she dances with yellow hands
spreading pollen through suggestive movements
she dances with pink and purple leaves
covering her modesty
exposing her intentions
she mocks those who look
yet she lures those who cannot see
The movement of our bodies is always synchronised with our vision; we look toward the destination of our walking. A synchronised falling, one foot in front of the other. The ballet dancing of plants in the wind; their growth as a metaphor for our existence; we see ourselves in the flowers of plants.
In rare moments captured on photographs, we can reminisce about moments that would have faded into obscurity if we had not captured them. Slaves to our memories; slaves to our eyes. The flower of the amaryllis blooms only for a couple of days a year. For the rest of the year, their beauty is merely theoretical; “they might bloom next year”. For the rest of the year, we trust our memories and the photographs (concretised memories).
This movement reminds us of our own mortality but also what is lost when movement ceases. We lose the ability to look, to capture, to embrace the beauty. Sometimes we hold the hubristic thought that life is created for us. These beautiful flowers cannot be appreciated by the slug or snail, nor the dog or bee. We humans are the only ones that can appreciate the true beauty of the flower. Hubris, life is not created for the human eye, but alas, it feels like such a tragic loss when our eyes close and none of the beauty can be seen, appreciated, memorised.
Yet she dances, her leaves like the arms of the ballerina and her stamen the seductive hand movements. We can look at the show or we can turn our heads away. The bees and other insects surround her beauty and dance their own violent dances around her. And in those movements or moments, the magical moment ensues which creates the new plants, the theoretical maybe-next-year-we-will-have-beautiful-flowers-again. Ceaseless movement, ceaseless memories. Forever creating in the moment for an uncertain future.
In the last light, the cast shadows are perfect to capture the motionless dancing that happens with no one looking; a rather private and poetic moment. The leaves chant and murmur their poems:
draped shadows
yellow fingers
our heavy breathing
ceaseless dancing
over and over
erotic covering
seductive movement
How many have looked? Can the flower exist if we do not uncover our eyes? Does life exist if we merely continue our day-to-day menial existence? Should we not bend down and smell the flower? To link our vision to memories, to action, to poetry?
These questions cannot be answered without looking at the flowers. Alas, how many will see the flower except through the eyes of others who also forget to look? As their intention is not to share beauty but to create a false reality centred around deceit. For now, we must contend with these sophists who cannot help us appreciate. Bend down, smell the flowers, and think about the poetic dancing of the belladonna.
Postscriptum, or The Poetics of Flowers
These flowers come up every year and last only for a couple of days. It is incredible that flowers will take a year to bloom but their flowers will only be open for ten or so days. They are asking, no begging, to be photographed. Last year, I managed to get some of them on photographs, but it was already too late. But this year, I am just in time! I hope that you enjoyed these flowers.
For now, happy photographing and keep well.
All of the photographs are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and Nikkor 50mm lens. The musings and writings are also my own.