A Surfeit of Orchids

Blustery- the day was just plain blustery. Not so much the kind of day where Piglet's ears would have flown straight out behind him, just the sort of day Pooh might have suggested that perhaps the honey pots recommended a stay under the name of Saunders instead of a foray into the Hundred Acre Woods. But I have no such bearish wisdom- just a very long green scarf trailing behind me and an insufficient suede jacket. So I and the scarf and the jacket and the Leica went to the wilds of the land of Pelham and the Bronx Botanical Gardens.













It's the Orchid show. What could be nicer in the gray coldness than a tramp through a steamy conservatory admiring the Barbie dolls of the horticultural world? Plus I love Metro North. I sit on the train headed for North White Plains and imagine I am James Thurber. I admire the ceiling of Grand Central's waiting room, which was black throughout my childhood from the smoke of millions of last minute cigarettes and now is a watery Venetian blue and the lovely zodiac constellations
twinkle like the heavens never do in NYC- too much light and smog for any starry nights....

And they were beautiful, these orchids. Once I braved the overly friendly security guards ("keep 'er moving, babe") , the logjam as you passed the audio tour and the people who wanted a photo with the plants ("Lois, hold the flower while I take this... closer to your face... ooo- see if you can stick it back on- WHADDYA MEAN she shouldn't touch the plants? EIGHTEEN bucks to get in here and you gonna tell her she...well, you get the idea) I realized I was as guilty as anyone - I came at a peak time, on a Sunday, with a camera and a apparent inability to take the beauty of the surroundings in without trying to capture it in a photo- or 300. God bless digital technology- and the delete button. Worse- I am anything but subtle, or inobtrusive- I kneel, I crouch, I stretch and dangle upside down trying to see things at some angle never seen, only to find out no one actually wants to see anything at that particular angle- not even an exceptionally fetching view of my thumb. And I make friends this way- mostly when people trip over me and apologize profusely, as if by becoming a human ottoman it is THEIR fault for putting feet on me. Several good samaritans will try and stop me- and any unsupervised toddlers- from flinging ourselves into the reflecting pond with its black water. I have no idea what the toddler agenda is- I suspect world domination- but I was trying to get a shot of myself in the water's reflection. The trailing scarf actually made it into the water several times- I could have been tracked through the exhibit by the trail of inky water drops. Truly, you would have thought this pool held an entire colony of freaked out squid-the water was black as ink.

But I digress. The Orchids. Remember the Orchids? I paid very little attention to their names- I am not very botanically oriented. I love the diversity of colors and textures and patterns but not enough to learn Latin. "Volcano Queen" sticks with me and the ones that were a pale jade of green and reminded me of elf slippers.

I was peripherally aware of couples snuggling a bit closer, gray haired ladies smiling wistfully and even a pair of women who had spent the first half of the show talking about the beginning of golf season sneaking a kiss behind a lush moss covered pot of deep pink phaeleonopsis. It was a sexy show- the flowers pouted and strut- no one truly present could miss their moist steaminess-their shameless, lush sensuality. In this cold pre-spring afternoon you could not help but breathe in the tropical air scented with night blooming jasmine and camellias and not wish to bare a little shoulder, slip a hand inside the wrist of a lover's sweater to feel the warm pulse there, or get naughty behind a potted palm- the relentless urge to get a little sultry and vamp it up. It was like being in some Alice in Wonderland beauty pageant with aesthetics dictated by the Gabor sisters- and underwritten by Victoria's Secret.

About then I noticed the couple standing under a gazebo dripping with exotic blooms- the woman's clothes fully 20 years younger than she was ( a friend once referred to this phenomenon as "mutton dressed as lamb"- very baaa-d) and the man in the blue blazer and turtleneck with too-black hair- saying "I can just SEE this in the yard Muriel- how hard could it be to keep up?" The man in the corner (gad- another turtleneck, blue blazer and a head full of what could easily pass for Spanish moss perched precipitously on his head and masquerading as a toupee) shouting into his cell phone-"NOT AUTO show ORCHID- its a flower- you have-ta put this in your agenda" Scratching his head as he spoke. I hoped for his sake the piece was secured firmly...

I had 144 photos and quite enough at the point- my head was spinning- too many colors and technology and artificial steam I ran for the outdoors and the cold. As I broke from the conservatory doors I pulled in a gasp of crisp air and looked around me grateful for the subdued March palette of grays, browns and rusts. All I wanted was to find something dead and dry and take its picture. I think, for me it was just too much. My personal viewfinder seems to need more contrast- some sidewalk along with the roses- maybe that is what comes of being raised in Brooklyn. All my flowers were surrounded by concrete. That way you always know where they are.

:) X