Stephanie Peters

​Late winter chill still floats in the wind  
Eager to bloom, yellow sprouts 
Road sides, in the garden, sprinkled in fields 
A master of Resilience
weighed down under the last snow 
Thriving in hope 
The daffodils remind us 
The snow always melts
Spring sunshine is near 

A Master of Resilience

​Cape St Mary’s in Newfoundland hosts one of the largest breeding colonies of seabirds I have ever seen. Thousands of Northern Gannets, Murres (aka Turrs by the locals), Kittiwakes, Black-backed gulls, Black Guillemots, and my favorite, Razorbills (aka Tinkers to the locals), call these cliffs home during the summer.

Earlier this year, I went to Kearney, Nebraska to see Sandhill Cranes gather during their spring migration stopover at the Platte River. The cranes feed in the fields during the day to fuel up for the rest of their trip north, then they gather to roost on the river at night. They spend about a month in Kearney before they take off for their breeding grounds in Canada. Right before they head to the river at night, hundreds of thousands of cranes come together in one of the fields near the river, as if it’s a designated pre-game party they all got an invitation to.

I’m not sure words can truly capture the magical experience of watching the cranes come together. Even visual art & photographs are limited in how much they can take you there. Being present is the only way to feel that sense of awe you’ll have. Especially since, as the cranes come together, the sun has already set, so you experience the moment through sound and energy and not so much from what you see. But what you can see, oh that’s mesmerizing - the sight of thousands of cranes in the night sky is everlasting.
​
This new painting of flying Sandhill Cranes reveals a tiny moment of that experience... when the night sky turns blue, and the first cranes are flying in to gather on their staging ground. But like I said, to truly connect with the magic this painting is revealing, you’ll have to join the cranes on the Platte River.
 
Maybe I’ll see you there next year.

Rabbits always bring me joy. Maybe because they are so vulnerable but if they like you, they’ll show their fearless side and eat right in front of you. Giving you a little glimpse of trust and friendship. ​

Recently, I was commissioned to paint a mural on an outdoor addition that was blocking a beautiful Iowa scene. The owner wanted to recapture her lost Iowa view in the mural, but was interested in my artistic interpretation. Because art does not necessarily have to mimic what’s there, I took the chance to expand her scene by adding a few things that brought back positive memories for her and added a little joy to her view. 

In pictures, here's the journey of the painting process... 

Years ago, I became fascinated by the Everglades and everything that lived there. This is when I fell in love with Roseate Spoonbills and their funny beaks. I told Neil we needed to go to the Everglades right now to see these amazing birds. Instead, we went to the Phoenix Zoo to see them, because well the Phoenix Zoo was a bit closer to Sedona than the Everglades… it wasn’t until a few years later I finally got to see these incredible birds in the wild – in South Carolina. I still haven’t made it to the Everglades…

But it was super exciting to see them in the wild; these birds are typically only found in the southeast – so Texas to Florida and up to North Carolina. Except, lately they have been wandering. Last year, one was spotted in Gilbert, Arizona – and apparently might still be there – and more recently, they have been spotted in DC, Delaware, New York, Michigan, New Hampshire, and Maine… apparently, they didn’t get the memo that they are “southeast” birds. In many ways I get it – sometimes you just need to wander from your “home.” After all I've been doing it for years.

It might be a few more months until I get to wander to the Everglades but until then, I’ll live vicariously through the wandering spoonbill…

 “The Wanderer – Roseate Spoonbill”, mixed media 6”

I find the song of a red-winged blackbird comforting. It's the soundtrack of spring for sure. But depending on where you are, these birds could be companions all year round. ​

Red-winged blackbirds are found all across North America - except for in the arctic tip of Canada. In most of the places I've lived, they have always been one of those birds you can count on seeing when hiking - at least if you are near water. From the bogs of the Adirondacks, to the water-treatment areas in Phoenix, you can see the flashy black male and the patterned brown female. I'm always surprised to see how different the female looks, even though I've seen the couple so many times. 

Because I've seen them so many times, and in so many places, I have tons of sketches and photographs of these birds sitting on things like cattails, branches, up in trees, bushes, etc. 

But it wasn't until I saw this red-winged blackbird precariously sitting on an echinacea flower that I found the composition I wanted. 

I spotted this bird sitting on this flower in the middle of a field of wildflowers tucked in between cornfields, in Iowa. Usually what inspires me to make a painting is the creature itself - whether it's a bird or a muskrat - I'm drawn to the experience I'm having of this particular creature in front of me.

But in this case, it was the red-winged blackbird's experience of the flower that I found interesting. I'd never seen them on a cone flower, and it was interesting to see how it hung on as the wind blew it back and forth. Like most of the times when you encounter a red-winged blackbird, they are more focused on what they are doing rather than what you are doing. Despite your presence, they will continue their songs or continue to hunt for worms. And I think that's what I loved about this moment, it didn't seem tainted by human activity, it was blissfully nature. 

At the end of April 2011, there was an outbreak of tornadoes across the southeast, with at least 362 confirmed tornadoes that touched ground in a four-day period - accounting for almost half of the 751 tornadoes that were recorded for that month. This outbreak was one of the worst in history and left horrific scenes that were played on repeat for days in the news. 

I wanted to help - help heal the planet and the people that were suffering during this natural disaster - and those who had experienced the 2004 tsunami, Katrina, and so many other deadly natural disasters in recent years. I didn't understand why disasters were increasing in severity at the time or how I could help from where I was in Virginia, but what I could do was paint. So, I painted this painting called Tornado.

Using saturated colors with rigorous applications of paint, the abstracted forms of the painting embodied the spirit of a tornado. The canvas is ripped and stitched up, representing how we can heal and move forward. Just like a wound on your body can be healed with stitches. But sadly, the scars might always be there.

Tornado went on to become the first painting in a series of abstract paintings on natural disasters. My goal in making these paintings was not to argue about the data of climate change or encourage people to stop polluting - though the work speaks on those points as well. But it was to talk about Natural Disasters. To bring the conversation out. To address the science, the impact, the emotional energy, and our experience for some kind of understanding. As an artist, I speak with colors and shapes, not so much with words. Therefore, I let the art speak for itself and for it to create its own impact.

Over the last 10 years, these paintings have gone on to be exhibited internationally (including in an exhibition with the World Bank), presented at a Natural Hazard conference, published in print internationally, and are a part of student lesson plans on Natural Disasters/Climate Change/Earth Science, etc. for grades 1 through 6th all over the world. And a few have even become part of private art collections.

When you create art and put it out there, so to speak, you get only a glimpse of the effect or conversation surrounding the work and topic. I don’t get to hear from everyone who sees the work, but occasionally I hear from a few where the piece has moved them, inspired them, or urged them enough to at least start a conversation with me.

It’s funny to think that after ten years, the painting I created on a slightly warped canvas with a hole in it that I pulled from the scrap pile at Plaza Artist Materials, along with the Liquitex acrylic paint on clearance at Michaels, and the string that I got to learn how to sew on a sewing machine with but never used, would still feel just as alive in energy as it did when I made it. It would still hold the intention that I had, to help us heal to move forward. And what seemed like a painting doomed to begin with – both in materials and haunting subject matter - was really the beginning of my artistic voice.  Happy 10th anniversary, Tornado.

Neil was the artist in residence at the Adirondack Interpretive Center in Newcomb, NY. For 2 months, he lived on Lake Arbutus to be inspired by the enchanting spirits of the Adirondack forest. A summer blissfully away from the hustle bustle of the modern world and immersed in the peacefulness of the forest...

Well... peaceful for the most part, I was lucky enough to join him for the summer. And if I wasn't questionably standing on rocks, balancing on fallen down trees, or falling in lakes, it was a pretty peaceful summer...

Common loons have very eerie and distinct calls. Yet, they are not the gloomy, dreary bird that one would think is behind a call like their wail. In fact, they are quite the opposite with their distinct and striking summer appearance, most notably the checkered white pattern on their back. And, their black feathers are iridescent in the sunlight, ranging from shades of reddish dark purple to deep emerald green!

Every fall, they molt their breeding feathers to transition into a very dull plumage for the winter. Common loons, like all loons, breed in fresh water and then migrate to winter in salt water. Our Arbutus Lake loons most likely migrated to the Atlantic Ocean which isn't too far, but some loons will migrate up to 1570  miles to their winter homes.

And, with us. Though we kept our distance and shot all of these photos using our 600mm lens, the loons found us interesting and would swim close enough to inspect our kayaks or wonder what we were doing on the shore (falling off rocks, duh...) 

Though it was during the times when all the loons would gather together that we would see the most interesting poses...

And that's where I first saw the 'penguin dance'  - where they rear up in the water with their wings either spread out or clasped against their body, and rapidly paddle their feet. They do this when another loon or predator gets a bit too close. I suppose loons are very into their personal space (they probably social distance quite well...) So it was this pose, the penguin dance, that inspired my latest, bird migrating painting  and haiku poem:

under morning fog
flapping wings and eerie songs
checkered flashes rise

Spending the summer in the Adirondack forest was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences. And continues to inspire painting after painting - and despite my best efforts, Neil even enjoyed some peaceful moments to get inspiration for his own works of art 😊.