It’s Thursday and I’m alone at the art gallery that’s connected to the library. I’ve just returned some books, picked up a few books and made my way into the show. I’m impressed at how much of the wall space isn’t used, the way the light streams in, and how high the ceiling feels on this particular day. There are two video artists that draw me in before I make my way to the front door. As I approach the door, my hand starts to pull the large metal handle, the bird slams into the glass, bounces back into the air, lifts their body up and spirals over the roof. My breath goes in and I hold it while I watch their body hurling. Both of us stunned and one of us, possibly, very badly hurt. My eyes focus on the building, it’s made of white painted concrete and a lot of glass. Walls turn into windows that turn into more walls and there’s a glass door, propped open, that leads to an outdoor courtyard with the sculpture of a large black head on a pillar. I exhale. If designed right, this open door could be the way in for this bird. And out. I mean a door for this bird, if they wanted, to join this someone, who’s alone, in the gallery connected to the library. And maybe they would sit, taking in the art, chatting in a way that only this bird and this person can. Or quietly, together, watching the video of an artist stitch words into a long cloth on a mountain. Or maybe they would take to the wide open floor to move their bodies, without shoes, in the sunlight, reminding each other that it’s going to be ok. In the way that only this bird and this person can.
Bird in the Glass : 6 x 6 inches : nettle and oak gall ink that will fade, May 2023