A not so successful snowdrop shot

The morning light crests the hill.  The birds are singing their spring songs.  I have the garden to myself.  I take a deep breath, I bend forward. I exhale. I take a deep breath and come back to standing.  I take a deep breath and bend at the knees to a crouching position.  I breathe and stretch a little further.  I exhale and come back to standing.  No, I am not practicing yoga in the garden (though that might be nice). I am contorting my body and holding my breath to capture that perfect photo of the March Bank in its full snowdrop glory.  I wish I could say that I got the result I was looking for.  The truth is that the camera can not fully deliver the experience of seeing something in person.  I had what I thought to be the right elements in place; morning light, overcast conditions, multiple angles yet it barely captured what I was seeing.

My husband was a professional photographer in an earlier life and has provided me some tutelage along the way.  I set up the scenario of my “yoga shots” and asked him what went wrong.  He mentioned a few terms—manually opening the aperature, bracketing, f-stops—things that the average “point and shoot” photographer may not know.  Essentially it comes down to the camera’s light meter averaging out all that it was taking in—pure white, reflective flowers on a dark background. The camera “averaged to middle grey”; the end result, a mediocre picture.   He went on to sing the praises of the of the human brain; how our eyes are constantly “adjusting the light meters”, continuously sending multiple exposures to our brain and our brain seamlessly puts them together to create the perfect picture and the perfect experience. 

 I bring up my photographic failure not because I enjoy public humiliation but to emphasize that there is no replacement for the true experience.  This is becoming more and more relevant as we enter the instantaneous digital-virtual world of webcams, video, and photography and where one can “tour” a garden or museum over the computer.  It is great to be able to type in a few key words and have an image of Van Gogh’s Starry Night magically appear on the computer screen but it is no substitution for the real thing; looking closely at the brush strokes and then stepping back and seeing the image that is created and the emotion that is evoked at that moment. 

Gardens by their nature, in close alliance with sporadic weather, consistently create a certain “viewing urgency” similar to the final days of an art exhibition. Friday’s unseasonable temperatures in the 70’s pushed a lot of things into flower and a lot of things out of flower.  If you missed the large sweeps of snowdrops this year then mark it on your calendar for 2012.  If you want to see the March Bank in its “blue phase”, the period when the entire hillside transforms into a blue oasis, then plan on a visit this week and if you can swing it, visit at different times of the day.  The mood of the March Bank changes dramatically between the rising and setting of the sun. The continuous movement and intensity of the sunlight plays off of the rolling nature of the hillside, creating shadows and depth of color in some spaces while highlighting other locations.   Like the Van Gogh painting, a great amount of detail can be viewed from up close—variations in flowers and in foliage color,  but the view from afar is pure drama.  Blue is another color that is difficult to truly capture through the lens; it often can appear more purple in color than what our eyes see. I have witnessed the March Bank in this performance role for 20 years now and no two experiences are alike.  One year the effect lasted for 3 weeks, one year it hardly even made an appearance and one year I witnessed the blue at near sunset and it was electric; this is the moment where I remember the drama and emotion.  I am confident that the lens could not have captured that…

This is a time when the horticulturist who cares for the March Bank takes a deep breath from all of the hard work in preparation for this moment (she does not “tip toe through the tulips”). However, in sections where bulbs such as snowdrops are not part of a successional planting we will divide and transplant the clumps to increase their presence in the garden. Snowdrops (Galanthus) and snowflake (Leucojum) can be divided “in the green” meaning after flower when the foliage is still present. It is recommended with most others bulbs to divide as the foliage is going dormant or in the fall. This may be the best practice but I find that I tend to divide all of my bulbs after flower as it allows me to better visualize their placement. The hastiness on my part may result in a reduction of flower the following year but it is a system that works best for me—otherwise the job may never get done. With gardening tasks we must know thyself!

[Glory-of-the-Snow today]

This afternoon Carol Long, Assistant Curator of the Garden, let me put her on the spot. I asked her to write up her prediction of when the March Bank’s famous ‘blue phase’ would reach its peak, so that we could let staff members and guests know when to expect the best display. Here is what Carol wrote:

Come out and experience the glory-of-the-snow. No, not the white stuff that covered the March Bank but the blue flowers that are making their display now. The warm weather last week hastened its appearance and the continued mild temperatures will make the blue peak by late this week. The color changes throughout the day, with richer tones in the morning and evening and also with cloud cover so visit often!

Thank you Carol. Walking through the March Bank this time of year is an almost surreal experience. The blossoms litter the ground like blue popcorn, but in some areas the flowers are so thick that they look like drifts of blue snow. I hope you will come out this weekend and see the spectacle for yourself.

[Scilla and Chionodoxa last year]

Those words were written by H.F. du Pont in 1916.    That blue sheet of the March Bank is predominately Glory-of-the-snow or Chionodoxa forbesii (above), formerly known as Chionodoxa luciliae. Its blossoms are upward facing and star-shaped. The petals are joined at the base, unlike those of the squill.   The Siberian squill, Scilla siberica (below),  has nodding star-like flowers. Note that their petals are separate.  Both are easy to grow and available in the nursery trade.

Today, it’s about 55 degrees with bright sun and the flowers are fully open.  We’re on the leading edge of the “blue phase” of the March Bank. Over the next week or so, it will become more intensely saturated.

My favorite views in late March are daffodil “clouds” as the dark stubble of leaves emerge on the hillsides, reminding me of a 5 o’clock shadow.  Doesn’t sound pretty, does it? It’s like my dad’s scratchy beard mixed with the promise of spring.

This afternoon I encountered two couples walking in the garden. The first woman stated that she and her husband had just come up with a new life plan. They are going to take an afternoon off a week to have lunch at Winterthur and walk in the garden. A worthy idea for enjoying life to the fullest, don’t you think? 

I met the second couple walking near the greenhouses and asked if they had seen the March Bank. Oh yes, they said with glee. The woman added that today is their 48th wedding anniversary; they celebrated by enjoying the garden from their favorite bench. The March Bank seems to be blooming  just for them!