.
Above all, Chloe wants to be a lifelong learner. With kelp farming, that means being adaptable. So, if a storm hits or her grow lines become tangled, she needs to go to work, regardless of time or weather. She looks to other local farms for understanding and inspiration. For what works and what doesn’t.
Ralph Sara is the host of the Anonymous Eskimo Recovery Podcast, a show that features conversations with guests who are working through alcohol and drug addiction, many of which are Indigenous People. Ralph’s heritage and his past informs many of these discussions. He grew up in Bethel, where he says that almost every household on his street was affected by alcoholism, including his own. That’s where his relationship with alcohol started, with his own family. He says it goes back to his first memory and his only memory of his father. The memory goes like this: He’s at his dad’s funeral and his sister is holding him. He’s looking down at his dad in his coffin and he asks his sister if he’s sleeping. She tells him, no, that dad went to heaven. It’s a vivid and heartbreaking image of how alcohol was introduced to Ralph because his dad drowned while he was drinking and the result affected his entire family.
Before he got sober, Ralph said that his life was a revolving door. He would go on binges and lose everything and then he would get sober. Sick of the revolving door, he went to residential treatment. In total, he went three times and during the last time he thought of doing a podcast. It would be something that would hold him accountable to his own sobriety. He would have conversations with other people about their stories of addiction and sobriety, conversations that could help other people going through the same thing understand that they’re not alone. And so The Anonymous Eskimo Recovery Podcast was born.
In this episode, Cody talks with three fellow Alaskan podcasters about what it's like creating podcasts about Alaskans. Alice Qannik Glenn hosts “Coffee & Quaq,” a show that celebrates and explores contemporary Native life in urban Alaska. In it, Alice sits down with Alaska Native thinkers, doers and changemakers to discuss issues that affect Alaska Native people, their culture and their environments. She also hosts and produces “Resolve,” a show about missing and murdered Indigenous women in Alaska, and also “Alaska Natives on the Frontline,” which highlights the adaptability and resilience of the Inupiat people in the face of climate change. Daniel Buitrago co-hosts the “Alaska Wild Project,” a show that gives an inside look at Alaska outdoor lifestyles. Ralph Sara is the host of the “Anonymous Eskimo Recovery Podcast,” a show that features conversations with guests who are working through alcohol and drug addiction, many of which are Indigenous People.
Author Seth Kantner was born and raised in Alaska, among the animals and the wilderness, and his writing reflects that. It draws from personal experience, often dealing with themes that involve animals, the environment and living off the land. He says that when he was a kid, his family was entirely attached to the seasons and food from the land. Both decided what they would do every day, be it hunting, fishing, picking berries or chopping wood. Seth continues to live this way of life. In the winter, he hunts for caribou and chops wood for the fire that heats his cabin and in the summer he works as a commercial fisherman. Writing, he says, is what he does after he’s done working for the day.
Seth says that he’s meticulous with his writing, that keeping the messiness and the irreverence and the beauty all mixed together is important to expressing an authentic image of remote Alaska. One that shows the reality of living in harsh, inhospitable environments, not just the beauty of things like the Northern Lights and flawless wilderness. Having grown up on the land, and remaining so close to it today, he’s watched how much everything has changed as a result of human encroachment and climate change. His writing details these observations and what it’s like to have, as he says, modernity bumping up against his life.
Photo by Kiliii Yuyan
The Teen Climate Communicators program is hosted by the Anchorage Museum and offers activities and conversations around the past, present and future relationships between people and the land. Those involved, learn about how climate change is affecting Alaska’s diverse landscapes by hearing from Museum and community experts. Climate change is an ongoing conversation—one that is constantly evolving. So, to talk about it responsibly and thoughtfully, requires an ongoing education. That includes citing credible sources and learning about new ways to convey the effects of climate change.
In the following conversation, Cody is joined by four Teen Climate Communicators. Sofie Chisholm, Eleanor Poe, Emma Ellison and Emma Haas.
Joining this conversation are artists Stuart Hyatt, Dan Mills and Christina Seely. Stuart uses sound to understand our relationship with the natural world. Dan uses maps in paintings and collages as a way to explore ideas of historic and current events, including issues like colonialism. Christina uses photography to address the complexities of both built and natural global systems. All of their work—Stuart, Dan and Christina—is featured in the Anchorage Museum’s exhibition “Counter Cartographies: Living the Land,” which challenges our traditional understanding of what a map is.
Often, maps are viewed as objective and above reproach, but maps—just like any piece of art—come with the bias of their makers. They can be made with the intent of acquiring land and resources, as has historically been the case. So, it’s important to consider how they affect our perspective and understanding of land and our place in the world. It’s also important to consider ways we can re-imagine the traditional idea of mapping because an image can’t always document or express the reality of a place.
Artwork by Dan Mills
Brian Brettschneider is a climatologist and a research scientist. He collects data and analyzes it. And within that mountain of data, he believes many of the secrets of the world exist. But extracting meaning from all that information is a big challenge. It takes time, education and technology.
With its many research institutions located in arctic environments—including universities and weather stations—Alaska is important in the global conversation surrounding climate change. Brian says that, in a lot of ways, the state is a research laboratory with a collection of intellectual firepower located in close proximity to locations that are experiencing quick and dramatic changes. Changes that affect our ways of life, societal infrastructure, transportation and cultural identity.
Aaron Leggett explains the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act, or ANCSA. ANCSA was established on December 18, 1971, and is a landmark policy for many reasons. 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. It also divided the state into 12 regional corporations and almost 200 village corporations that split the money and the land. Before ANCSA, the traditional way the United States had negotiated land settlements and compensation with Native tribes was in the form of reservations and treaties. ANCSA changed the fundamental existence of Alaska as a state as well as the way we think about Indigenous land settlements, and this December marks its 50th Anniversary.
Aaron is the president of the Native Village of Eklutna and the Anchorage Museum’s Senior Curator. He’s a shareholder in Cook Inlet Region, Incorporated, or CIRI, one of the regional Alaska Native corporations set up by ANCSA. He’s also a shareholder and has served on the board of Eklutna, Inc., one of the village corporations set up by ANCSA.
Photo courtesy of CIRI
Journalism has been part of Julia O’Malley’s life since elementary school, where she remembers carrying around a notebook to keep track of what her classmates were doing. Then, in high school, she wrote for her school newspaper. But her love for cooking goes back even further. In fact, one of her first memories is of being 2 or 3 years old and mixing blueberries and milk in her toy kitchen.
The dinner table was a sacred place in Julia’s household. Sitting down and sharing a meal was important and everyone had a role, be it cooking the meal, setting the table or clearing the table. That affection for food also extended outside of home cooked meals. Growing up in Anchorage in the 1980s, there wasn’t a big variety of restaurants and what was cooked in homes. Ingredients were scarce then. So, when they were available, new meals were an experience that Julia cherished. When she thinks about food today, she says that it’s more than just sustenance, it expresses love, culture, care, identity and nostalgia.
Photo by Young Kim
Dr. Amy Christianson is the host of Good Fire, a podcast that explores the social, cultural and ecological importance of fires. For thousands of years, Indigenous people have used fire to improve their environment and their community. More recently, however, because of colonialism and the centralization of power, many of those traditional practices have been made illegal, forcing them to stop or suffer legal repercussions. Today, governmental agencies want to integrate cultural burning into their systems, but Indigenous people are only asking for the autonomy to continue doing what they’ve done for thousands of years.
Matthew Kristoff also joins the conversation. He works on Good Fire with Dr. Christianson. He’s also the host of YourForest, a podcast that explores the natural world through conversations about environmental issues.
Kirk Gallardo is the Education Interpretation Manager at the Anchorage Museum. His job has many aspects, including outreach, research and curriculum creation. His education is in linguistics, and that also comes into play. He says that understanding language is an ongoing endeavor that involves considering how it influences identity and culture. Being able to speak and communicate with one another... and convey our thoughts and desires is so embedded within our understanding of the human experience that it can sometimes be forgotten how much it affects. It shapes our entire world view. It’s a cyclical concept Kirk describes as one that influences our culture by the word choices we have and then our culture influences the language that we use to describe it.
Artist and sculptor John Grade's work exists in the intersection of art, education and advocacy. Influenced by the environment and human impact on it, there’s a specific attention paid to the idea of impermanence. He often destroys his art as part of its showing or exhibition because art, like life, is temporary. Both are a journey that rarely turns out how you’d expect. So, it’s important to embrace change. To achieve this vision, John believes in the power of collaboration—that the inclusion of different perspectives always benefits and improves a project. That more people involved means more minds thinking through complex issues and ideas.
Photographer Jovell Rennie's ingenuity and talent continues to define both his personal and professional ambitions. His drive is influenced by his parents and his upbringing. When he was young, his mom passed away suddenly, leaving him and his dad to navigate life without their cornerstone. Jovell was a quiet, independent kid and his dad had a hands-off parenting approach—he was very present, but allowed his son to learn through experience. They both made it work and even thrived.
Jovell holds many of his formative experiences close. He considers them often and applies them to his life and work. When taking photos, for instance, he believes in staying out of the way and not being a burden. His mom remains a constant presence in his life, and his dad is his biggest supporter. He says that, above all, his motivation is making them proud by always conducting himself with integrity.
Illustrator Ted Kim is known for his unique art style, which includes complex and imaginative scenarios. These scenes have a tendency to depict hope and optimism. He says that this happened naturally—motivated, in part, after he got in the habit of watching documentaries that explored traumatic social issues and events of catastrophic, global failure. His art became his safety net, his method of inspiring self-preservation and hope.
Recently, Ted has become more introspective about his life and his art. He’s learned that life may not play out exactly how we want it to, but—and this is something that he’s been saying a lot lately—everything happens for a reason.
Charis Gullickson is the Curator and Public Sector PHD Student in Art History at the Arctic University of Norway. Charis has a mantra, and that is: museums are not neutral. They’re institutions of culture and agents of change. This is a relatively new concept because, historically, museums have been repositories of antiquities, often displaying artifacts with problematic pasts. This is an issue because without knowing its past, we may revere certain pieces of art and ignore their origins, which could result in perpetuating problematic ideas. So, a lot of Charis’ work is focused on contextualizing classic art so that it can be used as a tool for change.
This is Part 4 of a 4-part series curated by the research collective, Erratics—a curatorial group that creates art that explores geologic phenomena and the effects of human impact on the environment. In this episode, Nina Elder, of Erratics, hosts a conversation about Ghosts, Reliquaries and Memory. It draws on humanity’s handling of climate change and how that reveals our often fraught relationship to the planet, and it explores how artists are moving through this time of ecological loss by seeking reliquaries and memories in the Earth itself.
Nina is joined by artists Tanja Geis, Dionne Lee and Renée Rhodes.
This is Part 3 of a 4-part series curated by the research collective Erratics, a curatorial group that creates art that explores geologic phenomena and the effects of human impact on the environment. In this episode, Hannah Perrine Mode, of Erratics, hosts a conversation about futurism and hope. It draws from personal relationships to deep time and geologic forces from past and present, and explores the methods with which artists are questioning, exploring and reimagining what our collective future or futures will look and feel like.
Hannah is joined by artists Sofía Córdova, Alicia Escott and nicholas b. jacobsen.
This is Part 2 of a 4-part series curated by the research collective, Erratics, a curatorial group that creates art that explores geologic phenomena and the effects of human impact on the environment. In this episode, Tyler Rai, of Erratics, hosts a conversation about Mutations, Kin and Hybrid Bodies. It explores the ever-changing conditions of climate change, how our interdependence across species presents hybridized forms of collaboration and how, as a result, we are challenged to expand the ways we understand change and resilience.
Tyler is joined by sculpture and mixed media artist Flavia D'Urso, artist and engineer Jiabao Li and artist and poet Daniela Molnar.
Erratics is a curatorial group that creates art that explores geologic phenomena and the effects of human impact on the environment. The group consists of three members: artist and researcher Nina Elder, movement artist and researcher Tyler Rai and interdisciplinary artist and educator Hannah Perrine Mode.
In Part 1 of this 4-part series, we meet Tyler, Nina and Hannah and they explain the origins of Erratics, their work within the collective and what unifies that work. The intention of the following conversation, as well as the three that follow, will be to reveal the concepts and ecologies that are foundational to a broad group of artists who are responding to geology, change and human action.
In this episode, Cody talks with four artists and musicians about their work on the Anchorage Museum’s new exhibition titled Listen Up: Northern Soundscapes. The exhibition explores and considers northern soundscapes to better understand humans’ relationship with, understanding of and impact on the natural world.
A soundscape is made up of all the sounds of a given environment. Artists and musicians were given a soundscape that they remixed using their distinctive styles. Their music styles range from acoustic and classical to hip-hop, ambient and electronica.
Rejoy Armamento says that she’s always been interested in art, ever since she was a kid, but that it took her a while to reconnect with it in a serious way as an adult. As she got older, her attraction and affinity for it was stifled by feelings of ambivalence about whether being an artist was a realistic occupation. That was until she went to college in San Francisco, which she describes as a formative experience that re-introduced her to art. She says that she loves the sense of movement that comes with the energy of an active city. And it’s that energy that is present in her murals and in her art.
Today, she’s able to look back on her childhood and realize that she’s always been the person that she knew she was—she’s always been an artist.
When Meda DeWitt was in her early 20s, she began her journey as a traditional healer—she was pursuing a degree in nursing when she says that Spirit had other plans for her. She was having health events that couldn’t be explained by western medicine, so she sought and found answers in holistic medicine. She says that people have a tendency to think of traditional healing as antiquated or obsolete. However, traditional healers of the past and the present are in constant pursuit of knowledge and understanding. And for over 10,000 years, they have focused on a culture of wellness that promotes mental, physical and emotional health.
Chatter Marks is a podcast of the Anchorage Museum, and is available on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Amazon Music and Google Podcasts. Just search "Chatter Marks."
Ash Adams' work tends to focus on people and stories about humanity, and elevating the voices and experiences that have historically been underrepresented. In her work, this includes actively dismantling stereotypes by highlighting Indigenous voices and advocating for gender equity. She says that one role of photojournalism is to show what inequity feels like so that others may understand. And that if we diversify the voices that are telling the narratives and are writing history, then we’re going to have a documented history that is more reflective of what actually happened.
Jeroen Toirkens is a documentary photographer based out of The Hague in The Netherlands. He mainly works on long-term projects that can take years to complete. His most recent project, Borealis, took six years to complete. It’s a book that documents the Boreal Forest and the people who live in it. To accurately tell the story of the Boreal Forest—which is the largest land-based vegetation zone and makes up around 29 percent of the total forested area on earth—He and co-author Jelle Brandt Corstius immersed themselves in the culture and in the environment.
In pursuing a project, Jeroen feels that it’s his responsibility to tell a story in the most accurate way he can. This involves patience and experience and letting the story tell itself, rather than molding it to a narrative of your own.
Francesca DuBrock is the Chief Curator at the Anchorage Museum, and she recently finished putting the finishing touches on Extra Tough: Women of the North, an exhibit dedicated to exploring how women have shaped Alaska and the circumpolar north. The exhibit was a massive undertaking, it took over 9 months to complete and now occupies the entire third floor of the Museum, which is about 7,500 square feet. It’s not intended to be a comprehensive history of the subject, but rather a multitude of snapshots that help explain how integral women are to the past, present and future of the north.
Francesca says that a large part of unpacking all of this includes subverting cultural myths like ones that depict the brave, masculine explorer conquering landscapes. And, instead, portraying a cultural landscape where Indigenous people have lived for thousands of years.
Thomas Chung says that he’s always been interested in art, even as a child, but that as he got older it became a means of self-preservation. His upbringing was marked by racism and homophobia, and art allowed him to express the emotions he didn’t consciously understand at the time. Those emotions, he would later realize, focused on cultural awareness and compassion, and would come to define much of his professional art.
In addition to being an artist, Thomas is also an assistant professor of Art at the University of Alaska Anchorage. There, he continues to champion diversity, equity and inclusivity.
Tiffany Shaw-Collinge is an artist, curator and architect based in Alberta, Canada. She says that place and climate contributes to her work in a way that can’t be understated. It’s as integral to her craft as much as it is to her identity. In Part 2 of this conversation, Tiffany talks about her preference for working in a collective—that the whole is always greater than the sum of its parts—and that her ultimate goal is to convey a sense of wonder and belonging in every project she’s part of.
Tiffany Shaw-Collinge is an artist, curator and architect based in Alberta, Canada. She says that place and climate contributes to her work in a way that can’t be understated. It’s as integral to her craft as much as it is to her identity. Her lineage is Métis, a fact that became more and more part of her professional life after she realized how little indigenous voices and identity are covered. Today, she continues to explore her Métis lineage through her family, and then expressing it through her craft.
Aaron Leggett is the president of the Native Village of Eklutna. He is also the Senior Curator or Alaska History and Indigenous Culture at the Anchorage Museum. In both of those responsibilities, he’s been a champion and an educator of the Alaskan identity. He’s found that critical thinking is key to understanding how Alaska’s history can help us navigate the present and the future.
In this conversation, Aaron talks about his responsibilities as the president of Eklutna and how the Museum fits into the larger conversation surrounding Alaska Native equity.
Acacia Johnson is a photographer focused on human relationships to the environment. She spent most of her twenties traveling around Scandinavia and the polar regions, working on ships. Today, she has over 50 expeditions to the Arctic and Antarctica.
In Part 2 of this conversation, Acacia talks about creating a record of stories, of people and place. About how, through photography, she has the opportunity to start important conversations about polar regions—about the people who live there, climate change and, ultimately, the lessons we can learn from it.
Acacia Johnson is a photographer focused on human relationships to the environment. She spent most of her twenties traveling around Scandinavia and the polar regions, working on ships. Today, she has over 50 expeditions to the Arctic and Antarctica.
In part one of this conversation, she talks about subverting the stereotype of what it means to be an explorer. And that means reframing the image of a man conquering landscapes to an image of a symbiotic relationship between people and the landscapes they live on.
Sebastian Garber is the Senior Designer at the Anchorage Museum and he is currently working on designing a typeface that includes Alaska Native languages. It will be a typeface stripped of geographic references and it will encompass all the necessary diacritic. Diacritics are accent marks that indicate pronunciation. And when finished, it will become the official font of the Anchorage Museum.