Lost Inside Adorable Illusion and I Cannot Hide

I told you yesterday that every room at Franklin Park Conservatory has at least one piece of Chihuly glass in it.  I'm not exaggerating.  From the second you step into the lobby to buy your tickets, you can't help but be distracted by the twisty yellow flutes peeking out from the wall sconces, or the red and orange fans climbing up the far wall, or the explosive and curvy blue chandelier hanging just outside the Garden Cafe. 

Chihuly at the Conservatory premiered as an exhibit all the way back in 2003.  Intended to be just a temporary fixture, the exhibit increased visitation by nearly 182 percent, and in 2004, when the works were meant to be removed, the private, nonprofit support group Friends of the Conservatory made a bold move.  At a price of nearly 7 million dollars, the group purchased 3,000 of the glass pieces, almost the entire collection.  Now each exhibit has a permanent glass fixture adding a hint of fantasy to the atmosphere.

Tucked away behind renovating exhibits is the Hot Shop, another fixture carried over from the Chihuly days, where a nice young lady named Linda charms us all by blowing a pair of delicate, colorful bowls.  The open furnace in the corner glows orange, and we can practically see the heat spilling out onto the concrete.  On a day like this, I don't know how she can stand it.

Walking into each room is a bit like Christmas - where will the glass be this time?  What secret corner will it be tucked away into, just waiting for us to discover it.  In some areas, like the Himalayan Room, you'd miss it if you weren't paying attention - it's hidden in a cave ceiling, and the family behind us pushes right through without even a cursory look up.  They don't even seem to wonder why we've all stopped to take pictures.

In other rooms the pieces brazenly cry for attention.  In the Pacific Room, colorful globes float in a water fixture, nudged along by koi, while a huge, twisted, red and yellow blossom grows up through the center of the exhibit, demanding that you come and wonder just how all the pieces fit together.  Those ever present butterflies dart between the tubes, pausing only to rest on the delicate glass.  

If you've never seen a Chihuly piece, this is quiet a way to see them.  They aren't oppressive, they don't take away from the experience or distract you from the flowers; the pieces add a certain extra element, something indescribable, that might just say "This world is more fantastical than you had ever dreamed."  If anything, the glassworks enhance the natural beauty of a flower, because for as delicate as the pieces may be, a petal is softer, more fragile.  For as colorful as the glass is, the flowers are unmatched in their vibrancy.  As eye catching as the glasswork is, it truly is just an exciting supporting player to the floral stars of Franklin Park.

On a Summer Day I Chanced to Stray

Franklin Park Conservatory in Columbus is a conservatory like most other conservatories.  Glass walls gleam in the sunlight, and while the outside is stark white, on the inside, there's nothing but green.

Each room is set up to resemble a different region of the world.  Theoretically, I suspect the rooms are meant to mimic the climate of the region as well as the landscape, but on this bright summer day, every region of the world it set to "hot."  The Himalayas are mildly uncomfortable.  The Deserts are absolutely stifling.  Even the trees stretch up to tap the ceiling glass, reaching for a bit of fresh air.

Good for the cactus, though.   

Every room features at least one piece of Chihuly glasswork, but that's a story for another day.

This is exciting; in the courtyard, they're preparing to instal their yearly summer exhibit, Savage Gardens, a tribute to the meat-eating plants of the world.  I might have to come back for that.  It might finally help me come to terms with the tragic and dramatic end met by my venus fly-trap (R.I.P Audry III March '02 - March '02).

There are two sets of doors leading in to the Pacific Room, and a sign politely asking that you only open one set of doors at a time.  Past the first set of doors is a mirror, and a notice saying that you should check yourself for visitors before you leave.  Here be Butterflies.  Interestingly, this exhibit, first debuted in 1994, was the first of its kind in America.  Now it seems like everyone's doing it.

There's a different energy in this butterfly room, compared with the last butterfly exhibit I visited.  The room at Krohn was more open, but smaller, and overflowing with visitors.  There was barely enough room to breath, let alone enjoy the butterflies.  Here at Franklin, the air in Pacific Room is heavy and humid, the handful of visitors stroll easily through the exhibit, admiring the colorful plants just as much as the colorful wings.  Where the Krohn butterflies seemed to feed off the frenetic nature of their packed little room, darting here and there almost faster than your eyes can see them, Franklin's butterflies float lazily through the trees, giving you ample time to coo over their brilliant shine.

We can't go into the Palm House, which breaks my heart a little, because we all know how much I love a palm tree, but it's closed for a special event.  A young woman hovers in the doorway, holding the skirts of her wedding dress up off the ground.  It'd be a lovely place to get married.  A destination wedding without the destination.

I can't get inside the Palm House, but I do sneak around the back of the conservatory, where the chairs a neatly aligned on the patio and the rest of the wedding party awaits direction, in order to get a picture.  It's worth it - the Palm House is the oldest part of Franklin, built in 1893 after the Chicago's World Fair.  It's a beautiful building, freshly white in that grand Victorian style this era favored so much.  They used to keep animals in the lower levels in the years before the Columbus Zoo.  Small animals, surely - monkeys, birds.  Nothing that might damage the glass.  Not that I would know; in all of my reading, nothing's ever said what kind of animals they were, just generally animals.  

(Like most things I love, the Palm House, in recognition of it's historic and architectural merit, has been added to the National Register of Historic Places.  I don't know if they have a plaque.)    

Come back tomorrow, and learn the amazing story behind Franklin Park's Chihuly collection!

Krohn Butterflies

Butterfly sculptures line the gardens of Eden Park in downtown Cincinnati, calling us to Krohn Conservatory.  They've recently opened their seasonal exhibit, "Butterflies of Japan," and apparently, it is the place to be.  The line has wrapped around the front of the building by the time my mother and I reach it, and I overhear a volunteer cheerfully tell another patron that "it's only a thirty minute wait" from where they're standing.  Someone's Japanese club stands at the entrance of the conservatory to serenade us.  They sing "Sukiyaki," a song I remember from my own days learning high school Japanese.  I don't remember any of the words, but I do know it's a sad song about a love lost, and it's named after a hot pot dish.  Delicious.

We are so excited when we finally reach the door, only to discover that we are not yet at the exhibit.  The line extends through the cactus room,

the orchid room,

and the bonsai room.

Everyone wants to see these butterflies.  It's a good mix of parents, grandparents, small children, and young people.  A twenty-something hipster in a yellow t-shirt stands in front of us and makes lazy jokes about the wait.

It's glass separating the bonsai room from the butterfly room, and while most of what we can see is people moving slowly around the garden, a ripple of excitement moves through the small cluster of us waiting at the door every time a butterfly flits past the windows.  The volunteer attending the door waits for a nod of approval from inside, and finally lets us into the long-awaited butterfly room.

It's packed.  The room is designed to resemble a tranquil Japanese garden, but we can't quite see the landscaping through the bodies.  It's not easy to move through - everyone is standing very still and speaking in very hushed tones, trying to lure a butterfly close enough for a good picture.

Fortunately, there are butterflies in abundance.  Little white ones that hop from flower to flower.  Orange ones that fly between the leaves of the citrus trees.  Monarchs.  Spotted ones that helpfully pose with their wings laid flat.  Once or twice we find ourselves ducking out of the path of a large butterfly with brilliant blue wings.  Young and old, everyone gently lifts their hand towards oncoming fliers, silently wishing, "Choose me.  Land here." 

A tired-looking volunteer with a big wicker basket offers us a silk flower.  "They're attracted to the color," she explains.  I decline, but Mother takes a purple sunflower and holds it straight up in the air.  The hipster stumbles past us with his own flower, drawing attention to himself by acting like a child.

We could stay and watch the butterflies all day, but the air is thick and the room is cramped, and knowing there is more to see, Mother and I decide to move on.  With one last look back, I see the hipster delicately raise his hand to a passing butterfly.

Stepping out of the claustrophobic bubble of the butterfly room is a relief.  The rest of the conservatory is much more breathable - two long wings filled to the brim with tropical trees, plants, and flowers.  As we walk to the end of the room with a waterfall, we pass a sign that says, "Look up!  We have bananas!" 

And indeed they did.  Butterflies and bananas - what more could you ask for?

Learn more about Krohn Conservatory in Eden Park and their website.