The peacock doesn’t give a shit about your aesthetic comfort. It struts through Di Rosa like some psychedelic deity that wandered off a Fillmore poster and decided to take up permanent residence among the sculptures. This isn’t cuteness. It’s dominance with tail feathers.
The preserve itself sprawls across these wine country acres like some beautiful accident, where art got drunk on possibility and decided to live outside the white cube prison. It’s raw, unfiltered, Northern California weird in the best sense. Not the sanitized gallery experience where you whisper and feel vaguely inadequate, but something alive, messy, real. The kind of place where art doesn’t ask permission to exist.
I shall always remember how the peacocks’ tails shimmered when the moon rose amongst the tall trees, and on the shady bank the emerging mermaids gleamed fresh and silvery amongst the rocks…
Hermann Hesse, The Journey to the East
And there’s the peacock, that magnificent bastard, completely indifferent to whether you understand the conceptual framework. It just is. Iridescent, absurd, completely committed to the bit. Di Rosa gets it: this collision between cultivated vision and feral beauty, between what we frame and what refuses framing.
The bird screams occasionally. Not metaphorically. Literally screams. Because why shouldn’t it? In a landscape where art sprawls across lakeside and lawn, where the boundaries blur between installation and habitat, the peacock is both subject and critic, decoration and vandal, perpetually upstaging every carefully considered piece with pure, thoughtless magnificence.