You might think I love all animals. But I don’t.
Animals can be cuddly, ferocious, disgusting, glamorous, and delicious. Some animals deserve respect, others not so much. But all deserve careful consideration.
I remember at a young age trying desperately to draw, paint, sing, play, or just say something. I’d lay in bed wondering what sort of talent I might have. What would become of me?
One night as I was about to drift off, I heard a strange sort of conversation outside my window. One voice sounded like squeezing a balloon through a straw, while another one snored through a kazoo. Then came some creepy snickering. I crept to the window and was appalled to spy a pair of raccoons huddled in the dark, only a few feet from the house. I shuddered to think of what monstrous plans they were making. As I slowly raised the window, they ran off, but not before dropping their nasty little lit cigarettes on the lawn. Once they were a safe distance away, I could hear them high-fiving each other and laughing.
A few nights later, my house was mysteriously set on fire. I called the police and asserted that it was the raccoons that did it. The police didn’t believe me, and lacking evidence, I dropped the charges. The terrible squealing of those wild animals has stayed with me, and prevented me from ever loving creatures both great and small.
I’ve always been plain-spoken. In my early years, I’d walk to school through a cemetery where a local farmer would allow his cattle to graze amongst the headstones. I found this offensive, so I called him on it. I had a tendency to sound Biblical when nervous.
“Thinkest thou upon whose mute heads thine cows do mindlessly trod? Are these your shrubs and flowers to graze? From whence…”
It was at that moment a stone struck me in the head.
As rude as the farmer was, his cows were worse. From that day on, they would sneer and insult me whenever I walked past. When I called them on it, they claimed it was I who was attacking them. That they were merely mooing. For shame! Concerned for my safety, I hired a security guard to escort me on my walks. But the emotional abuse continued.
And yet…and yet…I admired them. I admired the graceful way they lumbered about. Though savage in their insults, their lazy shuffles about the cemetery were a vision of a randomized slow-motion dance recital. I was arrested by their glazed stares as they blankly ate the flowers that mourners had carefully laid.
I decided I would paint them, and in doing so, confront my traumas. So that I might then perhaps, once and for all, exhibit a bit of artistry.
Later, failing miserably at painting, I turned to philosophy. I tried referring to myself as a Philosopher. I asked, for example, why are some animals so loud and why do they never stop talking? Why do birds in particular make so much noise? I submitted papers for publication, full of observations. But I soon found myself confused and floundering. What could explain the shouting of grackles? Or geese in general? Perhaps nothing. And that terrified me.
My research led me down dark and narrow alleys. I found myself studying sewer drain covers and railing against the tyranny of right angles. I lost my focus, my purpose, and eventually, my sanity. Then came a series of dead-end stints as a bird translator, a pigeon trainer, a dog whisperer, a lizard groomer, and even cat-mongering. All brief. And all, all for naught.
In those days, wherever I went, I’d bring a “therapy” rat named Phil. I say therapy in quotes because he would only give bad advice. All he really wanted to do was eat. He constantly urged me to eat too. We both gained weight. One morning, on the subway, he was his usual ravenous self. He was listing varieties of cheeses while he sat on my shoulder and chewed on my collar. Then an old woman who sat across from us suddenly stood and approached us. With a vicious gleam in her eye she shrieked:“DOESN’T THAT MAKE A PRETTY PORTRAIT!”. And she took a Polaroid camera from her purse and started snapping pictures. I wrestled one from her and brought it home.
I was frankly amazed. With some scissors, I cut away my hideous face and torso. What was left was the image of Phil, with his tattoos, filthy shorts, and poorly-shaven face. It was extraordinary.
It was at that moment that I found my calling. Within a few months, my portraiture studio opened to the public. Soon after, I had a two-month waiting list.
My aim through my portraits is to tell stories. These creatures have stories to be told, whether they like it or not. Or whether they should be.
So, I’m glad that you are here, whether by choice, trickery or coercion, to serve as a witness.
Please leave your contact info. I may call on you to testify.