On a warm summer’s day at the National Bonsai & Penjing Museum at the U.S. National Arboretum time meanders. The daylight hours are long and no one’s in any rush. Hard light overhead casts sharp shadows that move imperceptibly over the off-white walls. A cloud or two occasionally gives respite, flattening out the light before the bright glare of the sun returns.
When the summer storms come in the afternoon, they arrive in force. The horizon darkens and a swirling mass of clouds announces the urgency of the moment. The rain arrives like a bucket of water being tipped over. Pale gray stone turns the color of volcanic sand and the trees vibrate with luminous greens and sodden browns, water dripping from their small canopies.
The storms rarely linger. Their last drops catch the reemerging sun, glimmering as they fall. Puddles absorb into the ground. Everything drips in a slowing rhythm. The brief respite of cool temperatures gives way to humid, subtropical air. Shadows pick up not far from where they left off. The trees cast their form on the walls which glisten and steam as they dry.
These time lapses are an attempt to record time passing in still imagery. Each consists of dozens and sometimes hundreds of images, taken at ten second intervals. Compressing time allows us to view these scenes in motion, to reveal what even careful observation may not pick up. The quickened moments reveal a place that is in flux, with light that is always moving.
I’m left with an even greater appreciation of the longevity of these bonsai. Each tree has seen hundreds of these moments, thousands of summer days, sudden thunderstorms, and all the hidden cycles of time that mark the passage of each day.