I am not, in general, a flowery person, at least not in the usual way. I rarely buy them, I actively avoid them in upholstery and wallpaper, and I own exactly one item of clothing patterned with flowers. Do not ask me to arrange flowers: you will not like the result, unless I am dealing with tulips and absolutely anyone can make them look lovely.

I like flowers massed in flower stands, in their natural habitats, and in flower zoos. Today, we visited the flower zoo, actually known as the Royal Botanic Garden, Sydney, by way of a walk around the Opera House. T.R. exercised his patience and his legs. I exercised my camera. The garden has many lovely sculptures and many sculptural trees, but I like the flower photos best. I am bad at flower names, so you can name them as you like, but I will call them:

Star:



Fuzzy:



Shy:



And Water Lily (I know that one!):



I reanimated T.R. by buying him a soda in a café where the birds constantly give you the eyeball until you hand over the chips or demonstrate yourself to be absolutely useless by having no chips at all.

Then, cruelly, I dragged him into the Art Gallery of New South Wales. The traveling exhibit is of Picasso pieces. I missed one recently in San Francisco, so I was glad to see this one. I was struck by his very early drawings and how drop-dead gorgeous they are. I also did not realize the variety of media he worked in, including collage!

I had to see the aboriginal art, of course. I wish I had room for a collection of the decorated tree trunks. I think that one of the reasons aboriginal art appeals to me is that it seems very much like textile work and text work. The crosshatching patterns weave stories. I keep trying to explain my fascination. I don’t have to explain. I like it.