the lovely grossness of the camellias

Natsume Soseki once described their life as 'flaring into bloom and falling to earth with equal suddenness'. Unlike the ethereal cherry blossoms, whose petals dance gently in the wind before reaching the ground, camellias 'never drift down petal by petal but drop from the branch intact. Although this in itself is not particularly unpleasant [...], the way in which they remain whole even when they have landed is both gross and offensive to the eye'.*

And that's precisely why I love them far more than the over-aestheticised, stereotypical sakura.

Because they cling to their blooming.

Because while wilfully assertive in their singularity, they are also enticingly secretive.

You either love them or hate them.

Whatever the case, they won't impose themselves on you --- they are their own flowers. When the end comes, they fall whole and remain whole, unashamed of their derelict and tainted beauty.

They continue to shine even when neglected or trampled upon.

They cling to life, to fullness in every weather.

They do not submit gently.

They won't compromise.

That's why this Spring I didn't go out of my way to see the spectacular cherry blossoms, but sought the lovely, lurid camellias in sympathy and complicity.


Note:
*Natsume Soseki, Kusamakura (1906) / The Three Cornered World, trans. Alan Turney (Chicago: Henry Regnery Co., 1967), p. 136.

Photos by DK