Remains of Marissa Zappas father’s monarch butterfly tiger photo courtesy of Marissa Zappos

My father’s eccentricity inspired me to embrace the surreal from a young age. After his death, I asked my step mother if I could have a picture we kept in our dining room—a collage of a large tiger created entirely from monarch butterfly wings. My father said he got it in the 80’s from a butterfly farm in Northern Thailand and apparently the farm (which I have no name for) made two of these pictures per year with thousands of butterflies. It was enormous. My step mother agreed, so I shipped it from Southern California to New York. Months later, much delayed, it arrived. As I tore the tape off the box, shards of glass and torn butterfly wings exploded everywhere; it had completely shattered. My cat had a field day amidst the cacophony of butterfly wings, while I sat in this mess for hours holding my face in my hands. As I fell asleep that night, I remembered: it was his birthday. April 24th.

Even though my father’s death was three years ago he’s always relevant, like Marlon Brando or Picabia.

I often tell strangers that he was a REAL peacock hunter, that he would stand on the roof of our home in his boxer shorts and shoot these insanely gorgeous birds and their piercing cries with his giant shotgun. My aunt informed me recently that he’d often roast the carcass after and eat it, ritualistically, with his neighbor.

Maria Zappas © My father’s backyard in Southern California, where he once kept racehorses

Sometimes I tell people about his fig orchard and race horses, or I speak of the strange properties he acquired throughout his life—the cemetery in Tijuana, the fish auction house in Hilo and the chain of gay bathhouses; of his friend Paul Mitchell and our lifetime supply of Paul Mitchell haircare products; of how he was 96 years old when he passed and how my grandfather also died at that age because he was climbing a tree drunk and fell out. I tell them of my father’s many marriages, my nieces and nephews who are older than me, and of my dear step mother who always kept me safe. I tell them about the congregation of stray cats she fed in our backyard and how each cat was named “Short Legs” (I still do not know the origin of this, perhaps there isn’t one). I’ll tell them about how over the years the raccoons began to commune with the cats, creating a truly chaotic group of creatures who somehow managed to coexist.

Marissa Zappas next to barren fig tree, self portrait

When I was four years old, my father would lift me onto his shoulders in one fell swoop as I’d hold onto his ears for dear life. We’d waddle as one down to his orchards of fig, orange, lemon and bergamot trees. The fig trees became a part of me, their branches my bones, their smell filling me with so much peace. He’d reach deep into the foliage and retrieve only the ripest figs, biting the gluey tip off, chucking it to the ground and passing me back the rest of the fig to devour. The earth below us was uneven and precarious, with rattle snakes and pot holes. He’d inspect each tree and peer inside, repeating this pattern, passing me back figs until my belly nearly exploded. Black figs have a scratchy outside skin that hurt my tongue after too many. The green ones taste like something divine and have a coat of a honey-like goo on the outside, sticky to the touch. I would drool and hug his head, it was the highlight of my little life.

Marissa with her father

I wish I could write a more cohesive biography of my father, but he remains a collage of abstract memories. Happy Father’s Day William Zappas, or Vassilios Zaphirakos, whoever you were, wherever you are, I love you.

–Marissa Zappas of Redamance

I invited Marissa Zappas of Redamance Perfume, who was featured as the 147th American Perfumer in our series to continue our tradition of our tributes to our fathers, many who never wore any fragrance. Marissa told me he never wore cologne, yet her prose is redolent with scent memories -Michelyn

Happy Father’s Day  from all of us from CaFleureBon

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