Tipularia discolor- Crane-fly Orchis 1931

Editor: Here we have Edwin Hale Lincoln’s “Tipularia discolor- Crane-fly Orchis”, a gelatin silver print from 1931, at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. I am immediately drawn to the plant’s delicate structure and how it reaches upwards. What is your take on it? Curator: Well, for starters, I think it's whispering a little secret to us, something about impermanence, the sheer fleeting beauty of life. It is quiet, yes? Almost as if Lincoln was tiptoeing through a silent garden to capture this particular image. Now, the stark realism – does that make you consider what it meant to see a plant portrayed this way at the time? Editor: Yes, the realism is interesting. It almost feels scientific, yet artistic too. Does the scientific element detract from its beauty? Curator: Oh, not at all! Think of it instead as a love letter written in the language of botany. And have you noticed the repetition of form, the subtle dance of light and shadow? It’s a bit like nature composing its own melody. Does this visual rhythm speak to you? Editor: Absolutely. The shadows create such a haunting presence that otherwise might be missing in a straightforward scientific photograph. Curator: Precisely! It transforms a simple study into a reflection, making me ponder what else Lincoln, in that silent garden, might have been pondering as well. It seems this artist saw the invisible connections – between art, science, and his soul. I love when things like that intersect, don’t you? Editor: Definitely. Now I see there’s much more to this piece than just the botanical representation. I wonder about those silent gardens too.