Birds aren’t real. So says a satirical conspiracy theory claiming that the U.S. government has replaced all birds with surveillance drones. It started as a joke in 2017 and flew across the internet like a murmuration of starlings. Evidence for the theory is nonexistent, but its popularity underlines one truth: We’re still making myths about birds.
“Birds and Myth,” this year’s community art show at Birds of Vermont Museum in Huntington, showcases that theme with works by more than 50 artists and poets. Executive director Erin Talmage said the museum received more than 200 submissions for the show, which runs through October. The jury has done a stellar job of offering art in a variety of styles while representing myths from all over the world — not to mention including a diversity of species, which Talmage said was one of the primary objectives. Initial submissions were heavily weighted toward crows and ravens, she said, but the exhibition includes all types of avian protagonists, from robins to phoenixes.
Denise Letendre’s clay sculptures of Hugin and Munin — the Norse god Odin’s surveillance ravens — greet visitors near the museum’s entry. The stylized birds frame a key and a clock representing thought and memory, elements that resonate throughout the exhibition. Many of the works on display gain meaning, depth and complexity from often-obscure myths.
Part of the fun of this show is that storytellers of the past have lent it some truly bonkers imagery. One strong example is Kristin Dexter’s collage “Pamola,” in which a moose-headed eagle flies over a mountain snowscape, his human torso and muscled arms pure beefcake. Dexter has cut each element with great precision, adding feathers and a waxed-linen thread rope belt; some details pop up from the background as though ready for a fight. Pamola is a legendary Abenaki thunder god who guards Mount Katahdin in Maine and causes winter weather. Here, he meets every definition of awesome.
Tonya Whitney‘s subtler offering, “Caladrius Looks Right at You,” is a small ceramic bird, painted iridescent white and wearing an extremely smug expression. In Roman myth, Caladrius was a bird who could heal an illness by looking directly at you and absorbing your sickness into his own body, then flying off with it. The sculpture reinterprets an archaic belief as something intimate and personal.
Marcia Vogler’s “The Conference of the Birds” takes a narrative approach. She has created an altarpiece to illustrate the 12th-century poem of the same name by Sufi poet Farid ud-Din Attar. Against a background made from the pages of old encyclopedias, brightly colored cut-paper birds look for guidance from the hoopoe, who addresses them from atop the composition. Central images show flocks of birds on a quest for Simorgh the king, a divine bird in Persian mythology. The carefully crafted piece conveys a sense of reverence and joy.
Among these sometimes elaborate myths, visitors will also find many simpler ones. There are a few storks, some early birds getting their worms and even an ostrich with its head stuck resolutely in the sand. Each bird is a character, and finding its story feels a lot like backyard bird-watching. Every flash of color may point to an epic tale.