FAUNA: An Art Show

While I was working on FAUNA, the art show Margaret Gallagher envisioned, celebrating our urban wildlife, I had some strange encounters with animals.

"The witch didn't feed the little children she kept in the oven, 
but she fed the wild animals that came to her door." 
 (painting, centerfold of zine)

One was in a dream:  a ladder led up to a loft where a badger lived, but as I climbed up, I saw a shadow slinking back and forth, a panther, sleek and stealthy against the blue black night. I can't remember much else about the dream, but the sense of the big cat's movement and the color of the sky were visceral and stayed with me for the rest of the day.

One night as I worked in my garage/studio, a raccoon walked by. When he saw me, he growled fiercely, arching his back and then tiptoed away. It was just like I had drawn earlier in the day, a skunk on its tiptoes. I thought I was making stuff up; I'd never seen an animal on tiptoes before.

In my zine I tell the story of the wild animals next door. As I was working on it, I'd look out my kitchen window and there they'd be: the skunks eating out of the cat bowls. The coyote waiting to be fed. The crows, the stray cats, the raccoons. My neighbor whispering sweet nothings to them all. Life and art separated by a window screen. 

We had a wonderful time at our opening for FAUNA, with friends coming out to Perhspace, with enthusiasm and support. Margaret and I appreciated the warmth that filled the room. Until the show was hung that morning, I had no idea if it would work. I think we were both a little surprised when it did, the different styles complimenting each other and making a bigger whole. Here are a few pix from the show (photos by Tom Harjo):

Opening night

 (click on photos to enlarge)

My other neighbors who don't feed wild animals, and Greg

Wheat paste crow and skunks

(notice the tiptoes)

 
Coyote print with chine-colle, with Craig and Aaron

Margaret's sleeping coyote
(photo by Margaret Gallagher) 

FAUNA will be up until October, although by appointment only. If you're interested in coming by or know anyone who is, please get in touch with me by leaving a comment here, or email, lottobrand127@gmail.com, or fb: https://www.facebook.com/charlotte.hildebrand.14. I will arrange to meet whoever would like to see the show.

Art work is for sale, with 40% of the proceeds benefiting the California Wildlife Center. My zine is for sale as well...oh look, there it is below! Let me know if you'd like to buy one.

(silkscreen crow on butcher paper, cover)

In Shifts

(follow up to post on 6/3)

  

I don't know why I'm afraid to talk to my neighbor Thea about the commotion next door; perhaps because I talked to her last year about feeding the feral cats and skunks and raccoons and nothing came of it. My fear comes, too, from the fact that an old woman can be sharp edged as a knife, dangerous as a steel trap and unyielding to the point of chicanery. 

Don't get me wrong; my neighbor is a wonderful woman, but the busy schedule of the comings and goings of various animals has gotten out of hand. Something has to be done:

7 a.m.: Breakfast, Coyote, table set for one
7:30-8 a.m.: breakfast, seven skunks
noon-3: brunch, six rowdy crows
5 p.m.: supper again for the coyote, although in this part of the country I think you call it dinner.
5:30 p.m.-until dark: skunks in shifts, the occasional possum and raccoon

The point of my argument (to make her stop setting out food) must be in the interest of the wildlife she's feeding. I'll say in a soft spoken manner, "Thea, you're not helping the animals; you're making them dependent on the food you give them. What will happen when you're not here?"

Who will get to the bowl first?

Why would I not be here? she'll ask.

Pause, What then? Am I to say, at your age your headed for the big ballpark in the sky; anything could happen. But I can't say that; it would be too cruel.

Well, what if you get sick, I'll say. What will the animals do?  The coyote might become aggressive and attack some unsuspecting child or small pet; maybe jump over the fence and bite me for interfering with its supper. 

She'll shake her head like last time and say she doesn't agree with my assessment.

I'll say, Okay, you win; let the skunks fill up the afternoon air with stink, let the coyote become a stalker, let the crows caw to their hearts content. I give up, I give up. 

And she'll say, you see, what a lovely talk we've had. I'm glad we understand each other.






But it didn't go like that. When I called her at noon to talk about the problem, she was all good graces; she said she had wondered herself if she was doing the right thing. As a child during the war, she lived on the edge of a forest, and it was only natural to feed the animals during winter. I gently reminded her, an abundant harvest is always available in sunny CA; there's enough little voles and moles to fill up Dodger Stadium. She said so herself: "I have to remember this isn't Germany." So, she agreed to stop. If she couldn't feed one, she wouldn't feed any. She promised, no more food. 

But I feel a little guilty that she won't have the animals to feed. She's lonely up here on Mt. Washington since her husband died five years ago; her daughter lives in Pennsylvania and comes out only a few times a year. It must give her pleasure to take care of so many small creatures. I wonder if I've done more harm than good. 

Neighbor Thea with her daughter Karen, who lives back East.

Will I be like Thea in my old age, leathery and lonely? Will I do anything—no matter how misguided—to feel so needed?


P.S. Woke up this morning and noticed three bowls in her yard, and a possum lurking about. What the...??

Dog days of summer

I don't know why, but this morning I woke up feeling hopeful. Maybe it's a stupid move given the world is going to hell in a handbasket, but when I took off to the market this morning, everyone else seemed hopeful too: the men filling the potholes on San Rafael, the workers unloading furniture in Highland Park, the UPS man delivering packages on York. Even the chihuahuas in the neighborhood were busy being hopeful.

 a hopeful dog 
(photo credit: http://www.dogsindepth.com)

It was an all dog alert, with the little guys chasing delivery men, barking at small children only slightly larger than themselves and stopping cars with their antics on Ave. 50. It must be because it's June, I thought, the beginning of summer, a hopeful sign. Everything good happens in the summer (except jury duty): the kids are home, the neighbors are on vacation, the beach is within grasp. As the day progresses towards afternoon, though, I sense the feeling slipping away, but I want to remember it, not forget how good it felt... this feeling of hope.

~~~

Continuing with the subject of dogs, a few weeks ago I thought I saw two red foxes in the back forty behind my house, the hollow we call Red Hawk Canyon, an acre of steep hills with a gully running through it, overgrown with wild artichokes, black walnuts and dry grasses.

 Red Hawk Canyon

But foxes in L.A.? Impossible. A few days later Tom saw what I had spotted; two baby coyotes, not more than a foot high, with huge ears and tails that stood straight out, following their mother along the path, dipping into the wild underbrush as soon as they saw/heard him. 

I hadn't realized how much young coyotes look like foxes. My Peterson guide for mammals says that coyotes are larger than foxes but smaller than wolves (all under Carnivores: Dogs), and the illustrations vary only slightly in size, not shape.

 coyote and a swift fox

So, the other day I went looking for the baby coyotes, toddlers now, in the canyon. As I climbed around, slipping and sliding on the dry grasses, I came face to face with one of the babies crossing the path. I tried to take a picture, but slid backwards, ending up with this shot: a ghost? a fox? a young child with big ears?

Picture enhanced to see the image under the leaf: a ghost? a child with big ears?

Over the weekend, I went looking again, walking towards a particularly wild part of the canyon where I'd seen one of the youngsters disappearing. I hadn't been down there for more than five minutes when I stumbled upon one of the babies sleeping, just like a human baby, oblivious to the world. 

 Brilliant camouflage: a sleeping coyote toddler

He didn't wake when I walked within feet of him. When I made my next move, trying to get to another location, his ears began to twitch; he was so well camouflaged I could barely make out when he stood up, dazed, and then took off under the underbrush, moving noiselessly like a ghost. I went back yesterday but he had gone, a day older and wiser, probably forever avoiding this spot where he saw a human.

~~~

I'd like to end this post with a picture of another dazed baby, taken 22-years ago: my son with his pal Ernie, waking from a nap.