 At work in his studio, Troll takes a break from hand coloring to change a CD. Photo by Hall Anderson.
Adapting
At 8:00 every morning, Ray crosses his back yard and climbs the
steps to his studio. He calls it his "boy fort," but it more
resembles an old cannery rising up three stories at the back of his
property, high enough for him to capture the view over the houses
below. Inside, he has a great room with a couch, a giant wall where
he hangs his works in progress, stacks of out-of-print archaeology
and paleontology books, and lots of windows looking out to the
water.
Fish specimens in old mayonnaise and peanut butter jars, some
given to Ray by scientists, are placed throughout.
His primary workspace is a drawing table in the front corner. As
he settles in, he turns in his chair and picks out some music.
Maybe it's Jim White, or maybe his latest favorite, The Horseflies.
It depends on his mood. Then he'll turn the volume way up.
Sometimes he'll look into his sketchbook/diary to draw on an
idea that hit him on the road a few months earlier. Other times,
he'll make a clay model and see how the light plays off the
features. Depending on the animal he's rendering, when he's "way
deep" he might start humming, or growling, or purring, imagining
the noises it might make.
When he needs a break from his own work, he often drives south
to Saxman to hang out at the carving center, where artists from
coastal clans make totem poles out of giant red cedars. When it
comes to art, Ketchikan is the place, says Ray, as we drive back
through town and past dozens of totem poles, some new, some very
old. "That one's Haida," says Ray. "And that over there is
Tlingit." "At first I didn't notice it," he says of the indigenous
art. "But then I fell in love with it." Ray feels a connection with
this creative group, especially since his tendency to iconify fish
resonates with the form-line design images of Northwest Native
American artwork.
After a lunch break or a field trip, he's back at work until
dinner. One thing about Ray, say his friends, he is a disciplined
worker. People often think art is created out of mood and whim.
With Ray, it's a full-time job.
Scientists love Troll for his interest and enthusiasm, but also
for the care he takes in making his renderings as correct as
possible. The Gilbert Ichthyologic Society recently made him an
honorary member. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric
Administration fisheries lab in Santa Cruz hired him to paint a
mural. And he created the artwork to aid in species identification
for the National Marine Fisheries Services Website.
He even has a fish named after him: Hydrolagus trolli, a
species of ratfish. The scientist who discovered the unique species
in 2001 said she named it for Ray because he was someone who shared
her fascination for the odd-looking cartilaginous creature that
hadn't changed in over 300 million years. Ray describes his
interest as "an unhealthy obsession," calls himself "Ratfish Ray,"
and even carries the Ratfish moniker on his license plate.
 Troll holds a ratfish specimen on the deck of his studio overlooking the Tongass Narrows. Photo by Hall Anderson.
Today Ray travels around the country hunting for new fish to
draw and real dinosaur bones. Collaborating with writer Brad Matsen
and paleobotanist Kirk Johnson, he goes crawling over fossil beds
and combing through museum collections, eager to feed his hunger
for details about nature, fish, and man. And then he puts it all
into his art.
"He comes to this with great enthusiasm," says Johnson, his most
recent companion and collaborator. Where many artists render
prehistoric animals and prehistoric jungles, Ray connects with his
creatures. With his scientifically accurate renditions, he manages
to go deeper, say the scientists. "His pictures bring forth other
emotions," says Johnson. "What he draws is what we see. These
creatures are literally out there in our minds as we drive
around."
Even if Ray's art pieces are destined for an exhibit or a book,
the originals usually show up in the Soho Coho gallery, a warm,
wood-floored space on Creek Street in the old part of Ketchikan.
"In the day, it was the big house of ill repute on the creek," says
Ray of the structure, noting the irony that Ketchikan Creek running
below the wooden pier-supported street is also a place where salmon
come to spawn.
We visit the gallery at the end of our day together. The rain
has stopped, but the wet weather makes the Creek Street shop lights
sparkle. "There's where Michelle and I went on our first date," he
says, pointing to the second-story Chinese restaurant next door. He
spins around, "There's Dolly's House, another old brothel. And down
there is where they hold yoga classes."
The neighborhood is quieter than usual. The tourist season is
coming to an end, and the last of the cruise ships left town
earlier this afternoon. Even the summer workers have headed to the
lower 48. "The town is ours again," says Ray, noting that winter in
Ketchikan is a perfect time to hole up and work, and "create your
own fun." When he emerges in the spring, his next book should be
completed.
"I'm a 50-year-old guy still drawing dinosaurs with crayons," he
says, as we walk away from the gallery and down the wooden street.
"And like a kid, when it's done, I'll hold it out to see if you
like it."
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