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This is the first time I have done this, but I’m pulling forward one from the archives. The Illustration Friday theme this week is “clutter”, so the obvious choice was the first illustration in my collective nouns series, a clutter of cats…

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.

Last year I was in Miami for a conference, and afterward I rented a car for a few days and drove down to the Keys. I had been wanting to go there for years; it was the stuff of Jimmy Buffett songs and Carl Hiaasen novels. It’s too bad that Key West is so heavily touristified, but the Bahamian Village gives a pretty good indication of what it once was. It’s fabulous. There are roosters running in the streets—you can never go wrong with roosters running in the streets.

I stayed in the Bahamian Village in a guest house called the Angelina, which was a once a bordello, and now houses the most fabulous pool ever. Not because it’s particularly large, which it’s not, or particularly beautiful, which it also is not—but because it is open for swimming any time, and if you float on your back in the pool at night when it’s dark, you can watch the stars through a perfectly round opening in the palm trees that surround the pool. It’s like looking up through a hole in a ceiling, while the warm wind rustles the palm fronds and the stars shine incredibly brightly in a pitch black sky.

Heaven.

This is the view of the back of the guest house, drawn while eating breakfast on the far side of the pool. One of the resident cats took up in the lounger next to mine while I drew, and any time I got too engrossed in my drawing, she would take a swipe at my plate, trying to nab what was left of my croissant. I think in the end the cat ate more of it than I did.

What could be better than a dogpile?

Granted they can be smelly, and noisy, and drooly—and very hot and flea-laden in the middle—but seriously, who wouldn’t want to be smack dab in the centre of this pack o’ hounds?

At long, long, long last, it feels like summer may actually be coming. Quick, everybody into the water, just in case it doesn’t last…

…kicking ass and taking names.

Seriously, why has Apple not pounced on this whole pet industry thing? Labradors are the perfect demographic for the Shuffle…

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…

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

The Illustration Friday theme this week is ‘fail’.

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.

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…

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.

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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.

Last week I spent some quality time wandering around the nooks and crannies of old New Westminster, and hopped a fence at the river’s edge for the opportunity to snap a photo of this fantastic wee tug idling there. I was with a friend whose father manned tugboats for many years, so this one is for him.

And yes, the teeth painted on the hull are akin to the teeth painted on fighter planes, but they remind me of the muppet Animal’s mouth. Sort of softens the intended effect, doesn’t it?

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It’s impossible to talk about Kingsway and not mention the Purdy’s Chocolates factory. They offer tours, which I have never partaken in but think I would enjoy, what with my love of industrial kitchen machinery and my recently obtained antique chocolate molds. I have, however, visited the factory store, which in addition to regular Purdy’s fare sells rejects in large bags. I always hope to find a bag of assorted mangled bunny parts, but unfortunately the broken shapes are usually far less interesting. Their peanut butter bars, however, in any form, are nothing short of divine.

It seems an odd location for a chocolate factory, and it remains to be seen if Purdy’s will stay on indefinitely or move off of Kingsway to a more industrial location as the strip becomes a little more settled. It would be a shame to see it go, and mainly because it would mean the loss of the best fountain in the city, which sits outside the factory doors and is made from used candy machines. Trés Willy Wonka.

The Illustration Friday theme for this week is “pet peeves”.

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Today while wandering just west of Main Street, I fell hard for a Comet. I took a few photos and planned to use it as my model for today’s drawing—that was, until I wandered a few blocks further and stumbled upon this sexy beast. Poor Comet, it didn’t stand a chance—I mean, how to compete with this? I will definitely do another version of this beauty from another angle, but for today I couldn’t resist the perfection of its oh-so-fine silhouette.

So, I went for a walk this afternoon during an unexpected sunny break, hoping to find an interesting building to draw as the next entry in my Kingsway series, but what caught my eye more than buildings were gaping holes and heavy machinery. Since the Illustration Friday theme this week is “heavy”, my subject for today seemed pretty obvious…

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.