Peg Fowler: Artist of the Great Plains

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.

This is strictly a scene from my imagination. Oh, the cabin is real enough, and I've used it in other settings. The land is real, too. But the placement of everything together is mine. So, if you ever find this place, let me know. I've been in love with it for years.

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 set out to paint a 'winter picture' using a limited palette, and trying for a 'cold' look. Of course, I used scenes from Sowbelly Canyon, and even though there wasn't much snow, I just about froze my fingers off doing sketches out there. Somehow, I think it comes across well.

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.

One day in mid June, Pat Skavdahl called me and said, “Get out here! There’s a beautiful storm brewing!” So I jumped into the van with the dog and drove North. It really was gorgeous with lots of scudding clouds. We took a lot of pictures, and finally I left. I hadn’t even gotten to the bottom of Pat’s driveway when she called me on my cell and hollered, “As soon as you get clear, turn around! It’s started to dump!” So I stopped at the top of the ridge and took a bazillion pictures of this prize winning storm! Thanks, Pat! I just couldn’t function without my friends. I’d miss out on everything!

This painting is #1 of a planned series (I have a bazillion sketches) …but here's the rationale behind it: When I used to drive the rural mail route with Ila Mae Bannan, one of my favorite parts of the drive was south of Andrews in what Ila calls "The Quick Hills." These are a series of about seven hill-humps that rise and fall like a serpent's back, with what used to be (in wetter times) drainage and mud at the bottom of each. There are some weird things about these little hills. One is that you can't see them until you are right on top of them. (That's this painting. Only I know that the "Quick Hills" are coming up just over the second rise.) Another is that they are so steep that you are absolutely "blind" going up each one. Let's see if I can do them justice in my paintings. Watch for the next in the series! (Coming soon)

It’s been so hot this August that my dog cold-noses me at 5:15 AM so he can get his walk. He’s old, and I make allowances, and stagger out to meet the day. But each time I forget all my grumbling because the sky is glorious! I’ve never seen so many cross-directional clouds in all my years of cloud watching.

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.

Ok, Ok, so I have a thing for hay bales. I actually like the small square ones better, because I can move them myself…but nobody puts up hay like that anymore. And I have to admit that the round bales are wonderfully artistic. This year, even the ditches yielded good hay. Watch for more hay-bale scenes—there are several in the works.

I never can resist a rising moon, and this one was irresistible. However, it got me into trouble. I took so long making sketches and taking pictures that it got dark too fast, and as I hurried home a suicidal deer leaped out of the underbrush and attacked my car. The deer got up and ran away, and after my palpitations stilled I drove the car very slowly back to town. I can’t look at the painting without imagining a herd of wicked little deer watching me from the sidelines.

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.

There is something about the last light of day that grabs me every time. When it's coupled with the rising moon I find myself hyperventilating and grabbing for my sketch book. So it happened with this scene, and I found myself stumbling back to the car through the high weeds, cursing my stupidity at waiting until the last minute for everything. I do like the painting, though.

I wanted a simple painting to capture the look of floating islands of clouds at sunset. Of course, nothing is ever as simple as it seems, but I think this may be as good as it gets on this particular theme.

Once, in another life, I lived in the hills of Pennsylvania, along a slow moving river called French Creek. I haven’t thought about that life or that place for years…and then my sister sent me some pictures she took during a visit. And it all came rushing back. I remembered the beauty and the stillness of the woods…and the bugs and the humidity too. My fondness for the place is from a distance now…I could never go back.

This is a first experiment. Monoprinting is a single-image transfer process, in which the artist draws on a glass or metal plate and then makes one print from that drawing. It's quite exciting, and fairly challenging, so you may see a few more of these devils in the future..

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.

I could have called this 'summer surprise' and it still makes me smile. Hiking one late afternoon I rounded a hill and was blinded by a field of wild orange poppies! It took me several moments to even notice the shabby little house crouching among the flowers. I never found out who had lived there. Maybe I never asked. I didn’t want to know any sad things about this happy place.

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.')

I think the original sketches for this were done a year or so ago when I was caught by the patterns of hills, fields, and sky. I was reminded of my feelings when I drove through some spectacular sky-time recently, and figured I'd better do something about it. The cattle were from some other sketches I'd done…but it all seemed to come together after I thought about it for awhile.

One morning I was sitting at the cafe' with a group of lady-coffee-friends when Pat Skavdahl called me on my cell phone. "The mirages are out!" she said, "If you come quick you can see them in the south from Pleasant Ridge Road!" Susan Veskerna had never seen one of the amazing Sioux County mirages, so I stuffed her into my truck and we took off fast, heading north and west to the ridge. We turned south on dirt and there they were! Huge solid looking cliffs and formations along the horizon! "Oh! Oh! Oh!" Susan kept saying, "Look! They’re melting!" I finally pulled off so I wouldn't wreck the truck and we watched them dissolve and reform for a long time. Susan was late for work, but I had some new mirage sketches.

I'd gone out to deliver a painting to a collector (and friend) and noticed the little abandoned-house-with-the-elegant-trees on the road to her house. I may have mentioned it, but I swear I didn't rave and drool or anything. However, I left in the late afternoon…and only got that short mile before I stopped the car and stomped around the little place with my camera and sketchbook. It turns out that Judy, who can see everything from her hilltop, was about to drive down to see if I needed help—before she realized that the little house had "caught me". She laughed when I told her I'd finished this work, saying "I knew it!" It gets interesting when my friends start to know what I’m going to do before I do it.

My friend Pat Skavdahl took several pictures of the Clemantis on White River Road, and presented them to me…after listening to me whine about the "Clouds of Clemantis and me without my camera…" Pat takes really good photos, and she pays attention to lighting and focus and all that good stuff. That said, she's usually unprepared for what happens when I use one of her photos as reference. Oh, she knows that I don't do "copies" of photos, and she knows that I can't paint unless I've been there and have absorbed a "feeling" for the scene. But even so, she looked at this painting and said, "How do you do that?" What can I say? I paint what I feel AND see.

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.

Eight years into an extreme drought, I begin to appreciate the folks who lasted out the "dirty thirties" and are still around. My friend ILa-Mae is one, and she has stories galore about how her family survived. She also knows every single house, foundation, and tree...and can tell me the tale of each family. This strange little house is one of the few left, and even though it's protected by its one straggly tree it's probably not going to last long.

Oops. I almost forgot about this little cutie. It came almost as an "afterthought" on a scrap of board, done very quickly. I happened to see the house with its windows lit as I was coming home from Rapid City one evening...and wondered who lived there.

When I ride the mail route with my friend Ila-Mae, she laughs at me because I'm forever hanging out the windows and taking pictures. Riding with Ila-Mae is a real education, though, because she's lived in the area all her life and knows all the history and where people lived, and even what the climate used to be like. After all this time, she's kind of gotten used to my art work, even if it isn't exactly realistic. Red Trees Road is not "exactly" as it appears, I suppose.

Since my children and grandchildren are in Minnesota, I have a great excuse to road trip in that direction. The wonderful farmsteads along Rte. 20 are always an inspiration-so much so that it's a wonder that I ever get anywhere. This particular farm caught the light in a way that I liked, but could never catch again.

This is an oldie but a goodie, and has always been a favorite of mine. Sketches and reference photos for this painting were taken while I was on a road trip with friend Pat Skavdahl. We found hundreds of wild gourds in the vicinity, some of them even creeping out onto the road to her brother's place. But the "feeling of place" was pure "Sandhills."

Studies for this piece were all done at Gingerquill Ranch on the North Platte, a former family property in Northern Colorado. I find every aspect of the Platte fascinating, but this particular canyon is a favorite.

The swampy places along the Niobrara River near Agate National Monument are my favorites, with cat-tails, and plum bushes, and all sorts of greenery. There's not much water there, although I've been told that farther east the Niobrara is a respectable river. One day in the spring I came upon this stand of wild plums just coming into bloom.

This formation is part of the "Legend Buttes" section of the Pine Ridge near Crawford, NE. I've done quite a few paintings of the buttes and the area around them. This particular picture came together quite nicely and managed to look "easy" and clean and effortless. (It wasn't, but we don't talk about what really happens when I'm working.)

This started out as a very rough black and white sketch on some colored pastel board that I had. It didn't work out that way. But I liked it anyway. Fairly often, my paintings get away from me. Then I have to settle down and do some creative manipulation. Sometimes it works, sometimes not. (The "nots" get thrown on the reject pile to be looked at later.)

After the fires of 2006, I didn't think that Sowbelly Canyon would retain its serenity and utter beauty. But it did. This year, the canyon walls are still lovely, the hay is rolled and the trees have turned color. Oh yeah, some black trees are still spiking skyward...but they are less obtrusive than I thought they would be. They are beginning to fuzz over with the green of new growth...where they can. I have hope when I see it.

Here's one of those paintings that leaped into my mind leaving me with no choice but to paint it. It's inspired by the landscape and bluffs just south of Agate Fossil Beds, along the Niobrara River. I've traveled that way many times, and each time the hills look a bit different. Every once in a while they catch the light in a special way and leave me gasping and reaching for my sketchbook or my camera. This was one of those times.

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.

I travel the plains north of Harrison quite frequently, always trying to find new and different scenery. And while this scene wasn’t new, it was certainly different. The land had turned green! The dips and contours of the hills had turned to velvet, and the lushness felt almost embarrassing. I stopped the truck and took photos and then later that day started to rough out the painting. Imagine my amusement when a friend showed up with some “reference photos” for me…and it turned out to be the same view!

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.)