One evening after having many drinks, we went down to the river where I burst into tears.
Sigh. No one cries when they see ships, Dezra. he said.
I do, if they look like pirate ships rising up like skeletons into the darkness of a New Orleans’ night sky.
Years ago I realized I lost my sense of awe, my sense of wonder. Nothing seemed to make me wonder anymore, at least, not in its original, spiritual sense. I wanted, needed to be filled with the immensity of something bigger and more powerful than me. I needed to know I am still capable of wonder.
When I saw these tall ships towering over me, their skeletal masts jutting high into the night sky, I felt overpowered and in that instant I wept. I’m sure the wine had something to do with it, also. But in that moment, I felt the very thing I yearned to feel, something bigger than me and more powerful. It was awesome!
I went back the next day to see if the power of the night still held. It was a different experience, of course, but still impressive.
The week I was there was NOLA Navy Week. Nine ships, including three tall ships and the USS Wasp, docked along the East Bank of the Mississippi River. New Orleans served as the inaugural city for the U.S. Navy’s bicentennial commemoration of the War of 1812.
I know, I’m wrapping up a day early. I think wrapping up on a weekend is a good thing. It’s like bundling up multiple endings into a neat, little package, and that feels good.
I was going to do another catch-up with the 365 Days Journey Through the Past today. I am obsessed right now with New Orleans so I haven’t been as diligent with the Journey. However, when I looked at the photo for day 175, I knew it needed its own dedicated post. Graduating with a master’s degree was a major milestone in my life and I still love my final project, an art installation using digital technology. I have the door hanging over my couch, for heaven’s sake!
I also think this post will help explain my fascination for texture and old things, for abandoned places and buildings, and for cemeteries. In the abstract I wrote for my advisor, I explained:
A number of years ago I realized that I’m aging. The signs become more prominent each day. At first it upset me and I found myself looking in the mirror and pulling my skin taut so that it looked youthful. But I’m also pragmatic and realized that I will continue to age, so I asked myself, “How do I want to age?” I was being bombarded by images of women denying their ages, women like Cher and others. I felt them grasping for the past and denying their present and future. And I didn’t like it.
So to answer the question, “How do I want to age?” I responded, “I want to age gracefully.” But how can I age gracefully if I do not like the aged? I am a product of my culture, the culture of youth, and I realized, as I kept pulling my skin taut while looking in the mirror, that if I continued to desire youth and denigrate age, then when I truly am old, I will not like myself because I’ve spent a lifetime teaching myself to disregard the aged.
Thus began my obsession with finding the beauty in anything that is falling apart.
I designed the space to include old railings and dirty fabric swags that I made by stomping on them in the rain and mud. In the background, I had playing Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber, which is slow and beautiful and poignant.
Again, the abstract explains best what I did:
My project consists of a print made from a collage of digital photographs framed behind a door. It is displayed juxtaposed over a video projected onto a screen door showing each layer of that same print being added to it. The video is over 16 minutes long incorporating twelve different layers. The changes between layers is slow so that at first it doesn’t appear that anything is happening but if the viewer waits long enough or comes back after leaving the piece, they will find that the image has changed.
The second part of my project is interactive. Over 75 photos have been programmed in HTML to lead the viewer through a series of images based upon choices the viewer makes when contemplating the photos. Each photo has two to five hot spots that take the viewer to another photo that has relevance to the previous photo. For example, if the viewer is intrigued by an eye in the image and clicks on the eye the subsequent image has relevance to the eye. On the other hand, if another viewer is more intrigued by the hair in the same photo and clicks on that, then that viewer will be taken to a completely different photo that has relevance to the hair. Each viewer will have his or her own personal experience of the interactive photos.
It was interesting to watch people do the interactive part. Some people whipped through the photos and got to the end real fast while others couldn’t get out of the program to save their lives! Over all, I got good reviews for the installation. I saw it as a celebration of the aging process, as did most everyone who came through. But some people saw it as death and dying and were frightened or upset or angry about it. One person wrote, “Too old, too soon.”
It’s all where one is on life’s journey and how one views age and dying that determined how one experienced the installation.
I heard that ferries are magical. It’s true. The magic lies in their restorative powers as they protect you and help you cross over watery depths. I love the symbolism of the ferryman, of the water, of the transition from one state to another. I took the Algiers Ferry across the Mississippi River, then returned, just so I could feel the breeze on my face and sense the water under my feet, not because I needed to cross the river to go anywhere in particular. It was magical. I didn’t plan anything by way of photographs. Instead, I enjoyed what I found.
Crossing the Mississippi River
On the Ferry
On the Other Side
View on Return Trip
The Mississippi River is music at its most subtle. Wandering the river front, I soon fell into its seductive rhythm; the syncopated quarter note of the ferry, the half note of the steamboat, the thrum of the barges, the long whole note of the cruise ships. And darting through it all is the small, orange Coast Guard patrol boat. Other ships join in the rhythm, too, adding a nice counter to the regular beat. Together with the bull horns and splashing water, with the excited voice of tourists, with the laughing gulls and the silent pauses, the Mississippi River plays a lively river song.
If the comings and goings of the river boats is the beat, the call of the gulls belongs to the tune. I have heard the term laughing gulls but until New Orleans I had never heard one, and this is coming from a gal who was born and raised in Utah where the seagull is the State bird!
I have a like/hate relationship with gulls. I say like instead of love because when you live your life dodging the damn things and yet have to respect them as your State bird, it makes it difficult to love them. In Utah, I have had my more-than-fair share of poop-bombing seagulls messing my hair and face. Over time, I learned to dodge and duck to avoid them. I learned to NEVER let them get above me, and if there was a flock taking off anywhere near, it was inevitable that some white grossness plopped down on or near me. Utah gulls are not nice gulls. I think it’s because they know they’re privileged. I really believe they have bombing competitions.
So, here I am on the Mississippi River, tentatively side-stepping the gulls and horrified to see my fellow tourists walking calmly through them. GET OUT OF THE WAY! THEY’LL BOMB YOU! I yell in my head. The New Orleans gulls are gutsy, flying in and around the people. The Utah gulls stayed well above as they bombed, but the New Orleans gulls fly right at you. I duck and dodge all over the place. But I’m the only one ducking and dodging. And I notice that no one yells “Ew, gross” or looks down at their shoulders in disgust. No one wipes off their shoes or runs their fingers through their hair in surprise. What manner of voodoo is this? Do the New Orleans gulls hypnotize their prey so they don’t know they are covered in sticky droppings?
As I dodge the gulls, I decide I want a photo of one in flight UP CLOSE. I am not a nature photographer, but there are so many gulls that I most assuredly will get a decent photo. Right? Not if you keep ducking and dodging my inner voice says. Sigh. Ok. So I take a stance. I stake out a gull, and it sees me.
Hold steady, Dezra, I tell myself as the gull swings around to dive at me. I stagger back with one foot, catching my balance. The gull comes at me. My ducking instincts kick in and I’m screaming, HOLD STEADY, HOLD STEADY. Then the gull eyes me just as I get the shot. It suddenly banks right, and I hear it laughing as it returns to its flock.
After that I no longer fear the gulls. They aren’t out to get me, or anyone else, for that matter. They are perfectly content on the shores of the Mississippi River doing whatever it is that gulls do. Now that I think about it, those Utah gulls are landlocked and probably frustrated about the lack of decent water. No wonder they take to bombing people.
Although I took many photos of the bird in flight, only the one turned out. Here are a few more photos of the gulls:
By the way, if you’re wondering why there aren’t more people (tourists), I suspect it’s because a major event just happened over the weekend and most people (tourists) left when it was over. It’s also the weekday; most likely Monday since that’s when I took photos of the gulls. And, New Orleans has so much to see and do that the remaining people are swallowed up in other activities. At least, that’s my guess. But that’s ok with me because I can relax and get to know the Mississippi River much more personally. Hello Mississippi River. Nice to finally meet you.
Bourbon Street No. 1
(This is where I introduce you to Bourbon Street.)
Friend: Let’s go down Bourbon Street.
We turn off Royal and walk the short block to Bourbon Street. It’s a Sunday night, the end of a weekend. Lots of people on Royal Street. Lots of people all over the place! The night is high on energy.
We turn onto Bourbon Street and I immediately cringe.
Me: There’s something wrong here! My voice rises in pitch…or panic…but not really because I don’t panic anymore, but I may start again just for tonight.
Friend: This is normal.
Me: No! I yell. It’s wrong. It’s…it’s…
What can I say?
Me: It’s LOUD, I shout. And…and…
Friend: It’s supposed to be loud. That’s how they desensitize you.
He’s acting normal. I’m shrinking into myself.
Me: And look at the signs all lit up.
But that’s stupid because the signs on Royal are also lit. WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS??? Oh, right, they’re NEON signs, created to assault your eyes in the night. I close my eyes.
Friend: The psychology is to desensitize you so that you spend more money.
Me: Looking up, looking down, looking at my friend, looking away, looking anywhere but down Bourbon Street. But what about people like me who shut down when overstimulated?
Friend: *sigh* (I heard that.) Yes, you do shut down a lot. (I do not.) But that’s not a bad thing. That’s just you.
I looked at him and then noticed we were on a side street. We weren’t shouting anymore. Bourbon Street was gone. We turn onto quiet Dauphine Street.
Me: Yeah. I know. I used to believe that I had to like this kind of excitement, and so I pretended to, but I didn’t. I used to believe I was broken because I didn’t like it. I don’t believe that anymore. It’s just who I am, and that’s ok.
Bourbon Street No. 2
(This is where I tell you how to walk through Bourbon Street.)
It’s threatening rain.
Friend: Let’s go down Bourbon Street.
Me: I glare at him.
Friend: If it rains, we’ll have some place to duck into.
Me: I nod my head.
We had been walking a lot. I had been racing to keep up with him all night so I was tired. I was sore. But it made sense to go down Bourbon Street where all the doors are open and everyone’s welcome no matter what the weather. Laughter comes from all sides and people duck in and out of girls, girls, girls, exotic girls, sexy girls, beer, cocktails, pizza, cabaret. I had already experienced a deluge earlier in the day and knew what the New Orleans’ sky was capable of delivering on a moment’s notice. So we turn down Bourbon Street.
And it screams at me. But this time I will not let it get to me. So I hold my head up, look straight ahead, and pretty much race through the long street, dodging men, stepping around women, and ignoring all signs of street life. I make it to Canal Street, the border between the French Quarter and the rest of the world, surprised that I’m not sore anymore and turn to my friend.
Me: Well, that wasn’t so bad—
My friend isn’t there. I look behind me and see him stepping his way through the crowd toward me. He’s glaring at me.
Friend: You really don’t like Bourbon Street, do you. I’ve never seen you walk so fast.
Bourbon Street No. 3
(This is where I show you pictures of Bourbon Street.)
Bourbon Street is like one big, overcrowded, outdoor bar. I don’t like overcrowded bars. I prefer to go to bars in the middle of the afternoon when no one else is there. So it makes sense that when I was out roaming the French Quarter in the middle of the afternoon in a downpour of rain that I would think, Hey, maybe NOW I can do Bourbon Street.
So, all by myself I turn down Bourbon Street. I STROLL down Bourbon Street. I take my time. I’m still bewildered by it. Even in the middle of the afternoon in the rain with hardly anyone there, I just don’t get it.
Anyway, here’s where I show you a picture of Bourbon Street.
But I also feel really badly that I didn’t get a photo to show you of it teeming with people. So I added people to my photo. See how busy it is? And how much fun they are having? And they are walking the streets with booze in hand!!! I wish we could do that in Indianapolis.
Bourbon Street No. 4
(This is where I tell you some facts about Bourbon Street and show you one more photo.)
Believe it or not, Bourbon Street is not named after bourbon whiskey like I thought. It is named after the royal french Bourbon family, just like bourbon whiskey is named after the same family. So, even though Bourbon Street is not directly connected to bourbon whiskey, they are cousins. And it’s much more fun to participate in debauchery on a street associated with whiskey than on a street associated with royalty…unless you are royally debauched. But I wouldn’t know. I only go to bars in the middle of the afternoon.
Down away from all the neon signs is Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar. I made a special trip to see it just because I had heard about it. It was the middle of the day, of course, since I don’t go to bars at night. Lafitte’s claim to fame is that it is reputed to be the oldest structure used as a bar in the U.S. I’m sure the alcohol is delicious, too. And the food. I didn’t eat there. I had already eaten or I would have eaten there. And had a drink. To go.
So there you go. Bourbon Street. It’s a great place if you like outdoor, overcrowded, exotic, exciting, fun bars. I do. But only in the afternoons.
While in New Orleans, I had minimal access to a computer and no access to my photos so I have fallen behind. Catch up time!
I grabbed Todd for a photo shoot so that I could get a “white male” demographic for the school’s capstone event. (The Media Arts & Science program director at the time was complaining that his demographic wasn’t being represented in the design work I had been doing for capstones.) The following two images are of the photo I took and of the design I ended up creating.
The Church I attended back in 2000-whatever had just installed a new organ with a chamade. The chamade are horns that extend out over the organ instead of up to the ceiling. I want to call these trompette-en-chamade but I’m not 100% certain that’s what they are, but my guess is that’s what they are. Truly impressive. Unfortunately, the person who knew how to play them left that congregation and now they sit unused because the minister didn’t hire a real organist.
The following two photos have been manipulated in Photoshop to get a vintage feel. One day I was feeling restless and took off, trying to get lost. It’s very hard to get lost in Indiana. I ended up in Peru, Indiana where they have a clown school. And, apparently Sherrill’s has a thriving sense of humor.
On my quest to get lost, I ended up at Mississinewa Lake where I wandered the deserted beach.
The following was taken with a point-and-shoot where the flash fired. What an odd firing pattern! But I love the colors and the depth that came out of it.
In one of my master classes, I began the seedling for my final master project. It would be an art installation. I created a movie that moved v e r y s l o w l y. It’s called “Senescence” and this is one of the beginning slides.
I was the official photographer for the other classmates working on their own projects. This gal was working on a 3-D project. The weird glasses and the remote with the ball-topped antenna receive signals from a computer to determine where you are in the program. If you build enough rooms, wearing these accessories makes you feel like you’re walking through them. Really cool.
The following three photos were taken downtown Indianapolis on Monument Circle. The last two are reflection photos.
Texture. New Orleans is texture upon texture upon texture. The French Quarter is rough, colorful texture full of character and life. It combines old texture with new texture where the rough rubs against the smooth. There is neon-blasting Bourbon Street with its party animals and just a street down is classy Royal Street with a shop for everyone. And everywhere you go, there is music. From the lone trumpet player blasting out “Sesame Street” for the kids to groups combining their instruments in order to jazz it up for the adults.
I don’t know much about jazz so I can’t name any of the pieces played, but to weave through music floating in the air charmed me as I strolled through the Quarter. I watched the musicians but even more, I watched the people who stopped to take pleasure in each performance. I saw smiles. I saw wonder. I saw pleasure. The street musicians know their instruments and delight in delighting their audience and in turn the audience gives back to the musician, not just in tips (tips are appreciated) but in admiration and joy, also.
Royal Street. I loved Royal Street. It is here on Royal Street where I found my favorite musicians.
Under a hot and sultry sun and without an umbrella to shelter them, this group had a lot of fun and included a tap dancer! But the heat also wore them out.
I really, really, really wanted to move the water bottles, but I knew I had limited time to make the photo. I had been observing him and noticed he danced in spurts. Did I mention it was a really hot and sultry day?
The next set of musicians played just a little bit further down Royal Street and had an umbrella for protection.
And finally, my favorite group on Royal. I don’t know if it’s because of the singer’s personality or because of the tourists dancing in the street or because of the excellence in music. All three, really.
This young couple really took to the dancing. They started out very proper until an older couple joined in. The older couple did lifts and dips and suddenly the young couple freed up and moved into dips (no lifts). I wanted a partner. I wanted to dance.
Tips are not required, however, no matter where I’ve gone in the world, proper etiquette suggests that if you take something from the performer—and that includes enjoyment—then you give back. I learned to keep dollar bills on me.
New Orleans is texture—from balconies to street musicians thus far. Later on will be tumblers and food and cemeteries and shops and…oh how I wish I could share the smells.
I almost didn’t go. I had my excuses. Every time the subject came up, I rattled those excuses off: conserving money, conserving car mileage and wear, working on projects, etc. Excuses all! So when asked again to visit, I took a deep breath and said, “Ok! I’ll leave tomorrow.”
And that’s when I drove down to New Orleans, to that mythical city (at least, in my mind) on the Mississippi River in the South where people party and southern hospitality reigns, to the legendary and infamous Bourbon Street in the equally famous French Quarter where you can take your booze to-go and where you can listen to street musicians play jazz, to the shops where VooDoo is a commercial commodity and fortune tellers trace your palm or read the Tarot. Hey, Sunshine, come let me read your fortune,” a dark-haired man called to me. I shook my head no. “Then go to one of them fake gypsies instead and be sorry.” I didn’t. I don’t need my fortune told. I don’t want to know.
I fell in love with New Orleans.
In New Orleans, in the French Quarter where I spent most of my time, the balconies demand attention. And so, as an appetizer to what will come in future posts, I present some of my favorite balconies. In the tradition of New Orleans cemetery naming conventions, each photo will be given its category and a number. (Yes, there will definitely be a cemetery post in the future.)
I know, I recently posted an Easter Lily. Because I’m doing this 365 Days Journey Through the Past* and because this time of year falls around Easter, it was inevitable that I would have more than one Easter Lily photo. This is my favorite out of all of them, though.
*For those who don’t know, 365 Days Journey Through the Past is when I go through my photo history and post a photo that I took on or near the current date. I am on day number 163 of 365 days.
This is a tree. It has white blossoms. I see it from my balcony window. That is all.
(Aaaarrrrgggghhh! The information junkie inside me insists I tell you it’s a Bradford Pear. What a way to ruin an intentionally droll post.)
I met Katherine at the university. I was teaching the course Design Issues in Digital Media and she was a student. I eventually left the university and she eventually graduated. We both love art and will get together on occasion to attend art showings then go to a pub afterwards and drink beer and eat nachos.
She needed photos for her final capstone project so we went out on a blustery Saturday afternoon in April last year where we found some great wall art we could use as a backdrop. We also checked out some nearby graffiti sites. Katherine’s objective was to get unusual shots that showed her creativity and exuberance. We did. But I also like the more sedate photos, like this one.
A friend once told me that her aunt never cleaned cobwebs because she didn’t want to disturb the spider. The aunt respected the spider’s right to life, even in the house. My friend told her she’s crazy. By the time you see the cobwebs, the spiders had already abandoned the web. Cobwebs pick up dust and become useless. But her aunt didn’t believe her. I can imagine what the house looked like inside. Well, no I can’t.
Cobwebs. Where do they come from? I see them…and clean them away…all the time. They are not elegant in their construction like the beautiful orb-like spiderwebs you see all the time. Cobwebs tend towards corners and ceilings. Everywhere I’ve lived I’ve had to sweep cobwebs off the ceiling, wipe them out of corners, and wash them off walls.
The Old English word for spider is attercoppe (attercoppe: ator, poison + copp, head) and was eventually shortened to just coppe by the Middle English period. Initially, then, cobweb was synonymous with spiderweb but as always with language, the word evolved so that it came to define only the dust-covered filaments left behind.
Cobwebs are not usually associated with webs built to capture insects. They can be drag lines from jumping spiders or perhaps left-behind filaments when a newly-hatched spider launches itself from its egg sac to be carried away on air currents. Common house spiders create loose web strands as they commute through the house as do the long-legged cellar spider. (More commonly known as daddy long legs…at least in my household.)
I always wondered if cobwebs were functional webs used to capture prey. They aren’t. So if I ever meet up with someone who doesn’t clean away cobwebs because they don’t want to disturb the spider, I can now tell them they’re crazy.
The Easter Lily is beautiful with its luscious silky texture, its trumpet-like bloom, its white petals, and its simple golden stamen. I was pleased to find that I have photos of Easter Lilies taken in the past that I can post on this Easter day.
I fell in love with the Rivoli Theater the first time I saw it in all its decaying glory. It is a magical theater, conjuring up visions of the Roaring Twenties with fashionable women and dapper men strolling along the street, tickets in hand, waiting for the show to start. I don’t know if that’s really how it was, but that’s what I saw and felt. I immediately called a friend who has lived in Indianapolis all his life and asked, “What’s the story? How did something so magnificent fall into such disgrace?”
I will leave the answers for another post because I want to do it justice. But for now in this single photo, I hope you enjoy the beauty of the decay.
This is a companion piece to a photo I posted in Wordless Wednesday, just a bit more rough and with a confused message. It is painted next to one of at least three, maybe four loading docks.
I imagine this bank of loading docks. At one dock the trucks back in easily, unload quickly, and leave on time. Very efficient. Then at the other dock (this one), the trucks swerve in, stall, start, back in, pull forward, truckers yell and cuss, back in again, change docks, more cussing, finally unload, and leave with tempers high. At least, that’s what I imagine.
Red brick. Gables. Towers. Chimneys. And so much more. I wish I knew more about architecture, but I don’t. I never really enjoyed American history, but being surrounded by so many old, historical buildings gave me a better appreciation for it.
One Sunday afternoon in 2010 I took a wild ride into a storm. I didn’t know it at the time I set out, I just wanted to escape the city. I remember that it had been a difficult week and I needed some distance. I headed out east, first on the freeway and then on the back roads. Storm clouds filled the sky and I found myself driving through pockets of heavy rain. The storm and rain fit my mood.
I had a dear friend who had noticed that I was agitated that day so while driving, I got a phone call from him to see if I was all right. I told him where I was.
“Turn around, Dezra,” he urged. “There’s a tornado warning where you are right now.” I didn’t doubt him at all. I saw the dark sky, the clouds, the potential for funnel clouds. So I turned around. He kept me on the phone for a bit just to make sure I was safe. I remember crossing a bridge at the same time that the wind whipped up and I felt my car shudder. I saw tree limbs skitter across the road. Storms don’t frighten me, but I was white-knuckling the steering wheel.
Rain came and went as I continued back to Indianapolis and I looked at the sky ahead of me to judge how difficult it would be to get home. Far in the distance the sun lit white clouds. If I can only get there before the darkness above me and all around me does something terrible….
Since I was on the back roads, choices as to which road to take back to Indianapolis were many. I travel the back roads by instinct so when I got a gut reaction telling me to turn, I turned.
I was amazed. All that storming? All the wind and rain and terrible weather? Behind me. Ahead of me the road opened up into glorious sun breaking through the dark clouds. The wet pavement shimmered. I was the only one on the road and ahead of me the path was clear and bright. I pulled over, overwhelmed at how beautiful it was.
Somewhere off to the side a rainbow arched high into the sky.
A cathartic moment. I had had a tumultuous week, a storm in my heart. My drive that day mirrored my week. And there, at the end, the clouds broke, the sun streamed ahead of me, and a rainbow appeared. I knew that everything would be ok.
I remember the day. I remember walking along a path and coming upon this incredible convoluted set of branches reaching out way beyond other branches. It took my breath away and I tried, oh how I tried, to capture what I saw. I failed. I only had a 50mm f/1.8 lens on me so I couldn’t get a wide angle shot. In order to get the expanse of the limbs, I had to back up. That made the limbs small and inconsequential. Up closer though, I lost the breadth of the limbs. I tried it at an angle, but, again, lost the breadth so I stopped photographing it and took my losses. But the memory of its strength persisted.
After that, though, every time I looked at photos of it, I was disappointed so I avoided it. I pretended it didn’t exist. And yet, in the back of my mind I thought there must be SOME way to make it work.
I took many other photos that day and I would have used one of them for today’s post, except I already wrote about them. (Astonished By The Story) So today, when I realized I would be using a photo from this set of photos, I thought I’d attempt to salvage the branches.
My first thought was that all the color detracted from the branches. The green grasses and evergreens, the yellow flowers, the blue sky, and even an orange cone in the distance all fought against them. I thought I’d convert it to black and white. I use Photoshop CS4 as my photo editing application. I don’t remember all I did but I know I took it into LAB at one point, applied contrast, curves, and played around with the various channels. My results are so-so, some of it is because this really isn’t a good photo to convert to black and white. The main reason, though, is because I’m not used to working in black and white. Tonal values are important and I feel like I missed out on this photo.
However, all that being said, I made an attempt and now I’m curious as to how to convert a color photo into a decent black and white one. I have a book buried deep in a box that I remember had a great section on black and white conversion. It’s very technical and convoluted (hence, the reason it’s buried deep in a box) but I may pull it out again and review it.
Here is the original color version.
I think it’s just too messy. Ultimately there is too much going on. Oh pooh! Forget all this and just go to the link above (Astonished By The Story) and see the better photos.
It’s tulip season! And what better way to celebrate it than to visit Garfield Park’s Conservatory and Sunken Garden where their first seasonal flowers, the tulips, are blooming! Because I live on the north side of Indianapolis and they are on the south side, I don’t get to just pop in any time. I have to make it a destination.
When I heard that 10,000 tulips were in bloom, and because I pretty much missed most of spring due to the flu, I drove down to the park. The day was warm for spring and a slight breeze made the tulips sway on their stalks. It is three acres of garden and with few people there, I felt I had the garden all to myself.
I believe the tulips are early this season. Usually they peak in mid-April but I suspect they were peaking while I was there, which happened to be March 30th. I am so glad I made it to the gardens before the tulips finished their spring show. I took a few photos while there. Enjoy!
I am always looking for inexpensive but rewarding things to do in Indianapolis and with the Sunken Garden being free, you can’t beat that! The Conservatory has a $3 charge but that is minimal for the experience of a tropical retreat. And if you want to explore the rest of Garfield Park, do so! It is huge and has many different places you can scout out. Also, I have a Flickr photo set of more images I’ve taken at the Conservatory if you want to check it out. (P.S. I am not affiliated with Garfield Park in any way.)
Today is the first day of April and with it comes April showers. While it’s a beautiful, wet, spring day outside, inside I’m wrapping up my March photos and drinking a warm cup of Chai tea with sweetened Italian cream. (For those new to my blog, I am working on a personal project where I revisit photos that I took on or near the current date but in a different year and then upload them either here or on Flickr or both.)