We have hummingbirds in our backyard right now.
They arrive this time of year as part of their migration, darting between flowers and feeders, occasionally hovering just a few feet away from us. They’re so tiny and move so impossibly fast that every time one stops long enough to really look at it, it feels like a little magical event.
Watching them recently got me thinking about how often birds find their way into paintings, including mine—and how long artists have been fascinated by them.
Birds have been showing up in art for thousands of years.
They appear in ancient Egyptian tombs, medieval manuscripts, all the time in Renaissance paintings, Japanese prints, folk art, Surrealist works, and contemporary paintings. Sometimes they are the subject. Sometimes they are barely noticeable, a tiny bird perched on a branch or disappearing into the distance.
But they are rarely just birds.
Perhaps it is because birds occupy a world we can see but cannot naturally enter. They stand beside us on the ground and then, with almost no effort, leave it. Oh, to be able to fly.
That simple ability has made them symbols of freedom, transcendence, escape, spirituality, and the human desire to go somewhere beyond ourselves.
Different birds, of course, have gathered different meanings over time.
Owls have represented wisdom and mystery. Doves have become symbols of peace, love, and hope. Ravens and crows can suggest death, intelligence, prophecy, or transformation. Eagles have long represented strength and power. Swallows have symbolized homecoming and safe passage.
And hummingbirds—the ones currently putting on a show in our backyard—have come to represent joy, resilience, energy, and the fleeting nature of life. There is something especially fitting about seeing them during migration. They are these unbelievably delicate little creatures in the middle of an enormous journey.
Even the smallest bird can carry an enormous amount of emotional weight.
Artists have also used birds as symbols of captivity. A bird in flight can represent complete freedom, while a bird in a cage can instantly communicate the opposite. Open the cage door and suddenly the image becomes about possibility. Leave the door open while the bird remains inside, and the meaning changes again.
That is part of what makes birds such wonderful subjects for artists: they give us a visual vocabulary without dictating exactly what we have to say.
At Robert Lange Studios, birds have found their way into the work of many artists over the years, including my own. I find myself returning to them again and again. Sometimes I paint them seriously, sometimes playfully, and sometimes I put them into situations that could never really exist. A bird might wear a tiny beanie or trucker hat. Another might perch somewhere unexpected or become part of a trompe l'oeil illusion.
There is something wonderful about taking an animal already loaded with centuries of symbolism and allowing it to become an individual character.
Maybe that is another reason we connect so deeply with birds in art. We project ourselves onto them.
We see bravery in a tiny bird facing something much larger than itself. We see loneliness in one sitting on a wire. We see companionship in two birds together. We see adventure in migration, optimism in a nest being built, vulnerability in an egg, and possibility in a pair of wings.
And perhaps most powerfully, birds remind us that leaving and returning can be part of the same story.
They migrate hundreds or even thousands of miles and somehow find their way home.
For artists, birds are endlessly useful because they can be beautiful without being merely decorative. They can carry a painting's entire narrative while occupying only a few inches of canvas. A single bird can change the emotional temperature of an image.
Put one in a dark forest and it might become hope.
Put one beside an open window and it might become freedom.
Put one on an empty branch and it might become loss.
Put that same bird in flight and suddenly it becomes possibility.
Maybe that is why, after thousands of years, we are still painting them.
And maybe it’s why I’ve been thinking about them this week. We sit in the backyard and watch these tiny hummingbirds pause for just a moment before continuing on a journey we can barely imagine.
We look up, watch something impossibly small disappear into an enormous sky, and somehow see ourselves.
