Our bathroom, small as it is, has a moth and butterfly theme. It is my partner’s doing, with her selection of the shower curtain, and arrangement of the poster and pictures I brought to the party when we moved in together. It makes for colorful accents to the white tiles, countertop, and light gray paint job, done rather hastily by the last owner it would appear. What I find most fascinating are the flaws in the art, done with intention.
The shower curtain is a subdued, matte, silvery gray nylon, with eleven different moths, and one butterfly, printed repeatedly. The renderings are surprisingly accurate, representing actual, existing species. They are oriented in different directions and arranged such that the repeating pattern is disguised. You have to exit the room and stand a bit out in the short hallway to get the full picture.
The moths and butterfly on the curtain are to scale, as near as I can tell. All are perfect except for the Luna Moth, the largest one, which has prominent nicks and tears in its pale green wings with a streaming, creased and curled tail on each hind wing. This is a frequent condition of older, living Luna Moths, so it heightens the realism.
Opposite the sink, the mirror and rail of lights above it, and the commode, hangs a vertical, framed poster of colorful butterflies, with a few moths thrown in, on a pure white background. They are arranged in a radiating pattern, oriented north, northeast, or northwest. In contrast to the shower curtain, this is a photo, or photos, of real insects, preserved in the classic wings-open-at-ninety-degrees pose. They are not to scale, which suggests that the entire poster is a mosaic of individual photos.
Flanking the poster are smaller, framed pictures I cut from old magazines. They represent the paintings of the late John Cody, descendant of Buffalo Bill. He specialized in painting giant silkmoths, mostly tropical moths with broad wings, and sometimes long, flowing tails. The Luna Moth is one example of that group, collectively known as Saturniidae.
Giant silkmoths live short adult lives. Days, maybe a couple of weeks at most. They do not even feed, lacking the proboscis that most moths and butterflies possess, coiled beneath their chins when not in use to sip nectar. The silkmoths burn fat reserves they accrued in the caterpillar stage. Cody reared most of his moth models, from cocoons he imported. It was the only way to guarantee perfect specimens with pristine, vibrant colors.
Staring at the poster while on the throne one day, I noticed something I had been oblivious to previously: Every single specimen is missing its antennae. The abdomens were missing from the gaudy, metallic blue Morpho butterflies, but it is standard practice to remove that body part from specimens. As Morphos decompose, the oily fats in the abdomen ooze onto the wings, staining them and masking the famous metallic sheen that makes those butterflies so coveted by collectors. I have only seen intact Morphos as living individuals flying through indoor butterfly exhibits at zoos.
The antennae of butterflies poses no such problem in compromising the color of the specimen. Why remove them, then, from either the insect or the photo of it? Did the artist think the slender filaments were somehow too distracting, and in the interest of cosmetics needed pruning? There are not even tweezers in our medicine cabinet for eyebrow plucking.
I find it difficult to enjoy the poster now, with that bit of tragic information now indelibly etched in my mind. It seems a little faded, or dull, and imparts a tinge of sadness that the maker felt another creature needs to be “improved” by his hand. The title of the poster is “Flights of Fancy,” but the fancy seems tarnished now. I increasingly find myself studying Cody’s paintings instead, where all is well, and he has even put them in a more natural setting, on foliage with a black or colored background. Their wings droop, as they do in life, and the magnificent, feathery antennae are still there.
