Stephanie Peters

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 😊.