BrainStuff Classics: How Do Paleoartists Create Dinosaur Drawings?

Through paleo art, fossils are revived. A single drawing or sculpture can define how the public will visualize an extinct species, so paleo artists strive to keep their work as accurate as possible, a task that gets harder when the experts disagree. It's a tough job, to be sure, but also a dream job for loads of fossil fans and dinosaur enthusiasts. But how do they go about creating it. First off, a little history. A dinosaur renaissance changed the game. Paleo

art didn't always feature dinosaurs. All prehistoric organisms, from early palm trees to wooly mammoths make worthy subjects. Nevertheless, the fascinating reptiles were at the center of a significant period in the history of this art form, called the dinosaur Renaissance. Prior to the nineteen sixties, dinosaurs were largely written off

as dim witted, tail dragging hulks. Most paleo art from the early twentieth century reflects that view, but in nineteen sixty nine, Yale paleontologist John Ostrom published a new paper on Danonikus, an eleven foot that's three point three meter predator akin to the Jurassic Park imagining of velociraptor. Noting its long legs and sickle shaped claws, Ostrom claimed Danonikus was an athletic beast who ran down its prey and

might have even hunted in packs. The scientist went on to popularize the now widely accepted idea that today's birds are descended from Mesozoic dinosaurs. Exciting hypotheses like these changed the discourse about how dinosaurs looked and behaved. In the nineteen seventies and eighties, a growing number of artists responded by illustrating the creatures in active, dynamic poses. What followed was a renewed public interest in both the study of

dinosaurs and in paleo art itself. But there was a problem. Bare bones and skeletons often don't tell you a whole lot about the overlying soft tissue. Hence, some paleo artists have chosen to reconstruct animals reptiles in particular, as lanky beasts with ultra low body fat, skinny tails, and heads that are largely devoid of cartilage or loose skin. This practice has been called shrink wrapping, and if you couldn't tell from the moniker, it's been contentious. Troll broke it

down for us quote. I think there are some really valid points to be made about shrink wrapping. Many paleo artists are reluctant to jump into more speculatives constructions, preferring to play it safer. So by keeping their animals lean and mean, paleo artists can highlight known skeletal anatomy without making conjectural guesses about an animal's soft tissues that might not have been preserved. Back in the dinosaur Renaissance, shrink

wrapping was in fashion, that's no longer the case. Modern critics point out that living animals tend to look a lot different than you might expect if you had nothing to go on but their naked skeletons. A troll pointed out that things like trunks, ears, and blubber don't usually fossilize. We also spoke via email with Matt Celeski, a paleo artist and museum exhibit designer, who also offered his thoughts

on the issue. Quote, today's paleo artists are looking more closely at the extent of soft tissue in living animals. I think this fleshing out of paleo art makes for heightened levels of believability in the reconstructions and greater diversity in the way artists approach their subjects. In other words, chunky limbs and necks and not to mention, puffy dino feathers have gone mainstream, but figuring out what those features

might have looked like takes some serious research. To scientists, the skeletal drawing is one of the most useful forms of paleo art, an animal skeleton is usually depicted in an upright position that is standing or running, and juxtaposed against a black silhouette that represents the creature's body profile. Unfortunately, in the fossil record, complete skeletons tend to be rare. When parts are missing or broken, scientists and artists can

only speculate about what those elements looked like. Zeleski said, every skeleton presents unique challenges, but I find the most difficult thing is filling in the parts you don't know, extrapolating the shapes of missing bones, or correcting the shapes of bones that have been damaged or distorted by time. Filling in each missing piece involves a complex mix of research, inference and educated guesses, and I always wonder if they are better choices than the ones I end up making.

But these efforts aren't new. Let me take you back to eighteen fifty three, when sculptor Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins was hired to build more than thirty full sized concrete models of prehistoric animals for Crystal Palace Park in London, England. The man really did his homework, consulting experts, scrutinizing fossils and reviewing the scientific literature. In short, he was a

dedicated paleo artist. One of hawkins Guanadon molds had a carnivorous gut big enough to hold a table and some chairs, so as a publicity stunt for his project, twenty one guests, including paleontologists William Buckland and Sir Richard Owen, were invited to climb down into the belly of the beast for an eight course dinner party. The Big Shindig took place on New Year's Eve in eighteen fifty three. Restoration projects have helped these master works survive to the present day.

The beasts attract thousands of visitors every year, even though they are no longer deemed accurate. Hawkins Megalosaurus, for example, stands menacingly on all fours, but scientists now think the meat eating dinosaur was by pedal. Nevertheless, the Victorian era giants capture the prevailing wisdom of their time, giving them immense cultural value. Prehistory matters, but so does our history.