BIRD-HEAD
MAX ERNST, 1934-35
This one's got a face. Big flat square head, two round eyes, a beak where the nose should be, little stubby legs. Looks friendly. Looks completely ridiculous. Like something a kid would draw if you said, draw a bird, but also make him a paper bag guy thing. Hold that thought, because there's a reason. Max Ernst is fifteen. His pet cockatoo dies in the night. And that same night, near enough, his baby sister is born. Now follow the teenage logic here. Bird gone. Baby arrives. Same house, same night. So clearly, the bird turned into the baby. That's not how anything works. Doesn't matter. The idea goes in deep and never comes out. He blamed the baby, by the way. His own sister. For the bird. And he wrote all of this down himself, as a grown man, completely straight-faced. And it gets better. Years later he invents an alter ego. A bird, obviously. Loplop. Official title: the Bird Superior. Superior to whom? To him. To Ernst. His own imaginary bird outranked him. And Loplop is everywhere in his work, presenting pictures, presiding over things, a feathered master of ceremonies. So. The bronze. Square head, round eyes, beak. A bird trying to be a face, or a face trying to be a bird, depending on the day. Maybe it's Loplop, holding still for once. Or the closest thing to a self-portrait the man ever made. He spent his whole life half-convinced he was part bird. This might be the honest passport photo.