People occasionally ask why I draw so many animals.
It's a fair question. I could spend my time drawing city skylines, airplanes, bridges, or national parks. I enjoy all of those subjects, and they all find their way into my work. But I keep coming back to coyotes, roadrunners, armadillos, puffins, flamingos, mountain lions, and jackrabbits.
The answer probably goes back to Saturday mornings.
Like a lot of kids growing up, I loved cartoons. Warner Bros. and Disney weren't just entertainment—they were introductions to characters that happened to have feathers, fur, or floppy ears.
Bugs Bunny wasn't really about being a rabbit. He was clever, calm under pressure, and always seemed three steps ahead. Daffy Duck was wonderfully overconfident. Speedy Gonzales was fearless and impossible to catch.
Disney approached animals differently. Lady and the Tramp, The Jungle Book, One Hundred and One Dalmatians, and later The Lion King gave them genuine emotion. They could be loyal, brave, mischievous, insecure, or noble. They weren't just animals anymore. They were personalities.
I don't think I realized it then, but those stories stuck with me.
Years later, when I began creating posters, I discovered I wasn't especially interested in drawing animals as wildlife subjects. I was interested in drawing character.
When I start a new animal poster, I'm rarely asking, "How do I make this the most anatomically perfect roadrunner?"
I'm asking something different.
What makes a roadrunner feel fast?
What makes an armadillo look stubborn?
How do you capture the quiet confidence of a mountain lion or the awkward charm of a puffin?
Those questions are far more interesting to me than counting every feather or every hair.
That doesn't mean I want them to become cartoons. In fact, I don't.
I like working in the space between wildlife illustration and animation. My animals are realistic enough to feel believable, but they're designed to suggest personality through posture, expression, composition, and just a touch of wit. They aren't wearing clothes or acting like people. They're still unmistakably animals.
They're simply animals with presence.
I think that's why these posters connect with adults. They nod to something many of us grew up with—the idea that animals can have personalities—but they do it in a quieter, more understated way. The humor isn't loud. The expressions aren't exaggerated. The artwork is designed to live in a home, not just a child's bedroom.
If a framed roadrunner makes someone smile every time they walk past it, or an armadillo reminds them of growing up in Texas, then the poster has done more than decorate a wall. It has told a tiny story.
Maybe that's why I keep drawing animals.
Somewhere inside every one of them is a little bit of those Saturday mornings I grew up with.
They've just grown up with me.
I'm a Texas-based illustrator and designer creating vintage-inspired poster art that blends strong graphic design with storytelling. My work ranges from wildlife and travel posters to aviation art, all created to bring a little character to modern walls.
Not every creative day follows a perfectly organized plan—and maybe that's okay. In this personal essay, I share how unexpected conversations, late-night sketching, family life, and the occasional rabbit trail have shaped some of my favorite illustrations. Sometimes the best ideas aren't found by sticking to the schedule, but by paying attention to where curiosity leads.
Why do my illustrations look the way they do? The answer goes back to a lesson I learned as a young graphic designer: remove everything that doesn't strengthen the idea. In this behind-the-scenes look at my creative process, I share how that philosophy shapes everything from my National Park posters to my Creatures of Character series.
