Page 16 of Wild Flower

Evenshecan’t keep them straight.

“6 at the Silver Fin. And wear something respectable.” She motions to my dirty gardening clothes. “And maybe something long sleeved that covers your arms.”

She means my tattoos. We live in Hawaii with 100% humidity, and she wants me to dress like a nun to snag the Country Club’s most eligible bachelor.

Perfect. I’ll just go shopping for a straitjacket.

10

FINN

Click.I take a photo of a gold flower, opening its wedge-shaped petals like fingers.

Click.I take a photo of a grove of jade leaves.

Click.I take a photo of … another uninspired Hawaiian bush. A photo of nothing. Nothing that’s interesting. Nothing inspiring. Nothing that says—pay attention, look at me, I have something to say in this photograph.

Your work is derivative. I’ve seen a hundred photos like this, Finn. Why should I care? Don’t waste your time and money at this school if you don’t have anything to say.That’s what my photography professor, Randolph Katz, said during our last in-class critique—in front of everyone. It came with a disapproving frown that silently scolded:Don’t waste my time with your Instagram bullshit.

Sure, the photos I presented had models in them. Pretty women that the teacher’s pet, Krista Jones, said were photographed with a grotesque male gaze that objectified them. Were they good looking models? Yes. Was I supposed to make them look bad?

Randolph Katz is an ass. And Krista Jones is his lackey.

Except, Katz also happens to be the most famous photographer at the university, and all of Hawaii. The dude has more awards than Flambé has flaming cocktails. Normally, I wouldn’t give a crap, but I respect him too much. And as much as my fragile male ego hates to say it, Krista’s work is good too.

So, I’m trying something new. Something different. Something where my male gaze won’t get torn to intellectual shreds.

Last night, the flower tattoos on Becca’s arms and shoulders were so gorgeous, I thought it was a sign. She didn’t show up for a second round with me and Archer, but that doesn’t mean she still can’t be my muse. I was dreaming about exotic flowers all night. Hence, I got up early and drove out to this botanical garden … to be inspired.

These plants are beautiful … and colorful … and bizarre. Unfortunately, they haven’t turned my creative juices on.

I point my camera: frangipani, water lilies, a peacock. But nothing’s interesting. It’s not like the art that’s inked on Becca’s skin: blossoms that seemed to come alive with her gasping. I should probably photographher.

Ha! Not a chance. Krista Jones would go to town if I brought a photograph of Becca to class:You’re a pig. Your patriarchal male gaze is reinforcing colonialism and objectifying everything.

I put my camera down and look at the tropical garden in front of me. Everything around me is curated and meant for tourists to view and consume. Are we not supposed to look at beauty? Is this garden no longer beautiful because it’s crafted to a specific taste? Does the construct of the garden, of a gardener, steal the jungle’s natural essence?

Those are questions I should ask Becca. She’s the one that grows flowers and designs them into bouquets. Is it wrong to see things through the lens of our culture? Is it wrong to see the constructs we’ve put around nature?

That’sinteresting. That’s a topic for a fascinating photo essay.

The problem is, I don’t know how to say any of that in a photograph. I can think it, but I don’t know how to take a picture that makes someone else understand.

I click through the images on my camera—flowers, ferns, birds, trees—no more than tourist snapshots for a bad Instagram account. Everything I doisderivative. But is that my fault? I live in a time surrounded by imagery. Everyone’s seen a million photographs, and we don’t have to travel the world anymore. Wonder is only a click away on my computer. And there’s a hundred filters to make “reality” even more vibrant.

I have things to say, but they’re fleeting thoughts and philosophical musings. Nothing sticks anymore: not photos, not images, not beauty. It’s all consumed and disposed of, re-composted and disposed of again.

Is there really anything left to capture with art?

That’s a stupid question. Of course there is. I’m just not that good of an artist. Heck, I’m probably not one at all.

11

BECCA

There’s one thing that can put me in a good mood after a chat with my mother, and it’s walking into my favorite place in the world: The Birds of Paradise Flower Boutique.

My boutique.

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