Trays of philanopsis, dendrodiums and african violets for good measure defined my great aunt Helen’s apartment in the Bronx. I remember excited talks about kikis at the dinner table over her lamb shank stew, and the thrill I got when I got the chance to do a full misting of the trays. She is the most orderly person I’ve ever met. I had always associated orchids with her precision watering and care until I moved out here to the woods.
We have cypripediums growing in the forests, pink lady slipper orchids. They show up around this time of the year before the Mt. Laurels bloom. I’ve tried to figure out their consistent locations, but they’re elusive. It’s as if they move from year to year – so when I do encounter them it is always a joy and a surprise. While I was sitting in this patch of orchids the other day, I thought about their transience, their mystical movements, their beauty. This habit defies their common definition – as a plant – something that remains stationary, with roots. Perhaps what I value most about them is their magic, defiance of order and predictability. I struggle with this as a designer – how to create enough order to foster magical defiance and unscripted beauty? It’s a gift to encounter it and be inspired.
