In my daily work I rarely keep art and science far apart. Science aims for total, detached objectivity, but I don´t think such a thing is possible for us humans, and certainly it is not something I can attain! Each observation of nature implies some emotional involvement, and for better or worse in all my productions those emotions end up coming to the surface in some way.
One aspect of this involvement is the music I compose for my videos. Reconstructing the anatomy of the sabertooths from the inside out is quite exciting, but the kind of emotion it stirrs in me is rather different from the one I experience when observing a violent clash between two imposing ibex males in the high mountians. As a result, videos showing such different contents require different, specific music, and I try to taylor make it or at least to choose from my existing compositions as wisely as I can.
In this clip from my video “Bringing the Sabertooths back to Life” you can listen to the more “electronic” sounds I used in many segments of that film, to convey a sense of how a careful technical study leads to exciting findings. In my wildlife videos I generally use more orchestral sounds to transmit the warm, direct emotions that you get when watching the dramas of animal life out in the wilderness:
Earlier this year I discovered Hans Zimmer’s masterclass on composing for film and decided to take it. Even from a quick look at the first lessons one feels exhilarated at the endless possibilities that music offers for enhancing and completing any film project. Mr. Zimmer is not only a genius, he efficiently and honestly transmits both the excitement and the tehcnical aspects of his craft.
As a first excercise while taking that course, I composed a piece of music for a short video about the behavior of the Spanish Ibex. Following Zimmer’s instructions, I started by composing a short, simple piano tune, as a core from which I would create all the variations that the story required. In that tune I tried to convey the basically sweet, harmless nature of the ibex, but it also contains a couple of chords with the potential of becoming more aggressive, as befits the powerful clashes of the males during the rut, or more mysterious, to reflect the vastness of what we don´t know abut the caprine mind.
In this other clip you can listen to some of the more “epic” sections of the soundtrack I composed for the ibex film:
Using brasses and timpani was a temptation I could not resist, but anyway I tried to dress the tune in warmer strings and even a playful harp to compensate for the in-your-face obviousness of the percussion. The big male ibex go at each other with devastating, almost murderous blows, yet the next moment they seem to behave as comrades, almost buddies. It is more complex than an all-out war, and so the music should also have something of that ambiguity.
Of course when you see Zimmer’s explanations it all appears so obvious, but for us mortals things are not nearly so simple! As I developed the themes my original piano piece seemed less and less adequate, and it constrained me unconfortably, but I decided to go ahead anyway. The result is far less elegant and effective than I dreamed when listening to the classes, but still a small step up the ladder from my previous compositions.
Learning from the best is deeply humbling but always exciting. Thanks to Mr. Zimmer and I promise to keep working hard as I progress through the course!
The fossil sites of Batallones provide amazing insights into the predator guild of the Vallesian epoch (Late Miocene, 9,5 Ma) of Spain, and are best known for the incredible collection of fossils of sabre-toothed felids, including the leopard-sized Promegantereon and the lion-sized Machairodus. A less known fact is that the other “half” of the felid family, the felines (or “conical-toothed cats”) were already present and represented by a respectable sample of fossils at the site.
Those early relatives of our modern lions and tigers posed no threat for the sabertooths, because they were all much smaller animals. Two species are known from the site, the lynx-sized Pristifelis attica and the wildcat-sized Leptofelis vallesiensis. Years ago, in our initial description of the animal we called it Styriofelis vallesiensis because its dentition was very similar to that of earlier, Middle Miocene felines classified in the genus Styriofelis. However, our recent analysis of the postcranial bones of the small feline from Batallones has revealed unexpected differences with those earlier animals.
The middle Miocene Styriofelis turnauensis combined peculiar dental traits (in particular the retention of milk premolars in adult life) with a skeleton adapted for climbing, with short, robust limb bones. Such a skeleton can be considered “primitive” for felids, because the ancestral members of the family were mostly arboreal creatures. The small cat from Batallones shared with Styriofelis the retained milk teeth, but its limb bones now reveal a surprisingly early adaptation for fast, efficient locomotion on land. This condition almost mirrored the one seen in modern animals like the wildcat, but it most likely evolved independently, because the particular dental features preclude Leptofelis from being an ancestor of the modern species. In fact, the skeleton of the Batallones small cat is in itself a mosaic of features, including the presence of a well-developed quadratus plantae muscle inserting on the ankle bone. This muscle has an important function in climbing and it shows that in spite of being a proficient runner, Leptofelis vallesiensis could climb better than most modern cats, both to escape bigger predators and to catch small prey in the high branches. Also the hind limb was especially long and the knee articulation resembled that of modern small carnivores that are excellent jumpers and climbers, such as the genet. It is possible that Leptofelis used its leaping ability to capture small prey such as rodents and birds while foraging on the ground, like modern servals or caracals do. This unique combination of features convinced us of the need to create a new genus for this cat, and we coined the word “Leptofelis”, meaning “swift cat”.
There are many things we have learned from this study. On one hand, the early diversity of felines is greater than was thought some years ago, when virtually all fossil felines from the late Miocene were classified in the extant genus Felis. On the other hand, we see that the adaptations of feline cats for running not only appeared more precociously than thought, but in fact evolved several times independently. Also important is the fact that the postcranial skeleton, often overlooked in systematic studies, can provide decisive evidence for the proper classification of an extinct animal. And, finally, if we look at the larger picture, it seems that the combination of the small size of the early felines, the need to escape from larger predators, and the presence of vegetational cover in their environments probably provided the right adaptive pressures which led (more than once) to the evolution of the versatile body plan that we see in modern cats.
Here is a reconstruction of Leptofelis in the flesh. The coat colour patter is unknown in this animal and here it is reconstructed on the basis of species such as the marbled cat, whose coat markings appear to represent the ancestral patter for all living felines.
You can check our original research paper in this link:
The Spanish ibex is a spectacular species of caprine endemic to the Iberian peninsula. Powerful and bulky like other ibex, the Spanish one has possibly the most beautiful, geometrically complex horns of any species. Like all ibex, this creature has been perfected by evolution for two functions: to negotiate the abrupt terrain of its mountainous habitat, and to establish the herd’s mating hierarchy through dramatic horn-clashing fights among the males.
Drawing the three-dimensionally complex horns of mature Spanish ibex is always a challenge but when you get it right you are on your way to capturing the knightly grandeur of these magnificent beasts. Still, nothing compares to witnessing the incredible tournaments that take place in the mountains of central Spain with the autumn cold. Just seeing these creatures moving nimbly up and down their rocky environment is amazing, but when the loud crash of horn hitting horn echoes in the high valleys you feel transported to the Pleistocene. Life still follows its age old laws up there and we are privileged to witness it.
I will soon be sharing with you a video showing some of the majesty of the Spanish ibex in action. Meanwhile here is a page filled with my quick, humble attempts to grasp the essence of the ibex.
When facing the challenge of creating a reconstruction of such a fantastic fauna as the ones found in the late Pleistocene of Argentina, the real difficulties are to decide what to leave out and, even more, how to arrange what you cannot leave out.
As it has happened so often in this kind of projects, the paleontologists I worked with insisted that I include at least the most iconic members of the fauna, and that included a lot of huge animals that you cannot easily accommodate under a log or in the shade of a bush. These creatures become relevant elements of the landscape on their own right so as an artist you have to brace yourself for a tightly packed composition.
The first thing I did was to try and visualize the general shape of the scene, using very fast, light pencil strokes to block the main objects. In this early version I still thought I would get away with excluding the largest Pampean animal of them all: Megatherium! But that was not to be
One advantage of the Pampean landscape in terms of this kind of compositions is its flat, featureless lay. Vast expanses of land with unobstructed views allow the hapless artist to place a lot of gigantic animals in the frame, but careful attention must be paid to perspective. So, even in this quick sketch I trace the perspective lines to get an approximate idea of the relative sizes of the various animals according to the distance from the viewer
Once the main composition is decided, I need to do a lot of sketches of the anatomy and action of the individual animals. The pair of Macrauchenias in the foreground were an important element of the composition from the very first version, so I needed to study their anatomy carefully
Although the sabertooths are dearest to my heart, I made up my mind to leave them in a discrete middle ground in this case, but even so they are prominent and I needed to do a lot of work on their postures
This painting was reproduced at mural size in a Museum exhibit here in Madrid so I needed to give it a lot of detail. In the end I suppose it took me about as long as it would have taken to do one of my large oil paintings but I enjoyed more freedom for changing my mind on smaller aspects of the work… and I got more back pain form hunching in front of the computer for so many hours. Sometimes I do miss the easel!
But the one thing that left me frustrated in this project was to double-check the plant list from the fossil sites and find out that I needed to leave the palm trees out. Damn, I love palm trees!
The process of reconstructing extinct animals is like a dissection in reverse, where one adds soft tissue layer by layer on top of the animal’s skeleton. But in order to be prepared to work in such a way, it is necessary to get familiar with the inverse process, that is, proper dissection of extant animals. I have taken part in many dissections of big cats in collaboration with the University of Valladolid and the Paleobiology department of the Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales. Those dissections have allowed me to acquire first-hand knowledge of the feline anatomy, and to understand in more depth the differences between the various species of big cats.
One good example is the cheetah. We know this animal as “the feline greyhound”, and its lean appearance is obviously related to the considerable length of its limb bones relative to its body size, but is that all?
Well, the fact is that the cheetah’s muscles are arranged in a different manner than in other big cats. In the limbs, the bulk of the muscle mass is concentrated in the proximal segments (that is, those closest to the animal´s trunk), while the distal parts (those farthest from the trunk) hardly retain any muscle mass at all, and it is mostly tendons, not muscle fibers, that reach those segments.
Such a particular arrangement of the muscles is reflected in the shape and position of the muscle insertion areas in the animal´s bones, something that we can track as dissection proceeds deeper inside. Sketches and photographs record all the findings made during the process, and it is this kind of observations which in turn allow us to restore the lost musculature of extinct animals using bone morphology as a guide.
This series of sketches shows the process of dissecting the cheetah´s forelimb, starting with the intact limb (top) and ending with the bare bones (bottom). Of course this is just a selection from several sketches showing different stages of the dissection
Unfortunately dissection is a destructive process and once the tissues are removed from the specimen there is no putting them back in place. But fortunately we have the option of scanning the intact specimen before dissecting it, as we did with this cheetah. CT scan imagery allows us to check time and again the relationships between soft tissue and skeleton, looking at those structures from any angle and using perspectives we couldn’t check during dissection.
Observations like these pave the way for my work in the anatomical reconstruction of extinct carnivores, but it also gives me a renewed, deeper look at modern big cats. Whenever I see a wild cheetah moving around in its environment I perceive the lever system of its bones, muscles and tendons working right under the skin, and my admiration for these wonderful creatures grows even more.
You can learn much more about these processes of dissection and reconstruction in my film “Bringing the Sabertooths Back to Life”, available for download at Wild World Visuals online store:
Let me share now the genesis of yet another of the oil paintings I did for the “National Geographic Book of Prehistoric Mammals”. That project left me a bittersweet taste because on one hand it allowed me to create a series of scenes I had longed to do for quite some time, but on the other hand the deadlines were so tight that I barely had the time to enjoy the process -or even to think much about what I was doing!
This painting depicts a scene from the Early Miocene of France, a time when the faunas of Europe, previously more isolated, were enriched by the arrival of immigrant species from Africa, such as the proboscideans, and from North America, such as the horses.
As happened with many of my illustrations, this idea had been on my mind for years and it had been left out from a previous project, in this case from the book “Mammoths, Sabertooths, and Hominins”. Like other scenes intended for that book, I planned it as a vertical composition, in order to fit the design constrains of that volume, so when I recovered the idea for ·”Prehistoric Mammals” the first thing I had to do was to change the format to horizontal.
Once I redesigned the scene I also decided to make my life a bit simpler by excluding the primitive deer from the composition. The primitive deinotheres (Prodeinotherium), the three-toed horses (Anchitherium) and the mongooses (Leptoplesictis) together with all the greenery, were enough to keep me busy for a good while.
As in the other examples I have commented previously, I went for a rapid color sketch where I established the basic palette I would use in the final painting.
One final step I always took before attacking a big canvas was to make a schematic outline of the final sketch and draw a grid on top, to help me transfer the composition faithfully to the bigger format. In this step I omitted one of the Anchitherium horses, in order to simplify things a bit more and also because it looked odd that the head of the poor creature was hidden by the deinotheres…
So I finally started painting, and only then I realized that, not for the first time, I had fallen in the dreaded “Noah’s Ark Trap”. By this I mean an unconscious propensity of mine to include always two individuals of each species in a scene, no more and no less! I am not sure why that happened so often to me, but the case is I wouldn’t notice until it was too late, and the effect could be, as in this case, a bit awkward. So I decided to bring back the third horse and to delete one of the mongooses…
Good intentions but not enough time: out went the mongoose but I literally didn’t have the time to do the horse, even though, having no head, it would have been simpler to paint!
That mad race to finish such a big collection of oil paintings in record time left me so exhausted that, for better or worse, it was the start of my digital epoch. The easel still seems to look at me regretfully from the closet where it has rested for more than a decade. Only time will tell if I can take it out in a more relaxed, leisurely time. I can´t say now.
Here is just another example of a complex reconstruction which I had to paint in oils in record time and which required a lightning-fast color sketch to establish the palette I would use. This was also part of the “National Geographic Prehistoric Mammals” book, a project where I had little room for hesitation in terms of my compositions.
I had in mind an open environment as indicated in descriptions of the late Pleistocene of Australia where the fossils of the marsupial “lion” (Thylacoleo) and giant kangaroo (Sthenurus) were found.
This oil sketch only has some 15 cm in length and the fabric of the canvas shows quite clearly. I spent about an hour working on it and I quickly defined the warm, earthy colors of the terrain and dry vegetation and the sharp blue sky
While preparing the final painting shown here, I decided to make some changes relative to the color sketch. I included some thorny, dry bushes, and I changed the color of the sky to a more silvery hue with more sharply defined clouds.
As in other cases, the color sketch made me feel comfortable about the whole palette of the painting, and such last minute changes as I did felt more like calculated risks than blind turns.
While preparing a complex paleo-scene with several animals in their environments, I draw line sketches by the dozen, many of them too rough to show even here. But once the anatomy of the animals and the composition have been solved, the matter of color needs to be dealt with. Some times from the very beginning you have a rather definite idea of the palette you want to use, while in other occasions your concept is more defined regarding shapes than color or atmosphere.
One case where I had a concrete idea from the start was the scene with a herd of indricotheres of the genus Paraceratherium which I painted for the National Geographic Book of Prehistoric Mammals.
I wanted to play with the sober contrast between the grey animals and the orange-colored dry grass, and I wanted to use light grey dust to intermix both elements. The idea seemed clear and simple enough, but for this project I had such tight deadlines that I could hardly leave anything to improvisation. In such cases, “more is less”: a little more time invested in a preliminary color sketch is less time wasted later on in changing your mind about color schemes.
So, based on my preliminary pencil drawing I did a very rough color sketch in oils, only some 20 cm wide. As I was painting the earthy color combination I had imagined, I found it looked rather oppresive. All the colors were a bit too similar and with all that dust dominating the scene it felt clausthrophobic, as if the animals were inside a huge room rather than outdoors. So I decided to bring in the color that most directly contrasts with orange: blue. Incorporating the patch of blue sky in the right upper corner of the painting created a tension between two complementary colors and it further suggested the idea of advance, so that as the herd moves towards the right side of the scene the dust seems to be cornering the blue sky, but it hasn’t totally happened yet.
I solved these issues in an hour or two working on my small sketch. But if I had set to paint directly on the big canvas (shown below) and found these problems along the way, the solution would have taken much more time, a luxury I could not afford in that project.
Digital imaging came to stay a long time ago, and some times it can become a nightmare for artists with traditional training like myself. After many years painting digitally, pencil and paper are still my tools of choice when it comes to sketching, and the digital tablet and pen sometimes feel like ill-fitting gloves. And you know what they say about a cat in gloves…
That said, in many ways digital imaging has provided paleoartists with possibilities that seemed just dreams some years ago. For me, being able to handle an accurate 3D model of a fossil skull is incredibly convenient when it comes to make a faithful reconstruction of the head of an extinct animal.
In a recent book cover commission for Japanese publisher Gakken, I had to illustrate a gaping Smilodon facing the viewer, and it was imperative that the proportions were totally accurate. So I used a digital 3D model of the skull of Smilodon and rotated it in the screen until I got the right pose and angle, then I made a screen capture and used it as a template to anchor my drawing of the living head.
The painting was done digitally, and the flexibility of working in layers was a welcome advantage when it came to make minor adjustments to fit the requirements of the cover layout. Like it or not, most of us scientific artists are now plugged in to the digital world, so we should better look at the bright side of -virtual- things!
While preparing the illustrations for the “National Geographic Book of Prehistoric Mammals” with Alan Turner we agreed that we needed a double page spread image showing the sabertooth cat Smilodon populator in pursuit of its prey.
From that central image I ellaborated on the concept of a mixed herd of grazers including several macrauchenias an some South American horses. I played with the impression of a diversity of animals exploding in different directions as their peaceful grazing was interrupted by the predators.
But looking at the sketch I felt I had somehow overdone it, and I decided more simplicity was needed.
So, off went the horses (although one of them “mutated” into a Macrauchenia…), and the remaining elements got spread out a bit to fill the double-page spread format. Now the animals had more room to breath and the whole thing was more relaxing to look at. This third sketch went to the canvas with hardly any modification.
Looking at the final painting and the sketches all these years after, I get the impression that the more “crowded” alternative could have worked as well after all, if only I had had more time… but the practical fact was that to paint that version in oils would have been too time-consuming given the tight deadlines for the whole book project!
Sometimes you cannot separate too clearly the creative needs from the more mundane circumstances of your work, but often, in spite of the frustrations, the results improve thanks to those limitations… often, but not always, and not neccessarily!