Riddles in Rhyme

Greetings!

 'Riddles in Rhyme - for Clever Children and Curious Families'  by Sahdev Singh is now available in paperback in India. There are two collections of riddles in the book. The illustrations and sketches have been generated by AI. 

This would make the perfect gift for a clever and curious reader, whether eight or eighty!

It is priced at Rs. 250 (postage extra) and you can order your copies by filling this 👇form:

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScyiOHpBbbdO0abIUa5PnPMsBrjvbFAfJyOBQyxTDb-M7KbMw/viewform?usp=sf_link

If you'd like to know more about the book drop me an email at versequiz@gmail.com 

Noise pollution in the city

Oh, please do read this little ditty

On the noise pollution in my city

Where the dawn chorus of birds

Is too cacophonous for words

In the garden when I'm sipping tea

Just how pesky is this buzzing bee

Chasing off a nectar-greedy butterfly

Whose wings flap ever louder in reply

How deafening the gurgling Spring sap

Coursing up tree trunks, an inverted tap

And when the gentlest breeze

Plucks yellowed leaves from trees

How noisily they skitter

And skate, and litter

Clean, smooth city streets

Where the urban heart beats

To the whisper of traffic and human enterprise

In factories and offices which make no noise!

Sahdev Singh

A trip to the Nilgiris

  Part I - A taste of Bangalore

A few years back we were on a family vacation in the Nilgiris. It was our first trip to these southern Indian hills and I was very much looking forward to it. There are several endemic species of flora and fauna in the area of which I had prepared lists in anticipation of what I could hope to see in and around Ooty.

 We kicked off our trip with a few days of rambling through Bangalore and Mysore. 

So here goes…

 We have a home-stay apartment on the top floor of a building in Berlie Street. The rooms open onto a large terrace where a number of potted plants attract birds and butterflies. Daily showers leave puddles on the floor where dragonflies patrol their territories chasing away intruders.

 At the end of the terrace large ficus saplings sprout from a row of planters. These are now fruiting exuberantly. The foliage is dense and green. Even though the breeze this first morning is almost negligible, one fruit-laden branch is trembling. Tiny drops of rainwater clinging to leaves, sparkle in the sunlight as they sprinkle down. I know there is a bird there but it is well camouflaged. A few moments earlier the calls of a barbet have echoed amongst the trees nearby.

 I make not the slightest movement. The branch shakes again, rather more vigorously this time, as if a fruit has been plucked successfully. I wait. Then from a tiny gap in the greenery a large white-ringed eye peers out at me. Ever so slowly the whole head now appears. It is a barbet of course. But it is not the common brown-headed species which has a pan-Indian distribution. This is a white-cheeked barbet, its southern Indian cousin. The white eyebrow and cheek frame a glittering dark eye. Soon part of the body is visible. Like most barbets the overall plumage is green but the throat and breast are splotchy white. It is not a small bird but despite its size it is difficult to see as it blends in with the verdure of the ficus.  Seemingly satisfied that I pose no threat it goes right back to gorging on the fruit. I am glad to have re-acquainted myself with this species.

 Across from our home-stay is one of the arterial roads of Bangalore, choked with traffic, which leads into the heart of town. The road is lined with mature specimens of the rain tree which feature low spreading branches and wide umbrella-shaped canopies. The trees are coming into flower with bunches of pale pink blossoms. The usual assortment of urban birds keeps flitting around, to and from perches. There are red-whiskered bulbuls, purple-rumped sunbirds, and other species of whose calls I am familiar with. Yet that morning I am quite puzzled by the insistent and penetratingly loud high-pitched calls that seem to be emanating from the trees. It takes me a while to locate their source. These are calls of the three-striped palm squirrel and are quite different from the calls of the five-striped squirrel towards which my ears are more attuned. The branches of the rain trees are, of course, highways for the squirrels. The squirrels fall silent when a beautiful adult brahminy kite makes a series of passes overhead, its russet plumage contrasting superbly with its white breast and head.

 Early one morning we decide to visit the Lalbagh Botanical Gardens. It is the month of May and for several species of trees and shrubs the ‘darling buds’ have already matured into gorgeous flowers. A neat line of java cassia trees, immaculately manicured, are in full display.  Whorls of pink blossoms are slowly turning white in patches. Fallen flowers carpet the grass below the trees. There are a few enormous specimens of the semul, the fruit pods splitting in the heat to release seed-carrying tufts of cotton-wool that float in the wind. There are scores of exotic species, first brought here and planted by Hyder Ali and his son Tipu Sultan in the 18^th century.

 The park itself is far too large for us to cover in a couple of hours so we walk leisurely, soaking in the sights, sounds and aromas.

 All at once my attention is drawn to an old lady who has stepped off the path a few paces ahead of us. She is clad in a plain-coloured sari. Balanced in one hand is a small wicker basket containing fresh flowers, incense sticks and a roll of string. Ostensibly, she looks like someone who is on her way to a temple. But there is no temple in the immediate vicinity. Curiosity forces us to stop and watch. She stops by a tree and bends to set the basket on the ground. Her face is calm and serene, her movements graceful. She places the flowers carefully against the base of the trunk. After lighting a few incense sticks she presses them gently into the soil. She unspools the string and wraps it twice around the trunk. Only then do we notice the tattered remnants of other sacred threads hanging down from the fissured bark of the tree. The whole process could not have taken longer than a minute or so. It is an extraordinary moment of devotion and tranquility in the middle of this busy urban park. As we walk away, the sights and sounds of the morning walkers intrude on the senses once again. From a short distance away I turn and look back. The lady has disappeared. The tree, now that I can see the shape of the canopy, does look familiar. I’m quite sure it is a khejri- one of the commonest trees in Rajasthan where I live. Indeed, later I learn that here it is called the banni mara. This species of tree is a true ‘desert specialist’, hardwired to survive in hot dry arid conditions. In Bangalore, with its salubrious climate and fertile soil, the fact that the banni is venerated by some is truly surprising.

 As we approach a corner of the park the unmistakable fragrance of mangoes grows stronger. A banner is being unfurled. A ‘Mango Festival’ is just beginning. A number of stalls have already started displaying their wares. Sellers are busy opening wooden crates in which nestle a myriad of varieties of mangoes. Neatly labelled cartons are being stacked on wooden trestle tables. Very quickly business commences. Many of the sellers appear to be displaying produce from nearby orchards- they are identified only by names of places, not by types of mangoes. Meanwhile, local citizens are arriving in droves accompanied by attendants and drivers. Crates are being carted off. We try and make our purchase both from the appearance and from the scent of the mangoes - for the sake of novelty we select those which are the most unfamiliar to us.

 Having read about the ‘oldest rock in India’ I just have to visit it at Lalbagh. It is not difficult to find. A large gently rounded dome is located near one of the entrances to the park. The locals don’t appear to quite appreciate what they have here - it is treated like a bit of a picnic spot with the usual rubbish littered around. I have to remind myself of the geological significance of this rock formation. It is more than 3 billion years old. It is something called peninsular gneiss, being an exposed part of the very bedrock upon which the Deccan plateau has been raised over millions of years. Elsewhere in India such ‘basement rocks’ are buried far below the surface and are topped by younger rocks which are visible. I have to admit that the rock is unable to hold my attention for long. I place my hand on its abrasive surface and close my eyes for a moment. But there is neither an epiphany nor a blinding flash of insight into the mysteries of the universe. How disappointing.

 I am re-visiting Bangalore after many decades. Previous trips have included a fishing expedition to the Cauvery river for mahseer, and once to play a golf tournament. On neither trip was I able to explore much of the city. However, I do remember ducking briefly into a lovely bookstore on Church Street. Or was it on Brigade Road? So, one evening when the family is indulging in some retail therapy in that area, I resolve to try and find that bookstore.

 Church Street is quite charming.  Now, I believe, it is a pedestrian-only area on weekends which must provide an enormous relief from Bangalore’s horrific traffic. Perhaps the authorities were experimenting with similar regulations in 2018 because I walked in the middle of the street looking for bookstores on either side. A number of boutique stores, tony cafes and pavement stalls lend vibrancy to the market. There are a few bookstores that I do find. Naturally none of them appear familiar. Many bookstores across the world have faded away and disappeared. I try my luck in an establishment occupying several floors of a multi-story building.  Numerous aisles are flanked by steel shelves stacked with books, both pre-owned and new. Often these are two rows deep and one can see the dust just daring the browser to draw out a tome. Obviously if I’m going to find anything worthwhile here I’m going to have to tie a handkerchief over my nose and roll up my sleeves. (Those were pre-mask days!) And that is precisely what I do. An hour later I have been able to ferret out a stack of books with which I can sit down in a corner and make a final selection. The proprietor is gracious enough to give me a discount from the quoted prices for at least two books after I point to their less than pristine condition. A pretty young lady waiting near the check-out counter is intrigued enough by the off-beat titles I’ve selected to ask about one of the authors. Before I can engage her in a discussion an older lady, perhaps her mother, interrupts brusquely to say that they’re getting late…

Here are a couple of extracts from Edward Lear’s Indian Journals from his travels in India in 1873-74. In Bangalore he visited the Lalbagh Gardens and these were his impressions:

 

(The journal extracts are from the digital collections of the Houghton Library, Harvard University.)

Ed Lear, of course, is not only the talented 19^th century painter of landscapes, birds and animals, but also the beloved writer of nonsense verse.

Lear painted a few water-colours of Indian trees. Here is a mango tree.

In Part II we will travel to Mysore and then onwards to Ooty. See you then...

Sahdev Singh

8th August 2021

Lockdown diary - fishing at Nagda

 

There is a sudden heavy tug on the line. The tip of my fishing rod is yanked sideways. But within seconds the line goes slack. Judging from the viciousness of the strike this must have been a large fish. How did it get off?

 I retrieve the line and examine the lure. It is a minnow-shaped hard-bait armed with two treble hooks. The trailing hook has been wrenched sideways from the body of the lure. It is swinging free but for the internal wire trace linking the two treble hooks. For all practical purposes the lure has been destroyed.

 Immediately I try and run the strike through my mind. Did I make any mistake: was the drag set too tight? Or could I have set the hook by pulling back harder on the rod? No, it had happened too quickly. There had been no time to react. It had got away, whatever it was. Damn!

 We have been fishing for two full days on the river Kalisindh. We are at Nagda, a small village, a few miles downstream from Palaitha. My maternal relatives are from Palaitha, and we have spent many childhood holidays in these areas.

The river is a seasonal one, as are most rivers flowing through Rajasthan. Yet, the Kalisindh (which flows into the Chambal) maintains a perennial flow of water in these parts even outside the monsoon months. The now exposed riverbed is what is known locally as a pathaar - a mile-wide expanse of flat rocky terrain. A small dam has created an expansive backwater which completely encircles an island on which we are camped. When the river is in spate the campsite would be partly submerged. The camp is idyllic. Our tents open onto a strip of turf which slopes down to flat rocks abutting the edge of the river. During the hottest part of the day we have rested in the shade while simple, hearty dishes have been cooked over wood-fired stoves.

 Earlier in the day a solitary cheetal and a herd of nilgai have emerged cautiously from the surrounding forest to drink from the river. They are skittish near the water’s edge. They are wary, no doubt having observed one of the resident mugger crocodiles basking nearby on a sun-drenched sandbank over the past few days.

 Now it is our last evening on the river. Our catch has been limited to several small fish: a few silund, the largest weighing about 4 lbs each, a laanchi and a sanwal. All three of these species are types of catfish. The laanchi (Wallagonia attu) and the snakehead or sanwal (Ophicephalus striatus) are indeed quite catfish-like in appearance, with barbels and long tapered bodies. But the silund (Silonia silondia) looks quite different: the silvery, scale-less body is streamlined, the upturned mouth is small, and the large, powerful tail has a reddish tinge.

 There is a strict ‘catch-and-release’ policy at the fishing camp. Hence each of the fish which were caught were handled carefully, and have been released unharmed back into the river.

 We have not hooked any mahseer on this trip, despite trying out all the different types of lures in the tackle box: spinners, metal spoons and balsa-wood hard-baits. Over the years we have caught many humpback mahseer (Tor mussullah) on both the rivers - the Kalisindh and the Chambal. However, in recent years the mahseer caught here sport uncharacteristically bright silvery scales. It would be interesting to have a closer look at one of them in the flesh.

 The sun is already low on the horizon, lengthening our shadows over the pathaar. We are now fishing at a spot where the river rushes through a series of rapids which taper off into a deep pool. River terns patrol the length of the river in buoyant, effortless flight. A pied kingfisher hovers motionless in the air, before diving with folded wings arrow-straight into the water. A small fish glitters in its bill as it emerges, with droplets showering from its feathers in the golden light.

 It appears that we will have to call it a day and start heading back to camp in a short while. I signal Abhiviraj over, and ask him to gather our gear. Jokingly I comment that the best fish is often caught at the very end of day’s play - as often happens in fishing documentaries. And that is exactly what unfolds!

 After casting I have just about reset the bail arm on the spinning reel when there is a strike. There is a deep sustained pull on the line, strong enough to jerk me forward to the edge of the water. I am using light tackle: a 15 lbs. monofilament line spooled on an old Abu Garcia reel, paired with an even older 7 ft. rod. The first run of the fish is irresistible. Several yards of line are stripped off the reel in a matter of seconds. However, there is something unusual this time round- the fish has dived down deep instead of using the flow of the rapids to move away from the bank. Immediately I know from this telltale behaviour that it can only be one of two species: either a goonch (Bagarius bagarius) or a silund.

 The river here is several meters deep and both banks are lined with vertical rocky walls. If a goonch were to wedge itself into a crack in the rocks underwater I would not be able to budge it. Luckily the fish is still active on the line, still running deep, but now making for the middle of the river where the flow is stronger. I need to get it out of the current and into the calmer water further downstream. Of course, there is really no way of knowing the size of the fish as yet - it has not shown itself so far. So I have to be careful to keep the drag as light as possible as I scramble over the boulders along the riverbank. But the fish is not quite following the script. It makes a series of runs down into the depths and then swims back upstream. I have to be patient. This is not a small fish and it will not be bullied, especially not with the light tackle I am using.

  Several minutes have passed and the light is now fading quickly. The reflection of a  gibbous moon ripples on the surface of the water, and lights can now be seen twinkling at the camp. An Indian nightjar calls in the distance, the notes fading into an accelerating diminuendo.

 And then a deeply forked tail cleaves the surface of the water and we have our first glimpse of the fish. It is a good one! The muffled roar of the river fades to the background. I have ears only for the sounds of that tail and that streamlined body as it twists and turns in the still water it finds itself in now. It sounds not unlike the splash and gurgle of a heavy oar. The runs are shallower and shorter now, obviously the fish is tiring. Where are we going to land it? Over here the bank is steeply shelved and there are large boulders submerged at the water’s edge. There is every danger of snagging the line and the fish getting away. Then in the gloaming I can see a tiny spit of sand where the river begins to curve towards the camp. That will have to do. And then, as much by accident as by design, the fish is drawn up onto that 10 ft. wide sandy beach. Just the head is out of the water, the exhausted body now motionless in the shallows.

  Now comes the most crucial part of this business! I have seen so many fish lost at this very juncture in the past.

 ‘Abhiviraj, can you get the fish-gripper out of my pocket?’ As he does so, I quickly hand over the rod to him, saying ‘just hold on, don’t yank the line’. It is quite dark now as I bend over the beached fish. It should be a simple matter to insert the plastic fish-gripper into the mouth and secure it. The mouth, I know, is lined with small sharp teeth. It is indeed a silund and one has also to be careful to stay clear of the stiff needle-like spine on its dorsal fin. I get a good grip with the fishing tool and gently start to pull the fish out of the water. Suddenly the gripper slips and at that very same moment the line snaps! The fish has bitten through the monofilament. It is only now I realize that I hadn't attached a wire leader to the lure - which could have prevented this from happening. A big mistake! The lure, I can see, is still dangling from the lower lip - and that too has been chewed through almost completely. The fish is free!

 At this moment pure instinct takes over. Without any hesitation, placing my legs in the water astride the fish, I grab the body in both arms. There is a brief flurry of action - of churning water and flying sand. But the grip holds true and I manage to half-drag, half-carry the fish on to a large flat-topped boulder well away from the water’s edge. We finally have our fish.

 Now we move quickly to measure the silund - it weighs in at 21 lbs. I fetch a capful of river water to rinse sand off the fish so we can take a few photographs. Carefully we support the fish in the shallows preparatory to releasing it. Within a short while the tail movements become stronger, and then with a powerful swish it is gone.

Soon we are back in camp. There is some curiosity over how we were able to land the fish in near darkness. As we recount the sequence of events someone says that a few months earlier a mugger had snatched a hooked fish at that very same spot... where I'd been standing in knee-deep water just moments earlier!

Sahdev Singh

Jaipur, March 2021

John Gould and the art of drawing birds

 The most exquisite of bird art is attributed to John Gould. Here is my small tribute to the master from the 19th century.

In Gould’s tale there is a tiny flaw

‘Tis true that he just couldn’t draw!

‘How can that be?’ you ask

So, this now becomes my task

To explain, for better or for worse,

John Gould’s bird art in verse.

 

Oh yes, birds he could roughly sketch

Then it remained for him to fetch

The real talent at his beck and call.

One name you surely would recall-

Edward Lear. But there were more:

His wife, Elizabeth, first came to the fore.

Then Wolf and Richter both played a part

As did the masterful William Hart.

The stunning ‘Gould lithographs’ we see,

Were the works of artists bought for a fee!

 

Lest you think that I aim to belittle

The artistic legacy of Gould, it’ll

Surely be a mistake, because all these plates

Were meticulously made from Gould’s templates.

His vision permeates them all,

In bird art they stand very very tall

Gould pulls all the artistic strings

For the birds to unfurl their wings.

 

Courting couples and doting parents

Lovely ladies and their strutting gents

Fierce raptors eyeing their prey

Sunbirds flashing in the light of day

Such ethereal Birds of Paradise

Owls majestic, and beyond wise.

But if we hark back to the very beginnings-

A taxidermist began his innings.

Sent a hundred skins on his debut

He stuffed the aves, and his artists drew-

‘A Century of Birds from the Himalaya Mountains’.

To critical acclaim, his stock now fountains

Quickly follows the ‘Birds of Europe’

Reputation burgeons more than he did hope.

From taxidermy to ornithology, he had come a long way,

When dame fortune a trump card did play:

Darwin sends him his Galapagos finches

‘All separate species!’ - thus Gould clinches

Proof of the Theory of Natural Selection

How specialised bills evolved in island isolation.

‘Gould, the scientist’- England does hail.

So to Australia he now sets sail.

Antipodean birds, to the world introduce-

Budgerigars, lyrebirds, and...what the deuce!

So many birds that just can’t fly

They have wings, why don’t they try?

‘The Birds of Australia’, his magnum opus be?

'Surely', says biographer Isabella Tree.

But Gould’s hummingbirds, I’d have to say

Can’t be bettered in any which way.

 

Of the ‘Birds of Asia’ and ‘..Great Britain’

I wish that I had something written

No matter, for Gould’s art says it all

Such everlasting beauty shall never pall.

Sahdev Singh

September 2020

Audubon and the bird art of America

 For many years I was somewhat ambivalent in my opinion about the bird drawings of John James Audubon. And it is difficult to pinpoint exactly when and why this changed. Perhaps the tide turned during a chance conversation in 2018 about Audubon's art when it was pointed out to me that ...'this is ART!'

Indeed this is 'Art', not just bird art.

Some would argue (as I once did) that many of Audubon's birds are stylized and are not natural looking. That the pose is contrived. Would you actually see a heron in the wild as drawn above by Audubon? Maybe not. But that is one reason that this is 'art'.

For many of us the gold standard of bird illustrations are the lithographs of John Gould. Audubon's drawings are very different from Gould's. With Audubon you quite often get the charismatic virtuosity of Paganini's caprices for the violin, compared to the soothing lyricism of Chopin's preludes for the piano as with Gould. And just as it is with a piece of music, once you've listened to it a few times and have begun to understand what the artist is striving for, so it has been for me with Audubon's bird drawings. 

The onomatopoeic Chuck-will's-widows are animated with excitement in the presence of a snake. Pedants point out that the snake has been incorrectly named by Audubon. But what is undeniable is the vitality of the drawing.

A Louisiana heron preens itself at the edge of a swamp. The vegetation appears to have been ravaged by a storm in the not-too-distant past.

A pair of curlews probes for crustaceans and mollusks with their impossibly-long bills. Just as the inhabitants of the city in the background would have searched for their fortunes in those exciting times in America?

So who was Audubon and what was his story? 

To tell us something of Audubon we must turn to his biographer and foremost scholar- Richard Rhodes. His 'John James Audubon: The Making of an American' is an award-winning biography. And in Rhodes' introduction to a selection of Audubon's writings in 'The Audubon Reader'  we have this succinct primer to Audubon:

'(Audubon)... explored the American wilderness from Galveston Bay to Newfoundland, hunted with Shawnees and Osages, rafted the Ohio and the Mississippi, identified, studied and drew almost five hundred species of American birds, saw English noblemen kneel before him to examine his dazzling drawings, raised the equivalent of  several million dollars to publish a great work of art, wrote five volumes of "bird biographies" larded with narratives of pioneer life, won fame enough to dine with presidents and become a national icon, "The American Woodsman", his ultimate appellation, a name he gave himself.'

This 'great work of art' is, of course, 'The Birds of America'. Initially drawn over the course of five years from 1820 to 1825, it was first published in 1827. Audubon continued to add drawings of new birds to the book over the next ten years or so.

Audubon wanted to illustrate his birds almost life-size. He chose to make the drawings in double- elephant folio, each engraved and hand-coloured plate sized about two-by-three-foot. 

Using this folio size would still present obvious problems: how do you fit a drawing of a very large bird, such as a flamingo, or a crane, or even a heron, onto a 2x3 ft. sheet? And still manage to make these illustrations comparable to those of tiny birds, such as hummingbirds?

This is how such paintings compare on the actual plates. Not unsurprisingly, the flamingo's neck has to be swung right down to the toes to fit the plate (but that is how they feed, don't they?). The hummingbirds have the run of the sheet - full freedom and space to hover easily over nectar-filled blossoms.

In an earlier post about another classic bird artist Edward Lear, we had seen that he drew most of his birds from captive specimens in zoos.

http://jaipurbirding.blogspot.com/2020/07/edward-lear-bird-artist-extraordinaire.html 

Not so Audubon.

Audubon observed at first-hand, in the wild, what he drew. With shotgun in hand he explored large swathes of frontier-expanding America in search of his specimens. Any unfamiliar-looking bird was shot and examined minutely. This may sound unsettling to some readers today, but in most cases it was a necessity from his point of view. Obviously in the early 1820's there were no sophisticated cameras with telephoto lenses. Many of the birds themselves had never been identified or described by science. 

By 1826 Audubon was ready with his first tranche of water-colours of American birds. He traveled to England to find an engraver and to start displaying his drawings. Much like the modern day musician, who must perform in front of live audiences to earn from his creative output, he rented halls to display his works- with all the bells and whistles! Yes, literally so, since potential subscribers also needed to be entertained with impersonations of bird calls and with war cries of tomahawk-bearing hard-riding braves. 

Over the years Audubon would make several expeditions to different parts of America to add new bird specimens to his collection of drawings. His adventures in the newly-opened frontiers of America make for interesting reading. His writings are evocative of the landscape, of the many perils of the journeys, and of the excitement of the chase. These 'bird biographies' were published as accompaniments to the bird drawings. The bird observations are accurate and detailed enough to for him to be called an ornithologist.

There is also a sense of poignancy as we look at some of the drawings today. For instance, Audubon observed Passenger pigeons in the 'millions'. Modern estimates put their numbers in America at that time at 3 billion! Fully one-third the numbers of all American bird species put together. Now there isn't even one.

A clearly enamored pair of Passenger pigeons. This painting reminds us of the multitudes that Audubon describes in his writings- not unlike the vast herds of buffalo that once grazed the plains of America back then.

Here is an extract from Audubon's essay on the Passenger pigeons:

'I cannot describe to you the extreme beauty of their aerial evolutions when a Hawk chanced to press upon the rear of the flock. At once, like a torrent, and with a noise like thunder, they rushed into a compact mass, pressing upon each other towards the center. In these almost solid masses they darted forward in undulating and angular lines, descended and swept close over the earth with inconceivable velocity, mounted perpendicularly so as to resemble a vast column and, when high, were seen wheeling and twisting within their continued lines, which then resembled the coils of a serpent.'

Ivory-billed woodpeckers. Also extinct now. 

Here are some more of Audubon's paintings...

A Roseate spoonbill. I'm reminded of a pair of bellows with the spout shaped like a spatula!

Black-bellied Darter

Glossy Ibis

Next up in this series of blog posts we will take a look at the bird art of John Gould.

Sahdev Singh

August 2020

The bird art of Edward Lear

 Ennui, brought on by the lock-down, has been mitigated for many of us by the simple joys of reading . In my case, by re-reading some books about bird art and artists.Two of the great bird artists from the 19th century were, of course, John Gould and John James Audubon. Their timeless illustrations have delighted many who appreciate birds and bird art.

But this particular post is not about either Gould or Audubon. Rather, it is about Edward Lear.

Edward Lear? 

If the name does sound familiar to most people, it's because people remember him for his nonsense verse. For his limericks. Those familiar with his art probably appreciate his landscape paintings. Indeed, the success of his professional career is measured by his considerable achievements as a landscape artist.

However, for some of us Lear is best remembered for his bird illustrations.

A Common Crane. Poised, with understated elegance. For sure one of Peter Matthiessen's 'Birds of Heaven'.

 

To truly appreciate Lear's bird art, you have to place it in context: not just that it is almost 200 years old, but also that he was one of the first to use the new process of lithography. A technique which he quickly mastered.

But for me, Lear is special because he drew his sketches (which were developed later into his masterpieces) from live specimens of birds in European zoos and private menageries. He would not have had the luxury of seeing many of these birds in their natural habitat.

Yet, the discerning eye will certainly note that his illustrations have an extraordinary 'true-to-life' quality. A naturalness, a ring of authenticity. From observations of captive specimens he was able to project in his drawings how the birds would actually appear and behave if you were to see them today in their wild surroundings.

His technique - of placing the finely delineated bird upfront in the observer's face while muting the background in monochrome or subtle shades - has often been copied but never surpassed.

Lear cut his teeth in the art world with his very own production of lithographs of parrots.

Also parakeets, lories, lorikeets, cockatoos and macaws- for his original aim was to cover all the birds of the parrot family from all over the world.

A macaw. Perched, as if with a conspiratorial air, on the shoulder of a pirate.

A pair of parakeets. Plumed and crested, with blushing cheeks.

Disappointingly, after starting in 1830, Lear had to abandon his parrot series within a couple of years. He published just 42 plates.

Even though the illustrations were critically acclaimed in London, with many aristocrats subscribing to his publications, the project was not a commercial success, mainly because some of his subscribers failed to pay.

For the next few years Lear's life was inextricably linked with that of John Gould. Employed by Gould, he illustrated many of the standout plates for some of Gould's masterful series of publications: The Birds of Europe, Birds of Asia, Birds of Australia, among others. 

 

Here are some of these illustrations by Lear-

A pair of Ospreys. With rather disgruntled expressions, like those of anglers contemplating their private lake where poachers have cleaned out all the fish overnight...

Or a large solemn-looking owl with faintly unfocused eyes. Drawn thus perhaps because  Lear understood that the round facial discs funnel and amplify sound to the ears? Many owls are hunters more by sound than by sight.

Dalmatian Pelicans. Also familiar to us in the Indian subcontinent. Beautifully drawn with that untidy tuft of feathers on the back of the head and nape (an identification feature that a birder would appreciate). 

A Greylag Goose. Always elegant in flight or in the water, but here animated on land too, with its distinctive web-footed waddle.

A pair of night herons stealthily navigating through the waterside vegetation.

Purple herons are widely distributed across Europe, Asia and Africa. 

Lear also illustrated some of the toucans and trogons that Gould produced as separate series of lithographs.

Again, the plates that Lear drew have their own distinctive stamp. Of animation and liveliness. The toucans, for instance, with their enormous bills, and bright-eyed piercing gazes...

One of the books now open in front of me, 'Edward Lear - A Life of Art and Nonsense' by Jenny Uglow, is a sheer delight. Almost every page is peppered with Lear's poetry and limericks and sketches and the text is enlivened by the author's obvious enthusiasm in sharing Lear's life with the reader. 

In 1837 Edward Lear would begin his travels in Europe in search of his calling as a landscape artist. His journeys over the next few decades would take him from Europe to the Levant, to Africa and even to India.

His travels are recorded for posterity in the form of daily journals: the written observations are often hilarious, and the text is accompanied by rapid-fire sketches and drawings of the people, the landscapes, the birds and the animals.

 Vidya Dehejia's 'Impossible Picturesqueness: Edward Lear's Indian Watercolours, 1873-1875' brings to life his Indian journal and the hundreds of drawings that he swiftly dashed off as he traveled across the country in fourteen months. He was now in his early sixties, and this would be the last of his major expeditions outside of Europe.

Kanchenjunga from Darjeeling. The chorten beside the path, the ferns and creeper-festooned  trees frame the Kanchenjunga massif in the distance.

 Lear would continue to write and to draw the characters that inhabit his verse and to publish his 'books of nonsense' which delight us to this day. In this particular genre he is right up there with Lewis Carroll.

The sharp-nosed portly gentleman is a self-caricature of Lear himself...

Lear himself can close this post with an extract from one of his poems:

Herons and Gulls, and Cormorants black,

Cranes, and Flamingoes with scarlet back,

Plovers and Storks, and Geese in clouds,

Swans and Dilberry Ducks in crowds.

Thousands of Birds in wondrous flight!

Sahdev Singh

Jaipur

July 2020

Exotic duck at Sambhar salt lake

The monsoon rains in 2019 have resulted in superb birding in and around Sambhar salt lake in Rajasthan this season. The main body of the lake has filled after many years and much water still remains when we visited on 23rd February 2020 - our sixth visit in as many months. As reported widely in the Press we know that avian botulism had claimed several tens of thousands of ducks and waders in November and December 2019. Thankfully, the bacteria either vanished or became inactive as mysteriously as it first appeared.

This note is to record a strange duck that we observed and photographed on 23.02.2020 at a secluded jheel adjacent to the main lake in Sambhar.

We saw it almost immediately, mixed in with several other species of ducks which included Northern Pintails, Red-crested Pochards, Gadwalls and Spot-billed Ducks. It was as wary as the other ducks, although busily feeding by upending, in the vegetation-filled marshy jheel.

Mystery duck with  Pintails

The unfamiliar head-pattern, with a dark green band extending to the nape and clasping the throat, was distinctive. Most other features seemed to suggest a Gadwall: dark grey bill and the elegantly shaped head, a black stern contrasting with the grey plumage. However, this individual was certainly larger in size than a regular male Gadwall.

with Red-crested Pochards and Common Coots

We didn't really need to open our Indian bird guide-books to confirm that we wouldn't find it there.
So, quickly onto searching images on the web, which seemed to draw a blank at first.

Meanwhile, we tried to get better images by circling the lake and approaching from the far side, but the ducks being alerted by the warning calls of red-wattled lapwings would swim further away. A low-flying Short-toed Snake Eagle now made an appearance, making the ducks even more jumpy.

with a Common Coot

After getting back home and checking more literature and images on the web, it became clear that this duck had to be a hybrid. But a hybrid of which two species?

I believe this is a hybrid Gadwall Mallard duck.

If you concur, or suggest otherwise, I would look forward to hearing from you at -
sahdevsingh2004@yahoo.co.in


Cheers,
Sahdev Singh