When a Rhino Spaceship Becomes an Eskimo Riding a Dinosaur

Some paintings have a plan.

This wasn’t one of them.

I was absolutely exhausted while working on this piece, and honestly, I think that might have been the best thing that could have happened. The original idea was to paint some kind of rhino spaceship. Somewhere along the way, though, the subconscious took over, and before I knew it, I was looking at an Eskimo riding a dinosaur.

How awesome is that?

That’s one of the things I love most about working this way. I rarely know where a painting is going to end up. The artwork starts suggesting ideas, and my job becomes less about controlling it and more about listening to it.

Around the same time, my neighbor got a new puppy. The little thing barked at everything—squirrels, leaves, probably the interstate if it could see it. Somehow that energy found its way into this painting too. Funny enough, this ended up becoming one of my favorite pieces.

As the painting developed, I started adding little story elements. I imagined this family making their way through a frozen landscape. I gave the dinosaur some spurs to keep her moving, although somewhere along the line I realized one of her legs had become hilariously undersized. Sometimes anatomy loses the battle against imagination.

Halfway through painting, my sister stopped by the studio just to check on me.

“How’s it going?”

Good.

She likes to make sure I’m not over here having a seizure or something while I disappear into these paintings for hours at a time.

Then came the baby.

Every now and then I like throwing a baby into a scene. Some artists would probably make this into a dramatic survival story or an ultra-violent adventure, but I always find myself thinking about Norman Rockwell.

Growing up, I didn’t really appreciate his work. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized what made his paintings so special wasn’t just the technical skill—it was the humanity. Every character had emotion. Every face had personality. That’s what inspires me now.

I started asking myself, “If I were that baby, would I actually be having fun here?”

Kids don’t always understand they’re supposed to be afraid.

Looking back, I spent way too many years afraid of things myself. Lightning. Heights. Plenty of stuff. Eventually you realize fear is just another part of life, and most of it loses its grip once you face it.

Technically, this piece was a lot of experimentation too.

I found a brush that creates an incredible leathery texture. Those little discoveries are always exciting because they become another tool you can use in future paintings.

Eventually the rider found her identity. She ended up with a winter mask and heavier clothing, while the dinosaur earned a name.

Beatrice.

She just looked like a Beatrice.

Some names simply fit.

I also spent way too much time adjusting the dinosaur’s mouth. I wanted to push the snout forward and give her that slightly awkward overbite you see on horses wearing a bit. Tiny details like that can completely change the personality of a creature.

Cold environments are surprisingly difficult to paint.

The frosty breath? Couldn’t quite get it.

The Aurora Borealis? I wrestled with it far longer than I expected.

Sometimes even with references sitting beside you, your brain just refuses to translate what you see into paint. That’s part of the process too.

One thing I’ve noticed about my more organic, pareidolia-driven paintings is that when I don’t know what belongs in an empty space…

…I tend to build stairs.

Apparently my subconscious really likes stairs.

If you’ve followed my work for a while, you’ve probably noticed them popping up everywhere. I couldn’t even tell you why. They just keep showing up.

On the technical side, I also changed how I handle values and lighting.

For years I leaned heavily on separate shadow and highlight layers. Lately I’ve found it produces muddier colors than I want. Now I try to step my values directly through color instead of relying on overlay layers. The results feel much crisper.

That said, separate layers still have their place.

If I’m adding subtle textures like cracks in leather or weathered surfaces, they’re fantastic. They’re also a great safety net. Keeping a shadow layer at 50% opacity makes it almost impossible to overdo the darkness.

Sometimes the simplest tricks are the most useful.

This painting took somewhere around ten hours, give or take. It’s hard to be exact because I occasionally leave the recorder running while I take a break, grab some food, or disappear down a YouTube rabbit hole watching tutorials and looking for inspiration.

Not every painting takes that long.

Some simple landscapes only take a couple of hours. Others can stretch into days. Every piece has its own rhythm.

One thing I enjoy most is leaving room for interpretation.

To me, the baby looks happy.

Someone else might think the baby looks terrified.

Neither answer is wrong.

That’s one of the joys of art. Once it leaves my hands, part of the story belongs to you.

I even tried adding a vignette near the end.

Didn’t like it.

Removed it.

But that’s the creative process in a nutshell. Try things. Keep what works. Throw away what doesn’t.

Kind of like life itself.

You never really know where the random stops along the journey are going to lead until you’ve already been there.

Thanks for following along, and thanks for watching.