Karstad Biodiversity Paintings: adventures in the colour of Canada

29 August finds me staring intently at the finely speckled tentacles and short, elephant-like snouts of three large Chinese Mystery Snails in a jar of water on my desk. Fred is busy measuring the last couple of lapfuls of 1260 snails collected from two sites in Winchester, and I have decided that I must paint these three in watercolour, along with one of the young ones that have hitch-hiked on the shells of the adults. Being air breathers, these giant snails don't wander into deep water. Each snail must periodically climb up to break the surface with the edge of its mantle curled into a tube, to freshen the air in the large space inside its shell. On these snails I see two mantle flaps, one on each side of the head - but only the one on the right side forms a breathing tube, translucent and delicate like a little mushroom. The other is a simple flap of skin that may function as a gill.

19 August finds me sitting on a culvert, painting the narrow watercourse that drains farmers fields in Winchester, Ontario, while Fred and staff of South Nation Conservation dredge Mystery snails the size of walnuts out of the water in nets and by hand.  The water is opaque with suspended clay washed in by yesterday's rain. That makes it quite complex to paint - the shadows and reflections don't do the usual thing. I like the whiskers of tall grasses over the blooming goldenrod and the way the afternoon sun picks out the ripe red fruit on the Apple tree. The spikes of Purple Loosestrife that overhang the water in the foreground are past flowering, but farther down the bank some is still in bloom. My umbrella shades me on this hot, sultry day, and we're here all afternoon. The painting is loose and bold, with very little fine work, as I'm doing it entirely on site, from the yellow ochre underpainting to the signature. Pure plein air painting, with no finishing in the ...

8 August finds me picking up another bird and stopping everything to paint its eye and beak. The feathers can wait until tomorrow. This one is a juvenile Song Sparrow. Most of the birds hit by cars are young ones, not yet adept at flying, and also perhaps not smart about the danger of vehicles. The young of this year that will survive in proximity to roads will by next year have learned more about the need to watch for cars and perhaps even the wisdom of flying high across strips of pavement. The ones that get hit obviously are partly influenced by a genetic pre-disposition that puts them in the path of danger.

5 August finds me at William Commanda's place at Kitigan Zibi on Anishinabi land near Maniwaki, Quebec, contemplating his old teepee on the shore of the Gatineau River. I am sitting against the back of his house, with a sunny expanse of lawn between me and the tent.   Retired Chief William Commanda, whom many unrelated people call Grandfather William, died on Wednesday. He would have turned 98 years old this fall. I had hoped to meet him here this weekend, at the "Circle of All Nations" gathering that he has hosted annually at his place. All nations are welcome, and I feel welcome too.

31 July finds me picking up the bright black and orange bird that my van just hit on County Road 20, north of East Oxford, Grenville County, Ontario. It is very sad to have caused the death of one in my own community - a neighbour, even though I had not known the bird personally until holding its hot body in my hand and admiring its vivid breast, noticing the orange inside the head plumage - only the tips of the feathers at the back of the head and neck are black. These feathers are all orange at their bases as if the bird were bursting with orange! The eye is large and dark brown, and the bill is pale blue, as are the sturdy legs and feet. The foot and toe pads are pale creamy yellow.

22 July found me sitting on a cedar root above Kemptville Creek, below the Hanlan Bridge in Oxford Mills, Ontario. It was 26C and overcast, with a light breeze that didn't reach me through the woods.  Cedar trees leaned from the lower edge of the slope down from the road. The moss and leaf litter were parched, and Cicada's buzzy whine rang high in the ashes, elms, and spruce. The stoney, gravelly streambank was about a meter below my dangling feet and the flood-exposed roots of the cedars, the water golden and slow, streaked by floating skeins of Cladocera algae. Its surface dimpled with skating water striders, making rings that look liked rain was falling from the hot, hazy sky. Along the far bank the bottom glowed through the water at a place where the floating algae hung up on it in a long "U" shape, indicating to me the gravel bar inside of which we have found young Mudpuppies, still striped. Fred and company were wading downstream, looking for mother Mudp...

26 July  finds me sitting on a root in the low bank of Baie de Pentecote, near the entrance of Plaisance National Park, Quebec. I am in the lee of a bush, but a brisk breeze turns the leaves of a Silver Maple, whose lowest branch gestures toward the bay. Across the bay is the base of the long peninsula of the park, stretching eastward into the Ottawa River. Just beyond where my feet are resting on the mud at water's edge, the Pickerelweed is sending up spikes of purple-flowers.