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Today is my father’s birthday, and when I thought about the items he might want, it came down to an elephant, cinnamon buns, or a classic tractor.

Of course, I could never get him a real antique tractor, because of a) price, b) availability, and c) the fact that he would then become “that guy who drives around town in a tractor”. He so totally would. With a crow on his shoulder. Pulling a trailer with his elephant in it.

Okay, maybe next year.

There is a small seaplane dock near where I work, and I have been planning to go down and draw there for some time. I know that the days of drawing outside are becoming rare, so when it was sunny and warm enough to de-glove for a bit today, I figured the time had come.

A small public dock gets you very close to the planes, and there is a spot to sit, so this is where I perched. Not long after I sat down, a family of tourists from Mexico wandered past, and one kid, about thirteen or fourteen, peeked at what I was doing and was riveted. He hung back, and kept smiling at me and ignoring his parents’ urges to move on. There were two other boys of similar age with him, and he kept calling them over to look. The others thought it was kind of cool, but they were clearly sticking around because the one kid was so into it. The kid went over and negotiated with the parents, who started walking off down the seawall with their young daughter in tow. These three weren’t going anywhere—they hung around and would wander down the dock now and then, but my patchy Spanish was enough to help me deduce that this kid really wanted to walk away with this drawing.

My mastery of español, however, is more of the key-words-only variety—strong enough to carry me across Mexico alone by bus, finding me shelter and food along the way. But anything conceptual like “I would love to give you this drawing but I have a blog that I have to post this to tonight, and I would have to scan it first” is way out of my league.

Dilemma time: this kid may be a budding artist, and this might actually mean something to him. But, on the other hand, I’m not too far into this project, and it means something to me too. I could certainly do another drawing for tonight’s post, but I really wanted to post this one—plus, I’m way short on sleep and finishing now would mean an early bedtime. And then I realized there was only one way out.

Oh, Jesucristo, I’m going to have to start again, aren’t I?

They’re still pointing and talking at the other end of the dock, so I flip the page and start again, working quickly. My hands are freezing and I am good and ready to vamoose, but I have a soft spot in my heart for Mexicans. I can’t just slip away. They start coming back toward me and at that moment, mercifully, the propellor starts spinning and before we know it, the plane is gone.

So, what could I do? How do I give this kid, who has waited around for this long, a half-finished drawing? I looked up, shrugged, and in broken Spanish to match his broken English, inquired as to how much longer he would be in Vancouver. Three days. So I said that perhaps tomorrow, when the plane was back, he could return and finish the drawing himself. I handed him one of my pens. His eyes grew wide, he was incredulous. “Si, si, gracias!” Suddenly the gift had gone from one of a pathetic half-done page ripped from a sketchbook to the gift of my half of our genius co-created masterpiece. The kid was thrilled.

And that, my friends, is what you call marketing.

Despite their naturally flamboyant appearance, zebras are surprisingly partial to bling…

These are the real names for groups of animals, I’m not making this stuff up. Promise. This is the third for this week’s Illustration Friday theme, The Zoo. The others are here and here.

So, the Everyday Matters challenge for this week is to draw something made of wood. I sat down in front of my antique dresser, and as I was drawing the various items sitting on it, I realized that it’s very strange how one becomes accustomed to having certain items arranged in certain ways, for no good reason at all. For example, does the little pot of lip gloss I use at night in the winter really HAVE to live inside the outer petals long ago removed from a fake flower? Does the old screwy camera memory card REALLY belong in the little bowl with the safety pins, the bulldog clip and the white embroidery thread? And just when did my Halloween bat finger puppet become part of the illustrious group of “Items that Live on my Dresser”?

Tell me I’m not the only person who lives like this.

This group term is particularly applicable to the gen-x-ers of the leopard variety, whose formative years featured the 3 big Fs: Flashdance, Footloose and Fame.

You got big dreams. You want fame. Well, fame costs.
And right here is where you start payin’. In sweat.

The Zoo II, for Illustration Friday. Here’s my first offering.

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So, after a 10-year hiatus, my father and I have started to attend life drawing sessions again. Part of it was just a matter of being too busy and not making the effort, but I suspect subconsciously it had something to do with The Incident.

It was the mid 90’s, and he was trying to get me interested in drawing again. There was this run-down old studio on Main Street that had weekend drop-in sessions, so we started going every so often. It was good for me—the toughest part was always tearing myself away from being too careful and perfect with my drawings. Come to think of it, the main problem was not drawing at all. My father has this amazing loose, free-flowing style that I always admired, and he knew that life drawing would help me loosen up. And it did, for a bit. Then, one unassuming Sunday morning as we were doing warm-up poses, I had a fleeting notion that this model seemed sort of familiar—but I dismissed the thought and went on with the sketching. Later, during a more sustained pose, I was drawing her face when it hit me. One of my relatives has a sister that I have only met a few times—she is more than a little odd, but nice enough (could she possibly read this?). It had been years since I had seen her and if asked, I would have sworn I couldn’t have picked her out of a lineup. Turns out, I could. I shuffled a little closer to my dad, and wrote on the top of my paper “Archie’s sister” with an arrow pointing at the model. It took him a minute, but when he understood, we had an animated little conversation solely through facial expressions:

“her?”
“yes”
“really?”
“yes!!”
“no way”
“seriously!”
“oh my god.”

That was our last session.

Now, when I think about it, I realize that life drawing is great with a perfect stranger, and I suspect it would be manageable with someone you know well. But the absolute worst is someone you kind-of know—it was extremely distracting, trust me. Normally life drawing pulls you completely away from the fact that there is a naked person in the room—it immediately becomes a non-issue. But when you sort-of know the model, it pulls you back into reality. Imagine trying to draw someone while your mind is flooded with thoughts like “my co-worker’s daughter is looking at me while I’m trying to draw her nipple”, or “that guy I often sit next to on the train sure is flexible”, or “my Starbucks barista just happens to be striking a pose that allows me to see to heaven”. Yikes.

A word to the wise: check out the model before you sit down to draw. Save yourselves.

My sister is one of those people with a gift for finding treasures amidst piles of junk—she can walk into any thrift store and zero in on the three items worth taking home. When she puts on these old black velvet coats and white calf gloves and oversized costume jewelry that would make anyone else look like they mugged an old lady, my sister somehow comes out looking like a rock star. I don’t know how she does it.

This was a lot of fun, doing both a pencil sketch and a pen & ink version. The pencil one looks more accurate to her face, but I think the pen & ink captures said inner rock star a little more…

They say elephants never forget. Hippos, however, often forget one thing: their lactose intolerance.

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The Illustration Friday theme this week is The Zoo, so I am continuing with my animal groups series, focusing on zoofolk.

I met Randy in the parking lot of our neighbourhood 7-11 store when I was 17—sounds a little like fodder for a John Cougar (Mellencamp?) song from the 80’s, doesn’t it? In the 20 years that have passed since that fateful day, we have shared a million laughs, just as many stories, and, well, a smidge of carnal knowledge. He has been one of the most crazy, hilarious and charming people I have ever known. I love him dearly.

The one thing about Randy: he was born a century too late. He spent some time driving a city bus, but it never really suited him—he would have been much more at home driving this bad boy. Although I can’t really picture him in the hat.

He passed away suddenly last night, and this has been such an odd day—it’s very strange trying to reconcile the idea that someone who has been a part of your life for a good portion of it has suddenly become part of your past.

I will always miss him, but I have no doubt that wherever he is, he will meet up with my uncle Rob—who died last year around this time, and then came back for our beloved three-legged dog Arlo a few months later. Randy loved Arlo too, so surely the trio will find each other. They were all ultimately three-legged dogs at heart—I expect they will get along famously.

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Earlier this year I attended a conference in Miami Beach. Afterward I took a few extra days off, rented a car, and drove to the Keys. Now, I had heard about key deer before—I knew they were smaller than regular deer, and so I thought I would stop off at Big Pine Key and see if I could spot one. What I didn’t expect was that a) they are all over the place, b) they are the size of a border collie, and c) they have very little fear of humans, and in fact will often approach you. No WAY. How do people get anything done with little deer roaming around everywhere? I have a tough time concentrating when raccoons are within a five block radius, and they actively avoid me. The wee deer will hobble right over to you on their spindly legs—one licked my fingers. Seriously, I would be completely useless if I lived there—which is the exact same comment I made about the area around Las Vegas, a location teeming with bunnies. Anyone who can go about their day-to-day business with bunnies hopping around the parking lot is downright heroic in my opinion. Well, heroic or a cold-blooded maniac with no soul.

Miniature deer. Seriously.