Small Feathered Mask Post

1995

This object was a gift. I’m not sure which ex-girlfriend it came from, or when. Nor do I know what kind of bird(s) sacrificed those elegant feathers. I’d guess this is the kind of souvenir travelers are discouraged from buying nowadays, when species of every wing, stripe, and scale find themselves on the Endangered list.

I’ve held onto this, but have never known what to make of it. It is too small to be a real mask, for anything but a shrunken head. This means it’s purely ornamental. And the expression is unusual. If the face portrayed was not laughing, it would have the stern, threatening look of so many ritual masks. But the countenance is droll: a cheerful, engaging spirit. With a large nose. To tell the truth it looks a bit like my paternal grandmother, Regina Greenwald.

Grandma Regina was already old when I was born; my father had been a Depression-era mistake. She was short and stooped, and suffered from rheumatoid arthritis. Regina was not by any measure a physically attractive woman. But when she was happy—for example, when my brother, sister, and I visited—she’d let loose with a squinty-eyed laugh, like the face on this mask. It set her aglow.

There’s certainly a family resemblance. And as with Grandma, so too with me: Smiling, or laughing, improves my appearance a lot.

The more I think about this mask, the more I’m struck by its potential import. Maybe the woman who gave it to me was trying to tell me something about myself; about something I’d misplaced during our time together: a simple joy, expressed without inhibition, when around the people I love.