Bird
The colour of the sky is a mixture of purple and grey, liquid and dark, constantly changing. The clouds cross the sky like a hastening army; an imminent storm looms. The streets are empty and the only people present
seem to rush, mirroring the sky’s ominous predilection. It’s 4.30 pm and Nunhead cemetery is surprisingly still open; I enter its grounds guardedly. Nunhead is one of the ‘Magnificent Seven’ cemeteries established on the outskirts of London between 1833 and 1841 to relieve overcrowding in parish burial grounds.
Now, Gothic graves and opulent greenery form an atmospheric landscape. I
remove my earphones and a sonically rich world reveals itself, as if a black and white film suddenly acquired colour. The wind is howling and the branches dance to its volatile rhythm, while birds’ cries compete with the flapping of their wings. In the clearing next to the chapel, ravens and crows fly low and slowly gather on the tall trees; perched, they observe like proud landlords, crowing and cawing. The sky behind them is continuously shifting like turbulent rapids, heightening the drama. I have accidentally attended a performance: an impromptu and unannounced ritual.
Ravens and crows belong to the family of corvids, but they differ in size, appearance and sound production. The raven is bigger, with a longer bill, and its tail is long while the crow’s spreads like a fan. Moreover, the raven
produces a guttural croak while the crow caws in a higher pitch. They are highly intelligent and playful birds. Ravens and crows hold a special place in
the human imagination. In ancient Greece, the raven was Apollo’s messenger, but also considered a bad omen. In the Old Testament, Noah released a raven from the ark to find out if the Great Flood had receded. A raven helped Cain bury his brother Abel in the Quran version of the story. In several mythologies of the North-American Indigenous people, the raven is the creator of the world but also a trickster. In England, the Tower of London is guarded by ravens and legend maintains that if the number of them falls below six, then the kingdom will fall. Recently, one of them went missing and is feared dead, bringing them down to seven, a potentially ill omen for England. Their allegorical status has endorsed them with an extensive portrayal across the arts: from Poe’s The Raven to Dame Elisabeth Frink’s Bird 1952.
Bird is a depiction of a raven or a crow. The wings are slightly raised and the head lurches forward as if the bird is captured in motion or preparing to attack. The texture of the sculpture is rough, brimming with expressionist overtones. Bird is one of Frink’s earlier works and it was acquired by Tate
in 1953 when she was 22 years old. Birds became a recurring theme in Frink’s work. She grew up in the countryside and never lost her affection towards birds and animals, especially horses. But birds are also related to aeroplanes, particularly the numerous air raids she experienced as a young girl during World War II. Her father was a professional soldier and her family lived near an airbase in Suffolk. This lived trauma surfaced in her work through the depiction of man as both heroic and fragile.
On my way out, I stop by a bench. It is vacant and seems oddly still, a firm reference point, while the grass below and the plants behind sway in coordination. It is dedicated to the deceased while it functions as a resting place for the living; a pedestal for the future dead. The first drops of rain bounce on my shoulder. I cravenly quicken my pace towards the exit.
