On Love, Grief, and the Art of Flight

Nette

Tim Flach Birds

ornitologen av Björn Keller

Arts by Nette, Tim Flach and Björn Keller

I just read about someone who almost fell in love. Can you almost fall in love? I think about the guys I used to date long time ago, the ones who’d say, “You’re someone one could fall in love with.” But to me, you either fall in love or you don’t. The Bodyguard was clear, he was in love and confident about it and I was swept away instantly, struck by lightning. Love itself grew strong, winding, over the years.

And I can still hear him when I go off track like now: “Nette, you have to stick to purpose, aim, and scope. You’re all over the place!”

The purpose of writing here? Maybe because food and art have always been peacemakers  ways of bringing people together, at least back when people still talked to each other. The aim? To try to put words to grief, that sudden stab as if you’d lost a limb. And at the same time, to try to describe art. The scope, my dear Bodyguard, is “stick to art and bodyguard.” That’s where I always fail, because there’s an anarchist living inside me.

But now to the birds. A few days ago, I was lying on the terrace when I spotted a huge bird in the distance, close enough to feel its power. An eagle, without a doubt the largest in France. Majestically, it glided past without moving its wings. Right behind it followed 28 others, floating in the same direction. I’d never seen anything like it. A sign, I thought. Maybe handsome Bengt ( my Bodyguard) just wanted to show off a bit, and behind him came his new admirers.

A few months ago, a friend in the village asked for help with an injured swift. It had crashed into a wall and been bitten by a cat. Bloody, ruffled, but alive. I placed it in a cardboard box with a small bowl of water. The next morning it looked livelier, so I took it out to the terrace, thinking it could fly off when it wanted. It ran around for two days until I read that swifts can rarely take off on their own. So I picked it up, swung my arms downward quickly, and it flew! I wish I could say it came back to thank me. It didn’t. But it was a beautiful day.

Two of my favorite photographers, Tim Flach and Björn Keller, have devoted their lives to photographing, among other things, birds, and no one does it like they do. Flach lets us see ourselves reflected in the birds’ personalities. They talk to us, almost chat, about the day that’s passed. Keller, on the other hand, lets us glimpse mystery, the realm of death, through his images of bird skulls. So beautiful, a quiet reminder of our relationship to nature and to life itself.

Why this fascination with birds? I honestly don’t know, because I know almost nothing about them. But in my house, they’re everywhere, painted on the walls, shaped into boxes and sculptures.

The bird is like the poet of evolution, a body shaped by the laws of physics, yet carried by the dream of defying them. In every wingbeat, both calculation and miracle reside. They move between worlds. While we count hours and destinations, they follow magnetic fields and stars. Their flight is a language without words, yet logical enough to cross seas and continents.

You see , one is in love with them. Not almost.