In a room filled with preserved animals at Central Washington University, artist Justin Gibbens finds endless inspiration among specimens that might unsettle others. Surrounded by snakes and lizards suspended in formaldehyde, shelves lined with small mammal study skins, and countless drawers of birds, all meticulously documented with handwritten tags and old-school card catalogs, Gibbens sees not death but celebration. "I know it's slightly disconcerting – there's a lot of death in here," he admits, "but I see it as almost like a chapel that celebrates biodiversity."
For an artist whose work demands faithful documentation, this collection represents an invaluable treasure trove. "You can observe the patterning, the color, the feather detail," Gibbens explains with genuine awe. "There's just nothing that beats having the actual specimen to work with." Though he graduated from Central Washington University in 1998 with a degree in drawing and painting, Gibbens didn't discover the biology department's specimen room until years later when pursuing a certificate in natural science illustration from the University of Washington.
Gibbens' artistic journey took an unexpected turn after art school, where wildlife art wasn't considered fashionable. "You go to art school, and it's just not cool to be a wildlife artist," he explains. "It's all contemporary art theory. And at the time, I was fully invested in that. I loved it. But I got out of school and thought, 'What is it that I want to make an image of?'" The answer came from his Central Washington roots: bugs, reptiles, and the common wildlife he'd encountered throughout his lifetime in the region.
Raised in the Tri-Cities during early childhood, attending high school in Ephrata, and completing college in Ellensburg, Gibbens has called the tiny rural town of Thorp home since 2003, where he lives with his wife, artist Renee Adams. Together, they co-founded Punch Projects, a converted firehouse that serves as a regional arts space. When Gibbens initially learned about the illustration program in Seattle, he envisioned commercial success, thinking he might create illustrations for publications like Ranger Rick or National Geographic. Instead, the experience provided something more valuable: "Really what that experience has done is given me a background for my own studio practice."
Gibbens' artistic practice, conducted in a home studio filled with vintage taxidermy and animal drawings, ventures far beyond traditional wildlife illustration. Using technical skills learned in natural science illustration, his striking watercolor images begin with scientific precision but take decidedly surreal turns. His portfolio includes a raccoon with three tails, a walrus whose tusks bend into a pretzel shape, and an Appalachian Pelican adorned with pheasant feathers. "It's using the conventions of observational drawing in an unconventional way," he describes. "It's also incorporating a visual wink."
The artist's meticulous process follows traditional watercolor conventions, starting with tracing paper on a light table before outlining biological details with India or walnut ink. He then applies repeated coats of watercolor ink through a technique called glazing until achieving accurate hues. This technical precision serves a crucial purpose: the more realistic Gibbens makes the details, the more viewers accept his fantastical visions. The University of Washington illustration program taught him another valuable lesson about subject matter: "Birds make good paintings."
Initially, Gibbens confesses, "I just always assumed that birds were too decorative, too pretty. They didn't hold my interest the same way that creepy-crawlies did." His perspective changed dramatically under the instruction of renowned wildlife illustrator Tony Angell, a Seattle artist who also carves bird sculptures from stone. "He really turned me on to the beauty of birds," Gibbens recalls. The breakthrough came when he began considering birds' evolutionary history, realizing they were dinosaurs – a subject he'd drawn extensively as a child. "That's when it clicked: Maybe birds are cool."
Birds now feature prominently in Gibbens' work, including a recent series exploring the mysterious behaviors of regional species. "It's kind of ambiguous," he says of paintings depicting bright birds in action, "whether it's some sort of territorial dispute or a mating or courtship ritual." Currently in progress is a visual exploration pairing common birds with dinosaur skeletons scaled down to bird size. One image features a chukar superimposed with a Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton. "I recently learned there have been feathered birds flying on this planet for over 160 million years," he notes enthusiastically. "I'm trying to give a little nod to their evolutionary past with a humorous juxtaposition."
Nature itself provides ample inspiration for surreal imagery, as Gibbens points out, citing the platypus as an example. "The creatures that inhabit this planet are so surreal already," he observes, "I just push it a little further." In his watercolors, creatures behave in curious ways: geese weave their long necks together, narwhals kiss despite awkward tusks, and anatomical anomalies create visual puzzles. His piece "Black-necked Stilt with Vestiges" shows a shorebird standing at water's edge on five or six bright pink legs, painted on heavyweight paper aged with water, oolong tea, and rock salt.
"I want to make it seem as if maybe this is a document that's been around for a while," he explains. "Maybe this is a creature that went extinct long ago, or has yet to be discovered." This aging technique connects to his broader artistic dialogue with historical precedents, particularly John James Audubon's influential 1838 compendium "Birds of America," which set standards for natural science illustration with 435 bird illustrations. Gibbens acknowledges the complicated legacy of Audubon, whose artistic influence remains undeniable despite his dark history as a slaveholder.
Gibbens created his Audubon-inspired series "Birds of Paradise" in 2007-2008, before the full extent of Audubon's problematic history was widely known. "My interest in riffing on some of his classic portraits was simply my way of appreciating his work," Gibbens explains, "albeit in a rather subversive or irreverent way." He also notes the environmental contradiction in Audubon's methods: "Historically, his name has been associated with environmental stewardship, but his own methods of obtaining his subject matter could hardly be described as environmentalism as we've come to know it," referring to Audubon's practice of hunting and killing thousands of birds for specimens.
While conservation messages appear throughout Gibbens' work – whether overtly in his whale series featuring skin painted with decoy patterns, or subtly in his celebration of biological beauty amid increasing species extinction – he prefers leaving interpretation open to viewers. "Are these mutations caused by pollution? A comment on the loss of biodiversity? Or a science experiment gone awry?" he poses. "I don't want to be didactic – I want it to be open to interpretation." This openness extends to the ethereal quality he incorporates despite technical realism, influenced by a college course in Chinese fine-line painting in Hefei, China, taught by professor and artist Chen Li.
Gibbens draws inspiration from diverse sources, ranging from English photographer Eadweard Muybridge's studies of animal motion to Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner cartoons, where legs often pedal wildly while suspended in midair. Sometimes inspiration comes from personal experience, as with his many-headed, many-tailed raccoon painting. After hitting a raccoon with his car one night, Gibbens felt compelled to process the tragedy through art. "I need to paint this now," he thought, "just to sit with it for a while." The resulting artwork, viewed retrospectively, raises questions about motion, time, and evolution.
Gibbens welcomes the questions his unconventional and witty approach generates, but his primary goal remains creating aesthetically pleasing images that might make viewers "scratch your head a little bit." He finds joy in every aspect of the painting process, even painstaking details like endless feather work, always keeping aesthetics at the forefront of his mind. Ultimately, he sees his work as part of humanity's oldest artistic tradition: "Think about the earliest images done by humans: cave paintings of animals," he reflects. "That impulse to depict the creatures that surround us and inhabit the same land, the same waters, it's a very human thing."
