I found a little bird in a box of my oldest Christmas ornaments. Its feathers are sparser and more ragged than when I was a little girl and it perched low on my grandparents’ or our tree every Christmas. I can’t remember for sure, but I believe Grandma attached the bird to a bow (remember those sharp, plastic points that made bows never, ever fall off?) on a gift to me after I admired it each year when I was small, as I remember putting it on our tree the rest of my childhood, and then as a young wife and mother. It had a little horsehair nest, which has long since disappeared.
I placed the bird on our tree this year, and seeing it there immediately brought back memories of being a little girl, laying mesmerized beneath a decorated ponderosa or cedar, staring up at the multi-colored lights, old glass bulbs and sparkling icicles. I can smell it. I can hear my mom playing guitar and singing “Little Toy Trains,” and I can feel the excitement and awe of being a kid at Christmas. I remember fancying that this bird was alive and wondering how many real birds had landed in that tree before we cut it down. I’d get lost in the lights, fascinated by the way the colors bounced off the decorations and mixed to form new hues. This tattered little bird, overlooked for years, brought back memories I’d completely forgotten.
I like old things because they have a history, a thousand stories we may know or just imagine. Authentic art, likewise, tells stories or prompts a memory or a brand-new imagination or feeling. How many paintings, songs, stories or symphonies are lying dormant in our memories, waiting to be discovered, unearthed and shared?
This bird would have been lost or tossed many years ago were it not for the memories that caused me to hold onto it, and yet, what good are the memories it prompts if I don’t make something of them, through art, writing or simply recalling who that little girl laying under the Christmas tree was?
Before I paint in 2022, I’ll try to engage my experiences, memories and feelings for my subject matter. I’ll recall that little red-headed girl, mesmerized by light and color and wonder, and I’ll invite those feelings into my heart as I use my imagination to make paintings that aren’t regurgitations of the world around me, but depictions of what could make that world “better” — more alive, colorful, interesting. I will employ more of that childlike wonder which brings life to art and art to life.
Sonja Caywood is a local artist in Dayton
