The Not so Magic Skagit.

An aggressively bold statement on the history, culture, and current climate of the Skagit Valley art scene.

The Skagit is my home. I grew up in the mud of this valley—living in La Conner, Mount Vernon, and Bow. My earliest memories are defined by this region’s creative pulse: attending Arts Alive! walks, haunting the Smith and Valley Gallery, and buying supplies at Dakota Art. But it wasn’t until I returned here after earning my degree in Visual Communication that I truly took my practice outdoors. I quickly discovered a mechanical necessity I never knew I needed: conflict.

Soon after, I was drawn to Craft Island—a location at the mouth of the South Fork of the Skagit River. It provided my first taste of success and a culture directly tied to my lineage.

The Foundation: The Northwest Mystics (1930s–1950s)

A lineage of creators has followed in one another's footsteps here for nearly a century. It began with the Northwest Mystics, a group of four—Mark Tobey, Morris Graves, Kenneth Callahan, and Guy Anderson—who migrated from the urban centers of Edmonds and Seattle to the La Conner region. What they found left an unrivaled impression.

In the late 1930s and 40s, long before the "hippie" movement or the modern art scene, these men chose to settle in unfinished houses and remote cabins. Guy Anderson, a pivotal figure for the Skagit identity, lived and worked out of a primitive space in La Conner with no power and no water. They chose the physical discomfort of the valley to chase a fleeting light and a spiritual essence found nowhere else—a style that Life Magazine would later coin the "Northwest School."

The Second Wave: Fishtown (1960s–1980s)

This led to the second wave: Fishtown. In the late 1960s, a new generation of artists, poets, and thinkers occupied a collection of abandoned fishing shacks on the Swinomish Channel and the Skagit Delta. Led by figures like Robert "Bob" Crawl, Charles Krafft, and poet Robert Sund, this group ushered in a profound counter-culture.

They lived as squatters on the land, creating a community centered on the "magic" of the river estuary. Though eventually disbanded in the 1980s due to public land disputes and the removal of the shacks—fleeing to the fringes of Bow, Edison, and Guemes Island—their influence remained. We see the remnants of this culture preserved in institutions like Arts Alive! and the Museum of Northwest Art (MoNA), as well as the now-dissolved Smith and Valley Gallery, which drew its relevance from the artist-heavy presence in the Edison-Bow corridor.

The Divergence: Hard Times vs. Lazy Art

How did this raw culture become co-opted and gentrified? The answer is simple: people work hard so that their successors don’t have to. The focused culture of the Skagit exists because of the sacrifices of those who came before—artists who chose the work over money or comfort.

Today, we see a massive divergence. Our current climate is far removed from the fire in which it was forged. Between skyrocketing land prices, heavy taxes, and a high cost of living, it has become nearly impossible for a new generation to live as the Mystics or the Fishtown residents did.

I believe that conflict creates art. You cannot produce anything of lasting value from the perspective of fine art unless you are in the mud. This is a direct jab at the current majority of creators in the valley. Most modern art here is created in predictability. It is an echo chamber of the same vistas, colors, and techniques. While art is for everyone, a culture rooted in comfort is a culture that is slowly killing its own creativity.

My Place in the Lineage

I have realized that my work falls in line with those who came before me, but with a modern tectonic shift. I have turned to the last bastion of true wilderness: The Cascades.

There is no space left for me in the valley; I was priced out before I was born. In a state where the laws and costs make it horrifically difficult for an artist who isn't retired or bankrolled, existing on my own terms is a necessity.

It was never my goal to emulate the past. I simply found myself in their situation because I saw what they saw: an expanse of untouched nature. I feel that same spiritual light, but I acknowledge that the process is more important than the product. To create the work is not enough; one must live through it.

Connecting the Dots

From my perspective, there is a giant gap in the culture. I feel a drive to connect the dots for younger artists. The magic of the Skagit is still there, but it has been pushed toward the mountains.

To exist within this history is powerful. My practice—creating large-scale, multimedia works while living on-location for weeks—is a lifetime engagement with the environment. It is a strange, profound realization to find my work exhibited in the same cultural icons created by the artists I respect, like Arts Alive! and the Harris Harvey Gallery.

I am still depending on the culture created 100 years ago, but I am dragging it back into an honest, raw space. Away from institutions, politics, and spectacle. I create my work detached from the noise because that is what needs to be seen.