Vintage Dinosaur Art: Prehistoric Animals (Hamlyn)

There can't be very many small, 'spotter's guide'-type dinosaur books that tuck a lovely surprise into their final few pages, after endless illustrations of animals standing around gawping in front of white backdrops - but, why look, here comes one now. Prehistoric Animals (first ed 1969, this ed 1974) is about as generic as they come, but offers up a pleasantly painterly few spreads towards the rear. It's just a shame that the artists aren't properly credited...

Although Barry Cox is credited as author, the book only lists 'Design Practitioners Ltd.' as the illustrator. Boo. In spite of the implication that the book was illustrated by a handful of people, there is no sense of discontinuity or disjointedness. The reconstructions of the animals have aged to varying degrees, with the dinosaurs probably coming off the worst. The cavalcade of retro tropes begins on the cover, where a slightly sad-looking, warty Triceratops (note the body-coloured horns; an upgrade only available on higher-spec ceratopsians) jostles for space with a grumpy Deinotherium and Rexy in classic Osborne guise (standing upright, that is - not espousing racism or anything like that). As usual, while the book might cover all prehistoric animals, dinosaurs are acknowledged as the real stars of the show. How fortuitous that they have the habit of turning up right in the middle of the narrative.

Most of the book consists of illustrations like these. Ah, but then we have the surprise near the back...

Lovely, romantic prehistoric panoramas! Over on the Fezbooks, Blake � Murch� remarked that the palette in the below scene (depicting Cretaceous marine reptiles) is "fucking gorgeous". And I quite agree. There is a wonderful, primordial murk to both that and the above scene, depicting Jurassic land animals (there is intended to be a division down the middle). That such tiny scenes - about 22cm across - should be so evocative is quite remarkable. Just take a look at the steaming swamps in the stegosaur scene, or the rush of bubbles around the diving bird below. Marvellous. The reconstructions are horribly outdated overall, and in some cases just Plain Wrong even for the era (with Colin the macrocephalic aquatic sauropod being a particular highlight), but the artwork's still quite lovely.

The Late Cretaceous scene is like something out of a picture book, with beautifully stylised, detailed foliage and a palette that delicately treads the line between colourful and naturalistic. Although disappointed not to find Rousseau's tiger lurking in the undergrowth, Rexy still finds time to wave courteously to a weird Protoceratops-alike. For some reason, his face reminds me of Barney from The Simpsons. "Yoo-hoooo!"

Perhaps my favourite of all these scenes takes place not in the Mesozoic, but millions of years later. In this beautifully realised illustration, a lone Uintatherium bathes in a shady swamp. It's far better than any panorama in a book like this has any right to be; almost worthy of Burian himself. With the eye drawn to the great grey beast just off-centre, it's easy to miss the terrifying nightmare lemur lurking to the far left. Avert its unrelenting, unfeeling stare, for there lies madness; shunning daylight and human contact, locking one's self into a dank cellar and producing Memo Kosemen-worthy artwork, for ever.

For all that it has an artsy side, the bulk of this books' illustrations do, indeed, consist of plain old prehistoric animal portraits. In fact, there are dozens of the things, spreading an impressively diverse number of different animal clades - I may have to devote another post entirely to them. For now, here are a few from the only section that (come on now) really matters - Mesozoic dinosaurs.

Having already popped up on the cover, Rexy puts in another appearance inside. Although depicted in a rather upright pose, it's worth noting that the back and tail are actually quite straight - not bad for a book dating back to 1969. The head, however, is a complete mess - like a crude rubbery glove puppet.

When the book's large ornithopods appear, there is a notable contrast between the Neave Parker-aping Iguanodon, with its resolute tripodal pose and customary dewlap, and a quadrupedal 'hadrosaur' (which appears to be based on Corythosaurus). This is perhaps the perfect illustration of how artists can become hidebound to a very particular depiction of an animal - as if there was simply no way that Iguanodon could ever appear except as a bloated tripod with a flattering neck accessory. Meanwhile, the Corythosaurus shows a little more invention. It appears to be lolling its tongue which, oddly enough, was a trope often applied to Iguanodon illustrations.

While most 'portraits' are full-body depictions, Pachycephalosaurus is unique in having its head alone illustrated, with the text indicating that this is probably because it isn't known from much else. Although the reference material available to agency artists would undoubtedly have been poor back then, it's clear that the illustrator at least had access to an image of a skull in lateral view - the dome, snout spikes and overall shape are there, but some finer details are off. Still, in light of modern restorations, it's interesting to see the animal restored without any 'cheeks'. Hey, Jaime Headden, have you drawn this one yet?

The book's depiction of pterosaurs is also a little different in that they are given a prop, namely a naked tree trunk. While the art isn't much to write home about, it's nice to see Dsungaripterus make an appearance; even more pleasing is that it's shown climbing a tree trunk, rather than hanging upside-down in defiance of pterosaur pedal anatomy, gravity and the collective rage of every pterosaur researcher in the world.

And finally...over on Facebook, ever-enthusiastic commenter Bill Lovell enquired as to whether this was the book with the 'weird kangaroo with the creepy human face'. It is indeed, Bill. While the majority of Sthenurus reconstructions can't help but make the animal look very strange, that's only because it really did look rather odd. This book is surely unique, however, in making it look quite so disconcertingly humanoid. I think it's those winning cheekbones.

Coming up next week: motorcycling dudebro maniraptor wranglers, probably.

Vintage Dinosaur Art: Dinosaurs (Domino)

One of the more obscure finds I've made on eBay, this Dinosaurs isn't a book as such - rather, it folds out like a pamphlet or map, and the illustrations effectively cover two frieze-like spreads. (You can also fold it completely flat, but there's no continuity between the two sides.) Published by Domino Books in 1979, its charming illustrations take us back to a palaeontological world in flux...while erring somewhat on the old-fashioned side. We're not out of the swamps just yet!

The illustrations were provided by Denys Ovenden, and naturally form the focus of the 'book' given its format. There's a pleasing warmth and solidity to them, even if some of the anatomy is downright suspect (so where does cover Rexy's neck end and his shoulders begin? It's a problem that seems to plague retro theropods). Given the age of the publication, it's little surprise that many of the animals take on a distinctly Zallingerian air - after all, most of the artwork in popular books of the time did - but a few telling contemporary scientific mores are starting to creep in.

Take this scene, for example - for the most part, it could well have been lifted from a book of the '60s, '50s or even earlier. The head-swap ceratopsians seem content to mill about, squatting and chewing on cycads (but of course cycads), and they sport those serenely smooth and glossy heads so prevalent in mid-twentieth century palaeoart. It's the 1970s now, though, so who should pop up in the background but a poster child of the Dinosaur Renaissance (the one without the beard), Deinonychus! Unusually, the mid-sized dromaeosaur is depicted nest-raiding rather than screaming and jumping on top of something; I can only imagine it's because that particular trope had yet to gain ground. This illustration is also an example of the curious tendency for artists to miss the hallux on their dromaeosaur feet, perhaps because they're thinking far too hard about how to draw that more famous digit in its duly raised position. It's a peculiarity that even plagued the Jurassic Park 'raptor' toys.

Deinonychus is also one of the few theropods to be shown in a 'modern', horizontal-backed position - the other being Ornithomimus (above), here depicted more as a generic small coelurosaur rather than an ornithomimosaur. Regardless of its proportions, it stands out as an incongruously modern-looking creation among a gathering of very vintage-looking ornithischians, including a highly Neave Parker-esque Polacanthus and a personal favourite of mine, a sprawling, short-tailed Scolosaurus. This artistic incarnation of the animal, though long banished from the pages of kids' dinosaur books, lives on in the form of hideous fibreglass models that pop up in visitor attractions around the world (but mostly, it seems, in the UK). Victoria Arbour harbours a secret love for it, or so I hear.

Meanwhile, the Psittacosaurus have an unusually knobbly look about them, and an attention to fine skin details that I really like.

While the massive bulk of Stegosaurus and, to a lesser extent, Iguanodon (with a rather dashing row of dorsal spines) dominates this composition, one's eye can't help but be drawn to the two much more dynamic-looking animals depicted in the top right. Although drawn as the croc-line archosaurs they surely were, Ornithosuchus and Saltoposuchus are here desribed by author Barry Cox as 'dinosaur ancestors'. Whatever - it was the '70s. More interesting is the fact that they are so dynamic - which makes me wonder about artistic precedents for depicting pseudosuchian, crocodolymorph etc. etc. archosaurs as seemingly being more fleet of foot than dinosaurs.

No need to guess the artistic precedents behind this depiction of Allosaurus, mind you - it's reminiscent of any number of depictions of the animal chewing on a downed sauropod, going all the way back to Charles Knight's, which was based on a mount at the American Museum of Natural History. Of course, in this case the prey item happens to be a Camptosaurus instead, but it's still a very familiar scene. As if to hammer home that this is a Palaeoart Standard, Ovenden even throws in a violently belching mountain. Nothing says 'primordial world' quite like some belligerent geography. Having said all that, the spotty pattern on Allosaurus' flanks is lovely indeed. Gorgeous scalation work, darling. Wonderful attention to detail, too, in the way that the allosaurs' claws are tugging on the thick hide of its victim.

Another solid indication that you're looking at old-school dinosaur art is the appearance of animal labelled 'Coelurus'. There's nothing wrong with that, of course - Coelurus is a valid taxon - but the creature seldom appears in art any more. Given that Ornitholestes was long considered a junior synonym of Coelurus, it's likely that many historic illustrations of 'Coelurus' depict that animal instead (which is somewhat better known), and indeed Ornitholestes has more-or-less now replaced Coelurus in its role in palaeoart. Aptly enough, Coelurus here shares a scene with a Euoplocephalus that appears to be a portmanteau of different ankylosaurs (with a dash of retro 'reptilian armadillo' artistic tropes). It's the Archaeopteryx that are most deserving of attention, though, as they are actually remarkably good - in that they're not wearing weirdo lizard masks and their hands actually form part of their wing. Ovenden clearly knew a thing or two more about bird anatomy than many of his contemporaries (and even many illustrators working since).

And now for my favourite scene in the whole book (or pamphlet...or whatever). Nothing says 'the Savage World of Long Ago' quite like somebody having their head bitten clean off. For a sauropod to wander out of the water in vintage palaeoart is, of course, certain death, and it's great to see Ceratosaurus taking charge and dealing the damage for a change (rather than cowering in the shadow of that certain 'other' Morrison theropod). The dappled and stripy patterns on the animals here are quite lovely and well-executed, and (unlike in some of the other scenes) attention has been paid to the animals' skeletons - note the blunt-nosed look of the juvenile camarasaurs and the osteoderms and three horns on Ceratosaurus. It's also worth noting that the text describes how the sauropods were, in fact, well adapted for a life on land - a sign of how the times were changing.

Disappointingly, Rexy doesn't get to indulge in such violent, bloody savagery, in spite of being so large, famous, and sexy. Instead, he's depicted merely flashing a smile at some very retro-looking hadrosaurs, with Corythosaurus looking particularly unimpressed. When compared with the Ceratosaurus scene, there's a greater tendency here to just lean on old palaeoart tropes - as exemplified by the weirdly beakless and tripodal hadrosaur. Rexy certainly has some suitably massive thighs on him (and that purpleish colour scheme is rather natty), but his left leg has presumably adopted some rather strange angles, and his first toes are reversed for no good reason. (Basal tyrannosauroids confirmed as arboreal perchers? Yeah, why not? What do you mean, 'no evidence whatsoever'? Quiet, you!) Meanwhile, Tsintaosaurus has a red rocket. On its head. Again.

And finally...a grey brachiosaur. To Ovenden's credit, most of the animals in this book-type thing have excellent skin textures - just the right mix of pebbly scales, osteoderms and the occasional flashy spiky bits, with colour schemes that are naturalistic without being dull. The dappled patterns on this sauropod are, again, rather pretty (I think Niroot would heartily approve), but it suffers from having a very saggy, wrinkled look, probably based on extant large mammals such as the heffalump and nose-horn. It's a bit disappointing when compared with the far more convincing (and reptilian) look that he applies to other creatures, but is reflective of a trend that persisted for far, far too long. Having said that, it's interesting that Ovenden drew the nostrils further down the snout, while still depicting the nasal crest - hinting, as with the Archaeopteryx, that he had something of an intuitive grasp of certain aspects of animal anatomy. It's easy to have a chuckle at these old books (and Gryposaurus knows I've done that an awful lot over the years), but there was an accomplished illustrator at work here.

That giant pacycephalosaur is still amusing, though. Tee hee.