Small paper animals, each with perfect folds imitating ears,
paws, teeth. Some are written on, snatches of sonnets and poetry and myth in
swirling black ink that fade and trail away. One paper is small, the shape of a
tiger, ready to pounce. It’s fur grows brightly and what was only seconds ago a
scrap of delicately folded paper is now a snowy tiger, pacing on four great
paws. Black script has become perfect black lines. Birds and butterflies flap
under the ceiling, rustling and disturbing the lanterns, but the flames in them
do not go out. A white deer with long antlers blanketed with soft white fuzz
travels through the spectators. The lady smiles and suddenly she seems younger,
incredibly young to be working in a circus, but she lifts paper creations off
of her hands that take to the air and are given life and wings. The creatures
fill the tent with sound and the spectators reach out to touch them but their
fur and skin feels as smooth as paper.
One by one the creatures disappear, birds and butterflies
quieting, the deer shrinking behind the tiger. Finally there is only the tiger,
and a collection of tiny paper animals on the ground. The tiger crouches, as
tough ready to pounce and many visitors step back, but it becomes impossible
small until the lady scoops it into her hand. She smiles slightly, cradling the
origami beast.
Art by Helem Musselwhite
Text by Lucie MacAulay
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