I arrived in England on Friday morning. The British woman who had sat next to me on the plane lamented as we exited that it was cloudy. No problem, I said. “Nothing could be worse than the Vancouver weather the other day.” Anyway, I find the clouds settled over the hills kind of intriguing.
It’s greener here than Vancouver right now, but the hills in the country are still brown from a distance between the patches of grass and pasture. I’m trying to imagine what it looks like when it’s all lush. The place is covered in daffodils, some tulips have sprung, magnolias and the odd cherry bloom, and the birds are gloriously loud. On a forest walk, I spotted salmonberry bushes in early bloom, and learned one can suck on the nectar for a treat, which will be sweet if the petals are easy plucked.
The flicker’s call can last even longer than in this video, taken yesterday in the back yard.
The past two days, the flickers have been singing and drilling on metal street objects — their loudest instrument. Today, I can hear four or five different species of birds. In a nearby wood, a proper sort of woodpecker made quick work of an old stump. The trees here provide many resting places for migratory and resident birds.
It’s warm enough in the sun for a t-shirt. My neighbour two doors down, Pat, is gardening in short sleeves. He rakes the life into his garden, stands tall to examine his work, and leans to tend by hand. People pass quietly by on the street, on foot and bicycle. It’s a pleasant contrast against the cars that roar by and mask the bird calls.
Last week I experienced the WE:Vancouver exhibition at the Vancouver Art Gallery. It’s one of the few shows I’ve seen where the gallery extends beyond art to include design and architecture, and they do it remarkably well. The fact that it’s all local (Jason lamented he didn’t make it in) makes it unique and more personally felt.
It did an excellent job communicating our cultural connection with nature through pieces like compelling manifestos by Alisa Smith and James MacKinnon, authors of The 100-Mile Diet, and the Vancouver Public Space Network; video and installation from the Downtown Eastside’s SOLEfood farm (psst! they’re screening Dirt on March 10); and eco-fashion goddess Natalie Purschwitz’s gorgeous outfits are displayed in photo and video. Other installations embrace our vibrant city and ideas as they focus on public spaces, food, and Critical Mass as they relate to Vancouver and its people.
Without giving away too much, the exhibit is a visual, aural and physical experience. It has its own gorgeous microsite as well, but don’t let it spoil your visit if you browse the site first, and photos are definitely no substitute!
Be sure not to miss Ken Lum’s trippy hall of mirrors on the second floor — take a friend in with you.
I took advantage of today’s glorious sunshine and brought my camera with me to Stanley Park’s Lost Lagoon and seawall. In case it’s not obvious, I have a thing for willows and birds. Don’t you just love the word ducks?
Yes, I’m an environmentalist. Dirty word, right? I remember writing “closet environmentalist” in my Facebook profile as if it were something to be ashamed of. I realised after awhile that it isn’t, and defining myself as one is as familiar as the back of my hand. I remember someone, perhaps David Suzuki, saying we’re all environmentalists, but that requires a definition I can’t quite remember. It has something to do with our reliance on nature, I think. At any rate, here I am to tell you why I’m an environmentalist and what that really means.
I grew up surrounded by nature at home, in my community and at school. I knew nearly every root and rock of my elementary school’s forest so I could run and jump through it as fast as I wanted without tripping. My parents, childhood immigrants, instilled values and habits like sensible consumption, not wasting food (especially leftovers), used clothing (e.g. hand-me-downs), using cloth rags, closing the fridge door, conserving water, turning out the lights, saving and reusing containers and recycling. All these things that make the “what you can do list” are things I’ve been doing my whole life because it just made sense and saved us money. I’ve been using cloth bags and washing my clothes in cold water and hanging to dry since before it went mainstream.
In this fascinating TED Talk, Pollan talks about humans’ relationship with, or rather perceived dominance over, nature, corn’s dominance over us, and nature’s incredible systems at work on a farm.
“…If you think about it, this completely contradicts the tragic idea of nature we hold in our heads which is that, for us to get what we want, nature is diminished. More for us, less for nature. Here, all this food comes off this farm and at the end of the season, there is actually more soil, more fertility and more biodiversity. It’s a remarkably hopeful thing to do. … We can take the food we need from the earth and actually heal the earth in the process.”
It’s the day after Earth Day and I’m on my favourite North Shore bus route. Lined by trees most of the way, including a park ravaged in the windstorm of a few years ago and a protected habitat area with beautiful deciduous trees, the two-lane Dollarton Highway can feel like a backcountry road. Certainly in the rear view mirror of my bicycle it can make me pretend I’m somewhere else.
The road was realigned and widened years ago, and I still remember the disappointment and shock I felt in staring at this huge, ugly, wrecked swath where they had pummeled through what I can only assume was old-growth forest. I had forgotten the image until a reminder came today.
Developers have been clear-cutting small chunks at a time to build two-story business operations. They’re not the ugliest buildings in the world and they did a fine job of either keeping perimeter trees or replanting, which is more than I can say for most areas. It’s a beautiful road, even, as roads go with its remaining forests. I know one treed part is doomed as it has a Colliers sign on it while the trees are still standing. Today I’m distracted by writing a different blog post on my iPod. In my peripheral vision, something has changed. Massive trees and mangled branches are heaped on bare ground where a magnificent, dense group of conifers had stood untouched for decades. My heart cracks open and a knot grips my throat. I’m paralysed for a moment by an aching sadness that becomes a desire to vomit as I pass existing cleared blocks and those currently spared, beautifully lush but damaged. I am overcome; my lower lip quivers and I wonder if anyone else has noticed the abrupt change and felt similarly.
Where we have something so irreplaceable, and that defines space so dominantly, I can’t grasp why we destroy it for a mere two-story building, parking lots, a gas station, a puny Tim Hortons drive-thru. We ignore opportunities to decrease our buildings’ footprints by building them compact to begin with or replacing old single-story ones with multi-story. There’s no shortage of this activity with houses in older neighbourhoods, so why do we treat our commercial spaces differently? Why are these formerly forested areas being developed now? Does anybody give a damn?
A day before the official first day of spring, my friend and I sat down on a Coal Harbour bench after a refreshing, sunlit bike ride around the seawall. He pulled out a sketchbook and pen and started sketching out as many sights as possible, as quickly as possible. That strategy, while energizing and capable of branding more visual memories, is not one I frequently employ. In fact, I hadn’t done any kind of artistic sketching for months — not since the fall when my visiting nieces, who are nuts about drawing, inspired participation. So when he tore a sheet from his sketchbook and handed it to me with a pen and a book for my lap, I felt a blushing hesitation, a brief resistance. An unfamiliarity with the drawing tool. Overcome that I was left just with deciding what to draw.
There was a large holly with yellow berries just ahead of me that provided the detail to which I’m addicted. I like to draw subjects as close to their form as possible, so botanical drawings are quite ideal, providing intricate and random shapes. I had forgotten this pleasure, as I had forgotten how much I enjoy capturing light and shadow (as much as I do looking at it). It took me a minute to get back into the swing of it, to have some patience and see it as a relaxing exercise with a tangible outcome. It’s so easy to just take photographs and yet if I remember anything vividly it’s the image of that holly, in full colour, not the pansies and daffodils I photographed two days later. That sure makes one think about the media we use to write memories.
Digital scan converted to greyscale from original blue ink.
I could write about how fantastic last year was for me… or I could just show you. Through my lens, last year looked, and felt, like this.
January
In January, I wrote about what I missed when I did not bring my camera, accompanied by photos taken the next day when I did. Of course, the scenery was altogether different, but no less remarkable. There was still evidence of the bewildering snowfall that lingered an unusually long time.
February must have been particularly grim as I only have blurry shots of a crescent moon riding beneath a star or planet.
March