Pat Passlof: Morgan

March 7 - July 27, 2024

**Pat Passlof**
*Untitled*, 1960s
oil on paper
24 x 17 1/2 inches

Flapping from fence to post in the yard, an injured white bird was pursued by feral cats (I once counted seventy). I put out some oatmeal and a bowl of water on the windowsill. The oatmeal blew away so I replaced it with rice. Around five next morning a loud tapping on the metal fire window woke me. A white blur was visible through the frosted wire glass. When I opened the window, he flew up but returned, and I replenished his food and water. Later, after shopping, about to drop the grocery bag in my chair, I was startled by a loud flutter—the white bird was sitting there (I'd left a side window ajar). The Italian bookie down the block told me what pigeons ate and recommended a good source. Milton named this unusually large bird (19 inches—as long as a raven) Morgan, for J.P. Morgan, because like J.P. he had a large formation on his beak.

Morgan's dinner arrangement—all in a row—consisted of a bowl of water, a cracked wooden salad bowl holding his food, and a large dirt-filled tub meant for a tree. He learned to rock the salad bowl to and from his water bowl to save getting down and walking. Sated, he'd hop on the tub, peck around in the grit I had sprinkled there, and curl up for his after-dinner nap. The trouble was that an after-dinner urge would awaken him; he'd back up politely, poop, and lay down again in it. One day, idly watching this procedure, without expecting any response, I motioned for him to back up some more. He peered at me and did as I asked. So I motioned him back and up onto the rim, which pleased him no end, because from there he could poop overboard. I put newspaper down, and Morgan was paper trained.

The whole neighborhood loved that bird. When Morgan felt like showing off, the fire escapes filled with admirers—even Esteban (Vincente), sunning on his roof across the street, would stand up to watch. Added to his impressive size was the glow of his plumage (healthy birds develop a fine protective powder against mites which literally glows in the sun). Morgan's acrobatics—he would fly loops around other birds and execute amazing maneuvers, taking him in a figure eight from the spire atop St. Marks around the Con Ed clock on Fourteenth Street.

Indoors, he explored every inch of the loft and chose the highest place, the front stovepipe, as a sleeping perch. When my friends visited, he liked to swing on top of the bathroom door, which meant you couldn't close it without chasing him. Herman Cherry got a kick out of this chase: he'd pull out a large handkerchief and flick it at Morgan, the two of them running and skidding around the loft. As the conversation picked up, Morgan would begin to coo. The louder we talked, the louder he cooed. Perhaps the sound resembled the soothing sounds of the coop. Anne Arnold wanted to sculpt him and tried to make some drawings. This attention made him self-conscious, and he curled up more tightly in his grit tub, leaving Anne with an uninteresting pose—just a cushion of white feathers.

Fall chill brought a new problem: the draft from the open window. I had to build a window extension with a swinging door—and teach Morgan how to use it. By winter, he was flinging himself in and out expertly. From his bedtime perch on the stovepipe, Morgan looked straight across the room at my painting wall. One painting in particular excited him. He would coo, bow, and try a little strut on the short length of stovepipe. One day he took off and flew directly into my painting, sliding down the six-foot height of it and smearing inharmonious oranges, blacks, and greens over his pure white bosom. I cleaned him enough so that his feathers didn't adhere. After the painting was finished, a few of Morgan's contributions incorporated, I stretched it and leaned it against a corner. He flew right to it and spent hours strutting along its top edge, courting the lady in the picture: bowing, crowing, and fanning his tail. I called the painting, Promenade For a Bachelor.