When I was in 8th grade, I had a history teacher who looked a lot like a wild goose.
Something about the way she carried herself — the thick, clumsy bounce in her step and the fact that she was always toting piles and piles of paper, which after some time essentially became appendages — made me feel like if ever there was a chase to take place, she’d high tail it the F out of there faster than a lactose intolerant kid, who just ate a pint of ice cream, could make it to the bathroom.
When she got angry, though, that was a different story. Her face would swell up, she would raise her voice and her mouth would swing wide open, revealing food particles caught between every single one of her teeth. Just like that: goose out, eagle-cum-owl, on a violent dose of steroids, in. I tried to explain to my mother what happened when she got angry for a while but words couldn’t quite cut it.
But where they failed, photos never did and after I found one particular representation in the form of an eagle flying over a tree with a worm dangling out of its fervid mouth, she got it.
It seems ironic, doesn’t it? That their expressions could say everything even though their mouths say nothing.
As recently as last week, I, for one, was trying to encapsulate my varying moods (ugh, it’s Monday, woo, it’s Thursday!, rain? Why?, what do you mean we can’t drink coffee, and so forth) using some super funky animal faces as doled out by the visual artists that are google image searchers. I sent a slew of smiling poodles to Amelia to express my gratitude for the sun. She sent back a baby chimpanzee, laughing as it does, to express her gratitude for my photos, and then we got to thinking: if these animals worked in fashion, what would they be saying? Or is it, if we were animals, what would we look like?
I’m not quite sure. You tell us.