extinctionstories

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In mid-August 2025, the Lesser Prairie Chicken (Tympanuchus pallidicinctus) was removed from the endangered species list.

This decision was not made due to a successful rebound, as in the case of Kirtland's Warbler.

Nor---thankfully---was it a result of a total loss of the species: the fate suffered by its eastern cousin the Heath Hen, one of the countless creatures that became extinct prior to the protections of the Endangered Species Act.

The change in the categorization of the lesser prairie chicken was not based on its population numbers at all, nor under the advisement of wildlife or conservation experts. Instead, it came as the result of a court decision, spurred by a challenge from the current presidential administration, arguing in favor of the desires of cattle ranchers and oil-drilling interests.

You see, the lesser prairie chicken needs land to successfully breed: specifically, it needs unbroken prairie, an expansive contiguous range. Instead, its habitat has been reduced to scattered islands of grass, many of which are too small to sustain the lekking birds. The United States' rich western rangeland is a hot commodity, being constantly sliced into smaller and smaller fragments by the agricultural and energy industries. And the owners of those slivers rarely welcome the 'interference' of ESA regulations on their land

For years, up against such powerful opponents, wildlife advocates fought to have the lesser prairie chicken added to the endangered species list at all. Their triumph, in 2022, has proven to be short lived.

I did this painting a while back, as part of my Conservation Pieces series, focusing on the attempts (sometimes successful, sometimes not) humans make to undo the damage we have caused to wildlife. I chose the lesser prairie chicken to represent the method of relocation: the moving of individuals of a threatened species to a new, hopefully-safer home. Over the years, several hundred prairie chickens have been transported from their fragmented Kansas lands to larger tracts in Colorado; unfortunately, due to hotter, drier conditions caused by climate change, these birds have failed to thrive. Sometimes our best efforts fail, which makes it even more important to focus on the strategies that have been effective.

It has been estimated that the lesser prairie chicken's population has been diminished up to 97% from historical numbers. Recent years have brought tentative signs of improvement, but only due to the intense conservation efforts that have been made on the bird's behalf---efforts that require funding, and legislation, and support. Voluntary steps can help, but laws and incentivization are often necessary to prevent habitat destruction. What can be expected when the government chooses to place its priorities in the same hands that would happily tear the ecosystem asunder?

One animal being added to the endangered species list can act as an umbrella, providing shelter to countless others.

One animal being removed can portend a storm.

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This painting is titled Relocation (Lesser Prairie Chicken). It was painted in traditional gouache on 22x30" watercolor paper, and is part of my Conservation Pieces series.

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On April 16th 2025 the US federal government has proposed to change the interpretation of the endangered species act so that it no longer protects habitat.

This is open for public comment until the end of May 19th. Please comment and make your voice heard.

Wildlife need their habitat. If the ESA redefines harm so that habitat is no longer protected, the implications for wildlife would be catastrophic.

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What’s that old rhyme—“red touches yellow, kill a fellow; red touches black, friend of Jack.” A pithy snippet of information that might mean the difference between a memorable animal sighting and a fatal bite incident. Knowledge is like that: it can lead a person into temptation, or provide the means of their salvation. Watch out for those who seek to deprive you of the choice to learn for yourselves.

The title of this painting is They’ll Tell You It’s Dangerous. It is traditional gouache, on 11x14 inch watercolor paper. Here’s to the Year of the Snake! 🐍

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Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and wishing everyone a new year full of happiness (and humor!) 🎄🦤

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Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth

The Cerulean Warbler isn’t extinct. It isn’t even officially classified endangered. The species is, however, one of over 1000 different birds listed as near threatened by the IUCN—a perilous group that includes nearly ten percent of all birds on earth. And, like many of those other species, the Cerulean Warbler’s numbers are declining.

Of the neotropical songbirds—those that migrate seasonally between North, South, and Central America—the Cerulean is the one disappearing at the most rapid rate. Once a relatively common bird, the commonest warbler in some places, the Cerulean has seen its population drop by an estimated 70% over the past fifty years—a plunge that can be tired directly to habitat destruction throughout its range, most notably by the coffee industry. (You may have heard of bird-friendly coffee, which is farmed using methods that help preserve vital habitat.)

Current estimates suggest that there are slightly more than half a million Cerulean Warblers left. Maybe that sounds like a lot; remember, though, we lost the passenger pigeon, a species that once numbered five to seven billion.

Unless more is done (unless so much less is done), it’s only a matter of time until this bird—until a thousand others—does become endangered, even extinct.

Not every species has yet had its name inscribed on the Red List, but all are at risk.

Ourselves included.

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The title of this painting is The Meek. It is traditional gouache, on 18x24” watercolor paper.

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Hey everyone, just taking this opportunity to let you know that @extinctionstories is now on Bluesky! 🦋 I’m still learning how to use it, and would appreciate any advice you could share. 😌

This 36x48” oil on canvas diptych is part of a series I’ve been working on based on the thylacine, also known as the “Tasmanian Tiger” or marsupial wolf.

One of my biggest interests has always been animals, and in particular the ones that humans have destroyed. Every lost or vanishing species is its own story, and as an illustrator theirs are the stories that I am the most invested in telling (hence the blog).

The thylacine is one of the classic examples of human-caused extinction: an utterly unique creature, deliberately exterminated due to a combination of greed, ignorance, hubris, and fear.

Scared or anxious marsupials have a habit of stretching their jaws in a display known as a yawn (you’ve probably seen memes of opossums that look like they’re yelling—it’s the same thing). This display was especially striking in the thylacine, which could open its jaw to over 90°. Some of the most famous photos of thylacines capture them in this attitude of fear.

Unfortunately for the thylacine, humans have more direct methods of dealing with the things that scare them.

The title of this pair of paintings is ‘When They Are Frightened, They Show Their Teeth’.

The overall series is called ‘Here Be Monsters’, as a nod to both the far-flung environs of the thylacine, and the behavior of those who intruded upon it.

Stay tuned for more.

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Support your local artists, and other endangered species. 💖

shop, instagram, ko-fi

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@extinctionstories hit a big milestone today: one THOUSAND followers! 🎉

Thank you SO much for all of the support and interest during this blog’s first year and a half, and for helping me to share the stories of these incredible lost & endangered species! 🦤

In honor of the occasion, here’s a special behind-the-scenes studio peek: the original 11x14” preliminary oil studies for my thylacine diptych When They Are Frightened, They Show Their Teeth:

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On April 19th, 1987, a bird known as Adult Condor 9 was captured in the Bitter Creek National Wildlife Refuge, near Bakersfield, California. After decades ravaged by the threats of lead-poisoning and pesticide exposure, and intense debate over the ethics of captivity, it had been determined that captive breeding was the final hope to save a species. As his designation might suggest, AC-9 was the ninth condor to be captured for the new program; he was also the last.

As the biology team transported the seven-year-old male to the safety of the San Diego Wild Animal Park, his species, the California Condor, North America's largest bird, became extinct in its native range. It was Easter Sunday—a fitting day for the start of a resurrection.

At the time of AC-9's capture, the total world population of California condors constituted just twenty-seven birds. The majority of them represented ongoing conservation attempts: immature birds, taken from the wild as nestlings and eggs to be captive-reared in safety, with the intention of re-release into the wild. Now, efforts turned fully towards the hope of captive breeding.

Captive breeding is never a sure-fire bet, especially for sensitive, slow-reproducing species like the condor. Animals can and do go extinct even when all individuals are successfully shielded from peril and provided with ideal breeding conditions. Persistence in captivity is not the solution to habitat destruction and extirpation—but it can buy valuable time for a species that needs it.

Thankfully, for the California condor, it paid off.

The birds defied expectations, with an egg successfully hatched at the San Diego Zoo the very next year. Unlike many other birds of prey, which may produce clutches of up to 5 hatchlings, the California condor raises a single chick per breeding season, providing care for the first full year of its life, and, as a consequence, often not nesting at all in the year following the birth of a chick. This, combined with the bird's slow maturation (taking six to eight years to start breeding), presented a significant challenge. However, biologists were able to exploit another quirk of the bird's breeding cycle: its ability to double-clutch.

Raising a single offspring per year is a massive risk in a world full of threats, and the California condor's biology has provided it with a back-up plan: in years when a chick or egg has been lost, condors will often re-nest with a second egg. To take advantage of this tendency, eggs were selectively removed from birds in the captive breeding program, which would then lay a replacement, greatly increasing their reproduction rate.

And what of the eggs that were taken? The tendency of hatchlings to imprint is well-known, and the intention from the very beginning was for the birds to one day return to the wild—an impossibility for animals acclimated to humans. And so, puppets were made in the realistic likeness of adult condors, and used by members of the conservation team to feed and nurture the young birds, mitigating the risk of imprintation on the wrong species.

By 1992, the captive population had more than doubled, to 64 birds. That year, after an absence of five years, the first two captive-bred condors were released into their ancestral home. Many other releases followed, including the return of AC-9 himself in 2002. Thanks to the efforts of zoos and conservationists, as of 2024 there are 561 living California condors, over half of which fly free in the wilds of the American West.

The fight to save the California condor is far from over. The species is still listed as critically endangered. Lead poisoning (from ingesting shot/bullets from abandoned carcasses) remains the primary source of mortality for the species, with tagged birds tested and treated whenever possible. Baby condors are fed bone chips by their parents, likely as a calcium supplement—but, to a condor, bits of bone and bits of plastic can be indistinguishable, and dead nestlings have been found with stomachs full of trash.

There's hope, though. There are things we can change, things we can counteract and stop from happening in the future. It was a human hand that created this problem, and it will take a human hand to fix it. Hope is only gone when the last animal breathes its last breath—and the California condor is still here.

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This painting is titled Puppet Rearing (California Condor), and is part of my series Conservation Pieces, which focuses on the efforts and techniques used to save critically endangered birds from extinction. It is traditional gouache, on 22x30" paper.

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Extinction | Our Fragile Relationship with Life on Earth, by Marc Schlossman. Ammonite Press, 2022. 224 pages.

The most recent addition to my Library of Lost Species, this large, beautiful volume has also earned instant entry to my favorites list. A photographer and advocate for vanishing species, Schlossman built this work around the fantasic specimen collection of Chicago’s Field Museum. Eighty-two species are covered, twenty-three of which are extinct—and, unlike many books that limit themselves to charismatic birds and mammals, included here are fish and herptiles as well as plants, mollusks, and insects. As is the case with the previously reviewed Swift as a Shadow, the photography of this book is artistic in nature. The evocative images are accompanied by concise yet informative text, sharing stories of tragic losses as well as stirring triumphs of conservation. Schlossman also maintains a website that promises updated information on each profiled species, at www.extinction.photo. I’m very very happy to have added this powerful work to my collection.

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A lot of my work focuses on why and how a species ends, but the where can be quite interesting as well.

Seen from the Walt Disney World monorail track this afternoon, just pulling out of the Contemporary Resort, here is a view of the now-abandoned Discovery Island.

Prior to the opening of Animal Kingdom, the island housed Disney’s onsite zoo and animal preserve, a facility that included one of the largest walk-through aviaries in the world, as well as the biggest captive flock of scarlet ibis.

It was here that the last four living Dusky Seaside Sparrows, all males, were brought in 1983, in support of a captive breeding program attempting to hybridize the birds with a related species—a last ditch effort, too little too late for a species left diminished by decades of habitat destruction.

And it was here, on the grounds of the Disney World theme park, that the endling, Orange Band, would die of old age, just four years later.

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What Remains, an 8x10 gouache painting and accompanying poem, inspired by specimen no. 7866, a Carolina Parakeet mount held in the collection of the Charleston Museum. I was able to view six preserved parakeets during my visit, but I was deeply moved by this one: in too poor of condition to be publicly displayed, stripped of feathers and provenance—its identity lost to time, just as its species has been.

Excerpted from my art book Grasping at Feathers.

(transcript and commentary under the cut.)

Shadow surrounds a doused candle,* Forgotten at the back of a drawer.

Pot pot chee, Puzzi-la-née,** Head-of-Yellow, once blazing: A raucous flame that licked through summer orchards, And set the gray boughs of winter aglow, Warmed by the soft nuzzle of clustered wings.

All that remains is this: A cracked and peeling thing; An inanimate amalgam of plaster and shellac; Flecked green with arsenic;*** Fraying feathers of faded straw.

Who is left that can remember? That can say for certain, That this dusty relic, Was ever anything more?

We have lost our parrot, Our only, only, only.

We let this wonder slip through our fingers; What more will we forget

* I always come back to the image of the Carolina Parakeet as a candle, inspired by the Christmas tree eyewitness account.

** native Seminole names for the parakeet

*** arsenic was the first effective method found of protecting taxidermy specimens against insects, and was used expansively throughout the 19th and early 20th century. Specimens of this age should not be handled without gloves.

**** The Carolina Parakeet was America’s only native endemic parrot. The last known individual died in the Cincinnati Zoo in 1918, and the species was declared extinct in 1939.

Specimen no. 7866 is of unknown age, sex, and geographical origin. In the late 19th century, many hunter-collectors shot large quantities of birds for the purpose of selling them to museums, and in many cases records of their kills were either lost or not made in the first place. Based on my research, it is likely that this bird came from Florida in the late 1890s, but this cannot be confirmed with certainty.

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For Chantelle Chapman, research includes bright colors, gouache paints, and a studio—rather than test tubes, safety goggles, a lab coat, and a laboratory. From Chapman’s studio came an art project about an extinct bird, the Carolina parakeet, that was declared extinct in 1939. The series of gouache paintings, “Parakeet Lost,” built upon research that included visits to museum specimen collections, earned a runner-up prize at KSU’s Spring Symposium of Student Scholars, a rarity for a student in the College of the Arts. “I’ve had such a wonderful response to the work. People have been so interested, first of all, to see art in a research setting, and second, I have heard over and over, ‘I never knew this bird existed!’” said Chapman, who recently earned her Bachelor of Fine Arts in Art with a dual concentration in illustration and painting and drawing. “It felt like people were being enriched to have learned about this lost species.” She also presented her project at the National Conference on Undergraduate Research in April in Long Beach, California. Chapman went all-in for both presentations, wearing a skirt printed with illustrations of the parakeet by renowned mid-century bird artist Charley Harper, and sewed by Chapman herself—another original work that added to the project. [...] Chapman will continue making art and telling stories from nature. She plans on showing her art throughout the summer while applying for artist fellowships. Chapman’s next project involves the passenger pigeon, which went extinct in 1914; she’s already started the research for that project, and she hopes to include both the parakeets and the pigeons in books about extinct and endangered species. “I want to write and illustrate my own natural history-themed books, with a strong scientific grounding,” she said. “My goal is to use my art to tell the stories that I think are important, and to share them with others.” [x]

A few weeks ago, I was interviewed by my university's news for an article about my work on Parakeet Lost and the research award that it earned. The article was published today, and I am very excited to finally share it, and the great photos featuring my Library of Lost Species—plus a feathery friend!

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It was never a common species, the blue-grey warbler that locals called the jack pine bird. A belated discovery among American birds, it was undescribed by science until the mid 19th century—and then, known only on the basis of a single specimen. The bird's wintering grounds in the Caribbean would eventually fulfill the demands of collectors and museums, but the intricacies of its lifecycle remained a mystery for decades, the first nest only found in 1903. As the already-rare bird became rarer, people could only guess at why. There were just so few birds to look for, their breeding habitat inscrutable amidst the dense, impassable woodland of their Midwestern home. The one clue was the most apparent thing about the bird: its affinity with the jack pine (Pinus banksiana).

Over time, more nests were found—not in the eponymous trees, as might be expected for a songbird, but on the ground at their feet. Data points converged, leading to the realization that not only did the bird nest almost exclusively in proximity to the scrubby pines, but only utilized trees that fell within a specific range: new growth, between five and fifteen feet tall, with branches that swept shelteringly close to the ground. Subsequently, it would be noticed that the greatest volume of specimen collection for the bird had corresponded with years in which historically significant wildfires had impacted the Midwest—fires that, for decades afterwards, had been staunchly suppressed. The pieces fell into place, like jack pine seeds, whose cones open only under the heat of a blaze.

With the bird's total population having dwindled to the low hundreds, a program of prescribed burns, clearcutting, and replanting was instituted, with many acres of land purchased and devoted to the preservation and maintenance of suitable breeding habitat. Concurrently, efforts were made to protect the vulnerable bird against brood parasitism by the brown-headed cowbird.

When the first federal list of protected species was put forward in 1966, the name of the small grey warbler was inscribed beside birds such as the Kauai ʻōʻō and the Dusky Seaside Sparrow.

The ʻōʻō, last of the genus Moho, would be removed from the list in 2023 due to extinction, after thirty-six years without a sighting.

The endling Dusky Seaside Sparrow, a male named Orange Band, would die of old age in captivity in 1987, with his species being delisted three years later.

in 2019, fifty-two years after the creation of the Endangered Species Protection Act, the name of Kirtland's warbler, too, was removed from the list: it had been determined that, with a population now numbering nearly 5000, the jack pine bird could be considered safely stable.

Conservationists continue to work to preserve the breeding habitat of Kirtland's Warbler in the midwestern US, as well as its winter roosts in the Bahamas and neighboring islands (though selective logging has replaced actual burning in recent years, due to the dangers posed by unpredictable fires). It's the kind of effort that it takes to undo the damage we've caused to the planet and its creatures—the kind of hope that we need, to not give up on them, or on ourselves.

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The title of this piece is Prescribed Burn (Kirtland's Warbler). It is traditional gouache on 18x24" watercolor paper, and is part of my series Conservation Pieces, which focuses on efforts made to save critically endangered birds from extinction.

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Here’s how the finished skirt turned out!

Working on a new Charley Harper skirt!

This one has great auks on it! 🐧

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Of course, there was one highlight of my visit to the Smithsonian that outshone any other—the purpose of my 700 mile journey: today, I got to see Martha. 😭

(I got my auk skirt done just in time!)

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My long-awaited visit to the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History was today! I knew they had a thylacine in their collection, but as I walked through the mammal gallery, I wasn’t sure if they would have the mount on display, since such specimens are so precious and fragile, and the focus of the display pieces seemed to be primarily on extant species and ancient extinctions—but then, I rounded a corner, and there she was.

This thylacine is currently being displayed alongside a dingo, with explanatory notes about the role the canine played in the extirpation of the thylacine from the Australian mainland. She’s shielded from the brightness of the gallery by a transparent scrim, with a button that can be pushed to switch on a spotlight for about ten seconds—it made me happy that the museum is taking measures to preserve her in good condition, while also still keeping her available for public viewing. I’m so grateful to have had the chance to see her today.