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Nature as His Muse: Meet Manolo Valdés

While attending the opening of the Wild Medicine Exhibit at the New York Botanical Gardens, we were pleasantly surprised to have our eyes stumble upon the gorgeous sculptures of acclaimed Spanish artist Manolo Valdés. Created specifically for Garden’s plant collections, Valdés vividly displays the relationship between art and his muse, nature.  As you can see in the picture below, even the birds love the sculptures! With some of the seven sculptures reaching heights of 17ft, the gentle yet dynamic headdresses of the sculptures, which include ferns, oak and maple leaves, windblown palms, and butterflies, establish a romantic/serene/modern presence to the Gardens. Unfortunately, the sculptures are only up until May 26th.

Tylecodon buchholzianus
Beautiful and poisonous. As one description of this plant read: “the botanical world’s equivalent of a mamba bite”

#botanical #botanicalart #inspiredbynature #watercolor

Painting white and painting black are always the two challenging colors!
For an upcoming show at @axispioneersquare in February.
#raven #watercolor #inspiredbynature #mythology #artime_share #instaart #theartisthemotive #spotlightonartists

The child who picked roses..

Ink smudged anemone, heavenly hyacinth, lily

of the valley, sweet pea, powdery violet, and wild rose.

When I was a child, I discovered my mother’s perfume

bottles resting on her dressing table; When she wasn’t looking,

I ritualistically, lifted the stopper and anointed myself with

precious liquid gold Guerlain, Chanel, Balenciaga and Dior.

My favourite scent was ‘Le Dix’ with that little

blue bow wrapped around her bottle neck.

Surely, she wouldn’t notice a few drops were gone.

I ran downstairs to the garden to where the roses grew.

My perfume was made from fallen rose petals, mostly.

I gathered them and placed them in my basket.

Inside the basket were four scallop shells, one for each pile of petals

purple, pink, peach and white.

I sat down on the grass and took the shells from my basket

and placed them in front of me.

I squeezed out the last drops of those velvety rose petals, squeezing and

squeezing the petals, until the juice was gone.

No smell to taste, soggy, decay.

Rosebuds plucked secretly, in defiance of my mother.

The darlings of the garden, dead, held tightly in my hand.

I rubbed the remnants of those petals into the crease of my wrist and sniffed

the aroma.

I always sat beside the old metal can,

it was always in the same place where my grandfather left it.

No one was watching.

Carefully, I placed my hand in the can and cupped a little of the cool rain water,  

in to my palm, adding a few splashes to my soggy potion in the shells. 

 My Eau de parfum. 

Of course I smelled of ‘Le Dix’.

When I daydreamed, I dreamed of a wild rose, my violet tinted dog rose.

Tea stained with frayed edges.

Lady Grey was the grand dame, the darling of the

garden for the English Summer’s two weeks in June

Taller, her frail beauty overshadowed the other roses,

Her grey rinse was etched in my mind. I respected her

greatness, her beauty, I smelled her scent, her pungency.

And many years later I read Perfume, a book by Patrice Suskind, and

I loved that book like I loved that wild rose…