Peg Fowler: Artist of the Great Plains

Back in Nebraska, the cold seemed brutal this winter. So I pulled out summer sketches and photos just to drag myself out of the shivers. These A-frames perched above an old dry stream-bed caught my attention on the hottest of summer days. It was 112 in the shade, my truck’s AC was shot, and I thought I was going to melt. Instead, I stopped to take pictures and do some sketching. Now I have the ultimate Hot Painting. I feel warmer already.

The rain was dreary, and I was tiring of sketching in the gloom and taking photos through streaked car windows…then Goldie took me to Garie Beach, along the coast south of Bundeena. It was late in the day, and the sun came out just in time to illuminate some amazing clouds. I was impressed by a rolling cumulus that looked playful rather than ominous. I was wrong, of course. We barely made it back to the car before the storm moved in.

I can always see a painting in the shapes of buttes and prairie around town. It doesn’t take a long drive, or even a long hike. I saw this line of trees and grasses as I traveled south one day in that time before it gets too hot…and I stopped the car to take just one…or three or four…special shot. Now that it’s cold, I can drag out the photos and smile.

I had to try something new to get the soft, watery effect that I thought of as “New Zealand”…a process called “decalcomania” which is really cool. I use lots of water (and lots of energy) to transfer a “base image” from glass onto watercolor paper. Then when it’s dry I can add the detail. This painting shows my impression of the land from the air.

This is from another of my “hot weather” sketches. I’m always fascinated by the intensity of shadows along tree lines. This was one of those perfect golden days, complete with dancing dust-motes and wavering heat lines and the hills turned purple in the late afternoon.

There is much “other-worldly” scenery in New Zealand, but none more so than the Moeraki Boulders which spill out of a crumpled clay cliff-side like alien eggs. They are BIG, too. They range from “watermelon” to “desk” to “Volkswagen” size, with everything in between. I’ll probably have more “Boulder” paintings, but nothing will do them justice.

I was told of the Maori “plantings” along the coast, and saw some lovely stands of trees, but then I was most impressed with the occasional determined pine growing stubbornly and unplanned. This feisty tree seemed rooted among peculiar rocks and held its place on an unlikely and unstable sea-cliff.

Here’s the same process start (decalcomania) but when the base image was done, I allowed my imagination to take over—guided, of course, by the very real landscape. It really IS “fantastical.”

Of all the places I’ve ever visited, New Zealand is “easy on the eyes.” And it’s Green. The coast is softly mountainous, gently green, cool and calm and rainy. The property lines are marked with hedges, the people quiet and quirky and friendly. I loved New Zealand. I’ll go again.

I love the little churches in this high-plains country. They’ve been empty and abandoned for years, but they still stand as beacons of faith in a harsh country. This one didn’t even have a road to it, just the shadow of a track across the red grasslands.

The SUN came through mist and sparkled red, shone gold on cliffs and trails. I had a strange desire to come again and walk the Coast Track for days and days pretending that I was still in wild, unsettled Australia. (Acrylic/pen and ink, on watercolor paper 16" x 28" framed, 12" x 24 image only)

Still thinking of Tsunami Waves, I listened, rapt, as Goldie told me of holiday houses built on the coast cliffs, clinging like barnacles, resisting change, especially changes of politics. She showed me pristine beaches, and Gum Tree forests, and harbors, and opera houses, and museums, and the Blue Mountains. I'll paint them all. But first, I had to paint a wave of water and change looming over little houses. (Acrylic/pen and ink, on watercolor paper 22" x 26" framed, 12" x 16" image only)

It was only a short hike from the parking lot to the Nugget Point Lighthouse. Short, but wet; rain pelted on a fair variety of tourists, and on the blossoming shrubs that lined the path. The greens shouted their diversity, fog crept in to smother the low spots, bushes leaned south, (or was it north) submissive to the wind. I wasn't cold, in my layers of wool and nylon parka; I was impressed. This little painting was one of the first I did when I got home. (Acrylic/pen and ink on Watercolor paper 18"x 18" framed, 9" x 9"image only )

Before the REAL tsunami laid waste to Samoa, I wanted to see one. When the first warning came, Chuck and I actually went down to the dock, looking closely at the water to see a change. There was none. When the second warning came, Chuck and Dante and I were on the beach looking at the Moeraki Boulders. We climbed a steep path to the cliff top and stood foolishly looking toward the sea, hoping for a swell, a wave, and experience that didn't happen. We were luckier than the Samoans. My Tsunami is only in my dreams. (Acrylic/pen and ink, on watercolor paper 20" x 20" framed, 12" x 12" image only)

The road curves and bends, surfing through the brush, always hugging the coast. And always, the hills are green, the hills are green. (Acrylic/pen and ink, on watercolor paper 24" x 32" framed, 16" x 24" image only)

This Minnesota group of fruit trees was done on location and in about 20 minutes. I very rarely work outside so I was pleased and surprised to find that I liked the dancing, sketchy quality of the trees and clouds.

Most of the folks on the prairie seem to have set their houses in sheltered places. Smart move, considering that the wind blows all the time around here. But I grow claustrophobic in the hollows, and wonder how people live hidden in the spindly trees. And then, every once in a while, I see a house perching on the crest of a ridge. It always seems to be brave, with a lot of attitude. The house in this painting seemed like that, even though I could only see its roof. Then I drove for miles to find it, and found that it was a wreck, skewed and twisted by the wind, long abandoned, and maybe never very livable.

I like cats. I don't have any at the moment, and that doesn't matter. The cats will find me when the time is right. But I've always felt that if we ever want to be able to co-exist with Aliens (like from another planet) we should study cats. Theirs is truly an alien intelligence. These two lived at the home of my friend Margaret, in Fort Collins. They have since passed on to where-ever cats go. Venus, maybe. They are gone, but not forgotten. Obviously.

On a road-trip north across South Dakota last summer, I decided to try a route variation, and found myself heading toward the town of Pringle just as the moon was rising. And so, in spite of my fear of driving in the dark, I stopped to take photos and do sketches. Then I boogied on past the town and never stopped. Next time I will. It looked like a good place.

Here's another one from Colorado. I'm always amazed at the lengths people will go to in finding isolation with their comfort. In this case, I know the owner. Nice guy. I would have chosen the top for my house, but he built along the abandoned rail-road grade.

There I was, rolling up the road, when this gorgeous storm rose right up from the flattest part of the prairie like a giant flower. I stopped to take a couple of pictures, and then hurried to catch it. But it was a tease, and played keep-away all the way home. It wasn't until I was almost in town that I realized that the roadside was all a-bloom, too. And to think-- I was so busy chasing a storm that I almost missed the flowers. Story of my life…but I think the operative word here is 'almost.'

On my way back from the Bannan Family picnic, I was caught by the light and the wonderful clouds, and I stopped to take pictures and do a few sketches. I guess this was quite amusing to other picnickers, because I heard about it for days afterwards. Everybody from the party had to slow down because they were sure I was watching something really interesting. (I'm not quite sure what that would have been.) Then when they realized it was only clouds and light and shadows and hay, they gunned their pickups and left me in the dust. I had grit in my teeth for a week…but this is the painting that came from the scene.

The road runs north, (or east, or west, or south) and the plains stretch out forever. At the end of every road is a place, though. A farmstead, or a town, or a lonely house. Pick your road.

My favorite highway is Rt. 20 across Nebraska and into Iowa. I love the way the land changes from high plains to farmland and rolling hills, and I love the look of the little towns crouching along the blacktop. In this one, the one and only business seemed to have been the gas-station. The houses looked lived in, but I saw no store or school or café. I wondered about it, but I never asked. I just bought gas and drove away.

On Rt. 20 between Lusk and Van Tassel in Wyoming, there's a stretch where the rim-rock rises in Dragons' back-bone formations that follow the road. North from Van Tassel, the outcroppings continue in more and greater frenzy until I wonder what ever possessed someone to settle in this kind of country. It seems more fitting for outlaws and strange beasts. And yet there are neither. (Well, I don't think there are.) Just an occasional line-shack to prove that this is really cattle country.

I saw this place in Colorado, and was struck by the idea that hills could rise up so suddenly from the plain and still leave room for plowed fields. I always wonder who lives in places like these, but I rarely try to find out. I'm afraid I'll be disappointed…whether by the inhabitants or by my own reaction, I'm never quite sure.

Well, a windy day is not unusual in this part of the world. When I first moved to Nebraska, I saw a sign that said, 'Welcome to our Wind Festival—360 days of fun!' And I laughed. I don't laugh anymore; I just roll my eyes discretely. But this day the clouds were wild while the land looked unspoiled and peaceful. All the photos looked perfect, and my sketches were inspired. This painting doesn't do justice to the 'perfect windy day.'

Anybody who drives 29 North has seen this view. In fact, I hesitate to show this one because there's bound to be somebody to tell me that I left out some hill, or that I didn't get the feeling of the sky just right. Well, folks, feel free to criticize…and I'll get it right next time. I gawk at the scenery each time I drive the road…so I'll probably end up with a bunch of paintings…maybe one per mile.

This was done from a series of sketches and photos taken on the ranch of friends. Most of the folks around Harrison are well aware of how beautiful their ranch land is, and are very generous about showing it off. I'm always grateful, and often surprised, since much of the real beauty isn't apparent from the black-top.

I keep coming back toward the Platte River…at least I do in my dreams. There's a place in Northern Colorado where the grassland rolls down to the river, and with a little searching, a fisherman can find a rutted road that takes him to the banks of the Platte as it comes through the cut. I wonder if the trout are still biting around the wild curve.

We had an amazing ice storm in October, with howling wind (always inspiring) and falling branches and popping, sparking electric lines. But when the storm cleared, the trees left standing were fuzzed and lacey and sparkling and gorgeous. This house stands just north of town on a small hill. It was truly beautiful in its robe of trees.

I really don't have to go far to find striking images. This one caught me as I came up over a rise of hills in the early dark, and realized that it was getting cold enough to freeze. When I did the painting, I wanted to see if I could use a red sky and still give the impression of cold and frost. I actually think it worked. What a surprise

I absolutely love the look of the bluffs north of town. I even like the look of them in the snow…which is saying a lot, since that road north is grim in the winter. Anyhow, this is a slightly different perspective on the same scene I've done before. I'm always fascinated at the change in the trees and the sky…and in the change of seasons, but this is the first winter season that I’ve made a deliberate effort to do seasonal stuff.

Ok, if you have ever driven the road to Harrison, you will know that while the land looks familiar, the moon definitely does not rise in the West. Call it artistic license, if you will. But I had a moon that needed to be painted, and a town that cried out for illumination under that moon. So there.

I'll tell you right up front that I really don’t like birds. I don’t like anything that flutters—moths, butterflies, birds. If it flits about, it creeps me out. And then there was this little bird who sat on the funky cactus and wouldn’t give up until I took his picture. Of course, I could have simply left him out of the drawing…but it wouldn’t have been nearly so interesting. Well, maybe I like some birds.

Ever since the burn in 2006, I seem to have a morbid curiosity about the regrowth of the charred areas. These three trees weren’t actually burned, but their roots must have been damaged, or they were stressed enough to allow beetles to attack—because they’ve turned red and brittle and will soon be gone. The grassy areas have all come up green and lush with the spring rains, though. We’d forget too easily were it not for the three burnt trees that stand guard at the edge of the meadow.

I've only seen the Northern Lights once in Nebraska. Even then, I thought I was seeing things, that my glasses had blobs on them, that some glowing fog had moved in…and finally, that I was actually seeing the Aurora Borealis. I did a bunch of sketches, but remember that they weren't all that spectacular. Now, whenever anybody starts raving about Northern Lights, I drag out those old sketches and work on variations. And it's really fun, and people are really impressed and usually say something like: 'Oh, I saw that just the other night, only it was…'

This was one of several paintings done and sent as cards for a friend who was in the hospital and got great comfort, she said, from some of my 'gentle moon-over-the-plains scenes.' Interestingly enough, when she got out, she purchased one that was definitely not gentle. It proves my original premise…I can never predict what will appeal to anyone. Never. Still, I like my gentle ones more and more all the time.

This mirage caught me by surprise, since I was thinking about how sad the little house seemed since it had been abandoned. As I’ve mentioned before, I always want to adopt these places…and this was no different. And then I saw the cliffs above it, where no cliffs were supposed to be. I actually pulled off to the side of the road, but I still couldn’t find my camera in time to get the shots I wanted.

Just south of town there's a distinctive loaf-shaped butte that seems to attract its very own weather. There are times when I simply go out a few miles and watch the storms come in. And this is one of those times. Each storm is different, and each is beautiful. (And the locals have stopped asking if I need help, because they know what I'm doing. 'Ah, that's just Peg. She draws storms.')

The North Country...that special land lying north of Harrison, with its buttes and ranches, and the starkness and beauty of its sunsets...is one of my favorite sketching places. I don't even have to leave the road. I pull off to the side and drag out my sketch-book and my camera. If I time it right, I can catch the last light, when the land darkens and the sky turns colors. And the best part is that each time it's different.

I love Crow Butte. It's part of the Pine Ridge formation of Western Nebraska, and it's visible from all over the place, most notably as I drop down into the White River Valley from the high plains. This is a treatment that started out to be fairly realistic...and then I started playing around. Incidentally, the formation changes in looks as one goes around it.

Those hills south of Agate are ever changing. In this case, I was looking at the sky and trying not to notice the hills or the weeds. It didn't work. I sometimes wonder if I have any control over my artwork at all.

This is almost a classic prototype of the "leaning house." I saw it on a road trip, but had a malfunctioning camera. I'd been kicking myself for missing the shot, and for not lingering to get more sketches...but then Carol Orr presented me with "the" photo...and I had my references. I get along with a LOT of help from my friends.

By late October the water was gone. My glimpse of greening plains had been fleeting, and the beauty of arid land had re-asserted itself. Still, the storms insisted on building and threatening and the colors took on a new and vibrant glow. One day I came back from Scottsbluff and saw a large dry-draw to the west of the road with different eyes.

The buttes had already put on autumn colors, all brown and gold and dun, with dried weeds and hay in rolls along the ditches, when I stopped to watch what looked for all the world like a summer storm. An older man in a ranch truck pulled up beside me, thinking, I suppose, that I might need some help. Then when he saw the camera he looked skyward. 'Pretty, isn't it?' he said. Then he grinned. 'Well, somebody's getting’ it.' He shoved the truck into reverse. 'Just not us.'

In June, some truly wonderful storms came rolling across the thirsty land, and some of them were spectacular. Friends and I saw this monster hovering over the tiny town of Harrison as we headed in from the west one late afternoon. I was all prepared to find severe damage and a terrified dog, but it blew on by and we didn’t see a drop of rain. (Some folks farther east had two inches of hail.)