Find the Artist

The mysterious artwork appeared overnight. No one had a clue as to the artist, though some opinions were offered.

Some of the works were simple stick figures, others fully formed. Some seemingly in charcoal, others in glowing spray paint, heavy brush strokes, light pencil lines, oil, rough acrylic … name a medium.

Drawings. Everywhere.

The one on the cedar-siding wall of Gilbert’s Groceries was an accurate depiction of Gilbert Chen, complete with his shapeless green coverall. One might be forgiven for thinking it comprised his only wardrobe, given that anyone making a social call to Gilbert’s house would find him answering the door wearing the same garment.

The post office wall featured a portrait of lawyer Ezekial Watson, handing out his business card, with one eye closed in a pronounced wink. On the back of the school gym was a flattering and shapely image of former teacher Mayor Sheila herself, reminiscent of when she would step in and take a phys-ed class and change into brief shorts for the occasion. It showed her shooting a basket. The image was svelte, or at least considerably less full than today’s reality, and Sheila was quietly pleased with the effect.

MLA Jethro Wallace appeared on the ferry dock, in one of those clever illusion jobs that made him appear about to step off the edge. The Tidal Times picked up that one and ran a photo of the image on the front page.

The next day the illusion art on the dock had been changed: An upside-down bowler hat appeared, with a few coins and bills in and alongside it. The cash also was illusory, as Willard Starling from the seniors residence discovered when he attempted to pick it up. He almost joined Jethro, who in this version was now nose-down in the bay. The Bell-Atkinson geeks found this one especially amusing, pointing at Willard and howling at his wobbling near miss. Willard waved his cane at them and they strutted off, laughing. One pointed to the Jethro-in-the-water piece and they howled again and swapped high-fives.

The subject of the images dominated the letters page of The Tidal Times: A disgrace, some said. No better than the common graffiti vandals known as “taggers.” It’s time the guilty were apprehended.

“Nonsense,” said another. “Consider what Banksy has done for the world of street art. We could be witnessing a genius among us. Maybe he’s even visiting us on the quiet, or at least has sent a representative.”

This, predictably, spurred Silas Cotswold to offer a challenge in The Tidal Times: “Find the artist. Identify this mystery artist and win a trip to the Pacific National Exhibition, courtesy of your local newspaper.” (The tickets would be freebies provided to news outlets by the annual fair. Silas did not mention that winners would have to pay their ferry fares and any other expenses to get to the East Van celebration.)

The images usually appeared overnight.

Randolph Champion became a suspect when it was seen that he was refreshing some of his standard protest signs (the words “FOR” at the top, and “AGAINST” below, with a blank space awaiting fulfilment between and below them) with a hand-lettered Brush Script font. When Cameron Girard subtly questioned him, Randolph indelicately advised Cameron that he was using Microsoft Word to download any font he preferred and was simply tracing over the lettering by hand. “As even you could do if you tried,” he said.

Others joined in the investigation. Annabelle Bell-Atkinson reported that she had seen an item on Facebook describing how Kiwi exchange teacher Jack Steele, as a young student, had won a national portrait–painting competition with a likeness of then-New Zealand Governor General Sir Michael Hardie Boys.

Jack responded. “I was very young and foolish, and the New Zealand Herald disclosed that I had used a paint-by-numbers kit. The GG himself forgave me and commended me for my initiative.” He added, “I have not touched a paintbrush since.”

Finbar O’Toole, on one of his regular visits to Dr. Daisy Chen’s office, noticed that nurse Patsy McFee’s desk was littered with prescription pads filled with stick drawings.

“Aha!” he said.

Patsy pointed to a partly finished gallows on one of the pads. “Dr. Daisy and I are playing Hangman, you clown,” Patsy said. “And she’s worse at spelling than I am. Now, consider yourself having been checked and found perfectly well, and bugger off.”

Jackson Spinner told a group at the Cedars pub, “I think I have him!”

He described a young man who had checked in to his and Evelyn’s B & B two days before the images appeared. “Checked in as Pietro something. Fancy hairdo, earrings in each side, tattoos from the knees up—he has one of those flat briefcase things that could hold all manner of artist stuff. When I asked him what he intended to paint, he said, ‘Paint? Me?’ Now if that doesn’t sound like a Banksy-type …”

The door opened and a young man with hair down to his shoulders, earrings in each side, and tattoos all over, walked in and said, “Good evening.”

“Petey!” Cedars’ owner Matthew Blacklock, just returned from a week in Victoria, had the young fellow in a bear hug. “You came early!”

Matthew explained to the crowd. “My nephew. My sister’s kid. Susie, the one married to the Italian off Commercial Drive. Calls himself ‘Pietro’—actually it’s ‘Peter.’ Creative type. Brought all his own gear.”

He caught the glances, and laughed. “No, no. Not him. Petey is taking over the barbershop.”

The Inlet had been without a barber since Jacques “The Clipper” Bouche had hung up his scissors and retired to Tofino for the surfing.

“Hot shaves a specialty,” Peter announced with a flourish, noting the several stubbly faces in attendance.

Meanwhile, the images had begun fading, as had the enthusiasm for finding the artist.

“No winner, then, Silas,” Samson Spinner said.

“A mystery still,” Cotswold said. “Must be brains behind it, as well as talent.”

No more images appeared, and the PNE closed its doors for another year.

Constable Ravina Sidhu finished her one after-shift glass of the Cedars’ house red and left for home. She figured it must have been the slight buzz from the wine when she heard the geeks arguing as she passed the Bell-Atkinson home, but it sounded as if Henry, or Harvey, said, “No, leave that sonofabitch Wallace in the water.”