How to use this Page

This week’s theme on IF is Prehistoric. What better to portray that theme than with these two toothless critters from the “Love Es Strange” archives. Happy weekend!

For Illustration Friday

Double

For Illustration Friday

Double

“Let’s go to where no drifter has drifted before!“

Where’d they end up? I’m thinking somewhere between Australia and Fiji…Yes they’re controlling a Dharma station right now, they’re LOST.

We had a visitor last night:



That's a flying squirrel. He played Santa and came down the chimney.

He was very cute. But he could not stay in the fireplace.

Kelly and kid #2 grabbed leather gloves and a paper grocery bag and opened the mesh door...




Do you know that a flying squirrel the size of your fist can leap about 4 feet horizontally?






It was quite impressive.

And he was fast.

And Daddy's knowledge of naughty words was impressive too.

But as the squirrel tried to make a break for the couch, Kelly grabbed it with his hands. We're still not quite sure how. But we cheered and ran to open the back door.

Even foxes get left at the table to finish their vegetables, while everyone else goes to watch TV and eat their dessert. While young foxes are undeniably sly and crafty, their parents are sly-er and crafty-er, so they’re on to the spit-it-into-the-napkin technique, or the hide-it-under-the-lip-of-the-table move. And fox families rarely have dogs to slip food to. As a result, a good deal of a young fox’s life is spent mournfully staring at a plate of peas.

Millicent is my cat, and her ratting skills are second to none. Summer has brought with it a new batch of wee roof rats, and she has been bringing them in at a steady pace—SIX last week, to be exact. Luckily the chipmunk trap I bought works like a charm, it has become part of the herding process. Four were rounded up into the cage and let loose in the same spot in the nearby ravine, to facilitate finding each other again. And, it’s lucky that I am writing this before I turn in tonight, as it is garbage day tomorrow, and I have just been reminded that I have the two unlucky ones in the freezer. Have to nip out to the curb before bed, methinks…

So, we’re still waiting for summer here on the good old west coast. Curses and threats have proven useless, so it’s time to call in the big guns…

So, yes, I have the stupidest allergy of all time: I am allergic to turkey. And it’s not like turkey is but one in a long list of items that makes me break out in hives—it is the one and only. I had never heard of anyone being allergic to meat before, and especially something so specific—I am okay with chicken or duck, but turkey makes my tongue feel as though someone has poured baking soda on it and left it to fizz.

But then, the other day, I found out that a friend is allergic to pork. I couldn’t believe it! Two of us, allergic to different types of meat. So strange that we should happen upon each other.

Well, that said, of course it had to happen: tonight I was out with someone who is allergic to beef. Like mine, his allergy came on suddenly a few years ago. What is happening here? And, is anyone out there allergic to chicken? If so, I have a highly exclusive club I’d like to talk with you about joining…

Anyway, since my allergy came on, I find that turkey is constantly seducing me. Any time I’m in a situation where there is only one food option, it always seems to be turkey. Airplane snack? Turkey. Holiday dinner? Turkey. Lunch special? Turkey. I really wish the turkeys could see fit to leave me alone.

So, this evening I was alerted to a letter to the editor of the Courier, in response to an article about my drawing project printed recently:

Kingsway ‘artist’ tiresome, unimaginative

Your article on illustrator Bambi Edlund was as tiresome as Edlund’s take on our city’s oldest and most misunderstood thoroughfare.

For Ms. Edlund to say that “there’s just so little on Kingsway of value or character,” and that it’s “useless to us,” makes me wonder who “us” is. Certainly not the Vietnamese, Korean, Philippine, South Asian, Hispanic or Chinese “us”-es who live and work here. Nor those too poor to shop downtown or fly to New York for coffee.

For Ms. Edlund to characterize Kingsway this way tells me all I need to know about Ms. Edlund and her “charming pen and ink drawings.” No wonder she was rejected from art school! Her imagination is limited, and she lacks curiosity.

Michael Turner,
Vancouver

In a rather ironic twist of events, a close mutual friend had wanted to introduce me to the above person, a local writer who wrote a book of poetry about Kingsway some years ago. Since I have also been interested in documenting the area, she thought it might be good for us to meet. At the time, I thought it would be interesting. Now, not so much.

I find it rather pathetic that Mr. Turner is so desperate to see his name in print that he would take time out of his day to write a short-sighted and mean-spirited letter to the editor of the local newspaper, rather than take a few extra minutes to a) actually LOOK at my illustrations and read the rest of what I wrote about Kingsway (I suppose in his own career as a musician and writer no newspaper article has ever managed to tell only a portion of what he is about?), or b) use the email address on the main page of my site to send his thoughts to me. But then that wouldn’t have netted him any press time, which is clearly what he’s after.

I do not claim to be an activist, nor am I a city planner. I live in a 100-year old house, and I lament the loss of old buildings in Vancouver. However, I am not adverse to some changes in my neighbourhood because when I walk in the blocks of Kingsway where I live, which I do a lot since I don’t own a car (contrary to the jet-setting picture of me that Mr. Turner has in his mind), I must dodge needles and prostitutes, and there is nowhere for me to buy groceries, no vegetable markets, no cafés. There are used car dealerships, boarded up storefronts and holes in the ground. The section I live in sees businesses struggle to survive and usually fail, as there is no foot traffic whatsoever. If Mr. Turner took the time to read what I wrote, or to talk with me directly, he would find that I do not feel that the multi-ethnic residents of this area are not of value, but that instead I was talking about some of the undeniably drab mid-century architecture along this strip.

To end off with a low blow like “no wonder she was rejected from art school” is brilliant, Mr. Turner, and you’re correct, I certainly could never have come up with anything so wildly imaginative as a public letter to humiliate someone who is simply doing a personal daily art project. You win! Your name is in print for all to see, and you look like a genius. Bravo, sir.

The thing that strikes me as funniest about all this: had I met Mr. Turner through our mutual friend with a famous name, I’m quite sure he would have had a completely different reaction to me and my project. His letter tells me all I need to know about him as well.

So I will continue on with my Kingsway project, and I will actively avoid Mr. Turner as I do so. Besides, I don’t need to worry, the rats have my back. They’re heading over en masse to chew their way through his walls as I type this. Best of luck to him.

Pirats, in addition to wearing dapper outfits, are always acutely aware of their surroundings. Highly suspicious, they are constantly scanning the horizon for sloops full of cats, crows or coyotes. Being so attentive also means they often spot floating bags of discarded fast food before the seagulls. Survival of the fittest, the pirats will tell you; rude and selfish, say the seagulls.

This evening I came home and checked my email, and found what I expected to be spam—a message from Disney Corporation. I only half-read it, planning to delete it, but then my own name caught my eye. I opened the attached document. Get this: it seems that Disney has somehow come across this blog, and is demanding that I take it down within 72 hours or be sued for copyright infringement, for using the name “Bambi”. They say that my using my own name for ‘inappropriate or promotional dissemination of copyrighted information’, whatever that means, is grounds for legal action. It’s so ridiculous, but I may have to do it, I’ll look into it tomorrow. I certainly hope I can continue with my project, but if I have to go back and strip 173 posts (and all the comments) of all instances of my name, it will be a nightmare. Plus it means I have less than 72 hours to come up with a pen name to use. Just when my name was starting to be recognized, too. I can’t imagine they can make me legally change my name, but I certainly can’t publish it on the internet any longer, apparently. Craziness. Anyway, enjoy this site while it lasts, who knows where it will be in three days. Thank you to everyone who checks in here regularly, I’ll keep you all posted. I can’t believe a huge corporation would even bother with something like this, but I promise I will fight, I certainly won’t just roll over and let them take down this blog.

I’m no fool.

I decided to play with the watercolours a bit tonight, and since the Illustration Friday theme for the week is ‘homage’, I decided to pay respect to my namesake. It’s funny, my name is sometimes tedious, always a conversation piece, and never forgotten—but for the first time ever it’s actually coming in handy. The article in last week’s Courier did mention the URL to this site but it’s buried in the copy, so a lot of people are missing it. But they all remember my name, so lots of them are finding their way here by googling ‘Bambi’ and ‘Kingsway’ or even just ‘Bambi’ and ‘illustration’. If my name were more common it may be much tougher to find me, but I’m actually feeling quite thankful for its aberrance these days…

I’m telling you, this project is netting all kinds of unforeseen results.

First: I am featured today on PensEyeView.com, check it out!

So, I figured it was high time for an addition to the collective nouns series. This one has been in my mind for a long time, and the word is so perfect, isn’t it? I mean, who doesn’t want to clutch baby chicks?

(a warning: if you’re squeamish, best stop reading right here, just skip to the next entry…)

Of course, I feel a little different about yellow fuzzy chicks after spending time at the endangered species conservation centre my dad worked at—they got boxes full of chicks from local egg-producing farms, as they would regularly hatch eggs to replenish their chicken brood, but the males were useless to them. So, they sent the day-old chicks to the farm, which is great, as this particular conservation centre has many large cats, who heartily endorse the idea of baby chicks for breakfast. One year on the Easter long weekend my sister and I got to go spend some time with one of the handlers there—she drove us through the cat enclosures, and it was so surreal, stopping next to a cheetah, and throwing a huge side of some sort of animal carcass over the fence, along with a handful of yellow chicks from a bucket. It sounds cruel but really, it’s far more natural than any alternative. Still, an odd sight at Easter, I must say.

As an interesting side note, a newly born chick still has yolk inside it. Seems strange, no?

Arrrr!

Legendary plunderers, master swordsmen, and possessors of that sixth sense about when to leave a sinking ship, the pirats were poised to take over the Caribbean at one point—and they could have really reigned terror on the high seas, too, if they hadn’t been so distracted by petty arguments. These two, for instance, are bickering about which one ate the last pickle from the barrel on the poop deck, meanwhile their ship is being sacked by a team of rogue pelicans.

Let this be a lesson: squabbling can really get in the way of a good pillage.

You can’t very well have Easter without a bunny now, can you? And of course the goose must be present, and when it’s the year of the rat, it’s only fair to dedicate a cookie to that cause as well. I think all the bases are covered now, and I’m feeling a wee bit sick from snacking on rejects.

May you all fare well in the egg hunt, and may chocolate abound.

By the way, has anyone else ever heard of a kingover contest as an Easter tradition?

When did it happen? When did every living thing on earth decide that a day is best spent in constant contact with each other? Today on the train coming home, I looked around and everyone—from 10-year-old kids to 80-year-old grannies—was talking on some device or another. Even a lot of the people who were in pairs were BOTH on their phones. For me, leaving the house is a fantastic way to escape the phone altogether, I can’t imagine wanting to constantly be talking to someone. It makes me think back to when I was a kid and we had a party line shared between three families. Can you imagine? Now, that would equal eight Razrs, four Blackberries and an iPhone. I keep wondering if this time in history is going to appear utterly ridiculous when we look back, like how the dudes on Miami Vice with their portable phones the size of shoeboxes appear now. Will folks in 2030 look back and say “what WERE they all saying to each other??” Because I find myself wondering that now…

(click for larger version)

Frances liked swimming with the rats, and he loved the opportunity to wear his gear—but he was always a little self-conscious about the size of his splash.

Last summer I found myself eating lunch at the Granville Island market for a few days in a row, as I was taking a three-day workshop nearby. The first couple of days I grabbed something from inside and headed over to some outdoor steps to sit down near the water, away from the hordes of summer tourists. This worked out fine, it was a pleasant experience and became routine very quickly. On the third day, I found myself craving broccoli and so I visited the Chinese-fare establishment in the food-fair-style wing of the market. As I walked out the side doors of the building, plate in hand, I felt something on the back of my head. My hair was tied up in one of those plastic clips, as it was hot and quite windy and I was doing very precise and finely-detailed work. I looked up and saw it had been a seagull, and he was now flying away. Odd. I figured maybe he was interested in the clip? I kept walking, thinking, it’s not very often a seagull flies into your head, regardless of its size. Then I felt it again. I looked up and he was hovering right above me, all I could see was seagull midriff about an inch in front of my face, so I reached up and literally pushed him away by the chest. I had a chuckle with the people who had noticed, and set off on my way once again. Just as I was reaching my intended dining spot (and forgetting about the seagull incident), I felt a giant clunk on the back of my head (side note: seagulls are HEAVY). I was startled by the impact and the subsequent weight on the back of my head—he had now perched on the clip. The next thing I know there’s another one, hovering right in front of me, flapping in my face. I’m not talking somewhere sort of nearby, but literally right in my face. At that precise moment, as I was stopped in my tracks, completely dumfounded and confused, a third landed on the styrofoam plate, bending it in my hand and knocking the food to the ground, and by the time I could process what had happened the bastards had swooped down and eaten my entire lunch. It was a total and complete tag-team move—I couldn’t believe it, and the whole thing had taken place in the course of about ten seconds, leaving me with nothing but an empty plate. A few of the people who had seen it go down were just standing there agape—I imagine it must have been quite a spectacle. I found myself both stunned and amused at the fact that I had just been jumped by seagulls, but also rather impressed by their cunning—not to mention a little worried. I mean, once the seagulls start teaming up, what are we in for?

The most pathetic part was, I then had to go back inside and buy another lunch.

Growing up miles outside a small town, kids get pretty good at entertaining themselves. A favourite summer sleepover trick for us was to sneak out in the middle of the night and “raid the garden.” It’s hilarious to think back on it now, knowing how bad-ass we felt at the time—and also knowing how entertaining that must have been for our parents. Wow, what a bunch of black sheep, gorging ourselves on fresh vegetables. What rebels we were—shaking the system to its very core, eating carrots by the light of the moon and burying the tops. Astounding we turned out to be upstanding citizens, really.

(click for larger version)
I spent a good part of the day painting the attic. When I rounded up a crew to help me, I figured as many sets of “hands” as I could muster would be useful, wouldn’t you? But in hindsight, I never should have recruited the rats. All they did was bicker and take smoke breaks. No wonder they have such a bad reputation.

I’ll bet they won’t even show up tomorrow. Which is fine—it’s not like I can’t paint the bottom six inches of the room myself.

… I’d go out on the ocean, and if I had a pony, I’d ride him on my boat…

Seven or eight years ago I experimented with doing children’s book illustrations, and I actually produced a few I was happy with—but I wasn’t quite at the level where I could pull off exactly what I wanted to do. I have always thought the Lyle Lovett song “If I Had a Boat” would lend itself perfectly to being illustrated, and it has been in the back of my mind all this time. Well, now seems as good a time as any to put it out there, out on the ocean.

Oh, and if any of you happen to know Lyle, tell him we gotta talk.

The leaping fish mean this works for Illustration Friday this week as well, the theme is “leap”.

This morning I stumbled upon our resident raccoons, and when I saw the female’s sweet diamond-studded face, I thought, why is it I have never done a portrait of her? It seemed high time, so I broke out the watercolours for a quick run at it. It certainly looks like her; perhaps I’ll present it as a baby shower gift—I’m reasonably sure she’s with child(ren), considering what happened here on Valentine’s day…

Music poured from my new iPod speakers as I painted tonight. About three months ago, I purchased and downloaded Tom Petty’s album Highway Companion from iTunes—it had been out for a year at that point, but I hadn’t even been aware of its existence, and I was quite excited to have a new raft of Tom Petty songs. Excited as I was, however, I just listened to it for the first time tonight. There’s no real excuse for it taking this long, but that seems to be the way things go around here at the moment. Can’t fight it. But I do have to say good old Tom never disappoints—the phrase “ankle deep in love” is simply brilliant.

Of course, I would prefer to be ankle deep in raccoons, but still.