Carbon Charcoal Works
The beauty and violence of flight — explored in carbon charcoal on paper.
An A-10 Warthog deploys flares against unseen threats, viewed from below and behind, the aircraft banking through deep atmospheric charcoal. The flare trails streak diagonally across the composition as the only source of light. Built as the definitive close air support weapon and celebrated as nearly indestructible, the A-10 is here rendered vulnerable; the hunter become the hunted, US air superiority questioned by the reality of its deployment over adversaries it was never designed to fear. The stereotype of military dominance, suspended in a moment of defensive urgency.
A C-130 Hercules approaches head-on, its four engine wingspan bisecting the composition. The aircraft is deploying decoy flares whose smoke, caught in the wingtip vortices, billows outward from each wingtip, forming the shape of a second, enormous pair of wings. A mechanical act of self-defense becomes, unintentionally, an image of transformation: a military transport rendered angelic by fire and turbulence. Flare smoke and atmospheric cloud merge into a single continuous substance. The title names what the aircraft briefly becomes: not through intent but through the accidental poetry of countermeasures meeting wind.
A Mi-24 Hind, Soviet in design, Czech in donation, Ukrainian in current service, sits on the ground at night, cockpit door open, two crew members tending to it. Rendered as seen through a white phosphor PVS-14 night vision device: carbon charcoal on blue paper replicating the cool blue-white of modern NVG optics. The ground level vantage makes the machine intimate rather than monumental. The title carries a double meaning: the Hind is the aircraft's NATO reporting name; hindsight speaks to what we understand only after the fact: about wars, weapons, and the long afterlives of machines.
An MH-60M Black Hawk, operated exclusively by the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the Night Stalkers, is reduced to silhouette: a dark void dissolving into deep charcoal. Below, ground facilities appear as long exposure light trails, ghostly smears of motion against the dark. The world below burns with light; the helicopter above is pure absence. The title holds a double meaning: SOAR as the human dream of flight, and SOAR as the unit designation of the Night Stalkers, who operate precisely in this darkness, unseen. The composition formally enacts what they do.
A panoramic composition: an AH-6 Little Bird helicopter hugs a rugged ridgeline while three human figures stand silhouetted in the lower right foreground. It is the only piece in the series where the aircraft is diminished by its landscape, dwarfed by the scale of the terrain and the vastness of the sky above. The human figures anchor the composition in what flight is ultimately for: the people on the ground, waiting. Exfil, military shorthand for extraction, holds both urgency and stillness.
Two C-5 Galaxy strategic airlifters, among the largest aircraft ever built, rendered as almost pure silhouettes against total black. Three vapor trails descend in brilliant white, the only luminosity in the piece. Stripped of markings, national identity, and mission, these colossal machines are reduced to glowing geometry. The darkness absorbs their implied scale entirely. The title, HEAVY, military callsign for large aircraft, carries its second meaning quietly: the weight of machines whose size exists in service of purposes that exceed any single flight.
A formation of Black Hawks and Little Birds moves low over Mogadishu, the city below consumed by smoke and ruin. The aircraft occupy the middle distance, neither dominant nor diminished, suspended between the chaos of the ground and the indifferent sky above. Charcoal atmosphere and architectural rubble merge into a single continuous texture, the boundary between air and city dissolved. The title names the operation: Gothic Serpent, October 1993, eighteen Americans killed, the longest sustained firefight involving US forces since Vietnam. The drawing does not depict heroism or failure. It depicts the moment of being there, inside the smoke, the outcome not yet written.
My practice is rooted in a fascination with military aviation, not as celebration of war but exploration of a contradiction: the beauty and violence of flight. My grandfather was a B-17 navigator, later a STRATCOM communications engineer. My grandmother was an Alaskan bush pilot. My father and wife are veterans. Wonder and sacrifice, across generations. This is not abstract — it is inherited.
I hold a degree in Intermedia Arts from ASU, built on experimental media: video, performance, installation. My choice of carbon charcoal is not a default. It is a decision. Medium carries weight and meaning, chosen to reflect purpose, not simply a method. Carbon is the most absolute black available. Marks can be lifted but never fully undone; they leave a trace, become part of the surface. In moral darkness and sudden light, no other medium is so honest to me.
War and art share the same origin: humanity. Both emerge from deeply held belief, the willingness to act on what you know to be true. My grandmother’s bush plane and my grandfather’s bomber crew occupy opposite ends of that spectrum. That space is where I work.
My horizontal works carry intentional white borders, informed by cinema. Letterboxing uses black bars to pull the viewer in. I invert that: white pushes the work toward the viewer, into their space. The paper remains present, unworked, active. In EVADE, an A-10 deploys flares against unseen threats; celebrated as indestructible, rendered vulnerable, the hunter become the hunted. In Angel, decoy flares billow into wings: self-defense made celestial. In HINDsight, a Mi-24 Hind in Ukraine seen through a white phosphor PVS-14, collapsing three geopolitical eras into one image.
My work asks the viewer to hold two truths: these machines are instruments of violence, and they embody humanity’s dream to leave the earth.
Scott Van Tuyl is a Mesa, Arizona artist working in carbon charcoal on paper. His practice explores the duality of military aviation — the beauty and violence of flight — through large-format and panoramic drawings that resist glorification in favor of honest conversation.
His drawings portray modern fixed and rotary wing military aircraft not as trophies but as vessels of human ambition, existing at the intersection of extraordinary technical achievement and moral complexity. His work argues that this conversation belongs in fine art, not only in air shows and illustration.
Aviation runs through his family across generations. His grandfather was a B-17 navigator and later a communications engineer for STRATCOM. His grandmother was an Alaskan bush pilot. His father and wife are veterans. The work emerges from that inheritance — wonder and sacrifice held in the same frame.
Get in Touch
For inquiries regarding works, exhibitions, or the Lehmann grant application.
scott_vantuyl@hotmail.com