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It has been awhile since I tackled the collective noun series, and so ladies and gentlemen (or should I say ladies and germs), may I present to you the elite of the single-celled organisms, the most civilized of all primitive life forms: a culture of bacteria.

My aunt and uncle own a Craftsman house that is the hub of my rather large family. It’s where we spend Christmas, and the back yard is the site of countless summer meals. The house itself is beautiful, with the original built-in cabinets in the dining room and gorgeous stained-glass windows—but the piéce de resistance is something that was found when the old carpeting that was in the house when they bought it a dozen years ago was pulled up. In the centre of the dining room there is a diamond inlaid into the hardwood, which is all well and good, but in the living room there is a five-point star. The star is a little crooked, and a little off-centre, and it’s not aligned with any of the angles of the house. There’s something so strange about it; when they first discovered it we all sat around staring at it, mesmerized. We tried to figure out what it was pointing toward, or what had happened in that spot that needed to be marked for posterity, or that had damaged the floor so badly this added element was required. We postulated that if you stood in the middle of the star and spun around three times you would be dissolved into molecules. We laughed about it for awhile and moved on to other conversation, and I remember my sister, some time later, saying “it keeps pulling my eyes back to it—I can’t look away.”

There is a rug over it now, just in case.

So, last night was the first time since I began this project that my internet connection was down, and I even wandered onto the street to see if I could pick up someone else’s wireless to borrow for a moment, but no dice. As expected, I started the morning off with a few worried emails asking “are you okay??” This blog is as good as an “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” alarm button…

The primitive ancestor of the modern-day pirat pillaged cave and cove, but wouldn’t take to the sea for thousands of years. In these days before being known for leaving a sinking ship, pirats were known for being the first out of a smoking cave.

The Illustration Friday theme this week is “primitive”.

I was working on another watercolour this weekend (it will appear later in the week), but yesterday I saw a crow pick up a cigarette butt at the park and the image has stayed with me. Don’t crows strike you as smokers? It’s something about the way they pace with their hands behind their backs, looking perturbed. They should be smoking and muttering, if you ask me.

Also, I wanted to mention that since the latest WordPress update, I have been losing comments now and again. It’s frustrating as I’m doing what I have always done to restore them, but they sometimes disappear. So, if you have commented and it has vanished into the ether, my apologies—it wasn’t personal, and I hope I haven’t sent you off muttering with your hands behind your backs…

Well, it has been some time since the cat brought me any booty, but this evening she trotted up the stairs with a rat in her mouth and a twinkle in her eye. I hope we’re not heading for another wave of thrice-daily rat wrangling. Unfortunately this fellow was a little too far gone for my catch-and-release program, so instead he is in the bottom drawer of the freezer, awaiting garbage day. Poor wee fellow. I bet he never expected he would be a ratsicle by day’s end…

Yesterday I went across town for a dentist appointment, and afterward I was standing outside a swanky little tea shop, waiting for a bus downtown. An old VW bug was stopped on the street just in front of the group of people standing there, and everyone was looking at it—it was in beautiful shape, with the top down, and making that oh-so-distinctive high-pitched VW purr. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a large fellow standing outside the window of the tea shop, looking straight ahead. For some reason it struck me as odd that he never turned his head to look at the little car idling there, and I became suspicious of him. I secretively watched as he continued to stand with his back to the window, and an unwavering stare straight ahead. I could barely make out movement in the very small shop behind him, but I could tell there was another man in there, and a woman behind the counter. I started to seriously wonder if there was some kind of robbery going on, there was something so odd about this fellow’s behaviour. He was paying no attention at all to the shop behind him, but for some reason that made me sure he was aware of something going on inside. My mind was beginning to reel with possible scenarios and how I should deal with them, when I noticed the woman from behind the counter making her way to the door, and looking out to the street. She caught my eye and held it for a moment, and I was just about to step to the side for a better look, thinking this was when it would all go down, when she opened the door for the man from inside. Our premier, carrying a large shopping bag. The big guy took up stride beside him, and I just chuckled to myself. I love that the first conclusion I drew from the situation was that the place was being robbed by goons…

I mean, granted, when you google the guy the first thing that pops up is his mugshot, but still.

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This weekend I spent a bit of time with my watercolours, and did a portrait of this lovely wee fellow that was captured by Tom in Sequoia National Park, and sent to me by his wife, the extremely talented Linda (Sketched Out). I will definitely try some more views of this guy. He has quite the dramatic range—pretty impressive considering he was simply sitting on a hillside, but he certainly appeared to be hamming it up for the camera…

Fear not, this isn’t another April fool’s joke, nor is it more hate mail. It’s simply an announcement about a slight change of pace here at le pen quotidien.

I set out to do a drawing every day, and I am now halfway through the year. I am having so much fun with this, but there is one thing that is starting to bother me: I never have enough time to do anything a bit more in-depth. I am getting to a point where I would like to do a full scene, or something a bit more experimental, or something a bit more challenging, but the one-day restriction makes that difficult. So, inspired by BECK.E’s wonderful drawings that she does 5 days per week, I’m going to the same format. I will still draw every day, and often I will post work-in-progress, but I plan to take the weekends to do something I normally wouldn’t have enough time to complete. I’m dying to do some different things, and, well, what’s the point of being the boss if you can’t institute a policy change?

The reality is, my stats plunge on the weekend anyway, I know most of you slackers come while you’re at work. Busted! So, please stay with me, and look for something new Monday mornings…

Thank you all for continuing to check in, I can’t believe it has been six months already!

Bambi

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Sometimes failure for one equals sweet, sweet victory for the other…

The Illustration Friday theme this week is ‘fail’.

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.

When I was a kid we had a Westfalia camper, complete with a teeny sink and fridge, a drop-leaf table, and most important, a pop-top with a canvas hammock. Just looking at this van I can smell the mustiness of that yellow-orange fabric, taste the campfire toast, feel the mosquito bites, and see the glowing shapes written in the night sky with a red-hot stick from the fire. It all makes me think of one thing: summer.

It snowed here again today. It’s so not funny any more.

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.

Some time ago I mentioned my doorbell going off mysteriously now and again, and at the time I thought I had figured out why. However, it continues to happen, and I have watched the door closely for signs of anyone, human or otherwise, leaving the porch. Nada. A friend mentioned that the radio-controlled doorbells can pick up other signals, so I thought maybe someone’s garage opener or cell phone or remote-control sailboat in the bathtub was making my doorbell ring. Then the other day I noticed, after surveying the doors from above for prowlers, that someone was standing at the door across the street. As I was watching I heard Sidney come to tell me that there was someone at the door, and I told her to wait, wait, wait… it’s going to ring again… NOW! Bing-bong. She was mightily impressed. Sure enough, the neighbours across the street must have the same doorbell system. It’s probably driving them batty because they can’t see our doors, but it’s rather handy for me, as I can just peek out the window to see whether I have to bother getting up or not. I suppose I should go let them in on it, but I find it quite entertaining.

Last time I was in New York I spent some quality time at the flea markets, and came home with the above doorbell. I love the thought of it on some big old brownstone with a cat on the stoop, a bike chained to the stair railing, and possibly a gangster in the kitchen. Of course it’s useless to me since my doorbells are radio controlled, but I will find some use for it: a secret light switch for my new attic room, or a starter for the car, or maybe a peanut-butter M&M dispenser. The possibilities are endless, really…

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For weeks I have been hearing murmurings and clinking in the wall beside my bed, and today a little bit of spying through an old nail hole solved the puzzle. It seems the rats, instead of saving their pennies for a rainy day, are pooling them together to buy a glass cutter. Their goal: to turn my new attic skylight into an easy access point. They are calling it the Roof Rat Flap Fund, and rumour has it they’re close to their goal.

Does anyone have a tarp I can borrow?

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The Illustration Friday theme this week is “save”.

I finally bought myself some dip pens with flexible nibs, and a bottle of india ink. I feel like I should be sending off letters closed with sealing wax and dabbing mutton juice off my chin with the corner of my tunic. They’re amazing to draw with, though—I can see I will get hooked. I was inspired by looking at the website of Quentin Blake, one of my favourite illustrators—if you click on ‘Illustrators’ and watch the first ‘Quentin in Action’ video, you see how natural drawing this way is to him, it’s quite amazing to watch. His lines are so very natural, and clearly second nature, yet bless him for admitting that at the end of each project, once he sends it off to the publisher, he fears he’ll never have another idea again.

It’s both heartening and disheartening to hear someone like him make that sort of admission: heartening to know you’re not alone, and yet disheartening to know that feeling isn’t likely to go away, no matter how accomplished you become…

When I did the silhouette view of this beauty I promised to revisit her, and tonight was the night.

It’s funny, typing the title reminded me of when I was a teenager, playing vinyl records on the rockin’ Sears hi-fi, and being stymied by the concept of a reprise on records. It never really made sense to me, having two versions of the same song on one record, often with only slight variations—but I must say, now I completely understand. It’s often all I can do to keep from posting multiple versions of drawings at various stages. But this one seemed to be content to stay black & white, so I fought my urge to add colour and instead just let it be.

I previously mentioned the masses of crows that fly from all areas of Vancouver to their rookery in Burnaby. My house is on a flightpath, which means a deafening few minutes most mornings and the odd evening—especially if there is a raccoon up one of the trees. It’s incredible how they all know, too—if there’s a raccoon too high for their liking, all the crows will deviate from their route to swoop down and divebomb the poor fellow before continuing on. And the next group will do the same thing, and the next, and the next. The poor coons cannot catch a break.

I suspect that anyone who hasn’t witnessed this type of crow cloud wouldn’t expect it to be nearly so dense as it is. So, I captured just a few minutes of the evening flight, when one group decided to pause for a moment in the trees next door…

Click here for the video.

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.

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Last May I returned to Paris. It had been ten years, and I had a few days to wander around and reacquaint myself. Despite a fair bit of rain, I spent most of the time browsing flea markets, sitting in cafés, and eating butter-laden baked goods. What else is one to do in France?

I had read about a fantastic bakery and made note of it some time before I left, figuring I would wander off and find it as my first-day-in-Paris journey—it’s always fun to have a mission. I knew it was out of the way a little, so I was looking forward to poking around some of the neighbourhood streets of less-than-central Paris. I was staying in the 12th in a lovely little hotel just steps from a metro stop, and as my flight was late getting in, I just made my way straight to my oh-so-inviting bed. In the morning I looked up the address of the bakery, figuring I would be good and ready for a pain d’amandes by the time I found it. To my delight, it was not only in the same arrondissement, but on the same boulevard as my hotel. I was right at the edge of the 12th and I knew I may still have a fair bit of walking to do, so I jotted down the name and set off. I walked down the lovely, creaking wooden staircase and out onto the sidewalk, and as I looked up, there—directly across the street—was the very bakery I had planned to visit. It was all of about 17 steps away. Needless to say there wasn’t much adventure to report in finding the place, but there WAS a piping hot pain d’amandes, to be sure.

When I was returning home I had an early afternoon flight, and so I zipped across the street and bought a huge bag of fresh croissants, pain au chocolat, palmiers and viennoise, and fit them into the one empty spot in my suitcase. I breezed through customs without incident, and about an hour after I returned from the airport several friends and family members came by for (nearly) fresh French pastries. It was heavenly—a highly recommended tradition to start after your next trip…

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.