ARTPRIZE BIG DOG ARTIST SPEAKS ABOUT LIFE IN U.P.
ANDREW SMENTKOWSKI
THURSDAY OCTOBER 13th, 2011
In 1998, artist Ritch Branstrom left Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for life in the city. His studio may have been a Harry Potter-esque broom closet in his girlfriend’s Chicago apartment but the two years he worked there represented one of his most prolific periods as an artist. He had gallery shows displaying his found object sculpture, arts magazines tracking him down, and TV stations doing features on him.
Branstrom’s productivity was not enough to keep him in Chicago, though. The craziness of living in a large metropolitan area at the turn of the century was enough to drive him back north to where he had been slowly building a house near Rapid River, Michigan. He figured the attention would follow him back to the U.P. but things didn’t work out that way. “Once I moved up here full time, it was kind of like falling off the face of the earth,” explains Branstrom.
To support himself, he took his signature ‘beer-can fish’ and other work on the road, traveling to art fairs, music festivals, and galleries throughout the country. He also took a shot at a tried-and-true U.P. institution: the roadside attraction. He rented an abandoned building on U.S. Highway 2 in Rapid River and started a workshop where he could display some of his work outside. While the population of Rapid River is under 5,000, Highway 2 is one of the U.P.’s major byways. During the height of summer, 20,000 cars a day go by his workshop.
Tourists who passed by this summer were witness to a dinosaur made out of 1940′s car parts, a burly-looking motorcycle assembled from old tractors, a three-piece band constructed from rusty scraps and mops, and other odd assemblages. For the weary traveler who’s been driving for hours through the rural scenery of northern Wisconsin and the U.P., Branstrom’s workshop appears from out of nowhere like a junkyard apparition. Branstrom is not unaware of this surreal effect: “There’s a big garage door out front, and when I open it up, it’s my vortex to the universe. It sucks people in from around the world.”
Branstrom’s workshop points to the origin of the 1990′s internet metaphor of an information super highway, with the exception that it is the literal thing and not a metaphor. “Going in to work is a form of networking for me. Any given day I can talk with several dozen people from around the country and around the world,” he says.
The attention he has attracted from his U.S. 2 location, along with a new artists’ co-operative called “Zero Degrees Gallery” in Marquette, has recently allowed Branstrom to give up his heavy travel schedule. “This is the first year that I only did one music event. I’ve cut out all my other shows,” says Branstrom. “Zero Degrees is just mind blowing. I’ve actually pulled work out of eight galleries in the past two months from around the country – some of whom I’ve been dealing with for twenty years – and I can’t keep work in Zero Degrees.” One of the reasons for the uptick in sales is that as a member of the cooperative, he does not have to mark up his work to account for a split with the gallery. “The thing with galleries is that they take half of the profit. If you need $50 for a piece, you have to sell it for $100.” Now, Ritch says, he’s “…been trying to cut out the galleries and the consignment sales and trying just selling out of Marquette.”
At the Zero Degrees Gallery, the admiration is mutual. Fellow co-operative member and artist Tracy Hruska said, “People come from all over the place to see his stuff specifically. And when people come in to see his stuff, obviously we are affected because our work sells as well. He’s a big pull for us. Rarely does his stuff go out of here with just a fish. It’s a fish and a piece of jewelry. It’s a fish and a card. He’s our biggest seller.”
Branstrom is also having an impact on a younger generation of artists. Two years ago, he did a show at the Domaci Art Gallery in Roger City, Michigan. One of the attendees was 11-year-old Bailey Budnik who was inspired to create his own found object art. A year later, Budnik had his first show with other young artists from the area. “He’s 13 now and he has a thriving business with pieces shown around the country,” says a proud Branstrom.
Asked what kept him in the U.P. during the lean years, he said that it boiled down to the venison and scrap metal: “I guess I’m fortunate because I like working with old vehicles and old items from the farms. I like working with the classical things from the 40′s and 50′s made out of thick metal, made with craftsmanship. So, living here, opposed to a more urban setting, helps me be able to find things for my found object sculptures.”
The results of Branstrom’s scrapping are apparent throughout his work. When I visited him, he was working on a 12 foot-tall dog for his ArtPrize entry, which was made out of quarter panels and headlights from old cars, logs, and part of an antique thresher. With less than a week before the piece had to be installed outside of the Grand Rapids Public Museum, he was concentrating on finishing up the collar, made from a tire tread and hubcaps. “How are you getting him downstate,” I asked. “I don’t know. I’ll figure that out when the time comes,” replied Branstrom. (Editor’s Note: Branstrom’s ‘big dog’ entry Rusty earned a top five ranking in the annual competition.)
