Just horsing around

       Creating art, for me, is a perfect example of the injunction “Do what you love doing and you won’t work a day in your life.” Of course, for much of my early working life I thrashed around trying to discover just what I most loved doing. I found out it wasn’t just one thing. I love reading, writing, photography, painting, hiking, teaching, and tennis, to mention some of the top contenders. However, when engaged in creating new images, particularly pictures of lost worlds, imaginary worlds, or strange beasts, I seem to come closest to that state of mind where labor merges with love. I’m just horsing around and enjoying the hell out of doing it.

       And speaking of labors of love and horses, I’ve recently been painting a series of small scenes for a local geologist (Elisabeth Erwin-Blankenheim) illustrating the evolution of horses from their origins in the Eocene—the period of tropical warmth that followed after the apocalyptic end of the dinosaurs’ reign 66 million years ago. These paintings have allowed me to become more adept at drawing horses while familiarizing myself with the shifting climates of the Cenozoic and the rise of mammalian life.

       I admire the work of paleoartist Jay Maternes who created many murals depicting the Cenozoic. Visions of Lost Worlds, the Paleoart of Jay Maternes, is an excellent book published in 2019 by Smithsonian Books describing his journey as an artist and the amazing images he created. 

       The legacy of paleoart extends back to Charles R. Knight (1874-1953), a wildlife painter coaxed into reconstructing the remains of an extinct pig-like animal (Elotherium) by a Dr. Wortman at the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH).  After that commission, Knight was hooked on reconstructing the deep past. He went on to paint iconic murals of dinosaurs and other beasts that my generation grew up with. I wrote about Knight in my 2015 book, Confessions of a Time Traveler. (See the link to Amazon in my “books” section.)

       Both Knight and Maternes (who also worked at the AMNH as well as the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History) spent long hours drawing animals from the bones and musculature up. I know Knight sculpted models out of clay and lighted them to create all the proper cast shadows. I didn’t have the time or money to go to that extreme, but still it takes several hours of sketching various poses to create a rough sketch, and then 6 to 8 hours to render even a small (8.5” X 11”) piece of finished artwork.

       Here you can see a painting showing Hyracotherium trotting alongside his modern counterpart—the faithful traveling and recreational companion of many people today.

       I guess there’s more than one way to have some fun just horsing around.

Once a decade or so I have an attack of poetry. The following free verse poem was inspired by a find in Northern Colorado. I may have been channeling Loren Eiseley, a favorite writer/poet of mine. Sometimes one has to wonder if humans will rise to the task of becoming stewards of our planet or not.

The old man placed his boot near a pad of prickly pear, 

And a shard of sharp-edged flint.

The flint transfixed his eye. Caramel colors swirled 

Within triangular contours, 

As if a candy maker 

Mistakenly selected flinty quartz for his confection.

The old man plucked the rock from its dirt and cactus home. 

His thumb caressed a central knob; fingers nested ‘round the point, 

Exposing a serrated arc of stone. 

Some person once dreamt a purpose for the ragged flint,

Perhaps to scrape a hide, 

During an age when frigid air slid down glaciers, 

And giant bison huffed puffy clouds with every breath exhaled.

The old man felt connection with the shaper of the flint. 

Their tool clasped his hand like a long-lost friend. 

The flint of earthy colors, flaked and reimagined, 

Performed acts his body alone could not.

The pretty quartz might carve a totem, or slash an enemy’s throat. 

It could spark fire with another flint or 

Ignite minds to burn with wilder, wider conflagrations:

Erecting cities like termite mounds,

Or shedding ships like spores to circle distant, deadly worlds.

The old man’s world now teetered, 

Precariously,

Overused, abused,

On the sharp-edged legacy of flinty dreams come true.