A backyard, I called it, but it was just a small space outside the Manhattan loft I rented.
There were a few spindly trees, and blue jays sometimes perched in the branches. I was an art student then, and the birds inspired me.
I dreamed of the sky above even if I couldn’t see it from my windows. But come autumn, the trees lost their leaves, the birds flew away and there was nothing to see but an ugly cement wall.
One morning I phoned some fellow students. “Bring your paints,” I said. I knew what I wanted. Something with wings like the blue jays.
Something to make me dream higher than the sky. “We’ll draw angels,” I told my friends. We had a fine day, and soon the wall was alive with winged figures. I hardly missed seeing the birds.
I have moved from that loft, but angels have become the true focus of my art ever since. I’ve made them out of papier-mâché, painted them in oil on canvas, and with acrylic on Styrofoam, like the one you see here.
At one time, angels filled up my backyard. Now they fill up my life.
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