A Giclee Print Featuring a Fine Welsummer Cockerel.
A Limited Edition Print of Only 395 copies
Made in Our Own Studios and Available in Two Sizes
Reproduced on Hahnemuhle German Etching Paper AND... here's the short story about that very same cockerel...
These days, Elvis was always angry. He'd tried to change the way he was, but there was something in his head he just couldn't shift. Sometimes the anger flared up from - nothing, feeling almost like fear. Other times, he just wanted to scream then curl up somewhere dark and hide. Mostly, it was something he tried not to think about because nothing of how he felt made any sense. Here he was with everything someone like him could ever desire: beautiful countryside, lots of food, a warm roost, and a flock of his very own 'ladies' to tend. So surely he should be feeling good - even happy - about where he was. But... then... why did he have this constant nagging feeling that something somewhere had gone - terribly wrong?
Of course, all those questions just made it worse. These came from the passers-by up at the farm gate. He had gone up there on his first day to wait for his delivery. He'd been promised something he had never heard of before, and it was free. So when he asked the others when it would arrive, they said 'free range' was the best thing ever but, if he really wanted it, he had to go stand by the gate and wait. So he did - all day. This was when he first noticed a steady stream of people passing, heading up towards the hills. Of course, when these small groups and individuals discovered such an exotic looking bird perched on a gatepost, he instantly became the centre of the attention. But that was when all those questions started.
Initially, he didn't mind the odd personal question. He was new to the place and he had to make allowances - and he did make allowances - at first. But now - well, now it was different. Because the questions he was being asked back then were the very same questions he was being asked now. The problem was, the answers to those questions were all reminders - every one a constant, on-going reminder. So why-oh-why did he have to continually deal with so many extremely stupid, insensitive, overly inquisitive people who were obviously - every-single-one-of-them...
“Emotionally incompetent IDIOTS!”
He winced upright, glass rigid. That thought - that rogue '...incompetent idiots' thought, the one he'd intended to keep locked up inside his head - it had just escaped and gone screaming out across the farmyard. He side-stepped slowly towards the stone wall of the cow-shed, flattened the plume of his tail against it, closed his eyes and 'disappeared'.
After standing very still for a while, he opened one eye - ever so slightly - and had a sneak-peak across the yard. Over by the silage-pit, two of his ladies had stopped scraping muck and were doing that one-eyed-twitchy-peering thing that startled little red hens do when someone suddenly screams, “Emotionally incompetent IDIOTS!” at them. Elvis forced a smile, raised a wing slightly, and nodded. The two little reds began pecking again - then scraping again - then pecking and scraping and chuckle-clucking gossip again, about... yet another 'incident'. Elvis turned towards the comforting, non-judgemental cow-shed wall and, with a huge gasp (just before he fainted), began breathing again.
The cow-shed was ancient. Of all the old buildings in the farmyard this was the one he liked standing beside best. He didn't know why - he just did. It was more than a century old, oddly shaped, but Elvis thought it was oddly beautiful, too. His only concern was that the people who built it put the roof in the wrong place - it was lying in the field next door. The walls were thick, a bit tumbled-down in places, and had been constructed using random boulders and stones. However, of all the stones in all the walls, Elvis had discovered one he liked way more than all the others. It was small and, because it had been set so close to the ground, could be easily missed by anyone who wasn't paying attention. It was shaped like a little smiling face, and every time he looked at it, it smiled - at him! He lowered his beak close to the little face, nodded towards the two little red hens, and whispered, “They think they know...” he shook his head, “...but they don't.” He began giggling. Then, immediately silent again, he fanned a wing and hid behind it.
The questions that so irked Elvis each day came from the only people who took an interest in him. Those passers-by: the hillwalkers and ramblers on their way to the open moorland and hills up beyond the farm. The farm was located so far up the valley it had become a natural first rest stop where these booted and bobble-hatted adventurers would pause to drink tea.
Other than the continual prying questions from these people, Elvis quite enjoyed the attention. During his show years he often had to deal with a certain amount of fawning adulation. He had come from an expert breeder where good looks were highly prized. In fact, he'd come from a breeder where good looks were everything. He and the others had to maintain their appearance to the highest standards. So every detail of how they 'presented' was meticulously monitored. Each bird was isolated in its own cage and those cages were spotlessly clean, warm and dry. The food delivered contained only the best nutrition and their water was dosed with added vitamins. They were treated and pampered like celebrities, because, in their world, they were. But show days were best. At major competitions, when those lights came up, their colours would pop; erupting into a dazzling display of sparkles and stunning metallic sheens. The birds would pose, the judges would ponder, and the public would point and gasp. So those show days were - something else. Elvis even featured in a magazine once, and his photograph was in there too - in colour! Being part of such an exclusive collection, widely acknowledged as the country's finest, signalled every bird was incredibly special. But if there was a failure - even on the slightest detail - that bird was out! So, as Elvis knew all the tricks, when his hill-walking admirers arrived at the gate, he'd puff himself up, ruffle his plumage and make himself look like the show-stopping cockerel he was.
As he waited by the gate for his first admirers of the day, he was able to look down and observe the entire farmyard: the huddle of sulking buildings, smelling of rot and damp; the piles of rusting scrap; an ancient horse-drawn hay rake; a wheel-less car; and an old blue tractor with the only thing intent on climbing aboard - a marauding patch of nettles. Here, in this place, it was obvious no one cared about anything: no one cared about the buildings; no one cared for the animals; or the fences - the tumbled down walls; and he was certain no one cared about how anything looked... except, perhaps, his admiring hill-walkers who always commented on how fabulous he looked, but then spoiled everything by asking... or the passers-by who flattered his dazzling plumage, but then spoiled everything by asking... or those back-packing hikers who complimented his magnificent stature, then spoiled everything by asking...
“WHY... is a beautiful bird like ME standing in a puddle, in the rain, in THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE?”
He snapped his beak shut and wide-eyed down towards the farmyard. There, popping up all around the yard, were the heads of sixteen little red hens; every one of their sixteen little red faces peering - at him. He slammed his eyelids shut and the faces - disappeared.
The rain was heavier now - a sudden downpour, drumming, drenching. The little reds had all run for shelter long ago. Motionless, Elvis stared out into his world of dull, endless grey. A rusting pick-up truck bounced in through the farm gate, coming to an abrupt, gravel assaulting halt a few feet from the cockerel centred in its path. The pick-up's horn sounded. A side window opened, setting free a pall of cigarette smoke. A voice shouted, “Shift, Nutjob!” There was a cough, a gargle and a gob of phlegm arced from the window. The horn sounded again, repeatedly, short and sharp. The engine revved. Elvis stirred, noticed the truck, and retreated to the track's edge. The vehicle's engine screamed again and it accelerated off, wheels spinning, puddles erupting. A sheet of brown sludge engulfed Elvis and, like a distant, dying star, his plumage imploded.
He did nothing. For an hour - an hour filled with memories of his long gone glory days, he did nothing; nothing but remember and stare - at nothing. Eventually, he stirred, shivering. Then, firmly gripping a beak-full of sodden, mud covered breast feathers, he began tearing clumps from his chest and flicking them into the rain water streaming passed his feet. The feathers floated off, all except one. This one tiny feather, shaped like a little boat and somehow still dry, sat pirouetting gently in a puddle. Elvis eyed the lone survivor for several seconds - then clawed it into the mud. He turned towards the farm and, blinking away a raindrop, whispered, “I need to go home now.”
SKU: 1243