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The patterns of colored feathers on this crucified bird, placed in a space emptied of form, calls to mind the complex repetition of nature. Its wings are spread across the canvas, and we are given for the first time a private, uncensored, inhumane perspective of the subject. This type of figuration will persist in Freud’s work. Just as the bird lies dead, motionless, and ready to be ruthlessly scrutinized from beneath, so too will Freud’s human figures soon be subjected to a similar scrutiny.
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