Plate 68: A Ptarmigan, Swallows, and Other Birds c. 1575 - 1580

Curator: Looking at Joris Hoefnagel’s "Plate 68: A Ptarmigan, Swallows, and Other Birds", created around 1575-1580, what leaps out at you? Editor: A peculiar stillness. These aren't lively, chirping birds; they're almost frozen in place. Is it a naturalist's record, or is there something else at play here? The stark whiteness surrounding them is really affecting me somehow. Curator: I think you're on to something. This watercolor—part of his series depicting natural history—certainly aims for scientific accuracy. But Hoefnagel also imbues these birds with, dare I say, personalities? Editor: Well, he groups them on branches of this strangely barren tree, almost posed for a family portrait with an underlying sense of social stratification. I'm drawn to the inscriptions. Are those moral statements? It reminds me of contemporary conversations on the responsibilities within a community. What’s your understanding? Curator: Precisely! "Hirundines ne habeas sub eodem tecto"—"Do not have swallows under the same roof"—suggests discord, perhaps warning against disruptive elements. Then, “Una hirundo non facit ver” “One swallow doesn't make spring." It speaks volumes about collective effort, like saying that it takes a village. See how art anticipates our own era. Editor: And the ptarmigan, presented with such austere dignity! There’s such elegance in the observation. Yet, given that Hoefnagel was working during a time of significant social and religious upheaval, can this also be read through the lens of control, like, categorizing to control? The urge to classify, the human impulse to contain the wildness of nature… Curator: It's a compelling thought. But it is so much beauty in such stark lines. The way he renders their feathers, the delicate gradations of color… he seems to see something special in each one. It’s so curious that they are all individually numbered! Editor: I suppose that art is less about clear-cut answers, and more about stirring meaningful reflections within us. These carefully observed birds speak to that, somehow, I suppose. Curator: A silent chorus indeed.