It's not common for Inupiaq men to sew, or at least to let anyone know about it. But those who do frequently create some of the finest skin work in Alaska.
One such is Willy "Newpealuke" Topkok.
"I love to sew," he says. "I love making parkas."
And people love what he does. One of the Master Artists at the Alaska Native Heritage Center, he's in high demand as an instructor. When interviewed for this article in May, he had just returned from a class in Cordova where he taught mukluk-making and was making plans for another class.
Art in various forms fascinated him from his youth. Returning to Alaska from boarding school in Oregon, he painted a picture of a horse. His father squinted at it and wondered aloud why an Eskimo would do such a thing. "We don't have any horses!" he said.
But his grandmother, who was half Sami (Laplander) and whose
memories went back to the gold rush, corrected him, recalling a time when every town on the Seward Peninsula had horses for hauling freight.
History aside, Topkok's father insisted that he learn the remunerative skill of ivory carving. Today Topkok still knows how to use the indigenous drill with the "handle" gripped in one's teeth and the drill motion created by a bow mechanism. Power tools are a lot easier, he notes, and "Sewing takes less energy than carving."
His father might have agreed. Topkok recalls that the older man sewed himself, "but at night, so no one would see him doing it."
It was his grandmother who showed him the tools and techniques for working in fabric and fur.
Nowadays, however, he pursues his vision with computerized drawing programs and state of the art sewing machines.
The result is pure luxury for both the sense of sight and the sense of touch, a veritable symphony in fur: black wolf, muskrat, beaver, wolverine, sealskin.
Topkok's designs are largely traditional. The hood reflects the head of a walrus, a main game animal in Norton Sound. The vertical patterns in front of the shoulders represent the animal's tusks. Men's parkas can have up to three tassels -- ornamental strips of fur -- before they're considered boastful. Women's parkas, on the other hand, can have as many tassels as will fit.
His work is identified by his logo showing a wolf-headed dancer. He sells through the gift shop at the Alaska Native Medical Center and the Alaska Native Heritage Center, as well as the Alaska Native Heritage Gallery downtown.
But Topkok's creations don't always carry the Silver Hand emblem indicating authentic work by a Native Alaskan.
He's perfectly comfortable in departing from "authenticity" when it gets in the way of aesthetics, practicality or economics.
For instance, his parkas generally sport a zipper instead of following the traditional anorak style that has to be slipped on over the head like a T-shirt.
Even in the most traditional villages, as soon as zippers were introduced, women discovered that the front-opening model helped keep their hair in place.
Also, Topkok substitutes non-Alaska materials when local skins are not available or too costly. He uses wolverine from Canada, for instance, and commercial calfskin instead of caribou or reindeer hide. One of his parkas features badger fur. "Badgers aren't in our part of Alaska," he admits, "but badger skins from the Lower 48 are very reasonable right now."
It makes little difference in appearance or warmth. "It has to be very cold to wear this one," he quips, trying on a extra-large coat that nearly doubles his bulk.
Then there's the little matter of the law, he says. He used to make dolls with ivory and seal skin, but too many European buyers found themselves unable to take their purchases with them when they left the state and clashed with customs agents in their home countries.
So Topkok makes his dolls with fabric bodies now. They're bowlegged, he says, because in his ancestral villages everyone was bowlegged in the old days, the result of being bound to their mother's backs when they were babies.
Not that he's opposed to cooperating with regulators if they can help him achieve a dream.
One of his dreams is to make a parka from loons.
His grandmother told him about the things. She said it would take 150 loon skins to make one.
Loons are protected. "I'll need to get permission from Fish and Game," he says. "And I'll need help from the Canadian Inuit. They still know how to do this. It'll be a lot of work, but," his eyes grow wide and he smiles in anticipation, "it would be spectacular!"
Find Mike Dunham on line at adn/contact/mdunham or call 257-4321.
By MIKE DUNHAM
mdunham@adn.com