275: It's Oh So Quiet

The new year is here. Our year. The Big Year. This is how we rang it in (above), far away, deep in snowy mountains with family, while also quietly celebrating our own fifth wedding anniversary. Snowshoeing about the puff and fluff in the woodsy park down the way from our rented chalet, it was hard not to make calm-before-the-storm analogies with our impending kiddo set to arrive in the picture. 

But the snow, it just made the place so absolutely silent. I'd never heard anything quite like the nothing-at-all heard during our multitude of breaks took while tromping in the forest. Breaks, not from pregnancy-induced exhaustion – not in the least – but from the need to halt and take it in, again and again. And again, I'm not gonna fall prey to any taunts of enjoy it while you still can, because I also plan on fully enjoying our upcoming hullabaloo every bit as much as a walk – or snowshoe – in the woods.

Maps

This is Christmas Day, 1983.

Like any boy growing up, I went through phases. I had an outer-space phase, a dinosaurs phase, a cars-and-trucks-and-things-that-go phase. In 1983 I was heading full on into my road map phase, but at the time my meagre stockpile included maps of only Manitoba and Ontario (and granted, it was all the world I was familiar with).

That Christmas I'd asked Santa for a road map of every province and territory of Canada. I wish I could remember whether I jotted it down in a note, or if I asked my mom to relay the message. Times were tight for us then, but I'd hoped to the stars above that a stretched-thin and busy Santa Claus would be able to accommodate my complex request.

He delivered. Santa was out of Newfoundland maps, but I was OK with it. I hadn't expected ones of Yukon and the Northwest Territories, and he'd pulled that off. And to make up for the incomplete set, he'd included a Manitoba Vacation Guide and a collection of other local brochures. I realized years later, road maps of other provinces were available free of charge at the tourist bureau in the Legislative Building.*
 
The next year I entered into my rocks-and-minerals stage. That Christmas I asked Santa for a box of different rocks.

* This is no longer the case.

274: The Icicle Thief

We spent time this summer building a slideshow in honour of Kerry's parents' anniversary (me: scanning and designing; she, sneaking and supplying from their archives). We came across a photograph from the early 1980s of Kerry in her snowsuit, sucking an icicle outside of the family cottage. While it struck me as merely adorable, I realized when the first snow fell this winter that the photo would serve as perfect reference material for this year's Christmas card.

The image itself (below) is very pleasing. The clothing and film grain suggest a different era, but one not so long ago. In these wintry parts warmth still overpowers style for small kids – parents will, ideally, see to that until the end of time – but the utilitarian navy-blue suit with yellow striping has been largely replaced by shock pink and chichi snowboarder chic. I fear sometimes that icicle-suckery will go the way of tree-climbing and playing outside until dusk. I hope this isn't so, and I'm doing my part: I sucked on an icicle a few weekends ago while cross-country skiing. It was satisfying and thirst-quenching. And I hope that, one day, our kid will also suck on icicles.


Our Christmas card also doubles as a submission to Illustration Friday – which I haven't partaken in for some time – for their theme-of-the-week of snow. For those checking in via Illustration Friday, thanks for stopping by; this piece was drawn exclusively with a black Pigma brush pen, then scanned, coloured and stylized in Photoshop. You can click here for a closer, more detailed look-see.

273: Mo Money, Mo Monstaz

I recently completed a large freelance illustration assignment, a second go-around with three monster characters I'd developed for a local agency in 2011. The work was spread out over the summer and fall, and was a rewarding experience to reacquaint myself with the characters after more than a year apart.

The biggest difference this time was not having to develop characters from scratch, and in this sense it was like sliding my feet into a comfy pair of slippers. I was able to continue developing and exploring the characters' personalities, and their limits. And from a purely structural standpoint, the monsters were released from full-page comic-strip panels they'd been largely constricted to their first time out, in favour of more floating, spot-style illustrations and other 'border-less' scenarios. 


This became liberating and, combined with a greater familiarity and confidence in drawing the characters, made for a pretty smooth (and fun) ride. (A side note: the basic colouring and texturing done here was for the purposes of offering some vibrancy to this blog post. In reality, I handled only the character development and inking.)

I'd mentioned it the first time around, that I found myself gobsmacked at the prospect of drawing monsters for money. Completing this job has me closing my eyes and smiling at the very idea of it.

272: The Good Book

Above: Hardcover (left) and leather-bound edition with inset coin (right).

Until our flesh-and-blood baby arrives later in the winter, current "baby" status has been pinned to the commemorative history book I designed to celebrate the 75th anniversary of the company I work for. The 272-page tome is, by far, the single largest project I've tackled in my professional career. The project used solid eight months from conception to completion, roughly 550 man-hours of time, almost 100,000 words, over 20 rounds of revisions and at least a couple decent freakouts to ship one 3.4-gigabyte PDF to the printers in July.


Above: I lobbied hard, but alas, a scrapped cover concept.

Though large in scope, a solid design structure was established early and the book design flowed smoothly after the first hundred pages or so, becoming a fairly efficient operation as the production schedule was ramped up during the later stages. Considerable time was spent in the company library, poring over suitable archival photos and documents, then scanning and cleaning images in every worn-and-torn format used by mankind from the 1930s to present day. It was interesting to see and compare the level of care put into the photography during the first half of those 75 years, versus the hideousness of the Polaroid era and the full-flash, everyone-has-a-camera 1990s (the 1970s and 1980s were particularly hard – as rough shape as those photos were in, the fashion sense of people was far worse).


Above: Six of the 272 pages, sized so small you'll need to buy a copy of the book to read 'em.

For such a large project, the crack squad assembled to produce it was thankfully kept quite small: in essence, an author, an editor, a production manager and a designer (not to discredit the multitudes of other contributors involved in providing input and advice). An unfortunate perfect-storm scenario arrived in the spring – when I was gone for a month while the project reached a crucial production point – and I was hard-pressed to consider which outcome was less appealing to me: exhausting the global supply of midnight oil to play catch-up, or handing the book off during my absence. A schedule was crafted that could accommodate the former.


Above: Editor Meg and I squeal, the day the books arrive.

The author is a scientist (and essentially, the client) and we were on board early with the realization this book would be academic, orderly, grid-based (my words) and without too much "designerly fluff" (his words). A muted palette of primary colours (plus green) was matched with shades of warm grey. Typefaces selected were Gibson (gotta support the team) and Bembo, with Pompadour used for chapter numbers. A vector pattern by Von Glitschka was used sparingly for page accents. Colour was also supplied through photography, as selected images gained more and more vibrancy as the chronologically-arranged book neared its present-day wrap-up. But I'm a fan of strict organization on the printed page; I've been at this 14 years and can't deny it now. This book is ultimately a reflection of that.


Above: A happy ending in Calgary. Lookit me, I'm wearing the suit.

Now for sale, the book was produced as two editions: a hardcover version with dust-jacket, and a leather-bound issue with inlaid silver coin from the Royal Canadian Mint – which I sorely wished I could have also played a role in, but the government, I figure, doesn't like folks touching their stuff. The book was officially launched late in September at a function in Calgary, where our small and dedicated team was feted.

I'm proud of this book – but it's left me hungry, too. It's hard to return to meat-and-potatoes work. For all its trials and tribulations, I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

271: Acme

I have no idea what kind of dad I'll be. 

I'm pretty quiet. I watch. When talking with kids I talk to them like adults, and ask them questions. I'm fairly patient with their response, and with kids in general. I need to loosen up. I'm not a rough-houser, but can learn. I've never given a proper piggyback ride. I was never tossed, squealing, off the end of a dock, so I'd like to try that. There's so many things I've never learned in my time, that I can now simultaneously experience from scratch with a tot by my side. I'll be a good dad, I'm not concerned about that – I have lots of love to give – but I'll be a constantly-in-training dad, too. I don't think I'll ever be able to remove that label.

I hope I'm not too panicky. Babies make me nervous – I've held maybe a half-dozen or so in my life. The first baby I held was Kerry's nephew, when I was 25 years old; he was so squirmy and hot, I was soaking underneath my sweater. My own niece I met for the first time when she was six weeks old. We had a photo shoot, I remember, on a bed where she fidgeted and quietly watched me the entire time. I could barely make out anything to her above a whisper, I was so scared. The moment seemed so fragile.

That will change, I'm sure. I hope. I'm decent with swings of things, once things become established. This baby of mine and I will have plenty of stare-downs, plenty of feeling-out periods. But we'll become good friends. We'll start to talk. I'll figure out that piggy-backing thing. We'll start to roll my blue, red, and white rubber ball to each other across the living room floor (and in time it will become kiddo's blue, red and white rubber ball).

I'll want to take my kid outside. I'm so excited to introduce someone to the world, showing them how things work. Showing them a curious ground squirrel, letting them chase gulls from a beach. Feeling a pussy-willow bud or a foxtail, and poking at a dead crayfish with a stick. Running through the woods with a rotten piece of deadfall, pretending it's a speeder bike blasting through the forests of Endor. I want to show my kid how safe most things out in the world really are.

But I'm not prepared. I suppose no new parent really is. One day my kid will be sick, and I can't guarantee I'll have any flat ginger-ale on hand. That I'll make it upstairs quick enough with a bowl for them to harf into. But I can stay up late at night and stroke their forehead like my mom did, change their sheets and wash their mess even if I have to peg a clothespin to my nose. I'm prepared for that. I'm saying it to myself, anyways.

Even idiots have babies, is one of our few relatable mantras. They seem to turn out all right.

It just breaks my brain though, to contemplate a person – yet to exist – who will have their earliest memories ingrained with something innocuous in our house. Some tchotchke, the painting of Beeker on the wall or the smell of muffins that Kerry makes. Of a song I like, and play ad nauseam. Or a dorky Threadless t-shirt I might wear. Or of me without grey hair.

One of the oddest concepts to consider is that some day my kid may actually read this. So I have to ensure there's no typos, and that the value of the written word and good storytelling is paramount.

So. I have somewhat of an idea what kind of dad I'll be.

PS: Kid, I really hope you're not allergic to peanuts.

Summerlong

It's summertime, and I'm elsewhere. But I'll be back on the air soon, with some things to say. Enjoy the days, friends.

270: Artsy-Farts Europe

While in Europe this spring, I could not help but look at things in black and white. I loved our vacation for many reasons, but one was definitely exploring new environments – particularly urban environments – and being absolutely flabbergasted by camera-worthy scene after camera-worthy scene of potential greyscale goodness. When we arrived back home, I slowly got to work sifting through my stockpile of images and scoping out ideal candidates for conversion to black-and-white. There were so many. And these are them.

So if'n you have a couple of minutes/dos minuts/due minuti/dvije minute… take a gander at some of the output.

269: Festival Express

Top row (left to right): Beth Orton, Bahamas, Royal Wood. Middle row (left to right): Casey Laforet, Mark Sasso. Bottom row: Melissa Mulholland and Justin Rutledge.

This year's Winnipeg Folk Festival was only the second one in which I ponied up for the entire weekend pass (the other, 2009's all-star edition with Neko Case, Josh Ritter, Iron & Wine, Patrick Watson, etc.). I've attended 20 versions of the festival – Kerry notes that there's been more summers in our lives with time spent at the Winnipeg Folk Festival than without – and even if the dynamics have changed over time, it's always a good, good time. And it's always searing, searing hot. God must like the Winnipeg Folk Festival – not like the seedy, soggy Red River Ex, or the bedeviled Teddy Bears' Picnic.

I enjoyed catching up with a lot of our favourites like Justin Rutledge, Bahamas and Elliott Brood (who earned hardest-working-band title for soldiering on despite blowing the circuits twice). Reacquainting with big-shots who cut their teeth here, like Feist and Iron & Wine. Getting a taste for new-to-me stuff in Royal Wood, James Vincent McMorrow and The Head & The Heart. Finding out Beth Orton has recovered enough from motherhood to rediscover her performing chops.

But the place just makes us happy. And exhausted. After so many years it's developed into a kind of old comfy shoe sorta thing. And when it's finished, like last night when the sun finally let up and Bahamas just would not quit with the encores, it's sad. The next day is always a working Monday, but it's only 364 days until next time.

268: Here's The Deal

We spent the Canada Day long weekend at the lake. It was our first chance to get up to Kerry's parents' cottage this summer, on the west side of Lake Winnipeg.

Kerry spent entire summers of her childhood at this place. She swam in the water and played here as a kid, while I spent summer Saturdays at the beach with my family on the other side of the lake.

She wrote a poem about this not so long ago. It's beautiful. It makes me think there was invariably a moment when as a gangly little boy I stood on the beach scanning the horizon. On calm days you could squint and see the other side.

And on the other side, she stood on the steps of the gangly, gaunt pier at the end of her place's gravel road and squinted to see my side of the lake.

Now we sit together on a still and humid night in the verandah. Store-bought firecrackers are going off. She's playing solitaire and I watch through my camera.