Sensei and Sensibility

ARRANGEMENT OF LEAVES KEEPS ME IN TOUCH WITH PROCESS

When we last met for flower practice, Ariel began our silent meditation with a quotation from May Sarton's Journal of a Solitude:  the Intimate Diary of a Year in the Life of a Creative Woman.  The passage she read was one I was familiar with; however, I had forgotten some important details.

Having described some flowers she was living with, May Sarton said, "When I am alone the flowers are really seen; I can pay attention to them.  They are felt presences.  Without them I would die.  Why do I say that?  Partly because they change before my eyes.  They live and die in a few days; they keep me closely in touch with process, with growth, and also with dying.  I am floated on their moments."

Ariel and I had determined to work with leaves, curling, weaving and otherwise manipulating them.  In preparation, we made a special trip to the flower district for aspidistra leaves and came up with a couple others--plus bittersweet, whose coloration and form were irresistible.

When we began creating our arrangements, I was intent on showing the purple underside of the calathea leaves, but mostly this was to little avail.  It was a surprise a week later to notice that the leaves were curling around and showing that underside I so wanted to see!  Not only was the leaf curling naturally but also it was curling more beautifully than I could ever manage. 

This was "the process" of which Sarton had spoken.  And the process keeps going, offering up new perspectives on beauty on a day by day basis.  "Their moments" touch, move and inspire me.

THE FLOWER PATH TO MASTERY

I was thinking green when I went to my Ikebana class today. I wanted to work with cedar or pine—and whatever else was appealing. I was committed, too, to a red and white color scheme.

Three kinds of greens have been included in today’s arrangement. The intention was to provide variety and contrast. The reds were introduced via the dyed dogwood, the berries and the kangaroo paws. The chrysanthemums provide the only white.

A part of the asymmetry I wanted to create came in the positioning of the two different types of cypress, one to either side of the arrangement. The one is dense; the other is sparse. I opted for no pruning.

Sensei’s critique of my work included some pruning of the dense cypress “so the line would pop out.” She also introduced the straight line of the red dogwood that cuts across the arrangement. As she was shaping this last piece to be fitted into the arrangement, I tried to guess where I thought she might place it. I had a thought, a good one, as it turned out, but it lacked conviction!

All of this is the “stuff” of which mastery is made—eventually. Tuesday night I taught a class on assessment and the use of rubrics. “Novices are essentially rule-governed,” I said. “The master has a sound knowledge of the rules as well as a conditional understanding of when to obey, when to bend and when to ignore them. The master’s knowledge tends to be highly intuitive and difficult to articulate,” I continued. Experiencing Sensei as master is one of the highlights of every lesson I take.

FLOWER POWER

Taking in the flowers is always my first “order of business” when I go to the Metropolitan Museum. This week, visitors are greeted with stunning arrangements consisting of magnolia leaves, shiny green on top and a matt brown on the underside, red berries and dyed dogwood branches. No flowers.

The starburst arrangements, refreshed weekly, welcome visitors to the museum, thanks to an endowment provided by the late Lila Acheson Wilson. A patron was needed because up to 600 stems are required for the arrangements in the two-tiered urns that grace the four niches of the Great Hall.

Flowers have a transformative effect on any setting in which they are placed—even in, or maybe especially in, an area as large as the Great Hall. The arrangement on the Information Desk always integrates with the other four, the chief difference being that it is beautiful viewed from all sides.

Yesterday I was at the museum for the second of three lectures on “The Language of Music” by Stuart Isacoff, pianist, composer and writer. In Mr. Isacoff’s view the music languages include humor, games and “exotic allure.” When I signed up for these lectures, I had expected a more conventional approach, but what’s not to like in the freshness of this one?

The flowers at the museum are always fresh. On any visit I look forward to seeing what it is I’ll experience anew—that is, in a fresh way. Come to think of it, the flower power extends well beyond the Great Hall and encompasses the whole of the museum.

EARLY BEGINNINGS REPRESENTED IN A FLOWER ARRANGEMENT

Having created an arrangement this week that combined Sago Palm, amaranthus and chrysanthemums, I brought it home and began to live with it. My question was the usual one: “What do I have here?”

For a couple days, I just looked. Eventually, I came to see the cycas (Sago Palm) and amaranthus as “surround” for the red chrysanthemums.

Sago Palm, not a palm at all, is a primitive plant said to have evolved little since the days of the dinosaurs. As a group, cycas are referred to as living fossils. The dramatically trailing seedpods of the amaranthus reinforced feelings I had for the cycas. Together they represented something old, mysterious and dark.

The red coming out of this “surround” is a threshold color with its own mysteries. Red is the color that tends to accompany and intensify endings and beginnings. Red is the color of life. It is probably the color in which the earth was born.

The line, mass and colors of this arrangement are not so important to me as the symbolism of early beginnings both of cycas and of life. I didn’t get this insight on Thursday, the day of my flower class. It came later—on reflection.

Creating this arrangement was great fun. Discovering its possible meaning was equally engaging—and gratifying. Like a baseball game, a flower arrangement isn’t “over” until it’s over!

PAPERWHITES IN TIME FOR THANKSGIVING?

In my last post, paperwhites were omitted from my listing of favorite smells. That was an oversight. To have these intoxicating beauties blooming by Thanksgiving is one of my favorite things.

Friday night I potted up a couple dishes using pebbles as my medium for keeping the bulbs upright. I added water to the bottom of the bulbs and that was it. All I have to do now is wait.

Paperwhites, part of the Narcissus genus, owe their name to Narcissus, the boy of myth. Angered by his self-absorbed gaze at his own reflection, the goddess Nemesis withdrew his right to humanhood, transformed his feet to roots and condemned him to life as a flower.

This story “explains” Narcissus, and it says a whole lot about Nemesis, too. Nemesis, the giver of “what is due,” the implacable executrix of justice, has a name synonymous with retribution. In Greek tragedies, she avenged crimes and punished hubris.

Will I have blooming paperwhites by Thanksgiving? Probably not. The cycle, from planting to bloom, takes four to six weeks. The wait, however, will be worth the reward. Whenever these flowers bloom, it will be a time of thanks giving.

NOVEMBER IN THREE DIMENSIONS

I made two arrangements this week, both representative of autumn. One is full with amaranthus, hydrangea and magnolia leaves. It has a strong core, textural interest and beautiful colors. It represents one kind of “soul” food.

The second arrangement, best described as spare, represents another. It is this second arrangement, consisting of branches, berries and seeds, which has engaged my thoughts. Why? It is a foretelling of “bare November days, before the coming of the snow.” (See Robert Frost’s poem, “My November Guest.”)

The branches in the pictured arrangement have very few leaves, and those that remain continue to fall. In the cycle of the seasons, leaves emphasize the essential quality of change. They speak to the seasonal life and death of the tree. That cycle is captured here.

The Chinese character for “grain” or “seed” shows a modified “tree” bending over at the top, combined with the character of something heavy or weighty. For the farmer, the grain counts as the most significant or “weighty” part of the plant. The berries, if they persist deep into the winter, are the counterpart for overwintering birds.

“November in Three Dimensions” is an edit to essentials of this month and time in the cycle of seasons. I see beauty in its starkness and simplicity.

THE ART OF THE JAPANESE CHRYSANTHEMUM

Friday two of my friends and I attended the opening of the Kiku exhibition of meticulously cultivated chrysanthemums at the New York Botanical Garden. Yes, it rained, and we went anyway! We had no regrets.

Talk about having one’s expectations exceeded. (For me, Disneyland held that distinction until Friday!) Along with my “blown away” expectations went my notions of autumn chrysanthemums--as I’ve known them through the years.

For starters, the Kiku chrysanthemums are chrysanthemums as prepared originally for the emperor’s enjoyment. (Kiku styles of chrysanthemums were designed to celebrate the November 3 birthday of Emperor Meiji. From 1868-1912, there was an annual exhibition in the first two weeks of November.) An annual exhibition is held still during the first two weeks of November.

“Meticulous cultivation” for some of these flowers translates to 11 months of care. This particular exhibition, “the most elaborate flower show and cultural celebration ever presented by the New York Botanical Garden in its 116-year history,” is the result of a 5-year collaboration with the Kiku master gardener at Shinjuku Gyoen, the private garden of the imperial family until World War II.

Of the seven styles in which chrysanthemums are trained at Shinjuku Gyoen, three were chosen for the New York show. All three styles, very different in their final form, originate from tiny cuttings. Ogiku are tall, single stem plants. Kengai are small blossoms grown to resemble flowers cascading down a cliff. The Ozukuri style of Kiku means “thousand blooms.” Ozukuri literally means “to make big,” because the final plants must be 8 or 9 feet across. These require the longest amount of time and the greatest skill to grow. Both the process and the products of these three styles of chrysanthemums evoke wonder and awe.

That the art of Kiku cultivation is on the verge of disappearing in Japan is not surprising. The best gardeners are near retirement and young people are uninterested in learning the traditional, labor-intensive techniques. It is hoped this exhibition “across the waters”—in New York—will cause the Japanese people to recognize the beauty of the tradition they have nurtured through the years and keep it from dying out.

The Kiku exhibition, showing now at the New York Botanical Garden through November 18, has demanded time and “the time it takes” has been provided. It is a not-to-be-missed experience. Your soul will be gladdened and your heart will sing!

MORE FROM THE FLOWER PATH

Red and green is a color combination we see all year long. It shows up in flowers, vegetables like beets and chard and even on the laundry soap bottle. The combination is iconic at Christmas time.

If I were thinking along lines of “the way it’s s’posed to be,” this poinsettia would fit my expectations—perfectly. Imagine my surprise then when I noticed my Ikebana arrangement used the conventions—unconventionally.

With light reflecting through it, the vase is cobalt blue. Without light, it appears green. The chrysanthemums are a hue of red and the only fresh plant material in an otherwise dried arrangement.

The pods are dried okra. The “broom-like” piece is unknown to my teacher—and to me. I liked the mass it provided.

In this week’s lesson, I was to disassemble materials and recompose them so their appearance would be changed. This was a stretch of the sort that can induce a headache. However, I had fun with it. The results made me laugh. As the week goes on, I find myself thinking about how I can extend the deconstruction—in the arrangement and beyond.

This week’s arrangement represents my aspiration. Be bold. Be playful. Stay relaxed. See what happens.

On the flower path, what we create also creates us.

WARMING UP TO DRIED AND BLEACHED MATERIALS

Dried and bleached materials never interested me much. They seemed too stiff and unnatural. However, I’m finding my way with them.

Having passed into my “grade 4” book of lessons in Ikebana, I am expected to “disassemble and reorganize” a wider and wider range of materials, live and dried. “Convey your feelings for the plant materials boldly and in a free fashion,” I am told. This requires stretching on my part. At the same time, I recognize “permission” in the admonition to “create, play, enjoy and express.” I am curious to see what happens.

Putting dried materials with water reconstitutes them in much the same way freeze-dried food is reconstituted. Soaked in wet newspaper for two to three hours, the branches become malleable. In their softened state, they can be fashioned into all manner of shapes that they retain as they dry again.

In this week’s arrangement, a circular movement is evidenced in the whirls of the one type of branch and in the twining and twisting of the others. Both have lightness and a different quality of substance which offer some interesting and unusual effects when combined with fresh materials for contrast.

The real advantages of the dried and bleached materials have shown up over the long term. Even as the pastel-colored flowers in the original arrangement faded, dropped their petals and were replaced with new ones from the corner flower stall, the three-dimensional form created with the dried materials retained its vibrancy.

The appeal of the dried material has grown on me. It has come with time and really seeing the arrangement.

Flowers keep me in touch with process. They change and so do I.

FLOWERS FOR AN AUSPICIOUS OCCASION

When I went to my flower class yesterday, I thought: “I’d really like to work with orchids.” To my surprise and delight, it worked out that way—but not before two chrysanthemum stems broke in my hands as I tried to shape them into a curve that would touch the table.

The first element I chose for my creation was a monstera leaf. As befits its name, its size lends visual mass to the arrangement. Sometimes called a Swiss Cheese Plant because of the large holes often found in more mature leaves, it also looked like a painter’s palette to me. The shape was appealing.

Next, I added horsetail to create some strong angled lines. The lines were reinforced further with the addition of two stems of white orchids in the foreground and one more in the rear. The rear one touched the tabletop thus making the surface of the table an extension of the arrangement. “That one (the one in the rear) provides shadow,” Sensei explained.

Having pruned a stem of red celosia, I looked for a place to put it. “Red and white is a combination for an auspicious occasion,” Sensei informed me, seeming to hesitate about whether or not it was fitting and appropriate for the lesson.

“It’s my birthday. Surely that’s occasion enough to use red with white flowers,” I thought to myself. Finding the place for the furry, wool-like red flower was easy—like putting in the final piece of a puzzle.