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Photograph by Skye Dunlap
Winged Ambition: Attention to detail and scale gives each of Lee Arnold's birdhouse-art creations surprising depth.
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Local craftsman finds medium with artwork that's for the birds Lee Arnold constructs mini-mansions for his fine-feathered friends
By Mary Spicuzza
The lighthouse's twisting staircase coils upward from a sandy beach. Curving along a rock-covered tower, a flight of steps stops just below glass window panes at the top of the tower. Creator Lee Arnold flips a switch, and a beacon of light flickers from the turret. The first few notes of the song "Misty" chime out from a music box built into the creation.
"My wife and I wanted to get 'Stormy Weather,' but we couldn't find it," Arnold says. "But we both liked 'Misty,' too."
With his mastery of proportion and attention to detail, Arnold could craft many a dream home for his Willow Glen neighbors. But for now, the retired grocer's work is strictly for the birds.
The prolific artist has gone beyond building birdhouses to fashioning shelters most birds could only dream of--including a hay-surrounded barn that plays "Old MacDonald Has a Farm," and a majestic bird cathedral--complete with stained-glass windows--which rings out "Amazing Grace." His creations, spread out over the Arnold family table, form a collection of everything needed for a bird village. With the addition of his work-in-progress, a rail station which plays "I'll Be Working on the Railroad," the quickly growing birdland will be expanding to a second table soon.
Arnold launched his artistic pursuits only four years ago. The long-time Willow Glen resident may never have found his new medium were it not for his daughter, Stacie, who returned from a trip to Oregon about four years ago bearing a birdhouse as a gift for the folks.
Arnold distinctly remembers peering past layers of tissue paper at the gift. "It was covered in giant rocks, shells... it was a mess," Arnold says. "And I thought, 'I can do better than that.'"
And that he has. Each piece, from his first basic wooden house--complete with a "For Rent" sign--to his bird jail, is an ode to detail.
The jail, for example, has a badge-wearing cat sheriff peering out from the front window. A black-and-white uniformed jailbird sits behind the bars, while another view of the jailhouse shows that one of the prisoners has flown the coop.
"This one plays 'Tie a Yellow Ribbon,'" Arnold chuckles. "They all play something."
As I follow Lee and Agnes Arnold, his wife of 57 years, back into a garage workspace, a glance at their redwood home shows that Arnold has had some prior building experience. The couple and their parents built the house more than 50 years ago, from the wood of the old Interurban Sanitarium, which once stood on several plots near what is now the corner of Meridian and Minnesota avenues.
"I gave the previous owner a $20 deposit for the land," Arnold says. "He tore a piece off an old brown paper bag for a receipt."
Just as they built their own home together, nearly 60 years later Lee and Agnes Arnold have teamed up to create more than a dozen birdhouses. Although Agnes says her husband does the work, which "keeps him out of trouble," Lee insists Agnes is his idea woman. She also does all of the costuming for the birds--from a raincoat for the lighthouse bird to a tiny monk's robe for the bird outside of the cathedral.
"They're kind of an art thing," says Agnes, an artist in her own right, who makes beautiful hand-stitched quilts and wall hangings.
"I don't know what it is," Lee Arnold laughs, glancing down at his Velcro-fastened sneakers. "There's one thing I thought I'd never be called. An artist."
But as his dog Barney shuffles past the perfectly proportioned birdhouses, it's impossible to call Arnold's works anything but masterpieces. Although many have tried to convince him to sell them, Arnold has only agreed to part with a few. "It'd be like givin' away my children," he says.
Unfortunately for the birds, these creations are so precious that a real bird has never set foot on any of them. The Arnolds keep the entire bird village inside so none of the houses get ruined. And looking at the works, no one could blame them.
"I don't think any respectable bird would use 'em anyway," Agnes laughs. "They couldn't afford the rent. Just like Silicon Valley these days."
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Willow Glen, California Since 1992
