I drafted this post on a plane back to San Diego after having spent most of week in Philadelphia for a conference. This particular conference has the perverse habit of holding almost all of its meetings in February, almost always in places where winters are less benign than California’s.
Philadelphia sunrise. This was about 3:30 a.m. San Diego time.
Last week I walked on snow, slipped on ice, and encountered sidewalks heaped with piles of dark, bleak urban snow. But I also saw still waterways encrusted with transparent ice, architecturally leafless winter trees, and stands of sturdy grasses asserting themselves through snow-covered embankments.
I didn’t die. I returned with all of my fingers and toes intact. But as beautiful as things were I felt out of place. Visiting other people’s winter was like visiting other people’s houses. You don’t know the rules. What can you touch? Where should you sit? When do you open the windows and doors on warm days?
Over time you can learn the rules and begin to feel comfortable in the strange house, but a week isn’t enough. It all still seemed exotic when I left.
These are a few shots from my exotic adventure, most of them taken the day after the conference concluded, most of them on a trip out to the Barnes Collection in the Philadelphia suburb of Merion.
The Barnes is best known for its important post-impressionist and early modern artworks, all of which are “permanently”* displayed in a gallery in the exact locations where its founder Albert C. Barnes placed them during his lifetime. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many Cezannes and Renoirs stacked up on gallery walls in one location. It was thrilling and uncomfortably tight at the same time.
Outside the Barnes, in the arboretum
In addition to being one of the more important collections of post-impressionist and early modern art, The Barnes is also a small garden estate that calls the grounds an arboretum. This is a landscape of big trees and larger lawns. If you’ve read some of my other posts bashing lawns you’d probably never think you’d read me something nice about them, but here’s one thing: A lawn covered with snow gives you a sense of space similar to a lawn with no snow in the spring. It’s a flatness, whether the flatness is white or green, and the flatness serves as a uniform foil for the plants placed in it. You can still read the space and get a sense of how it would be during other times of year. Additionally I’d guess that it’d be easier to focus on the seasonal cycles when some things stay the same.
One of the plants with a label: Franklinia alatamaha. It originated in Georgia, but the little trees are now considered extinct in the wild there.A little bonsai parked outside the greenhouse at the BarnesThe greenhouse was closed on Sunday, but you could peer inside and window-shop for a climate even warmer than California's.An outdoor arrangement at the Barnes of evergreens and grasses
All you cold winter-dwellers will know these plants better than I do. The only IDs I have are from the plant labels placed generously around the grounds. But I was deterred by the blanketing snow to go exploring off the cleared paths. It’s back to that other people’s house thing. Was it okay to go traipsing all over the place, maybe stomping on some precious low plants I didn’t see under my boots? There wasn’t anyone to ask on my way out, so I tried to be the good houseguest and wandered off only a couple times–nothing equivalent to peeking in closets or checking for dust on the frames of the host’s Picassos.
One of the Barnes' neighbors who clearly feels the collection should remain in its current location.The new home of the Barnes Collection under construction in downton Philadelphia
A note about my asterisked “permanently” above: Many of the paintings were removed for conservation in preparation for the entire collection about to be moved whole to a new building on Philadelphia’s museum row, a prime block of land with plenty of room for a small museum, but not enough for even a small arboretum. The major soap opera and powerplay behind the relocation are the subject of the recent documentary The Art of the Steal. Plants don’t have the same dramatic value as wars over eight-figure artworks, so not surprisingly there’s no discussion of the arboretum in the documentary. Also not surprisingly I didn’t see any copies of the film available for purchase in the official Barnes Foundation giftshop.
Along with lots of other gardeners I’ve gone all sad and nostalgic on how gardens seldom outlive the gardeners. The drama of this collection’s relocation tells you that a will with very specific instructions is no guarantee that things will be left as you envisioned. Art collections, lifetime gardens—nothing is forever is it?
11 thoughts on “other people’s winter”
Ok, fine. I will never move again so this garden lives on. I have nightmares about sellign the house and a Bobcat tractor razing the garden to make room for…. LAWN. And what is it about conferences? Mine are always in Feb, too, and always north of Nebraska.
A very interesting post. I never thought of comparing another climate to another person’s house although, as you say, there are many similarities. I moved to California from Russia years ago, but I still make bad gardening decisions because my assumptions are based on another climate.
I know what you mean by other people’s winter having spent a number of Christmases in Australia which were completely bizarre for someone from the UK. Hope you enjoyed the experience though
Lovely post – loved your description of being a good houseguest. I’m not sure gardens should ever be left as envisioned by the original creator. Surely a garden needs to evolve if it is to have any sense of dynamism? I dislike the meticulously kept museum-like quality you get in some famous gardens, I want to know that someone is taking an active interest, and is being creative when plants get too large for their place or die.
I saw the trailer for this movie a few weeks ago. It looks really interesting. As for weather, a friend of mine had to go to DC for work when they were having some crazy snowstorm and we were having days in the 70s. She was not a happy camper. I’ve only lived in a snowy climate (Central Europe) for one winter. It was really fun in December with the first snowfalls. My friend from CA and I would throw snowballs at each other, while our friends from snowy places looked at us like we were deranged. By February I was done and bought a ticket to South America.
Am I to understand you actually got in to the Barnes — the place Matisse said was the only museum fit to hang his art in the the U.S. — and saw the collection as it’s been originally housed? I thought it was sold out, then is to be dismantled and moved to Philly. I’ve seen the documentary and almost got into the Barnes last fall but our connection fell through. Amazing! And glad you’re back safe and warm again.
“…thrilling and uncomfortably tight at the same time” is a brilliant turn of phrase, and could as easily describe my feelings watching The King’s Speech.
James, What an interesting post. It made me realize why, although I often enjoyed myself, I never felt “at home” during the 2 years I lived in southern California.
The question of change is an interesting one. It seems to me that a garden can never be preserved unchanged, since the garden inhabitants are living growing things. I don’t think I like my museums or art collections frozen in time, either. It reminds me of the Isabella Gardner museum in Boston, with its rules that the works of art and their locations within the museum can never be changed. I know it’s supposed to be a great museum, but I found it stultified and stultifying.
Maybe you should try to get your organization to plan their conference for late March or April — what follows winter in the mid-Atlantic states is a glorious spring.
Benjamin, north of Nebraska? In February? Sign me up! (And thanks for doing your part to fight the flat green menace. I knew you were always way too creative to commit turf.)
Marsha, there’s so much to learn with every climate. I’m sure it would take me many years to learn to garden anywhere else.
Wiseacre, wow, what a warm(?) offer! Actually the last week here has looked like we’re sliding back into winter, or at least what we call this season here.
Arleen, I didn’t make it to either place, but many of my colleagues made their pilgrimages. I tend to eat lower on the foodchain and managed to find a place that offered vegan “Philly cheesesteaks.” Still, even though I was in Philly, it sounded too much like a stunt to be a good idea.
Helen, I’m appreciative of these opportunities to see and learn new things. People talk a lot about the subtleties of the winter landscape, and I can definitely begin to see the quiet beauties that the season brings.
Brad, in my brief time there I wasn’t prompted to book a flight to South America, but I could see how a couple months of it might lead me to do something like it. I was gratified to see snowmen in one of the suburban parks. I guess not all the things I associate with winter are stunts the natives never participate in…
Denise, yes, that very Barnes. I wanted to see it before it got bundled up to downtown, and I figured it was my last chance. Even when I went, the upstairs was already closed off, and paintings were
pulled off the walls for conservation in preparation for the reinstallation. It felt like I’d stepped into the middle of an art heist. (Probably not so far from the truth, according to the documentary…)
Ricki, I’ll keep your comment when I finally get to see The King’s Speech. It might suddenly get popular after the Academy Awards in a couple days.
Jean, funny that you mention Boston’s Gardner, because that’s the other very similar institution I kept thinking of. Actually I found the Gardner a much more pleasant place to look at art and didn’t feel Isabella’s strong hand at work as much as I sensed Albert’s. The amazing art aside, I think that you well might find the Barnes quite oppressive. In the end I realize that how we think about art changes over the years, and these set-in-place institutions become increasingly less about the art and more about perpetuating a single way to view it.
Ok, fine. I will never move again so this garden lives on. I have nightmares about sellign the house and a Bobcat tractor razing the garden to make room for…. LAWN. And what is it about conferences? Mine are always in Feb, too, and always north of Nebraska.
A very interesting post. I never thought of comparing another climate to another person’s house although, as you say, there are many similarities. I moved to California from Russia years ago, but I still make bad gardening decisions because my assumptions are based on another climate.
Glad you survived your brush with psudo-winter. When you’re ready for a near death experience you’re welcome to visit me 🙂
James, in addition to the conference and winter ruminations, did you make it out to Pat’s or Geno’s for the Philly Cheese Steak?
I know what you mean by other people’s winter having spent a number of Christmases in Australia which were completely bizarre for someone from the UK. Hope you enjoyed the experience though
Lovely post – loved your description of being a good houseguest. I’m not sure gardens should ever be left as envisioned by the original creator. Surely a garden needs to evolve if it is to have any sense of dynamism? I dislike the meticulously kept museum-like quality you get in some famous gardens, I want to know that someone is taking an active interest, and is being creative when plants get too large for their place or die.
I saw the trailer for this movie a few weeks ago. It looks really interesting. As for weather, a friend of mine had to go to DC for work when they were having some crazy snowstorm and we were having days in the 70s. She was not a happy camper. I’ve only lived in a snowy climate (Central Europe) for one winter. It was really fun in December with the first snowfalls. My friend from CA and I would throw snowballs at each other, while our friends from snowy places looked at us like we were deranged. By February I was done and bought a ticket to South America.
Am I to understand you actually got in to the Barnes — the place Matisse said was the only museum fit to hang his art in the the U.S. — and saw the collection as it’s been originally housed? I thought it was sold out, then is to be dismantled and moved to Philly. I’ve seen the documentary and almost got into the Barnes last fall but our connection fell through. Amazing! And glad you’re back safe and warm again.
“…thrilling and uncomfortably tight at the same time” is a brilliant turn of phrase, and could as easily describe my feelings watching The King’s Speech.
James, What an interesting post. It made me realize why, although I often enjoyed myself, I never felt “at home” during the 2 years I lived in southern California.
The question of change is an interesting one. It seems to me that a garden can never be preserved unchanged, since the garden inhabitants are living growing things. I don’t think I like my museums or art collections frozen in time, either. It reminds me of the Isabella Gardner museum in Boston, with its rules that the works of art and their locations within the museum can never be changed. I know it’s supposed to be a great museum, but I found it stultified and stultifying.
Maybe you should try to get your organization to plan their conference for late March or April — what follows winter in the mid-Atlantic states is a glorious spring.
Benjamin, north of Nebraska? In February? Sign me up! (And thanks for doing your part to fight the flat green menace. I knew you were always way too creative to commit turf.)
Marsha, there’s so much to learn with every climate. I’m sure it would take me many years to learn to garden anywhere else.
Wiseacre, wow, what a warm(?) offer! Actually the last week here has looked like we’re sliding back into winter, or at least what we call this season here.
Arleen, I didn’t make it to either place, but many of my colleagues made their pilgrimages. I tend to eat lower on the foodchain and managed to find a place that offered vegan “Philly cheesesteaks.” Still, even though I was in Philly, it sounded too much like a stunt to be a good idea.
Helen, I’m appreciative of these opportunities to see and learn new things. People talk a lot about the subtleties of the winter landscape, and I can definitely begin to see the quiet beauties that the season brings.
Brad, in my brief time there I wasn’t prompted to book a flight to South America, but I could see how a couple months of it might lead me to do something like it. I was gratified to see snowmen in one of the suburban parks. I guess not all the things I associate with winter are stunts the natives never participate in…
Denise, yes, that very Barnes. I wanted to see it before it got bundled up to downtown, and I figured it was my last chance. Even when I went, the upstairs was already closed off, and paintings were
pulled off the walls for conservation in preparation for the reinstallation. It felt like I’d stepped into the middle of an art heist. (Probably not so far from the truth, according to the documentary…)
Ricki, I’ll keep your comment when I finally get to see The King’s Speech. It might suddenly get popular after the Academy Awards in a couple days.
Jean, funny that you mention Boston’s Gardner, because that’s the other very similar institution I kept thinking of. Actually I found the Gardner a much more pleasant place to look at art and didn’t feel Isabella’s strong hand at work as much as I sensed Albert’s. The amazing art aside, I think that you well might find the Barnes quite oppressive. In the end I realize that how we think about art changes over the years, and these set-in-place institutions become increasingly less about the art and more about perpetuating a single way to view it.