I paint portraits of people who happen to be birds, who in turn are kin to angels. Wise, alert, often provocative talismans and avatars, they are archetypal messengers and guardians who exist in the borderland between mystery and fantasy in their innate if elusive nature. So of course, I was very taken by Flaco’s story - his escape from the Central Park Zoo, his year of living free and wild in Manhattan, his lonely search for a mate. His demise, sad and horrible as it was, could have been worse if he’d eaten a poisoned rat, or a smaller bird of prey who had eaten a rat who’d been poisoned. I’ve had a couple of parrots and many parakeets over the yearswho have all gone to bird heaven, and I know from experience that birds do not do well when they’re sick. Especially if it drags on, which it can, and has at my house. Quick and sudden, at least for the bird, is best. My last bird let out a terrible shriek, fell off his perch and was gone in what felt like, to me, thirty seconds. I jumped off the sofa and ran to his cage just in time to call his name as he took his last breath. Traumatizing for me, but for him much better than languishing for days on the bottom of his cage trying to convince me he wasn’t vulnerable or sick like one of his housemates had.
But enough about that, here’s to Flaco. This is the portrait I did in remembrance.
