When I was but a
toddler, my father would carry me in the early
morning to the local bakery. We took a route through the back alleys
behind our tenement building in Chicago. It was before my brothers
and sister were born. He would hoist me atop his shoulders and I would hold on to
his head. At the bakery he put me down and when the door opened, the
light, warmth and sweet fragrance poured forth. On the way back one morning,
a bird flew into the brick walls nearby. It is so far back in my
memory . . . but I distinctly remember the fright of the beautiful
winged creature. Was it blind? Or trapped?
Why did this brief
experience have such an impression on me as to last all my life? Certainly, to see a bird fly
against a wall or glass, as if blind, is a jarring sight.
Now, six decades
later, I drive to work and park my van in a city garage, then take my
bike out and ride to my gallery. There are four parking levels. Birds
come in the garage, and sometimes they fly up the stairwell and think
they have reached daylight at the top level, only to smash into a big
panel of glass. Often, feathers are strewn about the concrete floor.
Once I found a dead bird and took it home for burial.
Birds represent
freedom and are like unto spirit. In many ways they are angelic. So
to see one fooled by glass and be trapped or hurt flying
into a transparent barrier, reinforces the feeling that
physical life is not what it seems—it also holds death. For my
childhood eyes, the vision startled me, but also was an early
awakening.
