I’m riding the bow of a ferryboat on the 8 AM staff transport with 25 botanical artists, our guide, and employees on their singularly spectacular commute to work. On a rare sunny March morning, the fog backs off the Golden Gate Bridge early this crisp breezy day, and like me, the city begins to awaken. Feeling touristy, I snap photos of the city receding from the boat's stern: Coit Tower, B of A and the Pyramid, sunlit divas on tip-toe jostling their brethren for camera time. I snap the Golden Gate Bridge port-side, the fog bank seemingly held off by her mammoth steel profile, and then The Rock looming larger, closer with each snap. I nearly spill my coffee as the bow wind blows hard at my face and the ocean chop heaves the deck under my boots, but I do not intend to relinquish my camera or my hastily eaten breakfast to the bay.
Pop quiz: Which local National Historic Landmark is one of the most widely visited in the U.S.? Where can you find the oldest American lighthouse operating in the western United States? Which residents have survived here for nearly 150 years? What is a florilegium?
Time's up. The Historic Landmark is Alcatraz, popularly named The Rock, because in 1865 all that San Francisco's hilltop residents could see from their windows was a barren white rock with a lighthouse and thousands of seabirds leaving tons of guano. The civic minded residents of Nob Hill decided to do something about it. They sent seed packets of colorful flowers in order for the soldiers guarding this island fortress to plant a Victorian garden at the summit. All of this, I learned within minutes of planting my feet on solid ground and shaking off my newly acquired sea-legs.
Additional trees, shrubs and seeds were planted in the 1920’s by military prisoners and members of the California Blossom and Wildflower Association. When the Federal Bureau of Prisons took over in 1933, there were terraces, a rose garden and a greenhouse. At that point the prisoners, and the guards and their families planted fruit and vegetable gardens. After the Federal Penitentiary closed in 1963, the gardens were abandoned and eventually failed from neglect. Or so it was believed for forty years.
We're led around the island by Garden Conservancy volunteer, Dick Miner. He developed an innovative worm composting system which generated more than enough soil for the gardeners’needs. Soil was originally hauled by boat from nearby Angel Island and the Presidio to the Rock. In 2003 the Garden Conservancy, joined forces with The National Park Service's Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy and began the Alcatraz Garden Restoration Project. Volunteer gardeners sought to restore the gardens by clearing out the smothering vines and underbrush. They found surprising survivor species thriving on the windswept foggy island. The survivors and newly introduced sustainable plants have been tended by volunteers ever since.
In January of 2013 the GGNPC, the Garden Conservancy, and the Northern California Society of Botanical Artists (NCalSBA) worked together to celebrate these tenacious residents by creating The Alcatraz Florilegium. In Latin, a florilegium is a gathering of flora or an anthology of bouquets. In plain English it’s a collection of botanical paintings documenting plants from a designated garden, Prince Charles’ Highgrove Florilegium in England is the most widely known;Filoli in Woodside and Heather Farm in Walnut Creek are the locals.
At this point, literally and figuratively, I climb aboard. NCalSBA member, Lyn Dahl, saw the garden rehabilitation in 2012 and suggested the creation of a florilegium. “I marveled at the garden's beauty in such a forbidding environment. As a botanical artist, I thought an Alcatraz Florilegium might be an exciting project for the NCalSBA. As it turns out it coincides with the 50th anniversary of the closing of the prison and the 10th anniversary of the Garden Restoration Project. The timing was perfect."
We artists were shown the various surviving species that we might choose to paint. I'd always wanted to paint nasturtium with their bright colors, scalloped margins and curlicue stems. As kids, we, like pollinators, would take sips from the funnel shaped nectar tube--a delicious amino acid, vitamin and mineral sugar rush. By nature, nasturtium nectar comes in limited quantities so bees, butterflies, hummingbirds and kids never get as much as they want, causing them to shift to the next flower--a bribe for pollinators.
Our work was to be executed in traditional botanical art form, as in the days before photography of Captain Cook's 1770s explorations: specimens painted with no background, life-size, and measured with calipers for botanical accuracy. One problem was the mid-July deadline. I am quite the slow painter. The other problem? The upcoming permanent exhibit was juried-- not everyone who received their cuttings would have their completed painting accepted. The accepted artists keep their original work and surrender the first fine art printing: a signed and numbered piece which is then matted and framed for gallery consistency. The exhibit is currently hung in the Band Rehearsal Room of the Main Cell Block, sharing ghostly presence with the spirit of Al “Scarface” Capone strumming banjo with the Alcatraz prison band, The Rock Islanders.
These 45 scientifically depicted, artistically composed replicas from nearly 100 survivors were juried by Restoration Project Manager, Shelagh Fritz and renowned botanical artist Kristen Jokob. There will be another round of submissions accepted next year until the collection is complete. The artists, who adhere to strict requirements of paper size, orientation and medium, are given cuttings which they collect on their garden tour. The specimens include common species seen throughout the Bay Area, however the texture and color are Alcatraz specific, as salt, wind and fog change the growing patterns, sometimes dramatically. Their colors are subdued; their stubborn contours bend leeward away from the relentless wind and sea foam spray. Jury regulations require artwork painted from Alcatraz cuttings only. No painting from your soldier-straight fertilized home garden snipping; no unreliable photo color matching. More than one artist made several island trips for cuttings, as botanical art is detail specific and time consuming. Finally, Shelagh tells me, "Just go ahead and get your own cuttings. You can have as many as you want because nasturtium self seed prolifically. It's a battle."
This writer/artist spent over twelve weeks on her 11x14" painting, not counting visits to the Rock,cajoling her elder specimens to survive in a vase. She almost lost her tender blossoms and delicate buds on one blustery ferryboat ride home. More daunting, she spent some time reminding her hungry family not to put those carefully refrigerated nasturtiums into their tossed salads.
Many botanical artists paint with watercolor due to the translucence of the medium. Contrary to popular belief, watercolors are forgiving. My art teacher of ten years, Catherine Watters, can help fix any watercolor mistake, save for a hole scrubbed clear through the paper. Artists can lift misplaced color by wet-scrubbing softly with a stiff paintbrush, then blot. Others say there are no mistakes in art. Botanical paintings are scientifically accurate renderings composed creatively with the eye of an artist.
So I paint in class, I paint at home and when the last class before summer break occurs, I've measured, drawn and traced the completed pencil composition onto Fabriano 5 paper. I've lightly tea-washed the greens, leaving colorless the flowers, bug bite holes and one lone dewdrop observed on a leaf. After layering in the deeper greens, I paint the yellow gamboge and cadmium red flowers then mix the two colors for orange flowers, all with petals surrounding the tiny pistil and stamen. I color wash the light veins and center petiole; I shadow the stems, twining tendrils and buds. In class I sienna the edges of bug bites and, fortified by my teacher's coaxing and instruction, attempt my first ever dewdrop on paper. But the blurry blob looks bad--really bad. I scrub it into a muddy murky leaf bruise and pack up for the summer, certain I will never finish the intricate shadowing and stubborn dewdrop. I return home despondent, unsure if I can finishwithout the weekly instruction I find so comforting. And I am scheduled to leave town the next day.
I drive a broken-ankled friend to her cabin in Idaho that week, which is two weeks before my completed professionally scanned painting is due for jury submission. Carefully I pack the budding masterpiece into the car, dangerously close to drooling, bounding, wagging Rex the dog. I hold my breath and drive. The first day at the lake is so blissful that floating and reading is all I can muster. Perhaps I won't paint; perhaps I'll just forget it, blurry blob and all. Perhaps I shall simply lie on my air mattress and drink a beer.
Fate intervenes. Thunder, lightening and rain begin and doesn't let up for the entire week. Rex and I are housebound, so I reluctantly begin to paint. For days I paint shaded nuances, highlight veins, darken crevices, and differentiate each of 18 overlapping leaves with a deft stroke of shadow. The leaves take on dimension and the fluttery petals begin to dance on the page. Following a careful formula, I begin the dewdrop. Beginning with darker green, I shadow below the top circumference leaving a bright white highlight, gradually darkening until I reach the bottom circumference with a thicker crisp edge. Next I add the tiny shadow cast by the bead of moisture on the leaf. No smudging or it, too, will suffer the fate of becoming a big blobby leaf bruise. Realize, this droplet is painted life-size at 1/4 of an inch in diameter. My friend comes into the room and gasps, "Look at that. You did it." The clear tremulous liquid looks nothing like a bug hole. It rests cleanly on top of the leaf: a reflecting, shimmering dewdrop. Hard to believe I painted it.
So ride the ferry and come see one of the most popular National Historic Landmarks, the oldest operating lighthouse on the Pacific coast, and pay your respects to the 150 year old surviving residents. Now that you know about a florilegium, as they say: Won't you come into the garden? My nasturtiums would like to see you.
NCalSBA.org/alcatraz/
Alcatrazgardens.org
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