Red Feather

John Fish

Los Angeles, United States

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Wall Art

Home Decor



Artist's Description

“I’m eight years old.” The words were spoken with authority, and a sense of having lived a lifetime.
The glance back from the woman in the store was patient, with a slight smile that reflected her own sense of superiority. She thought it was cute.
Cute was not what the eight year old desired to be perceived as.
The walk home was often spooky and whistling always helped. Especially if the song was from some cheerful, slightly silly musical sung by a comedian who was making an attempt to be in a series drama and yet still commanded a reaction of chuckling, if only from memories of past falls and blunders. One cannot escape their former clownishness. It haunts most severely when the clown is feeling passion, tragedy or physical pain.
The eight year old turned the corner of the block he lived on and suddenly thought of last summer’s vacation in the mountains.
Water, flowing, falling, green leaves in bunches and rocks that held to the planet below making one feel secure and scared at the same time. Crisp turquoise, lavender, and pink crystal running through black and brown stone in rivers of dreams and valleys of imagination. In the distance a train whistle moaned through mist that plastered the tree tops with cotton candy and the sound reminded him of his mother’s voice. He didn’t know why. There was something welcoming, sad, happy, unimportant, vacant, loving, irritated, warm and cold all at the same time. Luckily she would offer cookies and milk or hot chocolate. That made up for the confusion in emotions.
As the eight year old reached the front door step a red feather fluttered through the blue and white air and fell to his feet on top of a wooden step that Grandma had tripped on the winter before and broken a leg. The feather sat and slowly shifted its light and weight and twirl in a circle and just just simply begged to be picked up.
And that is what happened. And that was a secret red feather gift that would stay in pockets, lunch pails, drawers, small wooden chests, and finally fall behind a piece of bedroom furniture when the eight year old was 87 years old and the feather would once again be found by another child in the future.

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abstract acrylic

Artwork Comments

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