Catching the Bouquet

I'm already on record for acknowledging that I'm not much of a girl. I don't like to shop. Don't care about clothes, shoes or purses. Don't wear jewelry. Hate talking on the phone and don't want, much less expect, guys to call me. Have a very unlady-like appetite.

Hell, I can't even remember to look for a ring on the hand of a guy hitting on me (an oversight I get chided about from female friends on a regular basis) .

But I had such a girly afternoon on this beautiful day and I really enjoyed it, so maybe there's hope for me after all.

My first stop was the Confederate Memorial Chapel next to the VMFA for its Victorian wedding display. As part of the Fine Arts and Flowers event at the museum (and to announce its availability for weddings), the chapel had been decked out as befitting a Civil War-era wedding.

I'd been to the chapel before, so even a heathen like me knew what a handsome scared space it was. With the afternoon sun streaming through the stained glass and clear glass windows, it was downright beautiful.

The charm of it today was the understated floral arrangements, as befitting the late 19th century mode. The custom of the day was to have one central floral arrangement at the front of the church, surrounded by a lot of greenery. And that's it for flowers,

Around the flower arrangement were ferns and, what else (because this is the south), magnolia leaves; sprays of greenery were arranged on the end of the pews and in the center of them with candles on top. Simple, but striking.

A typical bridal bouquet sat at the back of the chapel where the bride would pick it up as she entered. Small, more like a nosegay, and made with white roses, it was heavy in the hand (foreshadowing the weight of commitment, perhaps?).

The chapel guide asked me if I was looking for a place to get married (don't I need to be in a relationship first?) and I answered that I while I wasn't the marrying kind, if I were, then yes, I'm sure it would be a perfectly lovely place to do the deed. Hell, it would be a lovely place for a funeral, if you're into those (I'm not).

When I walked outside, a photography class had set up all around the chapel. But this was no digital bunch; the first camera I saw was Deardorff 8 x 10 format camera, large and striking for how handsome it was. I talked to its users who were desperately trying to figure it out.

A bit further on, my eye was caught by a couple of guys with a rosewood Wista camera, possibly the most beautiful camera I've ever laid eyes on (they told me it also comes in ebony). They invited me to use the dark cloth to drape myself and take a look.

"The image will be backwards and upside down," one warned, just as I was wondering how I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. They moved the camera around so I could see different shots, explaining all the while.

I have several good friends who are photographers and as a huge fan of photography, this impromptu camera class will be something I'll want to brag about to them sooner rather than later.

Okay, so that unexpected camera part wasn't especially girly, but my late lunch stop definitely was. I was meeting a girlfriend on the patio of Cafe Caturra, a place that serves girly food and attracts a girly clientele. Yes, it had been her idea.

The only time I'd been there had been during the winter for the roaring fire, so the patio was a whole new experience. The menu is still pretty much limited to paninis, wraps and salads, but a bottle of wine enjoyed outdoors on a sunny afternoon can make up for a lot of things.

And my tarragon tuna sandwich was good, if uninspired. And the enormous chocolate chip/macadamia nut/coconut cookie that followed was superb, so I really don't have any complaints.

Except for the view, which included table after table of women. There was one guy with a 185-pound bloodhound reading a book and sipping a beer by himself, but he was about the only testosterone within sight. Because I'd only visited in cold weather, I hadn't known how dog-friendly Cafe Caturra's patio was. Clearly it's a dog-owner's destination.

So we sat there for a few hours drinking wine and entertaining theories about why some people are paired up and others not. My friend was in the doldrums about her love life and wanted to girltalk about it, so we blathered away hypothesizing.

Anyone walking by and seeing us would have been fooled into thinking I was just as girly as the next girl.

As if.

Stopping to Smell the Flowers

Fine Arts and Flowers made me do it. Despite months of methodically discovering the new VMFA gallery by gallery, today I think I ended up in every single one, at least for a short while. It was not what I had intended.

I'm embarrassed to say that it was my first time experiencing the Fine Arts & Flowers exhibit begun in 1987, modeled on the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston's "Art in Bloom" concept. But given the newly remodeled space, maybe there was a reason I waited until now to experience it.

The idea of creating a flower arrangement based on a work of art is an intriguing one. Sometimes the flowers reflected only the color scheme, other times it was the shape, the geometry or texture of the piece. In any case, it was a series of beautiful things to observe.

I could never begin to describe the artistry these floral designers brought to their interpretations; about the best I could do is try to share a few that captured my imagination, but it won't represent a fraction of the 76 designs I saw.

William Wetmore Story's Cleopatra sculpture reclines and the floral arrangement did the same, with the all-white flowers echoing the white marble. Entwined in the flowers was a snake, noticeable only on close inspection, but very much there.

Thomas Moran's Bridalveil Falls, Yosemite Valley was a literal interpretation of the painting. The triangular vase represented the crevice from which the white falls cascaded from above. The white flowers emerging from the vase were an exact evocation of the gushing water.

Henri Rousseau's Tropical Landscape: An American Indian Struggling with a Gorilla was perfectly depicted in a fantastical arrangement containing vivid Fauvist colors and fantastic-looking flowers. I feel sure Rousseau would have approved.

Not all of the floral arrangements were easily associated with the artwork from which they were derived. Sometimes it took some work to find the connection (the carrot in the beloved gold Large Leaping Hare) and other times it was impossible.

After viewing Maxfield Parrish's Little Sugar River at Noon, I struggled to see the relationship between the placid, almost photographic landscape and the colorful arrangement. A nearby couple apparently felt just as flummoxed.

"It's not just you," he said to me, his wife nodding. We talked about what we might be missing in the designer's floral interpretation of the painting. She mentioned that a ballot would have been a good idea for attendees. Allow visitors to pay $1 for a ballot and vote for the best job; let them pay $5 and vote for the poorest re-imagining. She may have been on to something.

At Martin Puryear's Untitled, a guy said to me, "This is like a scavenger hunt. It brings people into every gallery." True that, something I had not anticipated, since I'd been visiting the galleries so far in a logical pattern so as not to miss or rush through anything.

In addition to the 76 arrangements, there were any number of random arrangements scattered about simply for our enjoyment. A peacock near the elevator on the second floor was charming in her necklace, a massive elephant near the marble hall stood on a carpet of flowers.

And the intoxicating smell of roses and stargazer lilies was everywhere I turned. As beautiful and interpretive as the arrangements were, my favorite flowers are always the ones with the strongest scents, so there were moments when I just followed my nose.

I finished up my afternoon at Amuse, the only person at the bar and with the perennially pleasant company of bartender Tommy. The late afternoon sun is a thing of beauty in Amuse overlooking the sculpture garden; leaning back to enjoy it, I began with the Pontes Rose.

Tommy has been my genial host on my every visit to Amuse and he is delightful. We discussed the Folk Fest (he'd regretfully missed the 2 Street Festival), his talent for making fried chicken and both our plans for tonight.

I asked for a recommendation for a nibble and once again he steered me right. The curried lentil croquettes with tzatziki and harrissa were outstanding, sauced cool and hot, and with perfectly cooked lentils. I couldn't have asked for a better close to my afternoon at the museum.

Except, perhaps, to stop and inhale deeply at each of the floral arrangements I passed on the way out.

Surely smelling something so wonderful means that anything is possible. Good things, I mean.