Mark Peters uses photography to advocate for animals, specifically cows, as seen in his new book Voices of the Herd: Portraits of Rescued Cows and Their Sanctuary Stories. Here’s what he had to say about the book and the impact of coming eye to eye with a cow.
You describe your first visit to an animal sanctuary (Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary). How did that experience open your eyes to animals?
Until this point, I was what I would describe as a half-hearted vegetarian. At home, I didn’t eat meat, but when visiting with people, I would eat whatever I was offered. Other species lived more in my imagination than they did in my everyday life.
So when my wife and I visited Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary shortly after we started dating, it was a revelation. Friendly pigs dug around in our pockets for treats and rolled over for belly rubs. Chickens “purred” contentedly in our arms. Goats followed us around and insisted on being petted. I marveled at the range of emotions and personalities of the individual animals.
A couple of weeks after that visit, we watched the documentary Earthlings together. I cried over the exploitation of other animals I had contributed toward, and that was that: I went vegan overnight with Alisa’s help. (She had already been vegan for a number of years, and was a wise coach.)
What inspired you to begin photographing cows?
I began photographing farmed animals after seeing a photo of Libby, a rescued mother pig, walking through the snow with her eight piglets at Poplar Spring. That image revealed a world rarely seen—animals once regarded as commodities living with family, contentment, and relative freedom.
My curiosity soon became a calling: to make images that reflect their individuality and stories—what they endured and who they’ve become in sanctuary.
It took me a few months to work up the courage to contact Terry Cummings, the sanctuary’s co-founder, but when she welcomed me, I was thrilled. For the first time, I spent hours alone with rescued animals. Terry showed me how to lock the gates, who to be mindful of, and reminded me that not every animal wanted human company.
I began driving out on weekend mornings, sometimes twice a month. Eventually, I was given permission to arrive before sunrise for the best light. At that hour, the cows were the only ones awake, roaming freely across hundreds of acres of fields and woods. In summer and fall, they sometimes walked miles each day—far from the stereotype of cows just standing around and chewing their cud. Some mornings, I spent over an hour hiking through the woods and pastures, trying to find them before the light became harsh.
Have you ever stood eye to eye with a cow? There’s a quiet power in their presence that draws you in. Their eyes hold depth—gentle, watchful, and full of feeling.
Spend time with them and you see it: a mother fiercely watching over her calf, a curious cow investigating something new, a herd supporting one member who is weaker, a grieving friend lingering where another once lay. These are the same qualities we admire in elephants or dolphins. Cows have them too—anecdotal evidence abounds. We just choose not to study them.
The photos are amazing. Did you find the cows to be receptive to your camera or did you have to spend a great deal of time waiting for the right moment (or both)?
Thank you for the compliment!
Often, the first visit with a herd is mostly a meet-and-greet. I move slowly, let them get used to me, and share time with individuals so they can decide what to think of me being among them.
Before I even set foot in a sanctuary, I read everything they have posted about members of the herd, much like a portrait artist prepares to paint a human subject. When I finally do come face to face with an individual I’ve read about, it’s like meeting a celebrity.
When a moment arises—an emotion is expressed, or a social bond is on display—I photograph from eye level or below, so the perspective is one of respect. My goal always is to show an emotion or reveal a glimpse of a personality. It just happens that I photograph cows and not people.
Is there a particular cow story you could share with our readers?
One of the most memorable series of moments I’ve witnessed was in a herd that roams hundreds of acres on sanctuary grounds. A blind calf was able to keep pace with her herd only because older members circled back to nudge her in the right direction whenever she went astray.
That kind of care—protecting the vulnerable, making sure no one is left behind—is something many people don’t realize cows are capable of. It’s moments like these that show us their social intelligence and tenderness.
How did you select the sanctuaries?
The cows in the book live in ten sanctuaries across the U.S., most located in the Mid-Atlantic states. Each of these places shares a commitment to giving animals space, safety, and the freedom to live as individuals. Some were sanctuaries I already knew, while others welcomed me after I reached out.
In each case, I verified the sanctuary’s animal care protocols and financial viability, among other criteria. It was important to both the publisher and me that the sanctuaries represented in the book gave their residents a high standard of care and would likely remain open for years to come. With funding for sanctuaries drying up in recent years, the reality is that not all sanctuaries will be able to continue and give care to additional rescued animals. (Please, please visit and support your local sanctuaries.)
You note that you avoid using words like “cattle” or “livestock” in favor of “cows.” Can you explain the importance of words in framing our relationships with animals?
Our choice of words can shape our perspective on a topic. “Livestock” reduces living beings to property, commodities, units of production. “Cattle” is a category of animal agriculture. When I say “cows,” I’m referring to individual sentient beings with personality, emotions, friendships, and history.
Using the right words shows that we see other beings as worthy of respect. It restores dignity to beings who deserve to be seen.
What would you most like readers to take away from the book?
What I hope readers take away is a sense of who these animals are as individuals. It’s impossible to truly grasp the scale of thirty million cows killed each year in the U.S., but we can connect with one cow—this face, these eyes, this story. A photograph can create that opening.
When someone sees a mother doting on her calf or looks into the calm gaze of a cow, the familiar stories we’ve been told about them begin to unravel. Each image reveals not an object, but a being with social bonds, longings, and the capacity for both suffering and joy.
Photography brings us closer. It shows the difference between who they were when rescued and who they become in sanctuary. It shifts the conversation from numbers and abstractions to intimacy and recognition.
Nothing compares to meeting these animals in person, but I believe photographs can spark empathy—and with empathy comes the possibility of change.
