25 ~ Brook no imitation
Le poisson échoué au soleil, Pablo Picasso, 1922
Last Tuesday morning I returned to the ‘Taliesen stream’, the clear little ribbon near Spring Green that recently offered up a few brook trout, all of which I had to release. This time I hoped to find a brown trout for my dinner; browns (which are legal to keep from this stream) are more common in Wisconsin, and can usually be found in the mix where brookies abide.
On one of my first casts to a shallow, swift stretch of water, bam!, a nice trout hit my offering. The backs of most fish are camouflaged to shield them from death from above, particularly by piscivorous birds such as herons, kingfishers and ospreys. As I brought the swirling trout closer, I could see the dull, dark olive back with scrolls of a brook trout. My ‘disappointment’, if that’s the right word(!), was short-lived. As I eased the 10-inch brookie to my net, it rolled on its side in the morning sunlight, and my God... Its array of pink, blue and yellow spots glowed along its flanks, lit further by the contrast with its dark back. Imagine coming upon a square of drab canvas on the floor, and flipping it over to reveal a Pollock or Monet.
We often use the words “overwhelming” and “breathtaking” to describe experience, but rarely is it literally true. This time it was. Every brook trout I catch is a small miracle, which I never dull to - as likely as dulling to the sight of a shooting star. Yet this particular moment and sight of this trout, lit by the sun through the riffling water, was so beautiful I couldn’t take it all in. It filled me completely, and I could feel that my cells didn’t have enough room to absorb and hold it all.
Interesting – I feel myself approaching the edge of tears as I write these words and recall looking at that brookie. Perhaps it’s grief at the realization that this head-down, half-blind, half-asleep amnesiac will never come close to seeing and knowing all the beauty that surrounds him in the world, every day. I’m a vessel and receptor too limited, destined to leave much of it unseen and unacknowledged.
When I remembered to breathe again with the brookie in my net, I was dinged by the realization that I’d left my camera in the car, and couldn’t photograph it (and share the image with you, dear readers; or save it later for me to experience again). But maybe this was best. Perhaps, in fact, it isn’t possible to share the trout with you, or to experience it more than once. There’s the old story about indigenous people refusing to be photographed, for fear that photography will take part of their souls. But maybe what they’re really afraid of is that we will confuse the photograph with the essence of who they are, accept it as a substitute for them. And this may explain why even in our culture some of us recoil from having our picture taken. The image is not the thing – we are ‘taking’ something, but not the thing itself.
Picasso was once riding on a train, and a woman recognized him and struck up a conversation. She asked him why he didn’t paint people and things the way they really looked.
“What do you mean?”, Picasso asked.
She went into her purse, and removed a small photograph from her wallet, and passed it to him.
“Like this”, she said, “This is my husband.”
“My dear madame”, Picasso said, handing the photo back to her, “Your husband is rather small and flat isn’t he?”
Although I can’t share the brookie with you, rest assured there is abundant beauty everywhere in this stream of life. And this is probably a good and important time to resolve to notice as much of it as possible.
I caught no brown trout that morning, and three more brook trout - none of them photographed, kept or eaten. Still, I spent the rest of the day filled.
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In the next post I’ll share a summary of ‘desert island grocery essentials’ compiled from your recent responses (see: https://www.birdinthebush.net/blog/23-audience-participation). Thank you! And please feel free to send more ideas in the next few days.