Stephanie Peters

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 😊.

A few weeks ago when the ice on lake Icaria was melting, hundreds of geese and ducks were migrating through this little edge of Iowa.

Though we mostly saw Canada geese and cackling geese, we also saw greater white-fronted geese (lifer!), wood ducks, canvas backs, ring-necked ducks, greater scaup (lifer!), lesser scaup (another lifer!), red-headed ducks, coots, pied-billed grebes, northern shovelers, mallards, common mergansers, american wigeon, green-winged teal, northern pintail, snow geese, ross's geese (and another lifer!), trumpeter swans, common golden-eye, hooded merganser, bufflehead and this strange looking bird... 

Now I love birds, most of my travels surround birds, and many, many, of my paintings, are bird inspired... but I have a very soft spot for little mammals - Squirrels, rabbits, otters, beavers, and even muskrats. So of course, this muskrat became my new favorite model over the next few weeks as we watched the birds arrive each evening on the lake.

We did of course take thousands and thousands of photos of birds for future inspiration, but I was a little distracted...

Which of course led to sketching the adorable fur ball...

The ice is gone now (hello spring!!) So we haven't seen our muskrat friend around recently. And at the same time, our migrating waterfowl have moved on to the next stop on their journey to their breeding grounds. Lake Icaria is a little quieter now. But I'm still looking for our muskrat friend, because though there may be no ice to eat salad on, he'll be hanging around with us through the spring - which probably means more muskrat art to come!

Recently the universe gave me a little push of inspiration to create a new Natural Disaster Painting - and it wasn’t just the freezing temperatures that have been pushing me into hibernation 🥶

In February, the central part of North America experienced an arctic blast that plunged temperatures into below freezing for days. From frozen cacti in Texas to blizzard conditions north into Manitoba, it was cold... so so cold. According to weather.gov, “Over 3,000 daily cold records were set across the USA, with around 80 all-time record cold readings.” Here in Iowa, I experienced the coldest temperatures I’ve ever felt (-27F!) and blustery winds became a new normal.

Fortunately the weather changes quickly and although it’s still very much winter in Iowa, the temperatures are above freezing again and there’s hope for spring. But the Arctic blast was for sure a natural disaster - though minuscule compared to other disasters. But I feel it needed to be included in the natural disaster series. For all the hearts that were bruised and/or lost, this painting is for them.

I haven’t created a natural disaster painting in a while, not that there is a loss for inspiration for a new one with everything that is going on in the world - I’ve just been focused on birds and urban wildlife. Subjects that bring me joy and peace. But a week or so ago, a class asked me what my process was for making a natural disaster painting. A question I could easily run off an answer to a couple of years ago, but at that moment, I didn’t have the words, I just had the urge. The urge to paint this particular disaster. A feeling I haven’t felt in a long time. 
I’ve felt inspired to paint wildfire art, but that art has been more realism than abstract in the last couple of years. It has felt like the ability to make something abstract died in me – the candle burned out. I just didn’t have the steam. When I tried, it was mostly failures with a few cubic zirconias mixed in – paintings that at first glance look like diamonds, but at closer inspection, just imitations.

Though when I painted this, a flame was reborn. A deep in the heart knowing and awareness just reappeared like an old friend.

Abstract art is not just throwing paint on a canvas; abstract art like all well thought out art, requires a nod to the elements of art, design, and so on. But great abstract art – at least for me – has always been letting the paint flow from within – letting the subconscious tackle the rules and the conscious focus on the spirit from within. A familiar home that I’m glad to have returned to.
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Who knew freezing temperatures would lead me back to abstraction, especially since I’m more desert cottontail than arctic hare…

I'm pleased to share that Lost Kangaroo was juried into the Annual Arizona Pastel Artist's Association's exhibition. Usually this exhibit is on display in Sedona, at the Sedona Art Center, but this year due to everything, it's virtual! Which means more people get to see it! Check out the exhibition here.

I'm always fascinated by the spiritual and cultural significance animals have for certain people. In one interpretation, if you see elk in your dreams it suggests you’ll find yourself in the thick of something exciting or in a lot of trouble.  Since I’ve been drawing a lot of elk recently, they have been showing up in my dreams so I'm hoping I’ll be in the thick of something exciting and not trouble... though aren’t we all kind of living in both everyday? 

This winter has been perfect for hibernating. The highs have been in the negative numbers and it seems like every day it snows. So I’m pretty convinced every Iowan is secretly a bear because I’m not sure how else they survive winter every year without hibernating. Most days, I’m hiding inside wearing fuzzy socks and oversized comfy sweaters, and dreaming of sunshine… But some evenings when its above zero and not snowing, it is the perfect time to go find some geese – like tonight! These little sunshine moments make spending the winter in the arctic worth it…  

It’s still way too cold to actually draw anything outside, but Neil and I find ways to huddle in the car and sketch with our binoculars while sipping hot coffee. Tonight was no different… we watched hundreds of geese land on lake Icaria, and photographed and sketched a few:

All the geese we have seen at Lake Icaria this winter have been Canada geese. Tonight, we also saw seven trumpeter swans and a couple dozen mallards but mostly, it was hundreds of Canada geese flying in and it's quite a sight! Something to look forward to in in this otherwise cold and gray season. But, the temperatures are finally rising (into the 30s!), and the days are getting longer, which only means spring migration is coming soon and we'll see more than just geese... and of course all of these migrating birds - Canada geese included - are fueling my migrating bird fascination...

Last summer, before we came to Corning, Neil and I camped around western Iowa – I know, maybe a bad idea during a pandemic, but we were safe and stuck to only our camper to avoid any contact. One of the places we camped was Botna Bend Park in Hancock, Iowa.

Located right next to a grain silo, Botna Bend Park is a little spot of inspiration in an otherwise non-descript ordinary rural town. Not only is the campsite right next to the West Branch East Nishnabotna River (which apparently flooded extensively in 2019) but it is home to a herd of Bison and a herd of Elk.  One of the highlights of our visit there was when we first arrived, we witnessed the first few days of an elk calf’s life. Though very late in the breeding season, we watched how the newborn calf stayed isolated from the rest of the herd during the day and then watched it start to assimilate with the group when it was ready – which occurs around 10 – 14 days.

Typically, in the wild, elks give birth in the spring, but I imagine with the elk enclosed and fed well, their natural mating and birthing cycle is skewed – which could explain why we were lucky to see their interaction so late in the summer.

Each morning and evening, we would go out and watch the calf and mother interact. And of course, that is where the moment that inspired this pastel came from. Though I could have been anthropomorphizing the mother elk a bit, I could see how she cared for and cherished her newborn. It was an extraordinary moment to be a part of in an otherwise ordinary little town in Iowa. Though everything is extraordinary if you really stop and observe.