CÃrculo completo.
por M. Ramieri
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From my earliest memories, dinosaurs have captivated me. I recall filling countless sketchpads with illustrations of T. rex engaged in all sorts of unsavory activities. Attentive to my artistic inclinations, my mother constantly supplied me with pristine, blank sketchbooks for my creative consumption. Thus, T. rex starred in many scenarios within the Ramieri household, typically ripping apart something—or, more often, someone. I went through numerous red Crayola markers to accurately depict the inevitable torrent of blood that characterized every "Matt-Made" T. rex encounter. I especially delighted in a fresh, unused red marker because the color was so vividly crimson, unlike the faded pink of its well-worn counterparts. Occasionally, other dinosaurs would make appearances in my dinosaur Tombs of Terror, though, in all honesty, they existed merely as playthings for my ravenous Rexes.
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It wasn't just drawings of rexes; my mother also supplied me with re-useable, oil-based Plasteline, which inevitably morphed into T. rex shapes of all sizes. The clay came in a spectrum of colors, which I initially used to distinguish features—perhaps white for teeth, red for eyes. However, it wasn't long before homogenization set in (often the result of frustration-fueled smashing, thanks to my inability to perfectly realize the images in my mind's eye). Soon, I was left with lumps of grey-brown-greenish goo instead of distinct colors. Honestly, that suited me just fine. Back then, everyone knew T. rex was brown, grey, green, or some combination thereof.
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Enthralled by the Tyrant King, I drew him—always a him—everywhere. My brown-paper-covered schoolbooks, so carefully protected by my mother, became canvases, as did desks and bathroom stalls. Thinking back, it’s a wonder I never got my wrist slapped for such artistic vandalism. I can’t recall ever being scolded. But one memory, in particular, stands out about my T. rex obsession...
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Not my drawing... just illustrating the point.
This memory came at one point in my childhood, maybe in third grade; I just can't be sure of the actual year or my age. However, I am sure that I was pretty young. It was sometime in elementary school because I clearly remember Mrs. Gozonski.
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Mrs. Gozonski was my elementary school art teacher. And not to sound arrogant, but when it came to art, I was, without a doubt, the "bee's knees." Seriously, no one could touch me back then. My classmates knew it, I knew it—they constantly begged me to draw things for them, solidifying my status as the class's Michelangelo. Yet, Mrs. Gozonski always tempered my triumphs with a tepid, side-mouthed smirk. Instead of the coveted "O" for "Outstanding" on my report card, I consistently received a mere "S" for "Satisfactory," which, to say the least, irked me. After all, wasn't being the best in the class synonymous with "Outstanding"? Even at that tender age, I understood her reasoning: my predilection for painting and drawing blood and gore offended her delicate sensibilities. So, the kids who drew daisies and painted butterflies won the "O"'s, while me and my Ravenous Rexies got the shaft.
One memory, in particular, occurred in Gozonski's art class. On this day, she made the most fantastic announcement a dinosaur-loving kid could ever dream of. She told us that, due to a brand new dinosaur discovery, Gozonski would enter our artwork into a competition for public display—in a very public place for all to see! Now, I wasn't so excited about the public display itself; I was ecstatic that Gozonski would let us paint dinosaurs for days in her class... during school! I was going to be allowed to draw dinosaurs in school. This was an epic moment of monumental proportions. I immediately imagined my T. rex drawing emblazoned across the giant rolls of paper that Gozonski hoarded in the art room. I dove into the most creative recesses of my burgeoning brain to develop the most robust, raucous, raging T. rex of them all!
Back then, I could escape into my imagination's wild and wonderful world at the slightest prompting. Looking back, I'm sure I would be diagnosed with ADHD today. Lost in daydreams, I often earned a rap on the knuckles. So, it's no surprise that on this day, with this news, Gozonski shattered my brain.
Gozonski continued, her voice echoing with the news that our work would be displayed at Newark Airport, beneath a banner proclaiming "Gozonski's Class of Blah, Blah, Blah, Center Grove Elementary School." She also mentioned the discovery of a dinosaur thigh bone, which they were calling "Ultrasaurus." She droned on, but all I craved was the chance to begin my most spectacular T. rex illustration. At last, Gozonski's voice faded, and she began handing out large sheets of bright white paper. I would turn the world upside down with those glorious blank canvases. The Earth would tremble at the sight of my ultimate "Ultra-Tyrannosaurus Master Beast!"
The actual creation of the illustration is mostly a blur. I have this vague recollection of it being large and brown, but that’s the extent of it. When the due date arrived, Gozonski greeted me with her signature half-smirk. It particularly grated on my nerves that day, especially since I hadn't used even a speck of red for blood this time. I already anticipated her disapproval, and more importantly, the inclusion of blood would have necessitated the T. rex sharing the page with its prey—an artistic compromise I was unwilling to make. Regardless, she gathered my artwork, along with everyone else's, and hung them up for our customary critique.
That's when the air began hissing from my balloon. A pattern materialized as Mrs. Gozonski plastered the walls with artwork. Every other kid had rendered gigantic sauropods. Hmmm. I wondered what was going on. Surely other kids wanted to draw T. rexes, so what gives? She kept hanging them, and they kept being enormous Brontosauruses or Brachiosauruses (the only sauropods kids knew back then), and then—BAM!—my T. rex went up amidst a chorus of stifled giggles from the peanut gallery. Mrs. Gozonski muttered something as she begrudgingly hung my masterpiece. I couldn't make out the words, but I imagine it had something to do with following directions.
In any case, the entire affair mortified me, but I pressed on with a devil-may-care attitude. A rebel, I fancied myself, thumbing my nose at convention, setting fire to the playbook, and never begging forgiveness. At least, that's the image I wanted to project. The truth was, I was so mortified that I conveniently "forgot" to mention the airport showing to my parents, the one every other family attended. I'm sure I was the main course at many dinner table conversations that night.
Not long after the exhibition, my family embarked on a trip to a place I can no longer recall. However, I vividly remember rounding a corner and encountering a wall adorned with children's dinosaur illustrations. Upon closer inspection, I realized they were all sauropods. A nearby sign read: "Mrs. Gozonski's X grade class at Center Grove Elementary." I shuddered, my heart sinking. With considerable trepidation, I scanned the collection, searching for a lone carnivore. But alas, there were none to be found! I was incredulous. In a rush of conflicting emotions, I felt both relieved and utterly dejected. Mrs. Gozonski, I surmised, had decided to spare either my feelings or her own. Regardless, my solitary theropod drawing had been excluded from the display.
Believe it or not—though you just read it here—that memory stuck with me, fitting into all varieties of nostalgia, both positive and negative. The negatives are obvious: my hubris, inattentiveness, obliviousness, and obsessiveness at the time. They say nostalgia tends to be a positive experience regardless of its negative underpinnings, and I'd say this is an excellent example. When I think about dinosaurs today, I think about that moment, but I am filled with a warm sense of home, of adventure, excitement, and the beautiful mysteries of those majestic creatures' lives. These days, thoughts of dinosaurs compel me back to my studio, back to the helm of my "Command Center," where all the prehistoric creatures of my mind's eye take form.
Here is your revised version, tightened for grammar, clarity, and conciseness while preserving your voice and tone:
Between elementary school and today—as with any life story—there were plenty of ups and downs. Focusing just on my artistic evolution, it was still a tumultuous ride.
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In elementary school, I was the “boss” artist. By middle school, I was the undisputed champion. I moved to a new town for seventh grade and arrived taller, thinner, and, as far as art went, miles ahead of my peers. I was deep into role-playing games and drew my characters and my friends’ characters constantly. Once the other kids saw my work, they went crazy for it. It became a steady stream of “draw this” and “draw that.”
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The difference now? The girls were no longer just girls—they were ladies (at least to a seventh grader), and they appreciated the talent. I spent class drawing elaborate characters on their hands instead of paying attention. My skill level stood so far above my classmates’ that my art teacher, Mr. Fluker, covered a hallway wall with copies of my work, complete with a bold construction-paper title: “Matt Ramieri, Artist.”
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After two years of “Flying on Wings of Human Dignity” (as my father liked to say), high school was a shift. I was still considered one of the best, but the pond had grown much larger as multiple middle schools fed into one high school. Two exceptionally talented teachers were now instructing across several disciplines.
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During freshman and sophomore years, I still felt on top. I remember Mr. Douglas—an artist I deeply admired—holding one of my drawings, shaking his head, and saying, “Man, I wish I could draw like that at your age.” He meant it.
High school is also when I realized my strengths were three-dimensional. I struggled with acrylic and oil painting, but I excelled at representational terracotta sculpture—not pottery, but anatomical figure work in clay. I studied anatomy both on paper and in physical form. Mr. Douglas even set up a small furnace so I could cast small bronze and lead sculptures. That’s when I caught the bronze bug.
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Like many teenagers, though, I became distracted. Art gradually gave way to girls, the Grateful Dead, and marijuana. By senior year, my artistic momentum had faded. My teachers, Mr. Douglas and Mr. Marrero, were quietly disappointed. They didn’t say much—but what they didn’t say spoke volumes. That disappointment still lingers. Even now, working in my studio, I sometimes wonder whether they would approve of who I’ve become—or tell me I could have been more.
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My work hadn’t declined enough to keep me out of art school. I enrolled at the University of Hartford Art School. While the university was academically average, the art program ranked highly and had strong post-graduate placement. The Connecticut campus was beautiful, and I fell in love with it immediately.
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After a reckless senior year and an equally un-sober start to college, I decided to refocus. I had squandered most of freshman year chasing women and getting high. By sophomore year, I knew I had catching up to do.
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I developed a close mentorship with my drawing and printmaking instructor, Jim Lee, and became his teaching assistant. I fell in love with printmaking—the process, the discipline, the way it sharpened my draftsmanship. I continued figure modeling and took an introductory bronze casting course, though the sculpture program felt limited. Ultimately, I chose to major in printmaking because it pushed my growth, refined my rendering skills, and allowed me to teach.
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By late sophomore year, I was fully committed. I worked constantly—print studio, personal studio, assisting Jim. I immersed myself in figure study whenever possible.
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Then I heard about a bronze casting course offered through a study-abroad program in Cortona, Italy. The program ran through the University of Georgia, which operated on a trimester system. Their summer trimester in Italy aligned perfectly with Hartford’s break. The plan was ambitious but seamless: finish sophomore year at Hartford, transfer temporarily to Georgia, spend the summer in Italy casting bronze, then return to Hartford for junior year without interruption.
That’s exactly what I did.
My Italian escapade, brimming with adventure, is a tale for another time. Post-Italy, and after earning my Magna Cum Laude honors in college, I apprenticed at the Johnson Atelier in Mercerville, NJ. For those uninitiated, the Johnson Atelier was the undisputed mecca for metal casting artistry in the United States—a fact any expert in the field would readily confirm. Immersed in the craft, I absorbed a wealth of knowledge, contributing to the creation of monumental metal sculptures, some towering over fifteen feet. During my tenure, the Atelier received a distinguished commission: the original armature for Sue (FMNH PR 2081). Alas, as a humble apprentice, I could only observe this pivotal project from afar.
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Following my time at the Atelier, I joined another art foundry in Florida, where I ascended to the role of Co-Director.
A few projects built under my supervision included: The bronze monument of Mary McCleod Bithune (12 feet tall stands in front of Bithune Cookman College), the 9-foot-tall monument for Errol Barrow, the Apollo Monument, and a whole lot of others.
Me supervising the construction of "Atlas." That's me in black.
Eventually, I departed that company to establish Inspired Bronze, Inc., my own venture specializing in bespoke bronze and pewter awards and trophies. For a decade, I steered Inspired Bronze, crafting awards and trophies for luminaries across the globe, from exclusive golf clubs to renowned sports teams and corporations. Our esteemed clientele included Steinway, Suntory Beam Global (Jim Beam), United Healthcare Children's Foundation, NASCAR Grand Am, IMSA, the United States Women's National Soccer Team, VEVO, Dave Ramsey, Trump, Samuel Adams, Chick-fil-A, and a host of others.
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In the early days of Inspired Bronze, I sculpted the award masters from clay. These clay sculptures were then molded, cast in wax, and transformed into bronze castings through the lost wax process. One notable project that landed on my desk was for Steinway, who commissioned a 19-inch replica of their Model D piano, complete with a teacher and student seated at its helm.
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The problem was that I did not have the means (skills) to create a replica of the piano or to sculpt tiny little 1/8" tall faces on the figures at that scale. Luckily, I had already been messing around with Sculptris ( a free 3d program offered by the makers of Zbrush), so I knew I could digitally sculpt the faces and have them printed. The other problem was the piano. So, I contacted Neometrix out of Orlando. They found a cad file of a model D that they could update and print, and they were also able to print my tiny teacher and student's faces.
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The rest was history. I partnered with Neometrix to produce all of my 3d masters going forward until the last two years or so, then added Dimension Works into the mix. After the success of that project, I ditched clay for good and focused on learning Zbrush. To produce whatever came across my desk, I had to pour myself into studying ZBrush around the clock. I took a bunch of formal online classes, and I watched myriad Youtube videos. I purchased many courses from Ryan Kingslein's company (which changes names more than I change my underwear); at the time, it was called Uartsy (this was around 2015).
By this point in my life, my dinosaur phase was mostly fossilized. Sure, I'd always loved dinosaurs, and I still enjoyed stumbling upon a news article about a new discovery. However, I wasn't actively sculpting them, amassing models, or devouring books about them. Sculpting had become a job, and more often than not, the subject matter failed to ignite my passions. It was simply work. Then, on Uartsy, I discovered a course by the legendary David Krentz. Although I'd missed the live version, the recorded course, "Learn how to make a T. rex in Zbrush," immediately piqued my interest. I was eager to expand my knowledge of creating textures like scales. I'd managed to figure out some techniques, but this seemed like the perfect chance to learn new tricks. Plus, the idea of sculpting a T. rex in class was undeniably appealing. It felt like a fun excavation into my childhood.
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I dove into the course, but David swiftly abandoned the T.rex, favoring an Acrocanthosaurus model for his demonstrations. A flicker of annoyance sparked within me, but I shrugged it off, resolving to sculpt a rex regardless. After all, I wasn't there for sculpting lessons, just the secrets of Zbrush scales, lol. Initially, I envisioned a monstrous, Jurassic Park-esque rex, dripping with exaggerated features. Yet, as David spoke, the concept of "paleoart" snagged my attention. It was a completely foreign idea to me. The challenge of crafting a scientifically accurate and realistic reconstruction of this prehistoric titan ignited a fire within me.
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My obsession ignited. Every free moment was consumed by my T. rex. After work, weekends—it didn't matter. I hammered away at my Wacom tablet, researching rexes with unparalleled fervor. Books became my bible, Dinotasia my daily sermon (watched, perhaps, nine hundred times), and every Discovery "Dino Battle" and documentary, a sacred text. I died and was resurrected as a Paleoartist, unknowingly baptized by David, my unwitting pastor. Following this rebirth, I enrolled in Scott Hartman's exceptional creature comparative anatomy class. Sadly, it was a recording, denying me the chance to engage with the maestro himself.
So, folks, that's the story. After the Krentz class, I dove headfirst back into the world of dinosaurs. While I still ran my business until 2018, my dino-obsession remained a passionate hobby, not a profession. However, judging by the veritable deluge of dino-merchandise my friends and family have gifted me since 2015, it's safe to say I've been pretty consumed. In 2018, I sold my company to Society Awards (the makers of iconic awards like the Emmys and the MTV Music Awards). Now, I relish every chance to sculpt, especially dinosaurs. There's simply no comparison between being forced to be creative and immersing yourself in a subject that ignites your imagination and keeps that creative fire burning bright.
University of Hartford Art School:
1995-1999
Italy Studies Abroad:
1997
Johnson Atelier:
2000-2003
American Bronze Foundry:
2004-2009
Inspired Bronze, Inc:
2009-20018
Thinkloudly Creative (think-loudly.com)
2022+
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Ancient Era Artistry
2022+