Secret Serviceberry

 
 

Okay, I admit it. I love to gather fresh food for free, especially if it’s right in front of me and nobody else is noticing. I’ve discovered that the polite term for this habit is urban foraging. I’m not a fanatic, though I have gotten some curious looks from passersby as I’ve been picking linden flowers off the trees in front of the library. If someone asks, I’m glad to share my knowledge about the trees and my plans for my harvest. Little leaf linden (Tilia cordata), the European species of linden, are commonly planted for shade along city streets. The flowers appear in June and July and fill the air with their honey fragrance (bees love them). When dried, they make a pleasing, mild tea that has a calming effect (in France it is called tilleul). Our county does not spray (a good thing to check), but I take the flower bracts home and wash them in warm water, then dry them on wire racks before storing them. I add the flowers to mint and chamomile for a delicious and soothing tea. Perhaps my favorite source for free gastronomic delight is the serviceberry (Amelanchier), a small tree or multi-stemmed shrub that has been used widely as a landscape plant in cities. A native plant in the rose family, serviceberries have lovely white flowers in spring and bright reddish orange leaves in fall. During the summer, they produce small red to purple berries that taste like a cross between blueberries and raspberries. Most people ignore them, though the birds don’t. I recently discovered a nearby street that has three trees in a row. The berries are just ripening (a little early this year), and I got right to work picking and putting them in a brown bag I just happened to be carrying. The entire time I was selecting berries, a robin was dashing in and out of the branches scolding me. I apologized but I didn’t stop picking. Urban foraging is a growing movement, and a number of websites help identify safe urban food sources. There’s even an organization called Falling Fruit that has created a huge, collaborative map of urban areas where fruit and other foods can be foraged for free. I will not be contributing the location of the serviceberries, though. For now they are my selfish secret!

 

 

They're Back!

 
 

Like red-eyed emissaries from another planet, cicadas started appearing in my garden this week. I first spotted exoskeletons—the empty brown “skins” left behind when they emerge—on leaves as I was weeding. I wondered if these were leftovers from last year, but I kept finding more and more of them. It didn’t take long to stumble across the former inhabitants of those exoskeletons lurking under my plants. Cicadas are big and skittish, and though they don’t fly far, they can startle when they take to the air. It seems a bit early for their emergence, and I wondered why there are so many of them off the 17-year cycle. Apparently I’m not the only one puzzling over the problem, as this article from the Washington Post makes clear. Cicadas don’t live long, so when one of them landed on me I walked with it into the house and set it up in my studio for a posterity portrait. It was surprisingly cooperative, though it followed my movements with those eerie red eyes. After a few quiet moments, it decided it had had enough attention and started to walk away. I released it, indignant but unharmed, into the rhododendron.

 

Rosemaniac

 
 

Despite the erratic spring weather (50˚ rain one day, 90˚ humid heat three days later), the roses are showing off their splendor. From the frothy, peachy blossoms of “Collette,” to the round rosiness of “Queen Elizabeth," to the bright magenta of “Zepherine Drouhin,” to the prolific pale pink of “New Dawn,” all my roses are competing for attention. I’m crazy about roses (and their names), but my shady garden doesn’t permit me to divide up the space into classic “parterres” full of tea roses as Empress Josephine did at her estate, Malmaison. Dream on! Instead I’ve had great success with a dozen climbing roses planted along sunny patches of wall or fence. Those patches change as trees get taller, and some of the roses put up with a lot of shade, but it’s hard to transplant roses once they’re established. One exception is “Don Juan,” which continues to provide velvety, deep red roses with a fragrance hinting of cloves. This was the first rose I planted thirty-six years ago, but it was engulfed by shade within a decade. When I moved it to its new sunny spot, it took off again. It’s beginning to show it’s age, producing fewer blooms each year, but in the tradition of its namesake, it has no plans to quit seducing! And I have no plans to quit enjoying all my roses.

Tallest Tulips

 
 

Unless you can fly, you probably have never seen intact flowers of the tulip poplar close up. The flowers appear near the crown of these tall trees, and I only know the blooms exist because their yellow-green and orange petals (and occasionally a whole flower) begin to show up on my hiking paths this time of year. But last week’s windstorm blew entire branches off the tops, and I was lucky to find three entire blossoms in various stages of opening. The blossoms are a delight to hold (and photograph), because their color combination is so striking. Though the flowers resemble tulips in outward shape, they have a lot more in common with magnolia blossoms. As it turns out, the tulip poplar (Liriodendron tulipifera) is actually a member of the magnolia family and not a poplar at all. Tulip poplars are also the tallest native trees in eastern North America, which is why I was grateful for a little help from the wind.

 

Fresh Eyes

 
 

A visit to the Virginia House, as my grandsons call our home here, is a treat for everyone—parents get some rest, kids get lots of attention (and vintage toys to play with), and grandparents get plenty of hugs. We also get to experience our familiar world through fresh eyes. We visited the Zoo, where new pandas reign and a small farm with cows, alpacas, and goats captured the enthusiasm of the two year old. We went to the Air & Space Museum, where the Mars Rover enthralled the five year old. We spent time in the garden, where touching a wriggling worm set off a burst of giggles. And we took a nature walk through the park on a bright, cool day, watching out for poison ivy. “Leaves of three, let it be,” we chanted, but the older grandson found plenty of examples of three-leaved plants that needed qualifying. His favorites were the jack-in-the pulpits, many of which were blooming right next to the poison ivy! The curiosity and enthusiasm of children never stops. I’m always exhausted after they leave, but it’s because I’ve been paying attention—to them and to the world around me.

 

Green

 
 

It sneaks up on you, even when you are watching for it. This year I was determined to catch it. I walked almost daily through my favorite park, looking for signs—elegant beech buds stretching long and plump; thorny briars filling up bare ground; jack-in-the-pulpits popping up along the paths. I missed a couple of days, but they were warm and sunny, and that’s all it took. After a soft rain yesterday, I went back. Bare winter trees have leafed into spring—an explosion of bright green. The woods are completely transformed! I swear I’ll catch it next year.

 

Dutchman’s Breeches

 
 

Jumpy weather has distracted me from my usual preoccupation with spring wildflowers. I found myself walking in the woods this week wondering if I’d missed the early bloomers, especially the delightful Dutchman’s breeches (Dicentra cucullaria). I hurried down the path and was relieved to see them flapping in the breeze. In the same genus as those old-fashioned garden favorites, bleeding hearts (Dicentra spectabilis), Dutchman’s breeches bloom and fade quickly. I recycled my poem to celebrate their sighting.

Fed up with winter
and lines of dingy laundry
drying by the smoky hearth,
the Dutchman's wife
hangs her husband's breeches
in cloud-strewn April sun
where billowing white flags
announce to all her neighbors
that spring has come.
—ACF

 

The Violet Vase

 
 

As I survey my garden, clippers in hand, there isn’t much to cut for my dining room table. The azaleas are perking up, but they’re at least a week from flowering. I see signs of life among the Virginia bluebell leaves, and the celedon poppies are forming buds, but nothing is ready to pick. So I’m relieved to discover a large patch of two-toned violets waving for attention. These are among my favorites, reminding me of my childhood in France, where violets are a treasured flower, and street corner sellers can still be found today. I pick a bouquet to place in the violet vase, one of the few pieces of my mother’s ceramics that still survive.  She went through many phases of creative endeavor as I was growing up—from colored pencils to oil paintings, cake decorating to ceramics—seeking an outlet for her restless energy. As I look back from this vantage point in my own creative life, I realize that she usually abandoned her efforts just at the point when she was about to break through into mastering her medium. She didn’t like to be frustrated—who does? She wanted to be the best at everything, and if she wasn’t, she moved on. When I hold this vase in my hands, I regret her impatience. I would have liked to see what came next. She had a wonderful eye for color and a gift for picking just the right details. The violet vase is the perfect shade of green to complement the purple of the flowers, and the swirls of playful raised dots transform its traditional shape. I’m glad she left this pretty vase painted by her own hands. I can enjoy the simple beauty of the violets as I honor her efforts.

 

Random Lines

 
 

The arrival of the vernal equinox—yes, it is officially spring—brings more cold and gray. Given the weather roller coaster we’ve been on for the last few weeks, I’m not surprised. In my neighborhood, few of the flowering trees and shrubs survived last week’s ice storm. The famous cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin are doing their best for the upcoming festival, but it’s being reported that 50 percent of the flowers succumbed to the cold. Nature is generous, though, and many spring plants that bloom later, like lilac, rhododendron, and azaleas, will soon make up for the losses. Even as winter leaves reluctantly, there is plenty of random beauty to be found. These bare wisteria vines outside the National Gallery create lines worthy of any of the venerated artists whose work is displayed inside. But the vines provide a bonus—as the weather warms up, they will erupt into clusters of lavender blooms. All is not lost!

 

White Space

 
 

The Phillips Collection, that gem of a museum in northwest DC, is currently exhibiting rare prints and posters by legendary artist Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. Renowned for his depictions of the underside of Paris life during the Belle Époque, Toulouse-Lautrec was also an ambitious printmaker who considered lithography as important as painting. His bold, colorful approach to new printing technology transformed advertising posters. The Phillips exhibition has a few of his most famous posters in various proof states, providing the viewer a better understanding of the printing process. The scale of the posters gives a clear sense of their impact on city walls. But I was particularly struck by the smaller drawings and lithographs, where the artist's muscular line and original perspective are so evident. He was able to get to the essence of his subject with just a few strong, spare strokes. And I’ve never seen an artist who could define a space so well by leaving large areas of white. White space is used in printing and design to denote the area between blocks of type or around images on a page; it gives “breathing room.” In fine art the space between and around objects is referred to as negative space, and in paintings it’s usually filled with color. Toulouse-Lautrec had an instinctual understanding of white as a negative space. He pulls off the very tricky task of making white space on a page seem full rather than empty. When he’s creating posters, the white space becomes the logical place for the text, but in his drawings it has the power to isolate and emphasize. And what better time to contemplate white space than as I look out at my garden covered in icy whiteness by a freak March snowstorm.       

Above: Cecy Loftus, 1895 (detail)                                                                                              

Toulouse-Lautrec Illustrates the Belle Époque (February 4 - April 30, 2017)

 

 

Lion vs. Lamb

 
 

The weather continues to occupy my attention, as the lion and the lamb duke it out for dominance in March. Last week the temperature reached 80˚ just before it plummeted into the low 20s for several nights, wreaking ruin on the blooming magnolias and damaging the tender shrubs that had leafed out hopefully. My garden was inhabited by ghosts as I draped roses and hydrangeas in sheets and created a special plastic tent for the tree peony. In the midst of this I had an interesting conversation with my 5-year-old grandson about weather, and I explained the old adage, “March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.” He was quick to pick up that lions are fierce and lambs are gentle, and I tried to explain how you can describe weather the same way, but it got a little too complicated considering this was taking place on FaceTime. As often happens after I talk to him, my own curiosity was aroused, so I decided to do some research on the origins of the phrase. There’s a lot of information out there, of course, but this Paris Review article was succinct and humorous. Meanwhile, I watch the nighttime temperatures and keep my stash of plant covers ready. And mourn the sudden passing of the luscious spring magnolia flowers.

 

Hopeful Starts

 
 

It is only the last day of February, but in this unusual “false spring” there have been many surprises. From my studio window I can see that my neighbor’s plum tree is in bloom, and down the street the stellar magnolia (Magnolia stellata), so susceptible to frost, is covered with floating white stars. The daffodils on the south side of the house are blooming earlier than I’ve known in all my years here. I may be a bit apprehensive about the effect on plants of all this early sun and warmth, but I’ve also taken advantage of it to be outside with my camera. On a hike through my favorite local woods at Potomac Overlook Regional Park, I encountered an event I have never before witnessed. As I neared a small pond, I heard a strange chorus of croaks that sounded like a lively conversation of crows. I kept looking up into the trees and practically missed the action at my feet—water teeming with skinny wood frogs, sunning themselves and singing. They must have just emerged from hibernation, because there were dozens moving slowly among the sticks and debris on the pond’s surface. The sound was an odd combination of clucks and croaks, nothing like the hoarse, throaty summer call of a bull frog or the rhythmic chirps of spring peepers. I stood for a long time listening and photographing. The frogs seemed too happy to bother about me, and I later learned from one of the staff that these frogs were busy mating. Wood frogs, as there name implies, don't usually hang out in the pond, but they're the first of the frogs to take advantage of water to lay their eggs. As far as they're concerned, spring is here!

Early

 
 

Returning to Virginia after a week of deep winter in Vermont, I was shocked at the changes in my garden. The weather here has been abnormally mild, with temperatures in the 60s and even up to 70, and plants are responding as if the arrival of spring is a foregone conclusion. Hellebores, the so-called Lenten roses, are supposed to bloom early, but I’ve never seen them so healthy and profuse in mid-February. The hardy quince bush is always optimistic, showing a few coral buds before the end of winter, but it’s now blanketed in open blooms. What worries me most are the roses and hydrangeas that have started to leaf out, and my delicate tree peony, which is budding at least a month ahead of schedule. At this rate, I shudder to think what will happen if we have a hard frost. Then I remind myself that I’ll always find something in the garden to cause anxiety. Meanwhile, I’ll get started on spring garden clean-up. The warm days make it easier, and there’a every reason to believe I’ll be planting soon. 

 

Well Loved

 
 

It’s Valentine’s Day and our thoughts turn to—chocolate! No, even though this is a big week for chocolate, card, and flower retailers, the point of all the fuss is love—or more precisely, recognizing the ones we love. Valentine’s Day is a celebration that has been hijacked by romantic love—and there’s lots to say in favor of Romance—but I like to remember all the ones I love, especially my family. So it was our great good fortune to be with our son and his family last weekend for a Valentine brunch. There are no limits to the love a small child feels, and the body-scrunching hugs and hand-painted cards I got from my two enthusiastic grandsons will keep me going till the next visit. As adults, we learn to guard our hearts, so it is a boost to be around such spontaneous and freely-demonstrated affection. As I was packing to go home, I saw their favorite stuffed animals resting side-by-side on our bed. It dawned on me that I was feeling just the way they looked—a bit soft and worn around the edges, but very well loved.

Happy Valentine's Day!

 

Kindly Erasures

 
 

Cross country skiing through the woods of Vermont, I glide smoothly on the groomed trail, my breath moving in and out as my legs kick and my arms pull me rhythmically over the snow. The exhilaration of exercise and the stillness of the winter forest combine to give me a sense of deep wellbeing. For now I can let go of my worries—the usual day-to-day chatter that fills my mind as well as the deeper anxiety for the welfare of our country. Snow has a way of covering and cleaning, transforming every surface into softer contours, what E.B. White, in his essay “Homecoming,” called, “…the kindly erasures of the snow.” At this moment, surrounded by bare trees, silky snow, and silence, I appreciate the kindness.

 

River Power

 
 

Standing on the rocks on the Virginia side of Great Falls, the rush and roar of the river roused wonder and dread. I’ve hiked along the Potomac for many years, but on this cold Sunday afternoon its power vibrated through me. I remembered a poem about a fast flowing river that had recently come through in an email—words meant to awaken courage at a time when I, and my fellow concerned citizens, definitely need it. The poem was supposedly authored by a “Hopi Elder,” and suspicious as I am about attributions on the Web, I was curious to find out about it. After a bit of digging, I found the words attributed (though not in any conclusive way) to the very real Hopi Native American leader, Thomas Banyacya, who died in 1999. During his lifetime, he worked tirelessly to preserve the traditions of indigenous cultures while speaking from ancient Hopi prophesies about the need for peace in the world and protection of the environment. This poem, presented in the form of a Hopi prophesy, bears a number of different titles. Though it has been linked to many groups and causes over the years, its message is perfectly relevant in this time of upheaval. Here is a portion of it: 

There is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift
That there are those who will be afraid.
They will try to hold onto the shore.
They will feel they are being pulled apart,
And will suffer greatly.

Understand that the river knows its destination.
The elders say we must let go of the shore,
Push off into the middle of the river,
Keep our eyes open and our heads above water.

And I say; see who is in there with you,
Hold fast to them and celebrate!

At this time in history,
We are to take nothing personally.
Least of all, ourselves!
For the moment we do,
Our spiritual growth and journey comes to an end.
The time of the Lone Wolf is over!

Gather yourselves!
Banish the word ‘struggle’ from your attitude and vocabulary.
All that we do now must be done,
In a sacred manner and in celebration.

We are all about to go on a journey,
We are the ones we have been waiting for!

 

 

 

March with Heart

 
 

Anyone who participated in the Women’s March in DC on January 21 was heartened by the size of the crowd and the calm commitment of the people who joined it. I went with my husband and daughter-in-law, who drove down from Connecticut with her college friend from Brooklyn. None of us knew what to expect on Saturday after Friday’s inaugural disruptions, but we all felt this was a time for courage and hope. We discovered that courage and hope (mingled with a solid dose of old-fashioned outrage) were the themes of the day. After trying our luck with the Metro (we watched three sardine-packed trains stop without being able to get on), we decided to go to Plan B: walking to the Mall (our phone apps registered more than seven miles for the day). We weren’t alone, as groups of women and men converged on Memorial Bridge and walked the length of the Mall from the Lincoln Memorial to Independence Avenue. We arrived as the speeches were starting and wedged ourselves into a place in front of the Hirshhorn Museum with a view of a jumbotron screen. The avenue was packed from one side to the other, from Capitol Hill all the way to the Washington Monument with huge spillover onto the Mall. We stood for four hours listening to the speeches, amazed by the intersection of groups and causes. I took part in a few protests during the early 70s, when groups representing different agendas (Anti-War, Women’s Rights, Black Power, Environmentalism, Reproductive Rights, Gay Rights, Immigrant Rights, etc.) didn't talk much to one another. Now we understand these are all Human Rights, and though we may not agree on all the specifics, it’s important to stand up for all of them. This "intersectionality" is one very good outcome from the election. Actress America Ferrara spoke passionately on just this—the importance of standing and working together, united by our common decency, to save the soul of our country. Kamala Harris, the inspiring new senator from California, was adamant that the economy, healthcare, criminal justice reform, and climate change are women’s issues, too.  Army veteran Tammy Duckworth, the new senator (and former congresswoman) from Illinois, made it clear she hadn’t lost her legs in Iraq to watch the Constitution be “trampled.” Boy, were they impressive! Van Jones gave a rousing speech, and Scarlet Johansson gave a revealing and thoughtful one (and Michael Moore was himself, gruff and funny). And legends Gloria Steinem and Angela Davis brought their strong, long-tested perspectives. The mood in the crowd was kind but concerned—people of all ages, races, and gender attended from different parts of the US. We talked to women from Oregon, Alaska, and South Carolina. Many families came with parents, children, and grandparents, and there was willing exchange of information and courtesy among the packed-in bystanders.  The handmade signs were powerful, funny, and poignant (especially the ones carried by little girls), though I admit my favorite was "You're so vain, You probably think this March is about you."  And I've never seen so much pink in my life—especially the so-called "pussy" hats that dotted the crowd in every shade from pale pink to magenta (and are so evident in the aerials). Going to the March has given me courage to stay present and participate. It's what we all need to do now. "We the people" have to get to work.

 

Inflow

 
 

On the spur of the moment, I took an afternoon last week to drive to the Baltimore Museum of Art (BMA) to see the Matisse/Diebenkorn exhibit before it closes on January 29. These are two of my favorite painters, and I’ve long known about Richard Diebenkorn’s admiration for Henri Matisse. But it was fascinating to see their canvases side-by-side and begin to understand how closely Diebenkorn studied the drawings and paintings of the older artist. Both men were so intent on using paint—that impossibly thin film of pigment suspended on a canvas—to describe their vision of the world in new ways. In his long career, Matisse experimented with the abstract and the figurative, always defying expectations and contributing to the invention of modern painting. Diebenkorn was an abstract painter who had achieved a certain renown when he suddenly shifted to figurative painting, but late in his career he returned to the abstract with his “Ocean Park” series. When Diebenkorn was starting out in the 1940s, the work of Matisse was becoming better known in the U.S., and he was able to view it in museums and gallery exhibitions. With the juxtaposition of their paintings at the BMA, it's easy to see the younger painter experimenting with his predecessor’s color, line, and structure. It's also clear that Diebenkorn was building mastery in his own right. Diebenkorn believed “influence is natural when a young painter discovers an older one...here’s this tremendous experience, and what’s [he] supposed to do with it—stick it under the rug?” I believe that asking artists about their influences is like asking writers where their ideas come from. The creative process is like a river—water flows into it from a lot of different sources. In fact the word “influence” comes from medieval French “influentia,” which means “inflow” (from Latin “influo,” to flow into). The BMA exhibit certainly demonstrates the energy flowing from the hand of one great painter to another. 

 

Matisse/Diebenkorn will be at the Baltimore Museum of Art until January 29, 2017, then travels to San Francisco. Featured works were gathered from major museums and private collections in Europe and the U.S. (including the legendary Cone Collection at the BMA). A beautiful catalog for the exhibit is available online (but in a rare occurrence, it’s cheaper to buy it at the museum).

 

Icy Landscape

 
 

Arctic air has moved into the neighborhood, and the storm windows in my bedroom are sometimes coated with ice in the morning. Ours is a lovely old house with efficient steam heat but slightly leaky upstairs windows, so a bit of moisture escapes into the cavity. I never know what to expect when I pull up the shades. Since I don’t have to commute in the cold (the biggest advantage of working at home is walking downstairs to my studio office in winter), I can take a few moments to linger over the ice images that appear on the glass.  From just a few water molecules, crystals grow like magic. They form into the most amazing shapes—shards, sprays, fingers, petals, veins, ferns, tracks. Taken as a whole, the window has become an imaginary landscape, and I can pick out hills and trails, trees and rocks. The crystals have been busy during the night! And I get busy with my camera.

 

Breath Cocktails

 
 

No matter what our politics, we're all going to need to stay calm in the upcoming year. A nice glass of champagne makes for easier discourse, but I rely on my go-to belly breath in times of stress. A few of these will bring perspective to any situation:

Place hands above your pelvis and take a deep breath, feeling the abdomen expand outwards. Exhale slowly and comfortably. Keep exhaling until the air is completely expelled, then breathe in. Air will automatically rush in and refill the soft abdomen. I find doing this three times changes my mood. Try it.

Breath cocktails all around!

Happy new Year!