Posts Tagged ‘flowers


flowers (and rhetorical questions)

what  becomes of the broken-hearted?


how can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?


where is the love?


how do i live without you?


what’s love got to do with it?


how can you mend a broken heart?


wouldn’t it be nice?


who do you think you are?


who’s zoomin’ who?



floral fantasia (currently in rehearsal)

a calla lily, currently living in front of the house across the sidewalk from ours, has been unfurling for 2.5 weeks. i’m glad it’s taking its sweet time.


this pink rose is just peeking over the top of our shower’s atrium fence quietly begging me to take its photo. i relented.


a golden rose bud closed tight against the cold, wet winter weather of southern california.


these cyclamen (doesn’t that name remind you of dr. who?) seeded themselves three pots and a pot stand away from their mother ship.


perhaps the best floral photo i’ve ever taken (i only slightly heightened the contrast).


more on the century plant (one of my obsessions) in a post coming this week.


i don’t know what kind of flower this is, do you? but i loved the way it was holding the sunlight the other afternoon.



iris, photo-realism, and lowell nesbitt

lowell nesbitt for your edification.

a man who put his money where his mouth was. we could use more like him.

these recent photo studies of a bearded iris blooming in our garden reminded me, as i was manipulating their outcome, how much i admire the work of lowell nesbitt (not that i’m comparing myself to him, but that these photographs were evocative of his work, triggering memories i have of selling his editions in the ’80s and knowing when to share the sexuality of them with a client and when to concur with the client that they were just pretty pictures of flowers. sometimes i was more successful than others when it came to sharing his rapturous abandonment to nature and form and i could always tell when i’d stepped outside the comfort zone of the collector by the look of disbelief that clouded their brow or the uneasy shuffling of feet and the rise of color in their cheek. perhaps the provocation was worth it to me, that uncomfortable moment when “sex” reared its beautiful head in conversation between strangers, some more ready than others to free fall into its embrace. okay, i may have pushed it, a bit, for the thrill, but what is the point of art if not to disturb?)


garden path (inventory)

reclaimed pavers, pea gravel, stones collected from our travels as well as dug up from the garden beds themselves lining the edges to a height of 6″ +/- depending upon the size of the stones and the stamina of m. who laid them down, 20 varieties of succulents (okay, maybe 15, but still), yucca, birds of paradise, castor plants, several variety of bromeliads, honeysuckle (one yellow and white, the other pink and white), two azaleas (one pink, the other fuschia), red shower grass, broad leaf philodendron, ivy, ferns that grow like weeds, 13 rose bushes (pink, yellow, red, several bi-colored–mais oui–, white, salmon–5 are climbers, 2 are tea, and the rest are floribunda), bearded irises in yellow/white and purple and one variegated iris with purple blossoms, lion’s mane (orange) and lilies–day (yellow and orange ones), and night (white like moonlight), naked ladies (amaryllis belladonna), agapantha (plain and variegated), orange/yellow hibiscus, pink, red, white oleander, a stone bench overlooking the canyon (the edge of which is lined by towering pine trees of at least 3 varieties, the consequence of which is pine cones scattered throughout the garden), pink ivy geraniums along the v-ditch, a 12″ high by 10″ wide pine tree stump in the middle of the succulent garden, spider plant, a white privacy fence, numerous geckos, bees, ants, earthworms, butterflies (in season), opussums, coyotes, the occasional mountain lion, white tail deer, field mice, rabbits and homo sapiens, the sound of a water fountain, the rush of the wind coming up the canyon, rubber tires on the road bed, a car horn, morning, noon, afternoon, evening sunlight, moonlight (full, wax, wane), sodium vapor lights at night, the howl of coyotes, the barking of dogs, a conversation between swimmers at the poolhouse across the canyon carried to your ears on the wind, the sound of a spade pushed into the dirt, sweat on your brow, your sunglasses slipping down your nose, a finger pricked by a thorn, dirt under your fingernails, a sore back from bending, thighs straining from squatting and then standing, knees pebbled with gravel from kneeling and weeding, standing and leaning on the handle of the rake surveying your domain.


the year of wisteria[cal] thinking (with apologies to joan didion)

it’s the only wisteria vine in our neighborhood and this is the first time i’ve gotten this close to it.  did you know wisteria is scented? it’s just strong enough to slightly startle you with its potency and magic.

at this stage in its bloom it is mostly woody vine with the dripping floral display, flowers in search of a float (or romantic 19th century novelist…la dame aux wisterias, anyone? they are a bit like chandeliers — earrings and light sources.)

my visit was brief, the dogs were anxious to get away from the bumblebees floating around and through the vine. sadly, no one is living in the house it climbs at this time, so it goes mostly unnoticed and perhaps a bit unloved, except for today.


a random sampling of the [flora] population


if you have one fallen camellia, will it be an outlier and skew the results of your sampling?

the geraniums are always a challenge to count (besides they’re quite moody and their answers change frequently.)

the sea lavender has its own ideas about the statistical probability of this sampling’s accuracy and efficacy.

the challenges of creating an accurate statistical equation are not insurmountable.

2x + 4y (s – p) / wtf = (you decide) x 10x + 5b / a


the subject was a rose (a conversation among friends of this blog’s author)

“oh, there he goes again,” declares one, “another fricking photograph of some rose he can’t even identify properly–stuck right into our noses, like he wants to rub our faces in it.”

“he’s just so confrontational.”  sighs another.

“what’s to be done?” laments a third.

“well, it’s obvious we must do something.  perhaps an intervention?” suggests his _________, without crossing the _______/patient confidentiality line.

“is there a cure?  i didn’t realize that there was any help for this, this disease,” whispers his _________ eerily from the great beyond.  (yes, they’re psychic too.)

“you know, we could blame you, after all you were the one that set him on this path of self-___________,” retorted the _________.

“you have a lot of room to talk, mister, why i’ve half a mind to give you a good spanking.  except why should i give you the pleasure?” the ghost of his _______ rejoins.

“people, people, please.  let’s not turn this into a blame game,” says his most ardent admirer, “we’re here to solve the problem of his constant posting of photos of flowers–it’s really just too too much to bear; to watch him suffer so, the constant photo-taking at the slightest sight of a bloom, the time spent adjusting and manipulating the photograph afterwards, his posting of the images hither and yon; it’s all quite out of hand.”

“short of taking his camera and his phone from him what are we to do?  aren’t you afraid that he might crack if he were to quit cold turkey?  that we might not ever have our dear, dear friend robert, as we know and love him now, back again?” cried an online acquaintance who had, up ’til now, remained quiet, standing at the back of the crowd.  [author’s note: the use of the word ‘crowd’, of course, is wish-fulfillment at its most pathetic.  mea culpa.]

“there may be nothing we can do, really,” said a more reasoned voice, “shouldn’t we just let him do as he pleases?  what harm is there in his sharing the beauty he sees around him, after all?  i think you’re all quite silly. let’s take a watch-and-wait attitude and enjoy what he gives us without questioning his motives or his sanity.”

everyone concurred, sipped their coffees, picked up their bags, and went on about their lives.



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© Robert Patrick, and Cultivar, 2008-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts, photographs and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Robert Patrick and Cultivar with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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