Larry Norton’s subjects are not only anatomically proportionate but portrayed in body positions as they appear in the wild. One notes the malevolent cast of a lurking croc, the rubble of scattered bones, virtually hears the forlorn call of the turtle dove....
Sporting Classics will be in attendance at the 2023 Southeastern Wildlife Exposition (SEWE) this coming February – here’s what you need to get started! Whether you are looking for SEWE’s Brochure, FAQ’s, Raffles, Tickets or Hotels, you can...
When I remember my best days of hunting, the memories dawn mostly cloudy and gray. I’m thinking about the gray days and cloudy skies preceding a storm. Every hunter knows that animals sense and instinctively move in advance of a storm. And I think the same urge...
Whatever the goal, the safari became a recipe for disaster. The great elephant rounded a clump of acacia and swung toward the two hunters. Drying blood made dark stains down its wrinkled shoulder and neck, but despite its wounds, the big animal moved deceptively fast...
“My work has evolved a great deal in recent years, particularly in the way I apply paint to canvas. I hope that I’ll still be growing at the same rate 10 years from now.” These words by John Banovich appeared in an article by Editor Chuck Wechsler in...
There is nothing meek or ambiguous about a charging elephant, especially when the tusker in question appears to be lunging off a canvas from South African painter James Stroud. Stroud’s vivid wildlife portraits are so different from the flat surfaces of most...
“…the most incredibly wonderful, generous, humorous and likable son of a bitch who ever lived.” To many discerning readers, Robert Ruark ranks as the finest outdoor writer ever to grace the American literary scene. His enduring fame is linked to...
“…I could do it if I practiced enough.” It’s not uncommon, upon meeting Julie Jeppsen for the first time, to find yourself doing a double take just a few minutes later. Let’s say you’re at the Southeastern Wildlife Exposition in...
It’s only natural that Greg Beecham should feel as he does. His dad, Tom Beecham…drilled drawing into him before the youngsters years had reached his teens. Greg Beecham’s dusty brown felt hat rides high on his forehead, the way a cowboy sits straight on his...
I had not come here to say good-bye — I already had, and I never would. The Last eleven miles of road were as I remembered. Even these many years later. Each mile — rutted, washed-out and overhung with cypress and oak — had always seemed to be the price we paid to...
