The back door is just for deliveries. Huffing stiff-kneed to the front, toes snapping off in my boots, watching a dog lift his leg by a metal post, wondering whether he will get it back down before spring, I bound through the front door. Reach for a handkerchief. Poke around for an elevator.
Doors slide open to reveal wood walls, parquet floors, golden lighting.
This is the Hunt Institute for Botanical Documentation. It's a penthouse so incongruous in this building, it looks as if it were moved here on a flatbed from a dismantled mansion. I am here to see flowers. From the doorway of a long, windowless room, the first thing I behold is a marsh. It looks like a tintype but is a woodblock print.