I didn’t start painting birds with the idea of symbols in mind. But over time, as more birds found their way onto paper, I began to notice patterns. Certain species showing up during certain chapters of my life. A resting heron when I was burned out. A hawk mid-flight when I needed courage. A hummingbird when I was searching for joy in the smallest places. I realized, without meaning to, I had been telling stories. Not just about birds — but about becoming.

Each one means something to me now. Not in a rigid or formulaic way, but as emotional markers. Inner weather. Quiet truths painted into feathers and wings. Some people will see them and feel something different, and that’s exactly how it should be. But for those who want to know what lives beneath the brushstrokes — this is the language I’ve come to understand.

The heron is stillness. Not the passive kind, but the kind that watches everything. It’s the part of us that knows how to wait. How to stay grounded even when the tide rises. I’ve painted herons during times I needed to root, to listen, to rest without guilt.

The hawk is sharp focus. It shows up when clarity is needed — when decisions must be made. It carries a certain fierceness, not loud or wild, but steady. I’ve leaned on its presence in moments when I had to rise above the noise and remember what I really wanted.

The hummingbird is lightness, but not fragility. It’s joy you have to notice — fast, fleeting, often missed if you blink. It’s about taking sweetness where you find it, and knowing that even the smallest things can sustain you.

Owls hold mystery. They’re the voice beneath the surface — the dreams, the memories, the instincts we try to silence. I’ve painted owls during times when I felt lost but also quietly powerful, as though some deeper part of me knew the way.

The crane speaks to transition. It has a kind of grace that feels earned — like it has moved through many lifetimes and still chooses elegance. I paint cranes when I need to remind myself that beauty and change can live in the same breath.

Geese and ducks are about belonging. Community. The longing for home, even if we’re not sure where that is. I’ve painted them when I’ve felt homesick — for people, for places, for parts of myself I’d left behind.

And then there are the ones that don’t quite fit any category. The unexpected birds. The strange ones. The ones that show up and ask me to look deeper — not just at them, but at myself.

Sometimes I don’t know what a bird means when I paint it. I just follow the color, the curve, the quiet urge to bring it into the world. And weeks later, or months, I’ll look back and understand. The painting knew before I did.

That’s the kind of art I want to make — the kind that reveals something slowly. Not flashy or loud, but steady. Personal. Resonant. The kind you walk past a hundred times and then one day it stops you — because something in you has changed, and suddenly it speaks.

I don’t think these paintings are meant to be explained. But I do think they’re meant to be felt. And if any of these birds echo something you can’t quite name — maybe that’s reason enough.

You can explore the full collection here → [link]

 

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Laura Wilkins