When I paint, I almost always allow the animal to fill the canvas. When I look at the work of many other wildlife artists, I see that they often place the animal much smaller within a broader landscape. That approach has great value when the goal is to tell a story about habitat, scale, or environment. My own intention, however, is different.

I am not trying to show an animal as part of a scenic view. I am trying to create a direct, quiet, face-to-face encounter with an individual life.  By bringing the animal forward in scale, the viewer is no longer a distant observer looking across space. Instead, there is a sense of presence and proximity - of standing in the same air, sharing the same moment. I want the experience to feel personal and intimate, almost like meeting the animal's gaze rather than looking at it through binoculars.

This is also why my backgrounds are usually (but not always) atmospheric rather than descriptive. I am less interested in recording a specific place than in creating a mood that allows the animal's spirit and character to emerge. Mist, light, and softened space help remove distractions so the focus remains on the living being itself - its awareness, its stillness, its energy.

My years as a wildlife biologist shaped the way I see animals. In the field, what stayed with me most was not scenery, but presence: the quiet intensity of an elk standing in timber, the alert stillness of a pronghorn on open ground, the sense of individuality in each animal encountered. I learned to experience them not as elements in a landscape, but as sentient beings with their own integrity and inner life.

Filling the canvas is my way of honoring that experience. It elevates the animal from being a compositional element to being a subject to meet and understand. My goal is not drama or spectacle, but respect, attentiveness, and a sense of timelessness - a moment of meeting, held still.

This approach has become central to my work. It reflects both my scientific background and my emotional connection to the natural world, and it is the way I most truthfully convey what it feels like to be in the presence of wild animals.

Thank you for taking the time to look at my work and to share in the way I see the wild world. Painting in this way is deeply personal for me, and I am grateful for those who respond to that sense of closeness and presence.  

Sandra

I didn't come to painting through the art world. I came to it through years of standing still and watching wild places and wild things.

Before I ever committed to painting, I was a wildlife biologist. A lot of that work involved long stretches of observation-waiting without expectation, learning how animals occupy space when nothing is being asked of them. Those experiences changed how I see, and they continue to shape how I work in the studio.

What matters to me is presence-the moment an animal is fully there, alert, contained, and unmistakably itself. Those moments are often quiet, and they don't tolerate exaggeration.

That sensibility carries into every decision I make. I strip away anything that feels explanatory or decorative. Backgrounds are atmospheric rather than descriptive, meant to support the subject without anchoring it to a specific place or story. I want the animal to stand alone, not as an illustration of an environment, but as an individual being.

Accuracy is essential, but it's only the starting point. Anatomical correctness creates the conditions for something subtler to emerge-weight, awareness, stillness. I work slowly, letting the painting resolve itself rather than forcing it toward drama or finish. If something feels overstated, it usually comes out.

What I choose not to paint

Over time, I've become as clear about what I refuse to paint as what I choose to pursue. I don't paint humans. I don't paint animals in any form of bondage. I don't paint wildlife as spectacle. I'm not interested in exaggerated drama, forced action, or images built around dominance, aggression, or visual impact alone. I avoid turning animals into symbols, metaphors, or stand-ins for human emotion. When the idea becomes louder than the animal, I step away.

I also resist over-description. Detailed scenery, narrative backdrops, fine details of hair, and explanatory elements tend to pull attention away from the subject itself. I'm not trying to describe a place. I'm interested in what happens when an animal is allowed to exist without context-when presence carries the weight instead of environment.

Sentimentality is another line I don't cross. I'm not interested in sweetness, cuteness, or emotional cues designed to instruct the viewer how to feel. Wildlife doesn't need embellishment to be compelling. In fact, too much intention often erodes honesty.

That leaves me working within a narrower lane, and I'm comfortable here. The constraints matter. They keep the work focused, restrained, and grounded in observation rather than invention. Every painting is an act of reduction-removing what distracts until only what's essential remains.

What I'm after is not immediacy, but durability. Paintings that don't announce themselves, but continue to hold attention over time.