NYBG: Visions of Hawaii

The New York Botanical Garden (NYBG) was beautiful, even more so than I remember. When my boyfriend and I were last there it was two years ago, in October, for the Frida Kahlo exhibit; the grounds were packed—almost too crowded to thoroughly enjoy—and the lines to the Mertz Library prohibitive to the impatient. Only a handful of people came to brave the heat this time, leaving us free to wander as we pleased. Twice we circled the perennial garden. It was breathtaking, yes, but I loved it because it so easily could’ve been the garden I imagined from this book I adored as a child. This I told Kevin, and my heart warmed watching him snap photos of flowers and their little signs. He was duly cataloging the plants we loved. For the future.

Less picture perfect (but pictured above, for posterity), was the corpse flower. It hadn’t yet bloomed when we visited—but even in its dormant state, the corpse bud was magnificent to behold. Forget its notorious scent (likened to that of rotting flesh) or its unpredictable, decade-long chrysalis. This was a giant plant that appeared surreal, like a fantastical element in a dream world or something that belonged to prehistoric times. It was at least 10 feet tall, center stage in NYBG’s tropical greenhouse. I smelled nothing and was grateful for it.

I took photos instead.

I can’t say I was impressed by the actual O’Keeffe curation. To be fair, I’ve never found tropical florals noteworthy (a reflection of personal aesthetic, not the artist’s interpretation of nature’s creation), and am partial to O’Keeffe’s pre-1930s work. Instead, I was fascinated by her correspondence with Alfred (her husband) during the length of her Hawaiian trip. I appreciate art, but I’m turned on by understanding motivation and experience over the final product. As a girl who devoured diaries and interviews more than any other genre, I wanted more. More insight on her creative process. More about what she tried, saw, felt.

Unfortunately, these letters were abridged and were showcased only in a rudimentary film—you know; the ones that museums love to make and visitors tend to dismiss—and on the walls of the exit where they were missed by most. I was thankful I didn’t walk past the viewing room.

Inspired by the visit (and because, truly, I can never resist a theme), I picked up The Signature of all Things from the to-read pile on my bookshelf. Nothing felt more appropriate than a novel on botany to end the day.

Until next time—happy Fourth. Remember what this country was supposed to stand for and do something about it. 

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xx