Vanimaux: Issue 10 by SAD Mag

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HEATHER

PASSMORE FORM LETTERS

REFLEXIVE ANIMALS SFU GALLERY . BURNABY . SEPT 8 – OCT 23

CARRIE

WALKER ADAPTATION

above, inside cover: Monika Koch

TAKE A S U BTE R R AI N EAN TR I P TH I S S U M M E R subTerrain is the perfect companion for a summer excursion—be it to the park, the beach, the cottage, or your favourite java shack. subby appreciates good company, good conversation, and goes well with meat and veg dishes alike. This gritty little lit-mag rolls easily with the lightest of lagers or the most serious of stouts—not to mention wines of every shade. Printed on 70# environmentally friendly stock and finely illustrated by a feature guest artist, subTerrain is closely calibrated to stimulate intellectual nerve endings while amply delivering a robust quotient of urbanism, accented with liberal dashes of grit and humour.

•

subterrain.ca 6 issues • 25 bucks

You wake up to a damp Saturday morning;

your sleep interrupted by the incessant chirping of birds perched on the oak tree outside the second story of your Vancouver special. Across the room, a couple other birds—half a century old, void of guts, and drenched in formaldehyde—are proudly displayed on your $1000 oak bookshelf as trendy acquisitions from the local thrift store at $5 each. You slide out of your organic cotton sheets ($400 for the full set, but they breathe like God’s lungs and have a cute antler print) and slip into your favourite organic cotton t-shirt ($80, but marked down from $160). Weary-eyed, you glance out the window and down at your freshly manured backyard vegetable patch and smile with the smugness of someone who has figured out an affordable way to eat in this city. Your basil is out of control, which means that today is a day for pesto. Pesto calls for pine nuts, so you bike down the road to the farmers’ market. You return with a tote bag carrying a few luxurious additions for your vegetable plot, and some local contributing writers The Everything Co. Jeff Lawrence Carmen Mathes Tyler Morgenstern Zoe Peled Michelle Reid Neelam Sharma Kelly Thoreson Esther Tung

contributing artists Cody Brown Sarah Clement Jayme Cochrane Jeff Dywelska Jeneen Frei Njootli Sara French Monika Koch Lenkyn Ostapovich Pamela Rounis

cover photograph Rachelle Simoneau

back cover illustration Jeff Dywelska

contributing photographers David Ellingsen Angela Fama

Kiesha Janvier Monika Koch Theodore Lake Christine McAvoy Rachelle Simoneau Zack Singer Jaedyn Starr Katie Stewart

produce despite the fact that you spent the better half of yesterday tending to nearly-ripe tomatoes in your own backyard. You place the tote bag on your $1,200 reclaimed pine kitchen table and take out a modest box of morels, a three-dollar aubergine, and the finest all-natural kibbles for Samson, your kitty. The $20 breakfast of champions. We love and hate the way we live: we are convinced by the ethical implications of our status as Canada’s “greenest city,” yet we also question the socioeconomic attainability of this idealized lifestyle. This is Sad Mag’s Vanimaux issue, a collaborative forum to evaluate, expose, and ultimately evolve our ideas about food, fur, and foraging. How local can we be? How can we poach a tree? How can a wolf eat an iPhone? How does Vancouver negotiate its place within the lush natural arcadia that is Canada’s west coast? This magazine’s pages aren’t recycled, but they do answer these questions. So go wild. — adam cristobal, Co-Editor-in-Chief sad magazine

publishing society board of directors

editorial staff

Deanne Beattie Brandon Gaukel Dave Deveau Daniel Zomparelli Chandra Chinatambi Sarah Tesla Wil Aballe Robert Lutener

Adam Cristobal Co Editor-in-Chief

sad mag would like to thank

Katie Stewart Creative Director

Jeff Lawrence Co Editor-in-Chief Megan Lau Contributing Editor Monika Koch Lead Designer Pamela Rounis Designer Michelle Reid Web Editor Jayme Cochrane Web Designer Maegan Thomas Advertising Sales Manager & Publication Assistant Deanne Beattie Editor-at-Large Founding Editor-in-Chief Brandon Gaukel Founding Creative Director

Lou Souls Stephanie Schneider Curtis Stone Sara St. Vincent Swallow Tail Sarah Ann Thoms tRx Veronica Vamp The Vancouver Aquarium Victory Gardens Vera Way West Coast U Brew Jonathan Wong

The Acorn Julie Andreyev The Belmont Burcu’s Angels Cinema Zoo City of Vancouver

Sad Mag is published four times per year by the Sad Magazine Publishing Society, Suite 534, 2818 Main St., Vancouver, B.C. V5T 0C1

The Cobalt The Deyrolle Museum, Paris The Edible Garden The Gam Gallery Harvest Community Foods The Lab Gary Oliver Laura Potter Qmunity The Remington Gallery Annie Ross Rikki Julius Reque Rob Seebacher Slant SOLEfood Urban Farm

(Community and Neighbourhood Arts Development Program)

Email: hello@sadmag.ca

www.sadmag.ca www.facebook.com/sadmag www.twitter.com/sadmag

Featured Artists

Jeneen Frei Njootli is a member of the Vuntut Gwitchin First Nation, and also has Czech and Dutch ancestry. She received her bachelorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s degree at Emily Carr University of Art and Design in 2012. She is a multi-disciplinary artist who has found home in Vancouver, Ottawa, Prince Edward Island, 80 miles North of the Arctic Circle, and currently, Banff, where she is interning in the Visual Arts Department at The Banff Centre for the Arts.

table of contents

03 07 09

How To: beekeep, buy eggs, distill liquor

Of Fin, Forest, and Feather

The Perverse Art of Preservation

Angela Fama is a full time photographer based out of Vancouver BC. Born in Summertown, Tennessee, Fama has participated in a number of solo and group showings at galleries such as Elliott Louis, Buschlen-Mowatt, and GraceGallery. She has shot nationally for magazines including The Walrus, Color, Vancouver Magazine, and the National Post. Seeking simplicity, Fama prefers to remove details to bring out the strength of what is in front of her.

Tyler Morgenstern is a Vancouver-based writer, activist, and agitator. His own writing (which can be found on his blog, Man Descending) focuses on the points of intersection between ethics, radical politics, art, and technology. He has contributed to Sad Mag, Art Threat, Rabble.ca, The Mark, The Huffington Post, and The Toronto Star. He also currently sits on the steering committee for Media Democracy Days Vancouver, and is a shameless Tweeter (@Man_Descending).

31 33 35 39

24 28

The Locavore Movement: why are Vancouverites so into eating local?

Menagerie Man

Ghosts in the Serene

A Wolf Ate My Cell Phone

Sea Legs

Eco-Queers

Person, Place and Thing

How-To Guide to Buying Local & Doing it Yourself Sad Mag brings you three steps closer to brandishing self-sufficient foodie creds in Vancouver. Use at your own risk—we take no responsibility for any resulting bee stings, questionable omelettes, or alcohol poisoning. Good luck. illustrations by monika w-k

1. Raise Your Own Bees by Neelam Sharma Local living is the buzz these days and one ambitious route to this down-to-earth lifestyle is becoming a hobby beekeeper. Not only will you benefit from the fruits of your honeybees’ labour, your blooming garden will be the envy of the neighbourhood. Your bees will make honey in the summer, but also wax, pollen, propolis, and the queen bee’s tonic: royal jelly. Here is a step-by-step guide to start your backyard colony. • Check that your neighbours are A-OK to live near a beehive. Honeybees fly three kilometres from their hive and back. Though honeybees are the gentler bees, you don’t want to be the reason why your neighbour has to break out their EpiPen!

• Request an apiary inspection. Beekeeping is legal anywhere in the Lower Mainland, but you should register with the B.C. Ministry of Agriculture. This way, a professional can investigate any diseases your bees may be carrying and possibly spreading unbeknownst to you. • Get educated. Beekeeping courses are offered at the Honeybee Centre in Surrey and SFU. You’ll learn what supplies you will need and how to maintain your colonies year-round. • A course at the HoneyBee Centre costs $249 dollars. You’ll need to chip in another $250 or so for supplies, and another $250 to purchase honeybees. See the Ministry of Agriculture’s website for a list of apiary supply stores in B.C.: http://www.al.gov.bc.ca/ apiculture/factsheets/006_suppl.htm.

Now you’re a beekeeping expert, take your honeybee products to farmers’ markets and retailers, and make ‘em jelly!

2. Buy the Right Eggs by Michelle Reid Without eggs there would be no brunch. Without brunch there would be no civilization. Ninety per-cent of eggs sold in Canada come from chickens that are kept in battery cages: small cages with several chickens inside and no windows, or access to the outside. Vague, confusing terms you might see on your egg carton, from worst to best: • Hormone- or steroid-free: Use of hormones and steroids in chicken has been illegal since the 1960s, so this is meaningless! • Cage-free: No assurances about the quality of the chicken’s diet, which may include animal by-products (like parts of other chickens). • Omega-rich: Eggs are only “rich” in omega-3 and -6 acids if the chickens have diets supplemented with flax and fish oil. Generally, eggs have low levels of omega fats— you can get them from eating spinach, walnuts, or squash instead. • Vegetarian or grain-fed: This sounds good, but free-range chickens usually eat insects and grubs, which improves the quality of their health and

eggs. Chickens that eat more than grains are happy chickens! “Vegetarian” usually implies that your chicken has not eaten animal by-products. • Free-run: A bird is able to move freely throughout a barn and is not confined to a cage. In Canada, chickens grown for eating are all free-run. Most grown for egg-laying are not free-run. Free-run chickens are probably not given any access to the outdoors. • Free-range: The chickens are given access to the outdoors, but there is no regulation regarding the amount of time spent outdoors. Free-range chickens are also not protected from mistreatment such as beak-trimming or forced molting. • Organic: Organic chickens are birds raised using certified organic feed and fresh, untreated drinking water. The Certified Organics Association of BC (COABC) also requires growers to allow their birds access to pesticide free pasture for a minimum of 6 hours a day, weather permitting. • SPCA-certified organic: ensures that organic standards are met and that the chickens are cared for according to the standards set by the SPCA for treatment, handling, slaughter, and health. This is the best label for chickens. What to ask when buying eggs: Do chickens have access to the outdoors? Are these eggs certified organic? Remember: being certified organic takes time. New chicken farmers may be following all the rules for organic eggs but not be certified yet. Ask questions about your food and support new, local farmers in becoming certified organic!

3. Make Your Own Liquor by the Everything Co. Moonshine is not a type of liquor; it’s a catch-all term for any spirit that has been made illegally or by using a backyard still. Whiskey, rum, brandy, and vodka are all commonly referred to as moonshine if they meet the basic requirement that they are made by some guy in his backyard. People think moonshine implies 90% alcohol (also its terrible taste). It’s true: what comes out of our still is that strong, but we pay close attention to taste and fermentation. We water it down and charcoal filter it. Finally, we age with fresh fruit and toasted oak chips to give it flavour. It doesn’t taste like a commercial product.

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It tastes more personal and not as neatly categorized as liquor store aisles. The process of making liquor is a little like alchemy. The whole thing is a steampunk’s wet dream. Huge copper containers with pipe and hose jetting out every which way, steam flowing through the pipes and, somehow, dripping out pure alcohol. In actuality, it’s science 101. The entire process is based on the idea that alcohol and water have different boiling temperatures. We make a wine, heat it up enough to turn the alcohol into vapors, and then turn the vapors back into liquid. That’s it. The rest is details. Distilling is slow. I get up at six in the morning to turn everything on and I finish around nine in the evening. The day set aside for distilling is a sort of forced leisure, where all I can do is sit around and slowly watch alcohol accumulate drip-by-drip. The whole process could be an art history diagram to explain minimalism; we’re getting down to the essence of something, stripping away all the unnecessary to get to the pure form. Before we started, we intended this to be an artform. After a year of drinking our many “artworks”, we have become significantly more concerned with the craft. Our Upcoming Exhibition, The Secrets of Building an Alcohol Still, will bring our still to a local gallery. We will ignite this project in a public and critical setting. The Everything Co. is a collaborative art project started in Montreal. We are interested in the dichotomy of work and leisure; we see all art as a playful process of work. For now, our identities must remain anonymous because the nature of our current artwork is illegal.

3. 6

Of Fin, Forest, and Feather Sarah Clement brings her whimsical West Coast aesthetic to Berlin words by carmen faye mathes illustrations by sarah clement

Sarah Clement’s works are delicate palimpsests of sketched images, pen and ink drawings, cut-outs, and layers of painted paper and found materials. She calls her artistic process “fluid,” making fixed lines melt, still shapes move, and stationary paper jump as organic illustrations of flora and fauna, people and things. She has a poetic sensibility and speaks with carefully crafted sentences, imbued with a flowing cadence. If style reflects an artist’s personality, then Clement is both sophisticated and approachable. Clement recently made the brave move from Canada’s West Coast to Berlin, Germany. A 2010 Emily Carr graduate, Sarah grew up in between the city and the country, ferrying back and forth between Vancouver and Roberts Creek on the Sunshine Coast. After putting down deep roots in the rainy city, Sarah has stretched her tendrils across the Atlantic from New World to Old. Quite a feat of courage, as Sarah’s art takes so many of its cues from the visual language of the West Coast. Her aesthetic draws from the pine-filled islets between the mainland and the island, and the dense rainforests that remain the hallmark of this geographic zone and the animal species that inhabit it. When I ask Sarah which set of images captures her particular relationship to the West Coast, she replies that no single theme or topic is adequate. “I’ve always gained inspiration from being outside,” she says. “Being in nature is both restorative and inspirational; it gives me time to listen. Feel. Observe. It is as if I subconsciously collect these visual bits and pieces, and then back in the studio my ‘art brain’ curates and organizes them. The natural world not only influences the subject matter of my drawings but seems to dictate the movement of my pen. The minute I try to do something hard and angular, I feel my pen resisting.” Hence the organic lines that permeate Sarah’s oeuvre. Sarah’s artistic process is likewise organic. She starts with a loose drawing, sometimes working from a reference

photo. She tries to be perfectly accurate in reproducing anatomical details and shapes. Next, she moves on to pen and ink, mostly using micron pens. This stage, she says, can take a while, as she gets lost “in the poetry of the smallest details.” Then, she reaches for her x-acto knife and “through a carefully considered but intuitive process,” begins to cut out small shapes. “I am presented with the endless possibilities of layering paper underneath the spaces I have cut out,” she explains. “This involves another process that usually happens independently of the drawing. I lay down paper, drop ink onto it, do large fields of watercolours and let the colour mix and mingle.” Clement has a portfolio case full of bits and pieces, old woodprint scraps, and ink and paint swatches as a kind of storehouse of materials. “I like the idea that bits of discarded pieces of paper can regain value and take on a new role. I love the thrill of finding exactly the right piece. It is through this layering process that my drawings come to life. The anatomically correct beetle escapes the mundane realm of ‘textbook drawing,’ and escapes the flat surface of the paper too. Through my flowing lines and vibrant colours, I hope to give my beetle, bird or tree, personality.” Clement’s move to Berlin has done little to change her method; if her process and subject matter has changed, these changes are holistic and seemingly seamless. Although the transition to a new, German-speaking city has not been effortless, Berlin itself appears to agree with Clement’s choices of subject matter. Indeed, the city became her tacit collaborator one morning, when she came home to find a box of free books outside her apartment door. “Old encyclopedias, one for birds, fish, bugs, and the forest,” she says. “Since I usually draw from reference photos, I decided to take it as a good omen that I was on the right track, as I had just decided on the title for my show: Fin Forest Feather.” Fin Forest Feather is showing at Berlin’s idrawalot gallery this summer. Berlin’s creative scene, into which Sarah found her way by attending workshops, openings, and events, is vibrant and thought provoking. Such a creative city with a low cost of living attracts young artists to neighbourhoods like Neukölln, where Sarah lives and rents studio space. Discovering a weekly drawing night at a local gallery was, for Sarah, a great way to “hang out with other creatives, grab a beer and a draw.” But despite her comforts in this cosmopolitan space, Sarah still finds herself drawn to the natural world for inspiration. “I can’t help it,” she muses as she walks along cobble stone streets amongst old buildings. “Memories of the West Coast, ocean, birds, and forest flow through my veins, through my pen and out onto my paper.” S

photographs from

THE DEYROLLE MUSEUM IN PARIS by rachelle simoneau

The Art of Preservation zoe peled on the history and ethics of taxidermy 14

The animal body has always served as a trophy. It is a symbol of power, dominance, death, and—above all— possession. The practice of taxidermy has been heavily discussed and debated since the craft emerged. At the height of its popularity in the 18th century, taxidermy was employed as a technique to immortalize the products of hunting expeditions. It has evolved since then and branched off into areas of practice that question the intention, integrity, and concrete definition of taxidermy. More recently, another trend has emerged: taxidermied animals in contemporary art. This trend has not only grown in popularity, but also holds a certain social value and status. The moral implications of this practice will be later discussed, but before we examine contemporary attitudes towards the craft, we must first ask: where did taxidermy come from? In early Egypt, domestic animals were frequently mummified and buried alongside their human counterparts. This practice is often referred to as the earliest form of taxidermy. The bodies of these animals were preserved with the utmost care, precision, and skill. The attention given to the animal bodies may speak to the privileged position animals were given in Egyptian society, sanctifying the bond between human and animal. Early forms of “taxidermy” were very basic and very crude. Animals were simply gutted and stuffed with rags, cotton, or an assortment of other soft materials. These practices were refined through trial and error. In the European middle ages, an experienced taxidermist was a highly coveted individual. During this period, arsenic was increasingly used as a preservative agent. This rendered a taxidermists’ product less a stuffed carcass and more a decorative object, thereby propelling taxidermy into an entirely new realm of prestige. By the Victorian era, the corporeal capabilities of arsenic made taxidermy the ideal medium for souvenirs—for those privileged enough to engage in regular expeditions. Taxidermists prepared the animals (primarily birds), and mounted them on bases of wood to present these tokens in a form that could be incorporated into home décor. Reaction to this new form was positive and widespread, and many museums took action to incorporate mounted animals into their existing displays and exhibitions. Independent taxidermy businesses thrived and grew in popularity. Competition ensued, and many practitioners were eager to present new ideas to set themselves apart from the crowd. This was arguably the beginning of anthropomorphic taxidermy, which placed animals in positions that imitated human actions. This practice emphasized human superiority over animals by literally imposing humanoid actions on animal bodies.

“The corporeal capabilities of arsenic made taxidermy the ideal medium for souvenirs—for those privileged enough to engage in regular expeditions.” Contemporary taxidermy now presents itself in three categories that dominate the industry: realistic, anthropomorphic, and rogue. Realistic taxidermy presents animals that are posed in exactly the same ways that we would observe them in their natural environments. Skilled taxidermists are able to re-create idyllic, flawless creatures, as though we are observing snapshots of the great outdoors instead of the body of a deceased animal. Practitioners of realistic taxidermy often speak to honouring the animal, its spirit, and ironically, its life. Anthropomorphic taxidermy, the form of taxidermy that most significantly references the notion of human superiority over animals, involves the posing and preparation of animals to mirror human forms and activities. Although anthropomorphic taxidermy isn’t nearly as popular as it was during the Victorian era, modern taxidermists still employ the genre to utilize its ironic tendencies and (potentially) humorous qualities. Rogue taxidermy is a recent form, first formally identified in 2004 by The Minnesota Association of Rogue Taxidermists. Rogue taxidermists work to create and build animals whose forms do not exist in the natural world, such as the unicorn or griffin. The attempt to physically realize these mythical creatures may be the very reason why some traditional taxidermists do not consider rogue taxidermy to be a legitimate branch of the practice. Collectively, the practitioners of all three genres have been perfecting their craft for many years, so they may come to a place where taxidermy is acknowledged, respected, and deemed a valid form of wildlife art.

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Supposedly, this is an art form that respects animals by preserving and displaying their bodies. We have developed a series of complex relationships with our animal brethren, ranging from those that we consume and wear, to those that we regard as family members, to those whose forms we covet, obsessively—to the point that we cannot physically bear the thought of being apart from them. Our artwork follows suit. In early June 2012, a video appeared online that was soon posted and shared via every avenue possible: blogs, Youtube, Facebook, Twitter and more. In the video, Dutch artist Bart Jansen introduces his newest creation: “The Orvillecopter,” a helicopter made from the body of his recently deceased cat, Orville (who was run over by a car). Jansen was careful to clarify that “The Orvillecopter” was to be regarded as ‘half-cat, half-machine,’ and noted that he found solace in developing the visual art project to pay tribute to his feline companion. The various reasons for incorporating the animal form into contemporary art are not necessarily affectionate reasons. When contemporary artists speak of their intentions behind using the animal form, they all too often speak with nonchalance. They regard and discuss the animal in the detached manner that one might use when contemplating a type of paint for use in an art project. Natalia Edenmont is a Russian artist who has become famous for literally deconstructing animals and reintegrating their body parts with human objects. The animals that she uses in her works range from mice, to rabbits, to cats. One sculpture creates a particularly disturbing aesthetic—a decapitated cat head, perched atop a pristine white vase, with its tail wrapped around the container’s base. “I used to cut up animals all the time when I was a housewife,” writes Edenmont, “so why not do it for my art? And I always use perishables—it’s not just fresh, but alive. And I’ll only use the head and eyes. I buy rabbits from a farm. The animals there are a bit deformed since they’re all just going to be transported to a factory where they will be made into restaurant food. If you look at the eyes that I’m using, you can see that they are misshapen.” Damien Hirst, the prolific British artist who regularly employs the preserved bodies of sheep, sharks, and goats in his installations, remains one of few international artists who have been working with taxidermy since the ‘90s. His net worth is $215 million. In early April, an online British news publication obtained blueprints of a massive factory that Hirst was designing to create his works, including a separate formaldehyde “studio” to treat his animals. Two tiers of taxidermy are common within contemporary art. The first is comprised of artists who use already-dead animals and re-contextualize their forms. The second is more problematic—artists who kill animals

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to serve a specific purpose in new visual works. Rachel Poliquin curated Ravishing Beasts in 2010, an exhibition at the Museum of Vancouver that presented a city collection of taxidermied animals that had been in storage for more than half a century. Poliquin has a longstanding fascination with the medium, and has written and commented about it in several publications and arenas. “I think there is great value in looking at animals,” writes Poliquin, “whether living, on television, or even in a taxidermied form. The more we learn and understand about the other inhabitants of this world, the more we can appreciate and respect the diversity of creaturely life. I have never advocated the making of news taxidermy but I do advocate the respect of old collections. These animals are already dead. They can offer a visceral and emotional immediacy. They can tell stories about our past and future encounters with the natural world. And there is value in those stories.” One common and problematic thread exists within all of these forms of taxidermy. Regardless of the period during which an animal was taxidermied, the very action of doing so is determined by a human, is carried out by a human, often involves the strategic death of the taxidermied animal, and ultimately, objectifies said animal in all regards. To appreciate and respect the diversity of life does not logically follow with the killing of an animal and subsequent creation of a human-based object for aesthetic appeal. The animal-human relationship of taxidermy will always be one wherein the human is dominant and the animal is submissive, treated as nothing more than an object. This history cannot be dismissed, whether it is considered in a museum format, or more importantly, contemporary art. In this practice, the products of human action were once sentient beings. These beings have been forced into objectification. Our reading of this artwork is critical, as we move into an era where contemporary visual artists such as Edenmont are consistently practicing and gaining in prestige. The practice of taxidermy is rooted in assumption: we can take the animal form, alter it, define it as we wish, and continue to do this. “The animals of the world exist for their own reasons,” writes author and activist Alice Walker. “They were not made for humans any more than black people were made for white, or women created for men.” Walker’s sentiment echoes the need to observe our tendencies to both assume and appropriate. These tendencies must be acknowledged, and consistently criticized within an art context. If the artists and viewers of the contemporary art world do not see value in doing this, we will continue observing history selectively. As a result, contemporary art practices will continue to treat the animal body as nothing more than a prop in another art piece, gallery, or museum. S

Angela Fama

The Locavore Movement Why are Vancouverites so into Eating Local? words by michelle reid illustrations by sara french

“Community gardens growing at record pace, 405 new plots last yr! Now >3700 toward 5k goal!” tweeted Gregor Robertson (@mayorgregor) on June 6th. Community gardens and urban farms are so hot right now. Food, like fashion, is subject to trends, and it seems that the locavore movement is reaching its zenith: thronging crowds queue up each week for heirloom tomatoes and mustard greens at any of the five summer Vancouver Farmer’s Markets, or invest in CSAs (community supported agriculture) and buy direct from food producers. But looking around at the demographics of the Vancouver Farmer’s Market—not unlike the demographics of a yoga class or a Whole Foods checkout line—and wonder if the locavore movement is only accessible to a fortunate few. The majority of Vancouverites can’t regularly afford to buy the quality of produce that is agreed to be the best for our health, our economy, and our environment. That is, unless we prioritize local food above other expensive necessities like exorbitant rents, heavy-duty bike locks, and Philips Blue Buck. Some might argue that our priorities need to shift. “I think that because we don’t understand what good food looks like, we have been conditioned to spend less on food and more on other things,” says Sam Philips of Victory Gardens. Victory Gardens is a Vancouver urban farming project launched in March 2012. “Because we have a poor understanding of what it costs to grow food, we’re conditioned to believe it should be cheap.” Her partner Lisa Giroday adds, “To be a certified organic farmer is really hard— it’s almost financially prohibitive. There is a transition period of several years during which you can no longer spray. Your production quantity decreases significantly and your yield is a lot less, but you can’t yet call yourself organic, so you can’t price yourself that way. That makes it very difficult for a

well-intentioned young farmer to get by while trying to get certified.” The alternative for those who want to eat local and still have enough money leftover for brunch is to learn how to grow it yourself. Lisa and Sam, along with Sandra Lopuch, launched Victory Gardens in order to help Vancouverites do exactly that, from workshops to personalized garden consultations. But finding a space to grow food can be a challenge for even the most determined young locavore. Caylan Piper, a Salt Spring Island native who grew up “surrounded by gardeners” managed to eke out a private garden for herself in Vancouver, despite a lack of her own green space and a busy work schedule. For the privilege of a private, permanent space (she plants in the yard of a homeowner friend), she bikes 20 minutes each way to visit her garden. Her decision to plant in a private yard was partly influenced by the waitlists for community plots. These waitlists are rumoured to be years long for some gardens. Her decision was also influenced by the security of planting in the yard of a homeowner. “Private gardens don’t work for everyone, even if they’re renting a place that has one—a lot of people, especially young people, aren’t committed to a home yet, or even a city,” says Caylan, “I wouldn’t have planted a garden it if I were renting.” The outlay of costs to build a private garden makes it impractical if one isn’t staying permanently; Caylan estimates their planting bed cost $300 in supplies to build, “and we will probably just get that back in produce we grow this year.” Community garden plots are an alternative for renters who don’t have a yard, or those who do but are unsure how long they’ll have it. But the City of Vancouver website acknowledges that even with the blooming numbers of garden plots there is still far more demand than supply. Emily Laflamme hit the community gardening jackpot: she and her boyfriend have a plot in the garden directly across the street from their apartment. “Accessibility to the plot is huge. It’s so easy when we’re on our way home from work to stop in and pull weeds. Even if we were a ten minute bike ride away, it probably wouldn’t feel so easy.” They scored the space after finding out from a friend that the waitlist was refreshed only once a year. “We waited until midnight the day of and signed up immediately. We got really lucky,” she says, referring to “horror stories where you would sign up and expect to get a plot in five years.” What is keeping up that demand? Can that many people really be in to gardening and local food? Why did we all get so health conscious? “We hear all the time from the media about the weird stuff happening with our food, the health and safety

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concerns that go along with that, and also that the environment and the climate change is happening. There is something happening to our planet, and it’s kind of scary,” says Emily Jubenvill of the Edible Garden Project, a North Shore organization that promotes food security through sharing gardens, education programs, and free or low-cost workshops. “And growing food is a very active and positive thing we can do about that.” But the reward of gardening isn’t just the fresh food or peace of mind about our environmental well-being. While those may be the incentives that get people interested, what keeps them planted in the gardening community is just that—the community. Through her community garden plot, Laflamme has gotten to know her South Granville neighbours. “Before we started gardening, we sort of knew the people living on either side of us. But now we know so many people… in our garden is an art history professor from UBC, and a couple who just moved here from Paris. I don’t think I would have ever met them otherwise.” Caylan agrees that gardening encourages people to talk to their neighbours, to share tips, and trade secrets.

Having a private garden still brings you into a community. “People are really friendly about giving advice. I was biking home the other day and saw a man standing in his garden who had planted garlic, and I just stopped to talk with him about it. Everyone is happy to talk about their gardens.” Jubenvill describes the work of Edible Garden Project as “kind of a stealth operation. Gardening is really sexy right now, and that gets reinforced through all the media coverage and attention stuff…but I don’t think we would see volunteers and people coming back to participate in what we’re doing over and over again if it was nothing more than something trendy that people wanted to say they had tried.” “People come to learn about growing food and then they get wrapped up in the community piece of it and get really excited about that,” Jubenvill enthuses. “People have told us they met more of their neighbours in a summer volunteering with the Edible Garden Project than in ten years on their block. And people are realising they want to know who their neighbours are, they want to be a part of their community. Gardening is just an end to that.” S

Monika W-K

Lenkyn Ostapovich

Menagerie Man The Lower Mainland’s Best Kept Attraction words by by neelam sharma photography by zack singer

Donned in a weathered black suede cowboy hat and glasses with camouflage temples, Gary Oliver looks like the animal whisperer. As the owner and operator of Cinemazoo, a film and television agency for animals; and the Urban Safari Rescue Society, an exotic zoo and education centre, Oliver is humbly adept at relaying an engaging and seemingly intrinsic knowledge of creatures.

He’s made full use of his 65 years primarily working with animals and shows no signs of respite anytime soon. He has worked as a fashion photographer, opened an art studio, and ridden with the royal family. Currently, he is an animal agent for media, a zookeeper, and an educator slash advocate of mother nature. A self-authored handbook of his life was published in January titled Cinemazoo: My Urban Safari. He also has preliminary plans of building a state-of-the-art ecological education facility in the lower mainland. But to add weight to his loaded days, Oliver is now also embroiled in a legal debate with the provincial government. Twenty-five years ago, Oliver launched Cinemazoo, an agency for the media industry looking to hire nonhumans. His website boasts film and TV credits from Walt Disney animators, Hollywood movies, Canadian television programs, and Telus and Fido ads. Cinemazoo supplied the frogs and psychedelically coloured lizards in the Telus ads, and Oliver was Fido’s first customer. “I supplied dogs for [Fido’s] ads, and then did their campaign for the opening of their flagship which used to

“Cinemazoo.com tabulates an impressive 1,085 animals from amphibians to weasels, and all are available for hire.” be on the corner of Seymour and Georgia,” Oliver says, reminiscing. After a few years of working in the media industry, Oliver felt unfulfilled and tuned his interest to rescuing exotic animals and educating children. Thus, the Urban Safari Rescue Society was born. “Urban Safari is a rescue society for exotic animals that people no longer can keep, and need a home for the rest of their lives,” he says. Though the two businesses are different entities, they are both housed in a zoo in Langley. This zoo also serves as a multi-faceted education facility offering outreach classes on nature, junior zoo-keeping courses, adult career-training courses, and summer camps. Cinemazoo.com tabulates an impressive 1,085 animals, from amphibians to weasels, and all are available for hire. About 300 of them are foreign and on display in Oliver’s zoo. “I have one native species: it’s a skunk that I rescued and it became a pet, but I use it for educational purposes. It’s out doing three shows today,” he says. “I have a group of people that I trained to go out and do educational presentations in schools, we average about three a day… we do birthday parties mostly on the weekends and community fares.” One presentation might include a multi-legged motley crew of large insects like cicadas and beetles, a desert tarantula, giant hairy scorpion, some amphibians including

frogs and newts, as well as a handful of cuddly mammals like marsupials. “We bring reptiles...we have a 20-foot snake skin to show people how big some snakes get and talk about how they’re disappearing off the planet,” Oliver says. “Our programs are to show kids, make them aware that these do not make good pets. Because you buy them from a pet store or breeders, and I end up with them because they become too much trouble to take care of.” Other rescue societies in B.C. recover only native species because they can be released back into the wild. For Oliver, his animals are a lifetime commitment. “I have ten tortoises and most tortoises live a hundred or more years,” he says. It’s his unabashed fostering that has led Oliver to his current Catch-22. Last year the Fish and Wildlife branch passed the Controlled Alien Species Regulation, a policy to control and monitor exotic species in B.C. The regulation demands that exotic animals need permits and lists animals that must be exiled. Oliver was given 30 days to banish the listed species or risk having them euthanized. He sent about 35 of his wild things to Drumheller, Alberta and is now waiting, deciding whether or not to take the matter to court in order to bring his animals home. “I just use different animals that aren’t on their list. But the kids don’t get a chance to see some of the other animals like baby caimans or alligators,” he says. “I don’t take these animals to encourage the pet trade.” Remember the old adage about teaching someone to fish? Euthanizing exotic animals whose owners don’t have a permit is a budget quick fix with no real lesson learned. Oliver’s example will gradually yield positive results and poise the future for change. S

previous images pp. 19-20: David Ellingsen

overleaf left: screen shot of the video made by Cody Brown; read more about Brown’s wolf movie on page 31. right: Angela Fama

Sarah Clement

Tree Poaching and Life in the Greenest City words by tyler morgenstern lettering by pamela rounis

It’s a scheme with a distinctly Italian Job ring: a small group of highly skilled, well-researched thieves, an arsenal of whiz-bang gadgets and gizmos, tens of thousands of dollars at stake, and naturally, the cover of darkness. It all adds up to a heist two years in the making that, in the end, sends a raft of untraceable luxury goods to market and hefty sums into unknown pockets. But despite the film noir regalia, this is a tale without gold, without diamonds, without vaults, and (presumably) without Maggie Blye. Instead, this is the story of how a team of expert thieves made off, from our own back yard, with a different sort of treasure. This is the story of how an 800-year-old, two-and-a-half-meter wide red cedar— one of the oldest and largest of the ancient giants found in Vancouver Island’s Carmanah Walbran Provincial Park— was illegally harvested. Poached.

The scale of the crime is dizzying, and to be sure, it was no mean feat. The poachers (still unknown to authorities at the time of writing) began their work in 2010, cutting through approximately 80% of their enormous prize. Environment Canada, fearing that the compromised tree might fall unexpectedly and injure passers-by, was forced to knock it down themselves. The plan was to make the most out of an upsetting situation. The tree would be left to lie in place, decompose, and return at least something of what was lost to the ecologically sensitive park. But the poachers had different plans. They spent the next two years periodically returning to the felled giant, removing it piece-by-piece. Finally, in May 2012, their work was complete. A broad stump remains, barely visible above Carmanah’s rich underbrush. It is an awkward void

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in the park’s dense canopy that points, in equal measure, to the tree’s own absence and the spectral figure of the vanished poacher. In the media, the story has unfolded with an honest sense of bewilderment. Poaching, after all, is a term draped in a kind of sinister exoticism. It conjures images of ferocious, far-off prey; grey and black-market distribution networks that traverse cities, states, and hemispheres alike; ultra-luxury commodities, culinary delicacies, and snake-oil cures. In this light, to poach a tree would seem silly if not impossible. How does one truly poach something as apparently mundane as a cedar? Is an illegal harvest worthy of the mantle of poaching if the prey doesn’t give chase across the Serengeti? Incongruous language notwithstanding, tree poaching is hardly a rarity. A growing body of academic studies, legal battles, and even political bluster on the subject stands as a testament to its increasing prevalence and visibility. The Carmanah poaching in particular has become a bone of political contention for a number of community members. Many have attempted to link the incident to recent cuts to parks and environmental programs. Shortfalls in resources, so the argument goes, open exploitable gaps in the regulatory and enforcement system designed to protect our natural amenities from such injury. Nonetheless, the fact remains that even when shrouded in sweeping enforcement and surveillance practices, even when armoured by thousands of park rangers and naturalists, even when mourned publically in news reports across the continent, there can be no perfect legal fortress capable of ensnaring all would-be poachers. Defensive measures are necessary, but such measures operate under the assumption that poaching is inevitable. The current system does not question what might have caused poaching in the first place. Put simply, our policy and defense mechanisms stop short of considering that poaching might be the symptom rather than the disease. The Carmanah poaching incident, in particular, raises a broader and decidedly less tact question than “how do we stop poachers?” Instead, it compels us to ask why? Why here and why now? Michael Pendleton, a professor of Society and Justice at the University of Washington, has dedicated much of his career to such questions. He considers how social and political pressures call on us to think more broadly about poaching and dwell on the volumes it might speak to our relationship with the planet. For example, in a 2008 study of tree poaching in the Pacific Northwest, Pendleton sketches a finely detailed picture of the practice. Within the ranks of those who poach, he writes, there exist powerful hierarchies that regulate the boundaries of

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acceptability when it comes to the illegal harvest of lumber. The removal of trees outside of legally recognized logging areas is essentially standard practice. In Pendleton’s view, this practice even functions as an instrument of community building within the industry—a deliberate subversion of environmental regulations crafted by technocratic policymakers seen to be out of touch with local knowledge and histories. In their study of illegal fishing in one Greek lake town, Sandra Bell, Kate Hapshire, and Stella Topalidou make a similar point. They write, “Fishermen claim their own environmental credentials by pointing to the fact that they live in peace with pelicans, which during winter feed on unwanted species and undersize fish from their nets.” This practice is based entirely outside of the officiated bureaucratic system. But as with any community, there are outliers. And in the case of illegal tree harvesting, those outliers are almost always the poachers. These are the unaffiliated and somewhat invisible figures that, working alone and against the unspoken norms of the logging community, poach to turn a quick personal buck. In Pendleton’s Pacific Northwest study, the poachers even earn the unflattering title of “shake rats.” They are treated with scorn and derision by their more acceptable and often industrially affiliated counterparts, who merely push the boundaries of legality, but never ever break them. As Pendleton puts it, “The logging community accommodates tree theft only when it contributes to community cohesion and stability.” This is where we can return to Carmanah. It would be inaccurate to simply translate Pendleton’s analysis of a specific community of loggers to the Pacific Northwest writ large. Not unlike Pendleton’s study participants, however, our regional community exhaustively organizes itself around our spectacular collective backyard and how best to interact with it. We are, after all, a “super natural province,” punctuated by the world’s “greenest cities,” and connected by an almost climate-defying infrastructural network. Where else can one traverse the boundary between sea and sky twice in an afternoon? Set alongside the urban aspirations of our province’s power centres, these natural amenities take on a curious cosmopolitan quality. The smell of cedar is as likely to be found in an old growth rainforest as in a boutique hair salon; the climbing vines that coil upward through the dense underbrush of ancient groves find their corollary in the vertical gardens and planted walls scattered throughout our downtown cores. We have a habit of turning natural luxury into urban luxury. The value that we place on these luxuries and the system by which we harvest them acts as a kind of unspoken guidebook. This guidebook informally

detailing, and given the fact that we chastise the improper harvesting of trees, we have license to think larger. We live in a superheated and resource-hungry housing market. We are surrounded by an explosion of green consumption and eco-luxury marketing. We continue to endorse a political structure that sacrifices common ownership of natural amenities at the altar of private sector ‘efficiencies.’ Might these have a hand in the Carmanah plot? Could it be that organizing our communities around a particular way of seeing, thinking, and being in nature (one that recoils at the very thought of poaching) is in fact what opens the door to poachers in the first place? It’s a question that certainly doesn’t offer up the kind of heist-job drama furnished by a shady villain on the run from the law. But perhaps it provides a more disquieting and compelling conclusion: one that exposes our system for what it really is. S

regulates our distance from and proximity to nature; establishing, for our engagements with ‘the natural,’ the boundaries of acceptability, the limits of propriety, and the rules of engagement. Despite the fact that its spoils will undoubtedly be incorporated into our eco-cosmopolitanism in the form of high quality cedar shingles, the act of poaching violates said limits. Hence the national outcry over the felling. Our ritual mourning is less for the tree itself and more for the poachers’ eschewal of our bureaucratic system by which this tree would be legally harvested. Our “proper distance” from nature can accommodate, without much ethical friction, the consumption of cedar as a luxury commodity harvested via an established system. However, this distance simultaneously forbids the purveying of this commodity as direct consumption from forest to consumer. Of course, it’s possible that the poachers who carried out this operation are simply small-time opportunists whose motivations fall short of such theorizations. But given our status as a city swaddled in luxurious cedar

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A Wolf Ate My Cell Phone And Then Spit it Out Again words by esther tung illustrations by jeneen frei njootli

Cody Brown serves up a bright orange crab, trapped earlier that day, for us to share. Chipping away at its hull with a familiar ease, he unravels the events leading up to the serendipitous scene he caught on tape, in which a wolf mistakes his phone for lunch. Brown descends from the Laxgibuu, or wolf clan, of the Nisga’a band. He grew up in Prince Rupert, and moved to Vancouver upon entering young adulthood. He became a club photographer, but soon left in pursuit of an electrician diploma. A kinetic learner, Brown found a way to apply what he learned from his day job into the creation of art installations, which fueled an interest in performance art as well. He now dances with Kwhlil Gibaygum Nisga’a Traditional Dancers group. Brown is also involved with several other Aboriginal youth groups. In September, he returned north on a cultural “journey back home” to the Nass Valley. This territory belongs to his band, the Nisga’a. Along with other urban Nisga’a youth and some residential school survivors, he visited the four villages in the Nass Valley in northern B.C. to learn more about his roots. There was dancing, singing, storytelling, and most of all, healing, says Brown. After the visit was over, Brown trudged through old trails where his father had once hunted in his youth. They ended up at a logging road by a river. Not far in, they stumbled upon a sour-smelling moose carcass that had been prepared for cooking. “Because the moose is so tough, you have to cure it a little, so you leave it out and let it breathe so the acid breaks the flesh down,” Brown explains as he snaps off a leg of crab with his hands. But this slab of meat had been abandoned. The flesh was broken down, part of it picked away by wild animals. The body was still there when Brown returned the next day. Ravens loitered by the cadaver. “This time, one of

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the ribcages, which must have weighed 30 pounds, was moved over about four or five meters,” he says in between bites of meat from a fractured crab claw. Just as he was about to leave, he saw a raven take flight with a chunk of moose steak hanging out of its mouth. “I wanted to see this raven rip apart the carcass,” he says. So Brown set up his phone to film the scene, taking the chance that one of the birds wouldn’t take off with his shiny iPhone. He left the scene and returned after an hour. “Several bones were missing from the moose at this point, and my phone had been kicked away to the side with a couple of scratches on it. I only got to look at the footage later that night.” We finish eating and pile up the exoskeleton onto a plate. Brown shows me the footage. It’s grainy and overexposed; the forest in the back fades into an ominous brightness. The sound is uncompressed. Ravens gore the silence with their indignant caws as they swoop in and out of the lens, talking at each other, unsure if it’s safe to eat. For a long time nothing happens. But in the last quarter of the video, a gray wolf prowls in and around the periphery of the camera’s eye, startling off the ravens. Then it leaves—as if for good. The video bursts into a violent crackle, with just a hint of an animal growl underneath. There’s a flash of tongue and nose. Cut to black. The Nisga’a believe that spirits inhabit animals to convey messages to humans. “I am a wolf [of the wolf clan], and this wolf turned off my phone at a time that I was looking for spirituality and culture,” Brown explains. As a child, his grandfather taught him to fish and gather, and about his heritage. “But as a teenager, I wasn’t into it anymore. I grew up in a really racist town, and it makes it so that you don’t like yourself. “This wolf, it was telling me I didn’t need this phone, this technology, to find my culture. It reminded me of the last speech given by an elder at the cultural tour—‘your culture is here, you just need to come and find it.’” Brown began to feel a gravitational pull back to Prince Rupert and the Nass Valley, even weeks after he returned to Vancouver, and so he decided to follow the spirits home. S

Sea Legs Seadogs are mariners. mermaids. morphs of light.

photos by Jaedyn Starr, Theodore Lake, Kiesha Janvier & K Stewart

Jeff Dywelska

Eco-Queers photography by christine mcavoy

It ain’t easy bein’ a green queen, honey

. Some go through new outfits like tubes of concealer, but these drag artists incorporate more than just glitter and fake genitals into their performances. These two queens and king are glamorous and eco-conscious, modeling outfits they’ve sourced from found materials instead of buying them brand new. Yes, you can work it without wasting it.

VERA WAY “The puppets are recycled socks and their lips are poppies from Remembrance day just cut in half— I’m very do-it-yourself.”

VERONICA VAMP “It’s all about attitude. ‘Cause the truth is, most of my outfits are held together with duct tape, glitter, rainbows, and unicorn dust that I pick up at my local 7-11. Fashion is about having fun.”

LOU SOULS “There’s no need to go for the higher-end beers to make an outfit. Making the lower-end beer look expensive is basically what Lou does. It’s Keith Urban meets Jon Bon Jovi.”

Person, Place, and Thing words by kelly thoreson photography by k. stewart

Person

sara st vincent & stephanie schneider

Every day is a challenge for local foodies Sara St Vincent and Stephanie Schneider at Harvest, a new grocery store-café-combo on Union Street. But for these women, who get hyper at the mere mention of kale, making local food easy and accessible is worth the labour. “It is good to support your neighbour, and things taste better when they are from just around the corner,” Schneider said. St Vincent—occasional banjo-enthusiast and gardening fanatic—is a Macgyver of cooking seasonally, conjuring meals with little more than a few induction burners in Harvest’s cramped kitchen space. Leaned back in her seat with dreadlocks tied behind her neck, St Vincent explains her love of local food and gardening with an easy drawl. “Why have grass if you can grow your own vegetables?” she said. Travelling has also been a large part

of St Vincent’s life, having travelled across Canada and the United States in a diesel van run on vegetable oil. Fun fact: sushi restaurants apparently have the cleanest oil to fuel your vehicle. Warm, friendly, and with a smile that never stops, Harvest’s local foods curator, Schneider, is the kind of woman you want to bring home to impress your grandmother. Not only does she cook, garden, sew, and craft, but she also makes the meanest salsa around. Hailing from the Okanagan, Schneider learned how to grow and preserve her own food from a young age and later became connected with urban farmers in Vancouver through her work at NOW BC, an organics buying club, which is where she discovered her passion for local food. Together with the other folks at Harvest, Schneider and St Vincent look forward to “taking the fear out” of local food for customers—and perhaps even getting some to squeal over kale together with.

Place

the acorn

(3995

main st)

When was the last time you went to a vegetarian restaurant in Vancouver wherein the implicit dress code wasn’t dreadlocks and hemp? Seven years ago, Brian Skinner and Shira Blustein asked themselves where they could have a nice vegetarian meal out, and they are still asking the same question today—which is why they are opening The Acorn. Enormous handcrafted paper light fixtures hang from molasses-coloured ceilings of cedar off-cuts, and eggshell blue chairs refurbished from the flower power era surround the intimate space; the sleek yet honest decor blends classiness with homeliness at The Acorn. Describing most vegetarian restaurants in the city as “soulful” and “casual,” Skinner and Blustein seek to create an inviting social space for veggie-enthusiasts and nervous omnivores alike, aiming for The Acorn to be a nice date location for hip couples but also the kind of business that permits their suppliers to feel comfortable dropping off produce barefoot. Blustein notes that the primary goal of the restaurant is to “nourish people with delicious vegetables and create a sexy place for people to come and hang out.” The Acorn, located at the old Cipriano’s location on Main Street, will be serving up vegetarian dishes that are heavily vegetable-based as well as seasonal and locallysourced whenever possible. “The bulk of what we use is going to be local, but we don’t want to limit ourselves,”

Thing

urban farms

“We don’t swear near the tomatoes,” an employee at SOLEfood urban farm once told me when providing tips on how to grow vegetables. Though keeping a lid on profanity seems like a laughable effort, considering that he had to shout this over the traffic from Hastings Street, the grumbles from nearby factories, and the occasional hollers from passersby. Somehow the noise feels alright, though, when you’re within SOLEfood’s gates navigating the bizarre oasis of PVC pipe towers of strawberries and beds of leafy greens parked on moving palettes. SOLEfood’s operation in the parking lot of the Astoria hotel is just one example of how nutty young people all over the city are getting their hands dirty with urban farming, growing food anywhere from schoolyards to rooftops. But why are so many green thumbs cropping up? Curtis Stone of Green City Acres in Kelowna, who trades unused backyard land for a portion of the food he can grow on it, explains the importance of growing food in solving many of the environmental, social, and health issues of today—which is why he got into urban farming. “If you control the food production, you pretty much control how you can survive,” he said. But we are approaching an awkward moment for agriculture in North America where rural farmers are retiring and nobody wants their jobs. For the younger set, urban farming offers an appealing alternative to rural agriculture because it requires a smaller financial investment, and it allows farmers to remain in the city and hit da clubs on the weekends. Just because it is possible to grow food in the city, however, doesn’t mean that we should abandon the fields. We still need rural farms for what we can’t grow in the city, but we need urban farms to get more young people interested in farming. pictured

Skinner said. “We want to explore really vibrant flavours and different ingredients because there are so many amazing fruits and vegetables from around the world.”

Opposite Page: Stephanie Schneider of Harvest, Acorn on Main St., the goods at Harvest This Page: Brian Skinner at Acorn

“We fundamentally believe that vegetables can be an enjoyable, nourishing, and sexy thing to eat,” Blustein explained. So whether you are a veteran vegetarian or a devout carcass-devourer, The Acorn just wants to make sure you’re full and satisfied on vegetables when you leave.

K. Stewart

Five Little Bitches a novel by Teresa McWhirter Five Little Bitches chronicles the rise and fall of the all-girl band, Wet Leather. Part punk rock travelogue, Five Little Bitches is full-throttle grit-lit from a psychologically charged feminist perspective. The novel is a testimony to a generation of grrrls in revolt. “Fuelled by cheap beer and adrenalin,Teresa McWhirter’s second novel follows a band of hard-luck women who like to shred guitars, vocal chords, men, each other and their own lives.” – National Post “a raw, punk energy courses through its veins” – Georgia Straight 296 pages | $20 | ISBN: 978-1-897535-90-5 Anvil Press is distributed by the University of Toronto Press | Sales by the Literary Press Group | www.anvilpress.com

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