i enjoy the quiet enthusiasm with which young (very young) people are transforming rowell road. i had, after a talk at growell, stayed behind and eaten a reasonably tasty pear (it claimed to be fermented but was without that distinctive kick of the overripe) with a light syrup (concentrated chrysanthemum tea infusion), almonds and a sprinkling of edible flowers (reddish starfruit (tembiling) flowers, i suspect, and white buds we’re told are 夜来香 — a flower which, despite its household fame from the song i cannot actually point to as a specific plant species.)on my way out after i pass by what looked like a tiny florist and espy snapdragons and ranunculuses and eustomas — the sort of flowers i associate with my boston life and more temperate climes. in fact the place was rather in the mold of petali in harvard square, so of course, i went in. that was deceptive: they are actually an art design space / florist workshop (gorgeous place, the actual workspaces are deep within, the jars of flower for sale a shallow frontage. i cannot resist skylights nor yet the fumbling, tumbling cascade of hung plants.).
inside i meet a young man who curates films for small outfits and runs a mobile library and a young lady (who turns out to be the owner) sets down her work (she was pleating together the stems of some kind of ornamental cabbage, to make a rosette; it looked involved) and came and talk flowers to me: shes shares my love for filling homes with little jars of mixed blooms. i began telling her about my cambridge days, filling up window sills with tiny mason jars and bud vases of blooms - - and occasionally borrowing a $20 off vaughn for flowers while waiting for my next stipend cheque. it then turns out she runs a subscription service: three months of mixed posies arranged in six-inch glass jars, delivered fortnightly, exactly right for people like me who prefer small homely jars (i pretend it’s shabby chic) to the gaudy extravagance of money-scented huge arrangements. i shall look into this as soon as i am once again incomed.
the growell pop-up is fast becoming a favourite space. i love the transformation of the rooftop, eye-popping colours trailing down the winding backstairs; the charming second floor exhibition and workshop rooms (high ceilings, chandeliers of wine bottles, soft warm lights mounted to exposed beams, raw bricks, a small stage, bookshelves); meeting bright, cause-driven young people who are quietly-focussed but non-evangelical; the random weekend guest chefs coming in to cook up one-off meals in line with the philosophy of the farmers; above all the transience of their hermit crab existence, not aching or sad, a purposed but unself-conscious appearance and disappearance.
Best of the Transparent Hummingbird