Stopping to smell the roses

Having covered the fauna of LA to some extent, how about the flora? We’re probably due for a return trip to the Huntington, but Rob and I thought we’d check out some of the lesser-known options in the area first—these places are pretty mercurial, and I’d like to see them in summer.

One specific reason to get going now: It’s matilija season! Matilija poppies are distinctive not only for their blossoms—which resemble fried eggs and are the largest of any California native flower—but for their seeds, which are hard to cultivate because they have to be exposed to the heat of a wildfire to germinate. No wonder they do so well in SoCal, then!

So we begin at the Los Angeles Arboretum in, fittingly, Arcadia. Befitting LA’s diversity, the Arboretum has a particularly global mindset, with entire areas dedicated to individual continents. The African Garden is rich in succulents of all shapes and sizes, some so unlike anything else in the world that you could probably create a whole alien landscape out of them...

...whereas the Asian Garden might be more familiar-looking, but the viewing deck is as attractive as the view itself. Dibs on the yang side!

The Arboretum is also distinguished by its greenhouses, filled with carnivorous plants and tropical species that thrive on greater humidity than the local climate usually delivers. I thought we could save ourselves a grocery run by snagging some vanilla orchids, but Rob just isn’t any fun.

And they even have installation art here! Patrick Doughtery’s Catawampus is described on the placard as “a whimsical journey through natural structures that evoke the primitive and modern.”

Oh. I just thought it looked cool.

But most unique of all: You know how TV is, like, kind of fake? Behind me is the Queen Anne cottage that served as Mr. Roarke’s house on Fantasy Island; those clips were then grafted onto actual Hawaii footage to make it all seem like one piece, but in reality, here’s the house, nowhere near the tropics. There’s Tattoo’s bell tower and everything. So I can’t resist...

Smiles, everyone, smiles!

Sorry.

And one more Arboretum quirk: The joint is all but run by the peacocks. They mostly hang around the administrative buildings, but you can hear that distinctive call from quite a distance.

Hey there, birdie. Is there a peahen over my shoulder, or are you just glad to see me?

In contrast, when we head down to the South Coast Botanic Garden in Palos Verdes, we find a humbler kind of bird life dominates. What’s up, duck? I got nuttin’ for ya.

But believe me, South Coast has definite charms of its own. One of them is a dial-in audio tour, available at different spots throughout—here, near the entrance, is a sign for the Japanese garden’s call-in number. It’s a unique feature among all the places we visited, and I’d offer my thoughts on it if our carrier hadn’t dropped us every time I phoned in. Get a better plan, Rob!

Built over a onetime sanitary landfill, South Coast actually struck me as the most kid-friendly of all our stops. For starters, there’s the Mother Goose Garden, filled with dioramas depicting various nursery rhymes, such as Mary tending her little lamb at school—they’ve planted a bed of lamb’s-ear out front as a tie-in—and then right next door is the Old Woman’s shoe, with the Pumpkin-Eaters, the three kittens (sans mittens), and others just around the corner.

It makes for a nice little neighborhood, actually—white picket fences, miniature brook, the whole nine. I have to admit, it even had me wondering what’d it be like to get a place of my own in the suburbs and commute to the city. But then I remember how much I enjoy living with all my brothers, plus it’s just so much easier to make Rob pay for everything.

Still, though—tempting. You can’t find perfect Poohsticks bridges just anywhere!

Not far from Mother Goose’s is the Garden for the Senses, full of plants to touch and smell, with many in elevated beds for your sniffing convenience. Lots of herbs, of course, but also lavender, chocolate daisies, and all kinds of scented geraniums—lime, coconut, strawberry, orange, ginger, even one that smells like chocolate mint! Good thing I know a couple of local bakeries we can hit on the way out.

And beyond those two areas, so much was in bloom at the time of our visit that the air was practically swimming with butterflies and bees. The eyes got as much of a workout as the nose; these dahlias didn’t have much of a scent, but that shade of cranberry is to die for.

As for the roses, well, those were simply sublime. Any rose garden that makes you feel like you’re trespassing on a wedding is a successful one, right?

Hoo boy. Not a word to the Heavenly Bamboo about me, okay?

So that’s two down, but our third and last stop is perhaps a bit less obvious: the Donald Tillman Water Reclamation Plant in Van Nuys. We heard they have a classical Japanese garden attached to it, and if you’re like me, you think: Really? At a sewage treatment facility? Random. And I’m not gonna lie—you can tell from the look on my face that up here on the viewing catwalk, one errant breeze just hit me with a whiff of ammonia or chlorine or whatever it is.

So that does lower my expectations of what the garden will be like, because what could the backyard of some industrial plant possi...no way.

Ground level. So at one end of the lake, you’ve got this highly modern building edged by the rock garden...

...and at the other, it’s cypresses, irises, water birds, stone lanterns—it’s like something out of a storybook.

Compared to the other gardens, this one is tiny—only six-and-a-half acres, versus eighty-plus for the others—but you can’t say they didn't nail it in the space allotted. The brochure says the main structure of the garden is a shoin, modeled after the kind of residence an aristocrat or samurai would have had. Shall we go inside?

Breathtaking. This would enchant even my brothers into silence. And then they’d start playing ninjas, but nonetheless.

Wow. I see this as proof that I should go chasing waterfalls. Why stick to the rivers and the lakes that I’m used to? And I guess it just goes to show: Nature is awesome, but what humans sometimes do with it shouldn’t be undervalued either.

And just as it’s nearly impossible to go to the pound without bringing home a stray, after visiting all these plantyards, Rob decided to try his luck with some miniature succulents, all small enough for us to help with them. Kids at home likely can identify these by their unscientific names: “pink butterflies,” “pearly moonstones,” “baby toes,” “living stones,” and “Buddha’s temple.” What, no “bunny ears,” Rob?

Cute! But my brothers have already started a pool as to how long Rob will be able to keep them alive—Bedlam has the low bet, with a guess of four weeks.

That’s so cynical. I said five.

A day at the fair

Summer’s in high gear and the heatwave has passed, so how about a trip to the Orange County Fair? Deliciously unhealthy food and relatively inexpensive family fun await!

No, I’m not thinking really hard about a corn dog; it’s just what happens with my congenital ear gap in pictures sometimes. The fact that it works out anyway, though, is what makes me magic.

Parking can be a real chore here, but we still made it in time for the shows we wanted to see. After all, who doesn’t enjoy Chinese acrobats doing scary, unsettling things with their frightfully limber bodies?

No photography allowed inside the 3D theater for Al’s Brain, but they didn’t say anything about outside! We take our victories where we can get ’em.

Afterwards, I was ready to stretch my paws a bit and hit the midway. Rob wouldn’t let me do the game with ping-pong balls because he said he’d just end up taking care of the goldfish, which...is true. So I chucked some darts at balloons and won him a bear instead. He can’t complain if I give him something that’s in his school colors, right?

Snacktime! You can find pretty much any kind of regular food here—tacos, tempura, turkey legs, you name it—but why order that when fair cuisine is special in its own right? I can have Chateaubriand anytime; today it’s all about the apple fries and chocolate-covered bacon!

And if that’s not wrong enough for you: one Coronary Combo, please!

Seriously, “Coronary Combo.” It’s right there at the bottom.

Obviously, the next step is hopping off all those calories, so let’s go see some exhibits! The line for the ice sculpture collection was out the door, but hey, who wouldn’t want to see a giant block of ice chainsawed and chiseled into the Mona Lisa? I wonder if there’s a huge igloo somewhere with a full reproduction of the Sistine Chapel etched into its ceiling...

And if ice art alone doesn’t illustrate the crazy things humans can do with enough time on their (admittedly useful) hands, how about The Birth of Venus rendered in butter? Although frankly, it’s hard to think of a dairy-fat Botticelli as anything but campy, however well done it may be.

On the other paw: rabbits made from pretzels = high art.

They just are, is all.

Next up: the livestock area.

Okay, I see the bacon, but when do they cover it in chocolate?

Hey, cutie. Got plans after the fair? You’re so much better than this whole scene, you know.

She ended up blowing me off. Oh well, carny girls aren’t for life anyway.

And right next to the livestock is the agricultural section—complete with a scarecrow! Do note that there is no such thing as a “scarerabbit.” You know what scares a rabbit? Audits.

By nightfall, I’m ready for dessert! Specifically, a red velvet cupcake with buttercream icing and a big ol’ wad of cotton candy as a topping, and for a chaser, a frosting shot. Which is exactly what it sounds like. I love this place so much I could cry. And what sweet, sweet, sugary tears they would be.

Whew, what a day. Is there anything that I haven’t done? Oh yeah—a ride! Problem is, Rob’s not much of a ride person, and I can’t very well go without my cameraman—mainly because I can’t exactly manage the height requirement on my own. Hmm...

Well, we compromised on the ferris wheel, the big wuss. The line and the loading each took longer than the ride itself, but the view of the fairground from up top was nice. What we could see of it through the graffiti-scarred window, anyway.

Exit churro. Now my fair experience is complete.

Oh, did I mention that the fair runs another two weeks? Looks like I’m coming back for seconds!

(Rob named the bear “Leland,” BTW.)

Atop the ivory tower

Ah, Los Angeles—my crazy, crazy patchwork of a city. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, always itself. There’s no single vista that could contain all of it...but I will say, this one’s pretty good. And any local worth his or her gross points could probably tell you where I am right now...

...the Getty Center, the newer half of the world-renowned J. Paul Getty Museum. Completed in 1997 as an expanded showcase for the late oilman’s collection while the Getty Villa underwent renovations—it’s since reopened—the Getty Center is the beneficiary of the world’s wealthiest art endowment and arguably the premier art museum on the West Coast.

All the more reason for me to crash it, right?

Built by Richard Meier over two ridges in the hills of Brentwood, the Getty became an instant LA landmark for its unique architecture and the white travertine outer walls that make it stand out on the local landscape like a pearly crown. Here’s the model of the campus…

…and here’s the reality, from within the courtyard.

Not bad, Meier. Not bad at all.

The Getty is loaded with visitor-friendly facilities, such as this touchscreen directory—useful for finding not only specific works but those visitor-friendly restrooms as well! I know I could just talk to a guard when I need one instead, but I get so tired of them asking if I’m Rob’s seeing-eye rabbit. Um,  hello—I’m a patron of the arts, thank you very much.

Or you could just ditch the maps altogether and wander around freely for hours and hours; if you’re the placard-reading type, it’ll take longer still.

This may not be the Art Institute and this definitely isn’t the ’80s, but still, I’m always slightly disappointed when I have a gallery to myself and this doesn’t automatically pipe in over the PA.

There are also the sprawling grounds, with an expansive desert garden, rolling lawns that are cropped so sharply that they’re practically AstroTurf, and a waterfall that ends in a large pool occupied by a hedge maze. Which I’d think would be more of a pain to maintain than either a water feature or a hedge maze separately, but oil money makes anything possible, I guess.

Then there’s the sculpture garden, supplemented by a handful of pieces scattered around the campus. Partial to pop art as I am, I really like Roy Lichtenstein’s Three Brushstrokes here—even if it kind of just makes me want a frozen banana.

Personally, I don’t really understand it when an artist names a piece Untitled; even a ridiculously pretentious title like Symphony in Red, Gold, Four Dimensions, and a Gum Wrapper or whatever seems better than not trying. Take Joel Shapiro’s no-namer here—how hard would it have been to come up with Drunk Asterisk?

Or then you’ve got a case like Fernand Léger’s Walking Flower, where the title is fine but he missed an opportunity to call it Tripping Daisy.

Back inside, in the East Pavilion: You say Salomon de Bray’s David with His Sword, I say Severus Snape’s Awkward Third Year.

Henry Weekes’ Bust of an African Woman? Or Audra McDonald Rolling Her Eyes?

Okay, I guess I can’t quibble with Richard Dadd’s Mercy: David Spareth Saul’s Life here. But, heh, all the image makes me think of is “So which one was the first to say ‘Jehovah’?”

Huh. I don’t see a placard or recognize the artist, but I definitely appreciate a clean, minimalist approach to a kinetic sculpture, especially this one made of polished stainless steel in the shape of a drainage basin…oh.

Moving on to the South Pavilion, then, which houses the 18th-century collection and decorative arts area. Hmm. Nice, high ceilings, good paneling, love the marquetry, chandelier’s okay—a rabbit could really entertain here. How soon can we get it in escrow?

Okay, now here’s a peeve of mine: the depiction of bunnies in human art. This is an 18th-century French silver table centerpiece, and right there in the middle—the head’s facing me—is a “game” rabbit. Why are we always the victims and never the heroes? It’s very annoying and one-sided, but hopefully the Getty has other works that balance out this one.

…aw. Dude.

Well, this piece in the North Pavilion is as good as it gets for us here—Hans Hoffmann’s A Hare in the Forest, where the rabbit just…sits there. Eating. Not being eaten, at least, but hardly a dynamic world-beater either. Bite me, art history.

Time for a little turnabout, then! Another of the Getty’s features is the sketching room, where they provide free paper, pencils, and easels for people to have a go at being artists themselves. When we were here, it was dominated by kids, but it’s open to everyone, including adults—and rabbits!

Hrm. Well, it’s as far as I got by freepaw in the limited time I had before Rob said we should let incoming kids have a turn, but I don’t think I’ll be heading my own gallery show anytime soon. Still, the lady gave me a proper Getty stamp at the bottom, so that’s gotta count for something!

Still, if the true purpose of art is to inspire others in turn, I guess I should dig out my color sticks and start my own rabbit-centric art movement, huh? One fauvist sketch from five years ago does not a revolution make.

And that’s all from the Getty! Rob tried to squeeze in one last shot of that fabulous Meier architecture showcasing the beautiful California summer sky, but I was already heading to the museum store. C’mon, Rob—fancy toys!