Grounded

Dead bird in Toledo
Originally uploaded by Fith Fathing Magic.

A friend accused me once of having a bizarre interest in dead birds. He pointed that out to me while we were in Toledo, standing in the immense shadow of the cathedral. He found it outrageous that while all the tourists were busy posing outside its façade or, like him, admiring the architecture, I was down on my knees with my camera snapping away at the battered remains of a pigeon. The site was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful places I’d ever visited and clearly merited a piece of my film, but I knew it was not in danger of being picked up any minute by the garbage collectors. I had my priorities straight.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t deny to him (or to anyone else) that I had a “thing” for these unfortunate critters; it wasn’t the first time that I had been caught indulging in this morbid act. People who have seen my photo albums have also taken note of this. Mind you, it’s not an obsession or anything pathological. At least I hope not. I don’t go around searching for carcasses in gutters or ambush unsuspecting sparrows so I could have a nifty snapshot. I just get an impulse to click away when I see one lying on the sidewalk.

My compulsion to record the avian dead started about two years ago while I was walking home from school. The streets were always peppered with bodies in various stages of decomposition, and I remember that I used to cringe with disgust every time I would spy one. Then suddenly, one day, I realized that I didn’t bother to cross to the other side of the street anymore to avoid a bird. I even found myself slowing down to quietly inspect the remains. I wanted to see the broken places, the details of the withered feathers, and the fascinating structure of the wings. The place itself—whether the muddied pavement, the pile of rubbish, or the lamppost nearby—interested me. They were the unstirred witnesses to an event. I can’t pinpoint exactly what happened inside me, maybe it was the daily dose of seeing those bloodied bodies, but I unexpectedly became immune to (or hyper aware of?) death.

It’s a cheap excuse to say that I like taking pictures of dead birds because I like death per se. I don't do it for the sake of being morose. Or because I like blood and gore. Or violence, even. I’d like to think that I am capable of avoiding being, you know, literal. I am not trying to frame death with my lens. And although enthralling, this is more than aesthetics.

It is really more about me trying to catch my moment with the place (ehem... Kodak, anyone?). What strikes me the most is the solitude that marks the space and the loneliness of the body. There’s a certain sadness that hovers over the street whether it’s busy or not. And it dawned on me that it is not just the figure splayed across the concrete road that is alone, it is also the one who looks at it. Whenever I see a carcass it makes me feel as if I’m privy to some big, dark secret. It’s like knowing something most people are not even aware of (though it’s lying right there beside their feet) and of sharing the experience or being connected with something outside of yourself.

Ironically, though, it is precisely this connection that severs you from everything else—Death isolates you from the living even if you are just a passing witness. Even for just a second, it rips you from your reality and makes you think of finality, fragility, honesty, and truth, and of being grounded in every sense of the word.