Before her death in 2015, my mother and I planted Moonflowers (Datura Inoxia) in a few parts of the yard where they continue to flourish. Rather than blooming during the day, Moonflowers spin open at night, unfurling their origami buds into a five pointed star and emerging into a broad phonograph trumpet. My mother loved origami, and was inventive with it. When I was a child she made paper lamps out of leftover blue and white wall paper that splashed soft evening light in our apartment.
In the summer of 2020, my father had an acute incident that required open heart surgery. I drove to Michigan with my own heart bursting open with fear from the palpable sensation of impermanence, magnified by the pandemic, that comes from facing mortality in this way. Fortunately, while the anxiety was palpable, the remote work period of the lockdown enabled me to work from “home” and be there for his recovery.
As he regained energy and health, we spent a lot of time in the yard, watching the garden grow. When the dark began to fall, the moonflowers would open. I took time lapse videos and made drawings, contemplating the cycle of these plants. It emerges from tiny green nubs to greenish and then white petals bursting out of the sepals. The magic of its glowing white bloom is special in part because of its symmetry and in part because the anticipation of the ephemeral bloom. It droops and perishes by the next afternoon, when it drops from the pistil and the spiky fruited seedpods begin to form.
In addition to this direct personal contemplation on joy, mortality, and impermanence, this species of Moonflower is sometimes called Sacred Moonflower. Like its sister plants Jimsonweed and Morning Glory, it is extremely toxic, but can also be used as medicine for pain relief and in ceremonial rites by Native Americans for its entheogenic properties.
The process of the moonflower opening is relatively quick. It goes from a tight coil to an open cone in just the time that it takes for the sun to go down, but watching the unfolding, it feels immeasurably slow, until one moment, suddenly you notice that it is different!
You are invited to let your imagination roam. What beautiful impermanent thing makes you dance with hope and joy?
In order to build the final light sculpture, I first made maquettes out of plastic in order to ensure the shape was close to real datura inoxia moonflowers. I drew from photographs to check my observations and learn more about the draping. Drawing is a kind of meditation for me, and it reveals things about the shape and proportion that I would not have noticed otherwise. There’s more petal to unfurl than it appears. More than 360 degrees, and a bit of a curve to the edge that gives it a spin and a twist at the edges of the petal folds.
Originally the plan was to use the same plastic that I used for Mahtava, but once I put together a full copy, even with wire, it did not curve or flow out the way I wanted or reflect the light adequately, so I switched to metal window screen, which holds its shape better. The metal, bright and shiny, reflects the colored lights better too, although it is almost transparent in regular light. It is more solid and feels permanent because it is metal, but the transparency makes it feel more ephemeral than the plastic.
UPDATE: Due to maintenance at the Brickbottom Artists’ Association Gallery, the show has been postponed. Stay tuned for details for when the show will take place.
If you want to see the finished product, Kuunkukka (Moonflower) will be on display for “Awake: Mindfulness in Art” at the Brickbottom Artists’ Association Gallery during the month of January. The opening reception will take place Friday, January 3, 2025 from 6:00 PM- 8:00 PM. You can also see Ubiquitous Obsolescence and works by around 30 artists.