A Conversation with G.

Interview by Galen Koch for Salt Institute radio documentary studies (unpublished) 

with island artist Gwendolyn Tatreaux, on Islesboro, Maine, June 2019, in the artist’s studio.

All bold statements are questions from Koch to the artist, responses from Tatreaux follow

What made you decide to become an artist?

I always find that a funny question, and I think most artists would agree with me: I never consciously ‘decided to become’ an artist. I just came this way. I have, however, had to consciously decide to pursue my art as lifestyle, which has not been easy.

What are your earliest memories of being an artist?

I don’t think I ‘defined’ myself as an artist until much later in life, if that’s what you mean. I do remember building elaborate forts and rafts as young kids, probably also out of a deep desire for both domestic stability and escape. I know my brothers and I spent hours and hours drawing, and honestly I consider all three of us artists to this day. I began painting birds at 12, and writing poems and journaling about then I think, and honestly I’ve never looked back. Almost every creative act I engage in somehow becomes a practice, or informs my current one. Sorry. That didn’t really answer your question! (Laughing)

How does living on a remote Maine island influence your work?

Well, in many ways the island IS my work. Or maybe more succinctly, they are completely co-dependent. My work functions as a transcription of this place, and by place I mean the locality and its natural inhabitants, not the human community. The work is meant to be viewed and interpreted by humans, but it is not about them, per se. 

I love the phrase, “Oh, I just work here,” which is something I say to inquisitive tourists when they find me working and ask me what I’m doing. 

They ask that?

It’s happened often, no lie. This island is actually NOT that remote, and the summer’s can be suffocating. But that’s my stock answer, which isn’t one, for them anyhow haha. It’s my wry-humor approach to the underlying fact that no one knows what we're doing here, on Earth. Big picture of course. But it also denotes an acknowledgement to my sense, at least, that we are all here to serve. We’re working for someone or something, whether you define it or not, and artists understand that instinctively. So do parents, I think. God help the tourist who actually gets me going on the subject!

Working in so many different mediums, what would you say is the driving force behind what you create? The connective thread?

Fundamentally I am working as a transcriber for the Silent Kingdom. I know I know- that sounds pretentious, but I mean it very simply. A mathematician or an astronomer could honestly say the same. I look for “invisible” languages in nature (I actually find the same language in different forms and expressions,) and attempt to transcribe it. Trees, stones, feathers, bones, streams- it’s everywhere. I’m just trying to bring it into an organized form other humans can see and, hopefully, take to heart. 

What would you say this language is communicating?

Honestly I’d love to not have to spell it out twice, so to speak, (chuckling) but for the sake of this interview and ‘multiple points of access’ I’ll answer. I used to see the language messaging humans in subtle warning, specifically in regards to climate change and collapse. I first started doing this kind of work in 2015, coming out of the rope work and chart series, which were much more ‘humanly inclined.’ I remember the day I first found the first insect-eaten wood-log that inspired the Drift Glyphs. I was on the north shore of the island in the east bay, in this funny little (rare) sand pocket, and I managed to roll the log into the wet sand where it left its negated impressions. That was the ‘Aha!’ moment, really, to develop what I refer to now as the ‘direct matrix printing.’ I had gone down to the beach there to look back up at the clay bank where a massive slide of erosion had just occurred, and it seemed all connected. The island slipping into the sea, the not frozen/running water, the strangely warm February day, and the marks I’d rolled out in the sand. That was an anomaly of a day then- in 2016- now the entire winter is like that. Notably, the sand on that beach and the entire bank are gone now. Completely eroded 100 feet back to raw ledge. 

And what about now? Do you feel the message has changed?

Sometimes. Well…how should I answer that. (Long pause) 

Ok so on difficult days it seems to be screaming, “Y’all fucked up! We’re screwed!” But honestly that’s a lot my nihilistic response mechanism chiming in. 

So often, when I’m in the thick of the scribing and the painting process, or when I discover yet another new form of the language while out stomping the woods or shoreline, it seems to be more along the lines of “Everything here works perfectly. You could too.” You being us, the humans, I mean. 

Is all your work based in or from this language in nature? These messages?

Well I can’t honestly say. Sometimes I make something that doesn’t seem connected, and then I look at it a year later and realize, “Oh no way! There it is!” So maybe the answer is yes. It does seem that the sculpture and forms “speak” the language, while the paper works and prints are the record therein, is often how I explain it. The poetry, though, is much more human-centric. Which makes sense as it’s fundamentally based in our language, not theirs.  I guess that’s where my conflicted aspect comes out. Despite working for the Silent Kingdom, I’m very much a human. (Laughing) You can tell by face? Yah I can’t say I enjoy it all that much. I do fantasize about what kind of tree I would get to be.

So far you’ve spoken a lot about how the Island has been inherent in your work. Does it ever act as a barrier?

You mean if I lived in Portland I would have gallery representation by now? Yes, I hear you. But I also we don’t know if that would be true, and honestly probably not. Certainly a larger circle of people might have seen my work, but that’s what social media is for. We could sit here all day and pick apart the barriers, rural or urban, for any artist or writer or creative out there. It’s not easy, is the bottom line, and if I had been inland I might have created completely different work, which to me sitting here right now, seems an awful shame. But honestly, I would have been just as poor doing it, so. Six of one/half dozen kind of deal I think.

There’s a long history of the Maine coast and islands attracting and inspiring artists from all backgrounds to work here. Do you feel your work holds a relationship with any of these in particular?

That’s a great question. And no, off the top of my head, but then also yes, to all of them. I love Marsden Hartley paintings, but I don’t feel our work has direct kinship. That being said, anyone affected by this place and making from or with it is in relation to one another, yes? I will say I worked in Alison Hildreth’s gardens on Vinalhaven for a few years, and was over the moon to help her move paintings around and discuss printmaking. The Haven islands have always magnetized my artistic spirit in a strange way. Moving prints around for Robert Indiana, being blown away by Diana Cherbuliez’s practice, printing with Chris in his cool downtown studio. I had the chance as a kid to visit Eric Hopkins’ studio on North Haven and I totally freaked out. Could not say a word. Just kind stood bug-eyed next to a step ladder and looked around. Which I think is a great modality to visit anyone’s studio haha!

Are there other artists you’ve drawn inspiration from?

Well…hmmm…haha I guess I’m stalling because I have a funny opinion there. All through school people would be like, “Drawing from Rauschenberg’s blah blah blah, I’ve made this work..” And it all seemed so contrived. Like- you don’t know Rauschenberg, you’ve seen one painting in the Bowdoin museum- how can you call that influence or inspiration? Seems like a name- dropping game to me. Not that I don’t think it’s important to realize that very little if anything is original, we’re all trading ideas and images to evolve them, especially now in the ‘age of information,’ and inspiration in any form is rely anyone’s greatest gift. But I made a ‘rule’ for myself, that the only influence I would really take to heart, to deeply consider while critiquing or making my work, was that from artists I actually get to meet, know, have conversations with, collaborate, etc, and I’ve been really lucky in that regard. I also recognize it might just be a way of managing being completely overwhelmed! (Laughing)

In my final years at USM, though, there was a heavy-hitting line up of professors, which at the time I was grateful for and now I’m quite blown away. Rose Morasco in photo, Duncan Hewitt in sculpture, Lin Lisberger in drawing, Gideon Bok came to paint for awhile, and my printmaking instructor, Joel Seah, was so brilliant I couldn’t even stand it. He would have given Joseph Beuys a run for it in conceptual work. Unreal. Then my colleague Justin LeVesque, with whom I still work closely- literally one of the most intelligent makers I know, and the best critic anyone could ask for. Looking back, I definitely had a graduate-school-level experience leading up to my BFA.

And you’re still in touch with these folks now?

Not really, no. And maybe that one’s on me. I go to their shows when they have them, and we stay in touch via social media. Justin [LeVesque] I see a lot. He’s the anchor, there, and thank god for that, and I still visit Viinalhaven a lot for inspiration.

You’ve mentioned ‘abject poverty’ a few times. If money were no object, what would you do first? Or where would you go, presumably to make work?

Haha! Oh I hope I don’t sound like a whiny victim- that’s not what I’ve meant. I could go on about class disparity and whatnot but honestly I’ve made a lot of choices to be able to garner time for my work, and to do that work here, on-island, when I could have been out in the world working for money. Which I still do, to be clear! But this has been the site of the making, mostly. 

You mean this structure?

Yes. I built this in 2012 from mostly salvaged materials, but it’s in a swamp and kind of falling down as you can see on that front post. I love it, but it has not yet fulfilled my studio dreams. And with no electricity or water, it has definitely created some barriers to my makings. But! I’ve realized that many of those barriers led me to develop the processes I use now. If I’d had a fancy pressroom this whole time, the work would be completely different. Sometimes limitations are blessings. For awhile anyway haha! But to answer your previous question: if I came into a bunch of money, I would build and outfit a true print studio, here on the island. And then start an artist residency. Million percent. It’s actually been The Big Dream forever. As much as I love and need to work alone, I crave print community.

An artist residency specifically for printmakers? Do you think that would do well on-island?

Well a printing studio has the greatest overhead and specific needs, and printmakers have a long history of collaboration, but no the residency would be open to whomever applies and makes good work and wants to do so on an island for a bit. I don’t care if you sit in the garden and play a lute all day, just come here and make something. Participate. Engage. And yes I think there is no better place to cultivate inspiration, reflection, focus, and if you want, collaboration- all the things an art residency SHOULD do. 

Can I come? (Laughing)

Heck yes! Come and write and putter around on the shore or whatever you like! I recognize I’ve been so extremely blessed to not only live here, but to make work from here. I would love to share the magic of that with other creatives. Even if you just want to stand next to the step ladder, bug eyed, and not say anything!

(Both laughing)