Singing in the new year

Judging from the vibrant birdsong I'm becoming accustomed to each morning, spring is here even though it doesn't officially start for a few more weeks. February brought with it the change of seasons, as evidenced by blooming bulbs and chirping bird choruses. I have been told that frog songs have even been heard in the night as amphibians awaken from their watery winter sleep.

The change of seasons brings with it a change in the wild creatures who share our region. Birds who spent the winter here are heading for their summer places, such as the golden crowned kinglets who have been abundant for the past several months. I noticed more of these charming little birds this winter than any other, and have had some excellent photo opportunities. I will miss their lively, twittering presence in the woods till they return in the fall.

My encounters with kinglets inspired me to create this small drawing:



Golden-crowned kinglet, coloured pencil, 3"x4"

Flocks of robins have been passing through on their northerly migration since January, often stopping to forage on my lawn. One morning there was quite a scene as a dozen or so paused to rest and feed on whatever creepy-crawlies were lurking under the soggy greenery.

Birds who go unnoticed through the winter are now making themselves heard. I've been serenaded by melodic Pacific wrens (aka winter wrens) on my forest walks for a couple of weeks now as the males began declaring their territories. The other day a marsh wren's trilling call drew my attention as I passed by a wetland and I was able to capture this photo:

I've written before about wrens - among my favourite birds. Their diminutive size and usually reclusive habits contrast dramatically to the showmanship they demonstrate at this time of year. More than once I've shown my appreciation for them in my art, most recently in this tiny drawing:

Pacific wren, coloured pencil, 2"x2.5"

There's also a flicker who hammers enthusiastically on the street light by my driveway, making himself heard to all the other flickers in the area (and everyone else for that matter). This is another species that has been particularly abundant over the past few months, often breakfasting on suet at the feeding station outside my studio window.

Soon nesting season will begin in earnest. Chickadees have been casually inspecting the birdhouse where last year they raised a brood of beautiful babies. At my little yellow cottage I have erected another birdhouse and on my next visit I will be keen to see if anyone decides to call it home.

While according to the calendar on my wall the new year started January 1st, for me this is when it truly starts, as the earth's creatures begin their annual cycle of renewal in earnest. Rather than Auld Lang Syne marking the transition, it's the song of the birds - the blackbirds, the wrens, and the funny starling in my neighbourhood who mimics the call of eagles - who are signalling the arrival of a whole new year.

Rupert has left the building

My old cat Rupert, aka Rupee, Godfrey (strangely), and Pest has permanently, like Elvis, "left the building". Only a cat with a personality as big as his deserves to be equated with a legendary entertainment icon. Rupert departed from this world today with infinite grace by a gentle hand, embraced by love. His health had declined significantly over the past few weeks as his old body gave out due to kidney failure. He was just shy of his 21st birthday.

All losses are sad and while the departure of this long-time friend and companion has brought its share of tears, I'm choosing to remember his lengthy, lively and always entertaining life. I introduced him to readers back in 2012 in Rascally Rupert: A cat like no other and he continued to be a dominant presence in my household. He bonded tightly with his cat "brother" Archie (The cat who could fly), and even as a very senior cat he coped well with the arrival of the kitten-and-puppy duo Hugo and Lily (see In with the new, The Great Distraction and And so...they grow!). He made it his mission to teach both youngsters the house rules - rules he himself was aware of but rarely felt obliged to obey. He was phased by few things, not dogs, not people, not even the vacuum cleaner. Rupert saw many others come and go but he stayed for two decades - constant, sometimes irritating, always faithful - and if at all possible he'd be at my side or on my lap, usually purring loudly. He had a weakness for Digestive biscuits.

Rupert and Archie

Sleeping Rupert and bright-eyed Hugo

Rupert's nap interrupted by Lily



Rupert was seldom allowed in my studio. He was not one of those cats who would pose artfully or simply curl up and sleep. No way! He was always wanting to either explore or participate, neither of which were helpful. However, he inspired his share of artwork over the years.

One of them was this silk painting:



Orange Cat and Red Geraniums"

Prior to that, he featured in this collage:

This oil pastel drawing depicts a time when Rupert vied for the best spot on the couch with his two former housemates - cat "brother" Jasper and collie Riley (both now departed):

Three's Company

It was through Rupert I learned about the unique qualities of orange cats and his legacy will continue. Hugo, now almost two years old, will now take over the post of Head Feline, surpassing his older, much bigger "brother" Archie whose more reserved nature precludes that role.

Hugo at on his post

Archie thinking inside the box

 

Archie and Hugo

 

Rupert, you are greatly missed - Greeter of Guests, Climber of Ladders, Window Tapper Extraordinaire, Escape Artist, Champion Snuggler, and Number One Purr-er - and you will be remembered by all who met you. You had many fans.

 

The house is quiet without you.

 

 

 

The quest

When I started writing this blog nearly four years ago, my very first post was about a marvellous day, a Most Amazing Day, a day during which I saw birds that never fail to take my breath away. I'm talking about owls. On that particular day, I saw not one of these elusive birds but three different species, and one of them in abundant numbers. You can read that story in my post Day of the Owls.

Recently I had on my mind an owl of a different sort: the diminutive saw-whet owl. I know they can be found at the Reifel Bird Sanctuary during the winter months so off I went, camera fully charged, on a Quest for Owls not unlike that day four years ago.

I won't keep you in suspense. I was not successful in finding the little owls. After all, it's generally not possible to make owls appear on cue and rare to see them on demand. After a couple of hours of tramping around the sanctuary, I gave up. However owls were still on my mind so I decided stop at Boundary Bay on my way home just in case this was another year when snowy owls find their way south and hang about the shore. Failing that, there was the possibility of spotting short-eared owls in the nearby fields. Nope, there wasn't an owl in sight. The only owl I saw in the entire day was this one:

But I did see some other marvellous things, like this night heron who apparently suffered from insomnia because instead of sleeping in preparation for a night of foraging, he (or she) was wide awake, doing some feather preening and watching me quite intently with flame-red eyes. Having seen these birds in more tropical places, I'm always amazed to observe them in this chilly place, their most northerly wintering ground.

And sometimes when that special thing we truly seek is nowhere to be found, we are moved to appreciate more ordinary things. Consider, for instance, this gorgeous towhee. A common sight but this was a particularly glorious specimen:

 

 

 

Or this plump, perky robin:

Or this exquisite little golden-crowned sparrow:

Or this magnificent wood duck, almost too exquisite to be real:



A coloured pencil drawing of mine of a wood duck.

And there are always the sandhill cranes. No trip to the Reifel Bird Sanctuary would be complete without a few photos of these elegant birds.

 

A silk painting of mine, dating back a
couple of years, of a sandhill crane.
(This painting now resides in Malta!)

The one photo opportunity I regrettably missed was of hundreds, perhaps thousands of widgeons flocking between Boundary Bay and an adjacent golf course. I have rarely seen so many birds of a feather flocking together. It was awe inspiring. I do, however, have a photo of this plucky widgeon at the bird sanctuary. Just imagine thousands of them - some flying, some feeding, all whistling companionably to one another. Truly a sight to behold.

 

 

So even though I didn't see what I set out to find, I came home satisfied with my day. Sometimes a quest can be about the unexpected gifts along the way rather than the actual object of one's desire.

There will be another day for owls.

Note: If you'd like to see a saw-whet owl photographed at the Reifel Bird Sanctuary click here. I think you'll immediately understand why I'd love to encounter one!

A tale of four horses

Every commissioned portrait I make is special, and I don't mean because of my artistic skill - far from it! I mean because of the subject. It's because each animal is a one-of-a-kind individual in their appearance, their personality, and their life story. It's also because each human-animal relationship is unique.

When I'm asked to create a portrait of an animal, I'm aware it's because there was something extra-powerful between that human and that animal. I try to come to know each animal as well as I can in the brief time we might meet or, if they've already left this world or simply live too far away, from what their owner can tell me about them. I also work to uncover the particular connection between the person and his or her beloved four-legged friend. It goes without saying that capturing the animal's likeness in a portrait is important. I would add that infusing it with personality is crucial. And when I'm able to tap into the bond between the animal and its human partner, I feel like I've really done my job. 


A pencil drawing I made when I was about 14.

Horses were my first love (see my past blog A History of Horses) so any time I can work on something involving horses, I'm pretty happy about it. Over the last while I've been working on a coloured pencil portrait of not one but four horses - a project to delight the soul of a horse-loving artist like me.

However, along with the joy of creating this new work of art, the project has presented some unique challenges. These four horses span their owner's entire history of horse ownership dating back to the 1970s. Each represents a different time in her life, a different place, a different riding style, a different discipline, a different role. Each horse spent years with her, up until its death with the exception of the most recent arrival who is still going strong. They are of three different breeds but all are chestnut in colour with white markings. Even the two that share the same lineage - quarterhorses - are quite dis-similar in many ways, one with a high-headed, inquisitive expression, the other with a more reserved look about him.

Because three of the horses are deceased I'm limited to available photos - not a significant problem except when considering the size relationship between four animals who never actually lived together and each of whom are different shades of chestnut. The subtleties of their colour differences are not captured well in photos, particularly old slightly-yellowed snapshots. Conversations and consultations with the owner plus her lovingly written descriptions of each horse, his/her personality, and their time together have filled in the gaps. When I asked her, "Why chestnuts?" she said she didn't really know - they found her. She also told me about what she learned from each horse, and is still learning from the last of the four who came into her life not all that long ago - things like patience and bravery. Her bond with each of these individuals was and is unique, shaped by her life and by what each of them brought to her.

And so I am working on this most enjoyable project, starting with this preliminary sketch where I worked out the scale and composition.

They are arranged so that the horse from the most distant past is on the left, progressing through to the most recent on the right. The still-living horse on the right looks away from the other three, signifying his difference from the others.

Below is a photo of the drawing in progress (not a great photo because I took it on the fly using my phone camera under less-than-ideal conditions). I'm never good at photographing my work in progress because I'm simply too caught up in the work to be mindful of stopping to take pictures. However, this one particular photo shows the drawing developing from the ghostly horse on the left, where I'm just starting to build the image, to the more developed horses across the drawing to the right. I'm left-handed, so I usually work from right to left.

Both I and the owner are satisfied with each horse's expression and posture, with the relationship in height between them, and with the overall composition. Now it's just a question of persevering and getting it all done, and done right.

Some time later (and I don't count the hours), the drawing is nearly there:

And, finally, a photo of the finished product, framed and ready to go home:

 

 

 

Getting to know the neighbours

Over the past few weeks of autumn, I spent an extended stay at my Gulf Island refuge, my little yellow cottage in the woods. Not much happens there, by mainland standards, but I'm enjoying the process of gradually getting to know my neighbours.

There's the deer family who have been making themselves seen from almost Day One, a year ago, when the cottage became part of my life. Back then the resident doe had twin fawns in her care who have now grown into young adults but still hang around, sharing mom's company with this year's singleton fawn. I wrote about her early June when I saw her during the first hours after her birth (see Finding Solace).

The resident deer family. Elder brother (centre) sports striking new antlers.

  

"My" fawn, checking out the rock sculpture I created in my front yard.

There's also a kingfisher family who hangs out at the bay across the road. I watched one day as they appeared to be teaching their youngster fishing techniques, swooping across the water while chattering enthusiastically.

 

 

The water in the bay that day teemed with schools of tiny fish, offering a banquet for the kingfishers and no doubt for a heron who was resting quietly nearby, basking in the sun likely with a belly already full from a morning's fishing.

 

 

The trees around the cottage always abound with birds but none equal the pileated woodpecker for style and panache. I always know his/her whereabouts by the steady knock-knock-knocking of beak on tree, a steady hammering that echoes through the woods.

Among the lesser creatures who live in the neighbourhood and make themselves seen at this time of year are prolific numbers of spiders. I found a few good-sized ones indoors who I escorted carefully back outside. I respect them and honour their place in the ecosystem but do not relish sharing my living quarters with them, particularly the large ones I found lurking in dark corners when I first arrived back at the cottage after an absence of a few weeks. I'm not sure what kind they were, but they were big and brown and kinda creepy.

And for a small island there are some magnificent, positively enormous banana slugs to be found. 

Down at the shoreline it's been a wonderful time to observe birds, some residents, others transients. I often saw species congregated together, and at least one that was new to me - a black turnstone - giving me another check-mark in my bird book.



An abundance of oystercatchers.



Oystercatchers with crows, a heron and a gull



Black turnstone

A cormorant with pigeons and a gull

 

It also turned out to be a good time for marine mammals who call the waters around the island home. A pair of humpback whales escorted my ferry to the island, and weeks later, a pod of orcas lead me back to the mainland.

While I was waiting for the ferry home, leaning against the railing at the dock and soaking up the fall sunshine, I heard a "whoooosh" of air and looked down to find myself being observed by a curious seal.

Overall, it was a quiet, meditative time. I puttered around the cottage (the ultimate fixer-upper if ever there was one), went for walks, and worked on art projects, enjoying the solitude shared only with Lily and a few friends who came from the mainland to stay for a night or two.

Young Lily, for whom there is basically no better place on Earth than the cottage, can now add "sheepdog" to her list of accomplishments. One afternoon I was indoors and heard her barking hysterically. I looked out, and this is what I saw:

A blurry photo, taken hastily with my phone, of a
half-dozen wayward sheep headed up my driveway.

A small flock of sheep, who appeared to be on the lam (pun intended), were marching purposefully up the driveway only to be met by Lily who was intent on keeping them firmly at bay - all bristling, barking 20 pounds of her. She was getting her message across, and the sheep paused, eyeing her respectfully. However, they seemed to be on a mission so I quieted her and we let them pass. They disappeared purposefully and silently into the woods behind the cottage. No shepherd came looking for them so I expect they found their way back home eventually via some alternate route, likely to the farm just a few driveways down the road. 

This was probably the single-most exciting event of my sojourn, demonstrating just how low-key my time at the cottage really was.



Lily - not just a pretty face!



It truly is a refuge, my little yellow cottage in the woods, on an island in the Salish Sea. And I'm pleased to be getting acquainted with my interesting assortment of neighbours, marauding flocks of sheep and all.