Consideration | BTL SRVC XXXI

Tauba Auerbach. “Shadow Weave – Metamaterial/Slice Ray” (2013). Private collection. © Tauba Auerbach. Photo: Steven Probert, courtesy the artist and Paula Cooper Gallery, New York.

She found him under the cherry tree, eyes closed and grass intertwined in his hair. If she didn’t know any better, she might have thought that he was merely asleep. It wasn’t uncommon to catch a wisp of a dream under the heart-shaped shadows of the evergreen covering. But unfortunately, this wasn’t a dream. Here Adonis laid, tucked into the grass surroundings, his head resting against a pillow of twigs, undone by a jealous Ares in the form of a wild boar. 

And above him? Aphrodite, tear-stricken as she mourned her lover. And she did indeed love him—she loved him gently as we do with human boys and their fragility. It is said that a certain alchemy took place here, where Aphrodite’s tears merged with Adonis’ blood and from their bodily concoction bloomed the first red rose. Forevermore, she was damned to haunt the earth without him, leaving trails of roses in her path in place of her tears, each petal blood-red, protected in thorns. In the pursuit of finding if there is truth behind the one, even the Goddess of Love isn’t spared. And maybe this is why we present red roses to those we love? To express the idea that we accept the risks and consequences of falling, yet yearn for it anyways. 

I think back to the pages I read as a literature major in college, reading how Charlotte Brontë compared her Jane to golden-eyed pansies so as to symbolize hopefulness and innocence. How Ophelia picked bitter rue after she had discovered that whom she thought was her forever was the end to her father in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The thoughtful intention of giving flowers dates back to the Middle Ages. With each stem, this tradition continued into the Renaissance until the Victorian Era sprouted something of which we now call floriography—the language of flowers. After the societal banning of public displays of affection in the 19th century and restricted communication before marriage, lovers turned to this cytological communication, in which every floret owned a secret. 

Books and pamphlets on floriography flooded the streets in the hopes that we could finally decode what transverses through a young man’s mind. Red roses meant that the love was fated, of course, whereas pink roses meant you were only a passing fancy. Sunflowers and myrtle were hastily bundled together and left at doorsteps in place of Dear John letters for a love that was no longer worth pursuing. If you were stubborn, you might receive a bouquet of bristling cacti and erect Fleur-di-Lis for a more heated feeling, which in floriography translates to “Flame, I burn.” 

I am curious to know what a sext in floriography might look like? Maybe a hefty amount of feral vines, where the more twisted the plant, the more impassioned? I’m not sure, but it must be better than an eggplant emoji. The last time I received flowers was for my twenty-fourth birthday last month, along with a sparkly pink bottle that didn’t last so long in the fridge, but whose effects seemed to linger through the night. But the last time I was truly gifted a flower was in the first breath of the new year. 

I didn’t know him very well then. We twiddled with blades of grass until our fingers turned green and walked mostly in silence through dirt-paved gardens. Following him through the trees instead felt like crossing the street with my eyes closed after knowing what it felt like to have the pavement at my back. He suddenly turned around with his fist upright. Was he asking for a fist bump? Oh no. He unfolded his hand and in it laid the smallest yellow flower. A yellow that would stain the pages of my journal, and the first of which I would leave to dry in-between a handwritten recollection of spring. If only it would be so easy to know one’s intention by the color of a petal. 

One by one, like Aphrodite, and as if by tradition, we will all eventually discover that in real life, there is no promise of tomorrow or forever when we can’t see past the edges of today. And I think that is why I continue to keep petals in between the pages of books. Maybe this scrapbook of flowers, carefully timed and placed, is the only thing tangible to what depths float around in my head—that love and emotion are also bound by the laws of physics and the natural tempo of progression. Because who are we to ask for forever? And again, maybe a flower is just a flower?

Whether there is an intention or not, flowers are gifted to us when we are born and left for us when we pass on, their presence adorning both our achievements and losses. Our Style Director here at Flaunt calls flowers “the ultimate luxury,” as bouquets never last more than five days—although her bouquets cost more than the shoes I’m wearing, and I’m not sure I consider my ten-dollar pepto-pink tulips I buy from Trader Joe’s quite a luxury. But in truth, they are a luxury; we prune, cut, and take something from a place where it would continue to bloom, only to sit to a silent crisp. We buy them every week so that we may eventually watch them wither on our dining table amongst our keys, forgotten wrappers, and last night’s take-out. 

And they will stay there for weeks on end untouched and become just a glimmer of what they used to be. Is it out of laziness? Maybe. Or perhaps it is that of attachment, that the flowers almost replace the person in the same way that an image can replace a memory. Maybe it is the thought of being acknowledged, the way that it is easier to notice their absence rather than their bloom, and that nothing can truly be thrown away. 

The only thing that can be forgotten is our names. I can’t help but think that every tendril of thought that seeps into our heads, or any feeling we have experienced through osmosis or materially, has already been felt tenfold. We are not special, and what we feel isn’t revolutionary or new. As I write this I know that someone else she found him under the cherry tree, eyes closed and grass intertwined in his hair. If she didn’t know any better, she might have thought that he was merely asleep. It wasn’t uncommon to catch a wisp of a dream under the heart-shaped shadows of the evergreen covering. But unfortunately, this wasn’t a dream. Here Adonis laid, tucked into the grass surroundings, his head resting against a pillow of twigs, undone by a jealous Ares in the form of a wild boar. 

And above him? Aphrodite, tear-stricken as she mourned her lover. And she did indeed love him—she loved him gently as we do with human boys and their fragility. It is said that a certain alchemy took place here, where Aphrodite’s tears merged with Adonis’ blood and from their bodily concoction bloomed the first red rose. Forevermore, she was damned to haunt the earth without him, leaving trails of roses in her path in place of her tears, each petal blood-red, protected in thorns. In the pursuit of finding if there is truth behind the one, even the Goddess of Love isn’t spared. And maybe this is why we present red roses to those we love? To express the idea that we accept the risks and consequences of falling, yet yearn for it anyways. 

I think back to the pages I read as a literature major in college, reading how Charlotte Brontë compared her Jane to golden-eyed pansies so as to symbolize hopefulness and innocence. How Ophelia picked bitter rue after she had discovered that whom she thought was her forever was the end to her father in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. The thoughtful intention of giving flowers dates back to the Middle Ages. With each stem, this tradition continued into the Renaissance until the Victorian Era sprouted something of which we now call floriography—the language of flowers. After the societal banning of public displays of affection in the 19th century and restricted communication before marriage, lovers turned to this cytological communication, in which every floret owned a secret. 

Books and pamphlets on floriography flooded the streets in the hopes that we could finally decode what transverses through a young man’s mind. Red roses meant that the love was fated, of course, whereas pink roses meant you were only a passing fancy. Sunflowers and myrtle were hastily bundled together and left at doorsteps in place of Dear John letters for a love that was no longer worth pursuing. If you were stubborn, you might receive a bouquet of bristling cacti and erect Fleur-di-Lis for a more heated feeling, which in floriography translates to “Flame, I burn.” 

I am curious to know what a sext in floriography might look like? Maybe a hefty amount of feral vines, where the more twisted the plant, the more impassioned? I’m not sure, but it must be better than an eggplant emoji. The last time I received flowers was for my twenty-fourth birthday last month, along with a sparkly pink bottle that didn’t last so long in the fridge, but whose effects seemed to linger through the night. But the last time I was truly gifted a flower was in the first breath of the new year. 

I didn’t know him very well then. We twiddled with blades of grass until our fingers turned green and walked mostly in silence through dirt-paved gardens. Following him through the trees instead felt like crossing the street with my eyes closed after knowing what it felt like to have the pavement at my back. He suddenly turned around with his fist upright. Was he asking for a fist bump? Oh no. He unfolded his hand and in it laid the smallest yellow flower. A yellow that would stain the pages of my journal, and the first of which I would leave to dry in-between a handwritten recollection of spring. If only it would be so easy to know one’s intention by the color of a petal. 

One by one, like Aphrodite, and as if by tradition, we will all eventually discover that in real life, there is no promise of tomorrow or forever when we can’t see past the edges of today. And I think that is why I continue to keep petals in between the pages of books. Maybe this scrapbook of flowers, carefully timed and placed, is the only thing tangible to what depths float around in my head—that love and emotion are also bound by the laws of physics and the natural tempo of progression. Because who are we to ask for forever? And again, maybe a flower is just a flower?

Whether there is an intention or not, flowers are gifted to us when we are born and left for us when we pass on, their presence adorning both our achievements and losses. Our Style Director here at Flaunt calls flowers “the ultimate luxury,” as bouquets never last more than five days—although her bouquets cost more than the shoes I’m wearing, and I’m not sure I consider my ten-dollar pepto-pink tulips I buy from Trader Joe’s quite a luxury. But in truth, they are a luxury; we prune, cut, and take something from a place where it would continue to bloom, only to sit to a silent crisp. We buy them every week so that we may eventually watch them wither on our dining table amongst our keys, forgotten wrappers, and last night’s take-out. 

And they will stay there for weeks on end untouched and become just a glimmer of what they used to be. Is it out of laziness? Maybe. Or perhaps it is that of attachment, that the flowers almost replace the person in the same way that an image can replace a memory. Maybe it is the thought of being acknowledged, the way that it is easier to notice their absence rather than their bloom, and that nothing can truly be thrown away. 

The only thing that can be forgotten is our names. I can’t help but think that every tendril of thought that seeps into our heads, or any feeling we have experienced through osmosis or materially, has already been felt tenfold. We are not special, and what we feel isn’t revolutionary or new. As I write this I know that someone else has written the same thing and another in the near future will have written it too. No matter how hard we try, there is no escaping the monotony of the collective unconscious. So we instead rely on the extrinsic, the physical dimensionality of professing the way we feel in which words cannot, constructing our own floriography with every passing floret. 

And for my message? I’ll doodle daisies in my journal for a welcoming of tender thoughts. I’ll offer my friend white lilies every year following his choice to leave the world too soon. Baby’s breath on tops of cakes, hoping I’ll get to keep the rest of my friends. I’ll dry the flowers handed to me with grass-stained fingers while I continue to experience my first real adult love. And as I sit in front of the still decaying flowers from a month ago, counting each rigid petal, I’ll promise my roommates that I’ll take it out in the morning. 

“The pseudo-radicals dropped something off for you.” 

Like a hamster fired out of a canon, I grabbed my passport and split, intending never to return to Santiago. Getting mixed up in politics in a foreign country is always bad policy, but being pursued by this band of anarchistic wannabes was potentially lethal.

That was going to be the start of a ripping spin, dear reader, which would put you right at the heart of a thrilling escape from Peru into Chile, and the resulting revelations that Pisco almost toppled two governments. Almost, so close, for as I was putting quill to paper notice arrived informing me that my cousin Skipper had passed, so we will hang onto that yarn for another day.

The message came from his lawyers, along with a plane ticket and a request to be in Wiscasset, Maine on the 23rd for a service at noon with a meeting to be held immediately afterwards. The missive promised ‘A Cauldron of Small Ideas.’ I was in Mumbai, observing an ancient dyeing process using a rare cochineal, a wingless parasite only found on the shores of the Ulhas River. Not red like its South American brethren, these little beasts produced a luminous indigo when crushed. It was a fascinating visit, but I was needed in Maine. After a night at the Doha airport, I was spit out at Logan where it was still, somehow, Tuesday. I rented a black Suburban [there was nothing larger available] and slid into the morning traffic heading north. No one was going towards Maine from Boston in the morning and I made excellent time, stopping in New Hampshire for their world-renowned discount liquor, cigarettes, and fireworks. 

A few days to kill in post-summer Maine used to be a daunting prospect; no longer. I bypassed Wiscasset and headed to Camden, one of the gems of Penobscot Bay. It is hardly ancient, by American standards, having not been established until after the Revolutionary War. It became a playground for the wealthy of Boston, New York, and Philadelphia and when, in 1892, the town was effectively burnt to the ground, a cabal of wealthy businessmen set about rebuilding almost immediately.

There were no scions of industry in Camden in November—just the 5,000 hardy locals and a handful of hardier travelers. What was there? One of the best restaurants in America, one of the great small hotels, and a very intriguing Biodynamic wine company.

Faithful readers, we do not write travel pamphlets; our interest lies in reporting the truth and drinking the finest the world has on offer. Nevertheless, a night or two at the Camden Harbour Inn [yes they add the pretentious ‘u’] and a few meals at Natalie’s will convince you that this is a righteous cause. Three fireplaces in your suite, a sauna in the bathroom, and a seven-course lobster menu in the dining room, and you will be a believer. Have a second Calvados at the bar after dinner, then bundle up and go out to light a few Roman Candles in celebration. Come for a month and finish your screenplay. 

Wine you ask? Grapes growing in Maine? OK, it is hard to grow grapes in that unforgiving climate and very, very few are. Oyster River Winegrowers mostly use grapes from New York, Merlot, Cab Franc, Chardonnay, and assorted others from the north fork of Long Island, the Finger Lakes, and Cayuga. They do make a single fabulous wine from Maine grapes: the not yet, but poised to be, famous Carbonic Nation.

Science lesson? Sure. If you are a regular reader, we assume you understand the basics of winemaking: crush grapes, remove the stems, let natural or added yeasts turn the sugars in the juice into alcohol. Filtered and barreled [or not] it is tasted and fussed over, then bottled and sold [or not]. Carbonic Nation is made using carbonic maceration. Entire bunches of grapes are added to an airtight container. The oxygen is pumped out and CO2 is added. The weight of the grapes themselves aid in the crushing process. The CO2 permeates the grape skins and stimulates fermentation from within the grape itself. The resulting wine is abundant with fresh fruit and almost no tannins. Cherries, pomegranates, fresh flowers, high acid, puppies, and rainbows. It is so fun to drink, I knocked back a bottle before dinner. The farm was shuttered for the season, which given my relationship to the great outdoors was far from a disaster. There is a shop in town that is happy to wrap up six bottles for me.

After a final dinner (shout out to the black cod in buttermilk) I began to ponder what lay ahead. I had not seen or spoken to Skipper for more than 15 years. When his name came up, the older generation would politely fall into uncomfortable silence until Uncle Bug would say, “think it’s time for that special Scotch.” Skipper was a dark horse, but the reasons were left unclear, and now a lot of the oldies had shuffled off, taking their secrets with them. 

Skipper had been a scientist of some sort, traipsing from country to country in the constant hunt for grant money. As a boy, I would get the occasional postcard from Japan or Thailand, or the former Yugoslavia, and wondered if he was perhaps an agent for a foreign power. Once I received a small box from Brazil—the hastily written letter was wrapped around a mummified finger. ‘Thought you might find this interesting. The Kawaíb are a fascinating people, they claim they are no longer cannibals, but I see them eyeing me around the campfire and try to make myself look less appetizing. Hope you like the finger. It certainly points to great things in your future.’ My mother found it a few days later and had a breakdown, recovered, and threw the offending digit in the fireplace. She was a gentle soul and the worst thing she would say about Skipper was that he was “certainly a fabulist.” My aunt Tingle was less restrained and called him a “communist liar who was suckling at the teat of humanity.” The next day looked promising.

The morning dawned harshly, grey, and cold, the intermittent rain threatened to turn to snow with little notice. The house wasn’t one of those giant coast-hugging Victorian mansions. A few blocks in from the Atlantic, it was still a sea captain’s home, built in 1690, eight rooms with a massive red metal structure attached at the rear.

There were only two cars parked in front when I pulled up. Not the turnout I expected. No one greeted me when I went inside, but off the entrance was a great room where a dozen chairs were set up, so I knew I was in the right place. A solitary woman sat in the first row. At the front of the room was a large marble urn—the ashes? Next to it was a small bronze statue of a man striking a heroic pose. I guessed Skipper was taking his final bow. 

I took a seat as far back as I could, and after a moment, two grey-suited men came in and stood by the sculpture. “Does anyone have anything they’d like to say?” Silence. “OK, that ends the ceremony. Would you both meet us in the dining room?”

I began planning my own funeral, a party on the beach perhaps or a scattering of ashes at a roulette wheel in Monte Carlo. Anything but this. “OK, thanks for coming. We were instructed to have you both here to read the will. This is Miss Mathrope. She doesn’t drink, but we have been asked to offer you both some of Mr. Scanlon’s cognac. It’s a Napoleon from around 1790. Please help yourself.” They poured a thimbleful into the old woman’s glass then plopped the bottle in front of me. Poison? Who cares, this was worth dying for. I poured myself a double shot, the two gentlemen refused my offer when I lifted the bottle in their direction, and I hoped if I was left anything, that this was it. “Now to business. Skipper Scanlon the third, being of sound mind and body, hereby makes these final dispensations. To my longtime aide and confidant Annabel Mathrope I leave the bulk of my estate; properties, stocks, bonds, and other financial instruments subject to prior conditions, agreed to and subjected to writ under Maine State law.”

What the hell was I doing here? A business class ticket from Mumbai was about $6000, so presumably I had some small role to play. ‘To my beloved nephew, I leave the contents of my wine cellar, my sculpture, which I hope will have a place of pride in your great room.’ How much wine did he have? Hopefully lots. One of the lawyers cleared his throat. “There is one other thing. Would you follow me please?” 

We left the parlor and went through a large metal door into what I assumed was the metal structure in the back. The lawyer turned on the light and I saw them. Six children—three girls and three boys, all identical. They looked to be about 10 years old, black hair and black eyes. Dressed in matching black shorts suits, they stood quietly as the lawyer turned to me. He opened a laptop and turned it on. There was Skipper speaking from beyond the grave. “Hello William, it is certainly a pleasure that you’ve finally decided to come to Maine to visit me.” He held up a glass of wine. Miss Mathrope appeared beside me, handed me a glass, and poured me a few ounces of red. “It’s a 72 Latour, one of my favorites. I have ten cases and now they’re yours. A toast.” We held up our glasses and drank. “Have you met your children?” Some of the wine shot out of my nose. 

“They’re clones actually. Do you still have the finger I sent you? Well I used some of that DNA to make them. Samson and the rest said I was crazy, and maybe I was, but I showed them all. We don’t know how long they will last. Frankly, I’m surprised they lived past a few months, but here we are. You have to sign a few papers and it will all be sorted. They won’t live with you; Miss Mathrope will attend to their needs here at the house. There’s a full lab and medical facility in the basement. The children don’t really speak or emote, but they have brought me a great deal of comfort in my dotage. They have one real passion, and this is why I thought of you as their conservator. Seemingly the one skill they have retained from their finger was distilling Cachaça.”

When Skipper said the word, the children visibly perked up. “The lawyers will show you the set up. We have a sugarcane press, fermentation tanks, stills, the whole soup and fish as it were. They take a great deal of pride in their work and I am hoping you can use your connections to bring it to market. Money isn’t really a concern, but if you can jumpstart our Cachaça enterprise it would bring a great deal of satisfaction. There is a fund for you to return as necessary, and we will organize shipping the wine to wherever you would like, although given the lot is 3500 cases, it may be better to let it sit in the caves here. Well that’s about it, probably a lot to digest, but I’m sure you’re the man for the job. Children.” They walked up to the computer and stared at the screen. “Take your Cousin and show him your workspace. Don’t let him drink too much.” 

Was that a smile on their faces? They came to me; a girl took my hand and led me off into the darkened recesses of the giant structure. This was, to be blunt, entirely unexpected.