Scavenger
2018
Without a syrinx, the vocal organ of birds, vultures exist silently above us, circling for signs of carrion. It is only when they locate a meal that they touch the earth and reveal themselves. They feast on the side of heavily trafficked roadways, constantly dodging passing cars in order to consume what has been left in our wake.
In search of the vultures, I drive along a rural highway looking for roadkill and a nearby place to mount my Browning Strike Force HD trail camera - a tool used by hunters to track the patterns of wild game. The device has a motion activated camera with a modest 50 ft range, and mounting harness with two ratchet straps that allows for the camera to be secured around the trunk of a tree or fence post.
I have to park a quarter mile away from the site, where the shoulder is wider. As I walk back towards the carcass to set up the camera, I feel as vulnerable as I imagine the vultures do.
As I walk along the narrow side of the road, I am aware of my feminine body, my masculine clothing, my proximity to death, and the audience of people in fast moving vehicles beside me. I feel different than the people driving by. I follow vultures to the periphery of the human world in an attempt to observe ways of existing in nature beyond societally normative human experiences. It is incomprehensible for humans to imagine consuming rancid flesh. The smell of rot is instinctively repulsive to us, but the acid in a vulture’s stomach is so strong it can destroy the harmful pathogens in the meat before they have a chance to become infectious.
Despite our perception of them as dark, ominous creatures, vultures represent a remarkable transfer of energy — they can take what has been discarded and create life from it.
“Scavenger” explores the idea of queerness not only as a rejection of traditional gender identities but as a rejection of our avoidant cultural relationship toward death.