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08-05-18
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08-05-18
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Last Sunday, I was drawing the ducks in the water below the bridge. It was nice. I was working on large sheets of paper (27 x 32 inches) in ink. I had done two drawings. And then I saw the dead duck lying on the stone wall of the bridge. It was perfect and I expected it to shake itself off and fly away. But it was stone dead. No more flying for this poor creature.
I wondered how it had died. Did it miscalculate and crash into the stone wall? Maybe it came up over the wall only to slam into a truck or car passing by? I'll never know.
It's death looked instantaneous. A small trickle of blood had seeped from its bill and dried on the granite blocks. Everything else about it was unruffled and gently curved. No feather seemed out of place and its marvelous orange feet were folded neatly tucked close to its sides. There were jewels of dew on its breast and I could appreciate the fantastically fine texture of the feathers on the duck's head and neck.
I felt anger. My anger and sadness surged and I resumed drawing: a preening duck, it's wing raised in a defiant "fuck you!" I didn't have the heart (or stomach) to nudge it off the wall and to a watery grave. I came back on Monday and made this drawing. By Tuesday, someone or some thing had moved the carcass and it was nowhere to be seen.
And, as you can guess, all the other ducks down below on either side of the bridge could have cared less. They just went on preening and squabbling and getting on with Life. My life, on the other hand, paused.
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08-06-18
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Duck, preening
08-05-18
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