Founder’s Briefs: An occasional series where Mongabay founder Rhett Ayers Butler shares analysis, perspectives and story summaries. For much of the late 20th century, reptiles occupied an awkward place in the public imagination. They were admired by specialists, feared or misunderstood by many others, and rarely treated with the same aesthetic seriousness afforded to birds or mammals. Field guides existed, but art that lingered on texture, posture, and individuality was scarce. The people who cared most about snakes, lizards, and turtles tended to find one another at the margins: in societies, at shows, or out in the field, comparing notes. One figure moved easily among those worlds. At reptile expos, he could often be found at an easel, quietly building an image layer by layer while conversations unfolded around him. In museums and private collections, his work carried the same animals into spaces where they were more often absent. The paintings did not dramatize their subjects. They paid attention to them. That artist was Tell Hicks, a British wildlife painter whose name became familiar to herpetologists on both sides of the Atlantic. He specialized in reptiles and amphibians, not as symbols or curiosities, but as organisms worth close, patient study. His snakes were not coiled for effect. His turtles were not softened for charm. They appeared as they were, alert and particular. Hicks was largely self-taught. As a child in England, he drew constantly, filling sketchbooks with animals. A book of prehistoric illustrations by Zdeněk Burian left a lasting impression,…This article was originally published on Mongabay

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