FLORA
It’s all been done. And yet it’s never done.
The Prussian photographer Karl Blossfeldt (1865-1932) shot
black-and-white close-ups of plant forms—ornate, brooding
images on the far edge of botanical documentation.
In 1932, Ansel Adams shot a rose blossom on a piece of driftwood,
and they called it art.
Today, calendar photographers shoot flowers in the loudest
possible colors, bless their hearts, and earn a living.
If we ascribe a purpose to photography—scientific
tool, art object, commercial product, etc.—then shooting
flowers is banal, one of the least promising things to do.
But if you are a photographer trying to attend to the world
purposelessly, with a quiet mind, then it turns out that
flowers, too, are still speaking to us—regardless
of what convention tells them to do—because, as saints
and sages round the world declare, the doorways to the radiant
Present are everywhere, in every dust mote, and are everywhere
ajar.
That is why Tolstoy said love at first sight is the only
way we ever really fall in love.
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