Do you know the feeling when you unexpectedly stumble upon something you have never heard of/ seen/ been to before - be it a new favourite book or a garden or whatever - and you suddenly are all bubbling with excitement about it, so glad you crossed paths? I felt that way recently on discovering the work of Mark Dion.

I came to the Whitechapel Gallery in East London having never even heard his name before. But the advert for its latest exhibition had made me curious: called "Theatre of the Natural World" a picture showed a tree stump with books about birds and plants stacked in the forks of a tree trunk and hacked back branches - as if on a shelf - plus a smorgasboard of tools and paraphernalia you'd associate with an explorer or Natural Historian scattered underneath. What was that supposed to be?

I'm so glad I went. From the moment I stepped in I was mesmerized, relishing the sense of humour so evident throughout. As  I see it, it's a sense of humour that will be shared by people who love the Monty Python movie "The Life of Brian": somewhat black, not taking yourself or your mission too seriously and needing a certain amount of insider knowledge to fully appreciate the gags. With "The Life of Brian" you'd need a rudimentary knowledge of the Bible's New Testament, here you should have a rudimentary idea of how Natural History - as a science - works: its general methods of research, how explorers went about gathering knowledge, and how it was shared etc..

I know others may see things differently, perhaps even contradict there is humour in this in the first place, choosing to interpret it as sarcasm or other sentiments. More on which later. But I felt that Mark Dion and this exhibition possess a great sense of humour above all else. 

On entering, you find yourself in a gallery hall the centre of which is taken up by a giant cage or aviary. In it, the aforementioned installation - plus a good number of living birds! It's called "The Library for the Birds of London", although the zebra finches which populate it are not birds that you'd find here in the wild. Then again, you would not want to subject wild birds, unused to life in an aviary, to this. In fact, you can't help but feel a little sorry for the birds despite the many feeders and water bowls.

However, there is a panel explaining how there well-being is safeguarded and staff are making sure only four people at a time are inside. For you can enter this curious aviary. I returned several times. The zebra finches seem as happy as Larry, quite unconcerned about their unusual habitat. Their happy chit-chat can't fail to lighten your mood and endear them to even the most hardened of souls.

Much better still is watching them go about their business - such as building nests. There are plenty of thick ropes with their fibres coming a bit loose. One bird spent about a quarter of an hour trying to rip a shred from the lining of an old cap or hat, another struggled heroically with a twig that really was too long and heavy for it, so - with one end in its beak - he hopped around in circles. While this description may seem almost cruel, it is no different to what birds would do in a natural environment: tugging at whatever is present to build and line their homes.

And they do succeed: there were plenty of nests the zebra finches had built (or started to build) already - and, bless them, with no concern of course for precious human knowledge! The most energetic nest-building while I watched took place in a gap between taller books on these "shelves". Right on top of "A field guide to the birds of Britain" and "Wildflowers of the British Isles", among other titles! It goes without saying that the birds aren't "toilet trained" either, so all these books are unlikely to ever be read again... As metaphors go, this must be one of the best telling you to not be stuck-up about your learning/ career achievements! Slightly sad perhaps, for we humans tend to crave "making a [hopefully positive] lasting impact" or "leaving a mark", but quite poignant. And with these cute, cheerful, unconcerned birds the blow to our ego is certainly softened.

In the same gallery hall, there are a number of other installations - most notably a trio (or quartet, if you include the fallen, broken one)  of hides for birdwatchers, or hunters' blinds. From the outside they looked just like the normal version: built from corrugated metal sheets or coarse wood, camouflaged with reeds perhaps, or only reached via a ladder.

However, one had been set up with a rustic table laid out for a hearty feast, with cured meats dangling from the ceiling like you might encounter in a rural inn in Spain. Another was equipped with chandelier, elegant sofa and a tray of liqueur bottles and glasses on a side table. And the third was furnished as a hideaway for a solitary soul, complete with shelves full of books, thermoflask and a comfy armchair. Wildlife watching has never seemed so tempting... Except, of course, you are not very likely to see any wildlife if you indulge in the offerings of these hides. And as hunters' blinds they allow for a well-observed typology of hunters.

The following rooms yielded artwork in a similar vein: created to look like the study of Natural Historian or scientist, for instance, you could e.g. examine books which looked like serious scientific works but were by Mark Dion, covering some of his previous artworks which veer between installation, drawings and perhaps performance (such as  when participating in field trips). A [replica] twisted horn of a narwhale, carefully labelled "horn of unicorn" (as indeed the myth had been) lay in a wooden crate; drawings of what seemed like the family tree of a particular species - except it was something totally absurd - hung on the walls, and much more which made me chuckle and grin.

I felt right at home, too: not only do I love Natural History and am always fascinated seeing work spaces of scientists from years gone by - Darwin, say, or other, less famous people. But my dad, himself a microbiologist, has a similar sense of humour and expressed it deftly: I grew up with pictures depicting famous buildings - which he had fashioned as a collage from photos of bacteria and viruses. Or a frame that showcased a jaw-shaped flint, painted in a colour reminiscent of faded bone, with the title of "Ursus beissfestus". Ursus, of course, is the Latin name for bears - the Brown bear being Ursus arctos. However, "beissfestus" is my dad's invention and would translate as "bite hardus" - apt for a "jaw" of stone... I couldn't help but think that Mark Dion and my dad would get on very well indeed.

Granted, there was a darker side, too: The series of drawings of dead trees made with tar, for instance. Or the series of photographs of stuffed polar bears in Natural History Museums across the world, begging the question 'Will these soon be the last remainders of their species?'.

The "study" was followed by the "Bureau of the Centre for the Study of Surrealism and its Legacy" which I would have loved to explore close-up but unfortunately you are only allowed to view through the windows. It's another Victorian-looking "study" full of scientific instruments, tools of the trade and collections of man-made and natural curiosities. I do not know enough about Surrealism in art to "get" the references but guess there are plenty that will elicit smiles from those more knowledgeable than me.

More accessible (in more than one sense) was the huge cabinet in the next room called Tate Thames Dig: A few years ago volunteers had been mudlarking along the banks of the river Thames for Dion and their numerous and varied finds were presented here like you might find in the research wings of museums - in drawers for geological specimens, say, or an entomological collection. Here, however, there was everything: plastic bottle caps, colour-sorted like a rainbow, in one drawer, broken clay pipes and older artefacts in another. Modern electronic garbage next to lost driving licences, toys or cutlery, large numbers of bones and oyster shells - all laid out and sorted as if it was the most precious, significant find.

Yes, it hints at something dark: how mankind pollutes the environment. How random things tell of so many lives lived in the past, random things only that remain of a person's life and tell of his or her existence when they are long gone. But - and here I return to my introductory comment - I refuse to see this as the key to the exhibition. You see, the art critic of TimeOut magazine commented that "suddenly the whole show makes sense."

He continues: "Dion is saying that you, as an individual, are destined to be forgotten. The only way you'll be remembered is through the detritus you leave behind [...]. Dion is showing us that we are nothing but the effect we have on the world. We are the pollution we cause, the rubbish we dump." His review is interesting and perhaps much deeper than mine. For instance, he describes the hunting blinds thus: "enormous structures for hiding yourself away and laying in wait for your prey. Each is filled with books, trophies and chairs or laid out for a dinner party. The prey here, metaphor fans, is knowledge itself. One of the blinds has fallen and collapsed. It's a futile pursuit."

However, I disagree with his overall sentiment or interpretation. For this critic, "US artist Mark Dion's whole career is a wunderkammer where wonder has been replaced with ecological misery. He's sort of like a little kid with a butterfly net who gave up catching bugs decades ago, and instead started catching ideas. [I love the latter comparison/ picture!] His retrospective show here is full of the symbols and signifiers of academic research [...] but instead of science, he's delving into ideas of human impact, of the nature of the quest for knowledge, of futility and frustration."

Maybe he is right. Maybe Dion really wants us to read and interpret his art this way. The introduction to the exhibition-accompanying book - not written by Dion -  speaks of "a journey that in turn carries a narrative": from the enchanting, lively birds in the aviary via the hunters' blinds "from which human predators can spy and kill" to "analysis" and finally the wunderkammer - or 'room of wonder' - which traditionally held  natural curiosities and awe-inspiring objects, both for study and reasons of prestige. Here though, we are "plunged into darkness and the company of 124 ghosts, pale green corpses of animals and instruments that glow in the dark [plaster casts or sculptures of real-looking and unreal objects which are lit by spotlights in a light neon-green]. We have travelled from the light and the energy of living birds to the luminous yet eerie trophies of obsolescence and extinction."

But I refuse to see it like this. For me the show is about absurdity, with warning undertones, yes, but most of all coupled with a strong sense of humour. About someone telling us, with a mischievous twinkle in the eye, not to take ourselves too seriously, especially not those "learned souls" of academic scientists. I prefer to see it as someone  poking fun at his own "caste" (for apparently Dion started out studying Natural History or similar) almost like a court jester who speaks truth to power in a roundabout way. And since it has wider implications, because those ornithology books in the aviary could just as well be law books or stock exchange reports or whatever, it is art for everyone - not just scientists.

However you choose to interpret it, catch this exhibition if you can - or look out for a Mark Dion show near you... This one is on at the Whitechapel Gallery until May 13th.

As a plant lover, I found what could be the perfect antidote or perhaps riposte to this somewhat depressing notion of "What remains of life after death?". In fact, it was only two weeks later that I hastened to Kew to finally catch an exhibition in the Shirley Sherwood gallery for botanical art before it closed in mid-March. The main room there had been given over to Rebecca Louise Law's installation Life in Death.

It was enchanting. There is no other word for it. 1000 garlands of dried flowers, each five metres long, were suspended from the ceiling, filling the entire room. Only a path, meandering through, was left so you could actually immerse yourself in this artwork (without risking damage) rather than just watching from the side lines. I'm not normally a fan of dried flowers. They always remind me of those dust-gathering bouquets so fashionable in the 70ties. This was something entirely different though.

Threaded or knotted onto fine copper wire were many different kinds of plant material. From posy-like bunches of grasses to poppy seed heads to roses or delphinium flowers, the colours and textures varied widely. Also, some garlands featured just one species and the individual flowers or bunches were widely spaced along the thread, giving it a very light and airy feel.  By contrast, others had a wild mix of petals, seed heads, flowers etc. tightly packed onto the wire so the whole garland looked almost columnar.

My very first impression was that of a heavy snow fall: you know, when there is little wind so the flakes float down vertically in total silence but they come so thick and fast you still can hardly see for more than a few steps. That's what it felt like at first, only with much more colour and at a more ambient temperature! Walking through, this installation revealed an ever-changing kaleidoscope of views - both looking across the room and, of course, in close-up.

It was absolutely stunning and the staff member positioned as a gallery guard confided he loved watching people's reaction to it. He also told me that many people had returned several times and reported always discovering something new. I bet they did. And I was slightly angry with myself for not having gone earlier so I, too, could return for a second or third time. Never mind. I did enjoy it then and there at length.

Life in Death indeed. Even whilst there I felt it was a brilliant answer to the question posed by Dion, namely "what remains of us after death". Aren't plant lovers lucky? Not only do we get to annually witness the endless cycle of rebirth after death - be it from new buds or seeds - we even get to see that death for the individual itself does not always mean the end or total annihilation. (Although, of course, humans tend no to preserve so well or beautifully...) A symbol of hope then, the perfect metaphor for the resurrection: Happy Easter!

As with most publicly accessible skyscrapers post 9/11 you arrive to almost airport-like security levels and we queued for the metal detector, joking that we were ready for take-off. Then we took off, for a nano-break from earthbound humdrum, the lift spitting us out on the 35th floor. Entering a huge, airy atrium or vestibule you are surrounded by glass on all sides safe the ground below your feet and the "middle bit" which houses the lifts and a café and restaurant on the levels above. (Those "levels above" only exist in this "middle-bit", of course.) There are also two café- or bar-style counters where you can buy refreshments to go and a number of seats and tables scattered around. Other than that, though, it's views, views, views. On the south-facing side, with the Thames river deep down below, there's even an open-air terrace.

Oh and yes, there are plants, too - it's called the Sky Garden after all. Wedged either side between stairs and the middle tract, the planting slopes like a hillside up to the restaurant-level, consisting of favourites like tree-ferns, Strelizia, Ficus lyrata and Cycadales. These plantings make the place much more pleasant, but they don't take centre-stage. (And how could they compete with a setting like this.) It amused me to see that a garden in the sky is evidently not high enough to be out of reach for the humble greenhouse whitefly for there were tell-tale yellow sticky traps aplenty. Comfort to less high-flying gardeners everywhere, I'd say.

Reading up on the Sky Gardens afterwards, I learned that the planting was inspired by "the gravity defying ancient forests you see on rocky outcrops". The concept apparently is a "narrative based on the 'Evolution of plants'" with the garden "split into three zones: Shade Tolerant Forest, a Transition Zone and flowering plants" as its creators, landscape architecture practice Gillespies, put it.

The Sky Garden's own website describes it as a series of richly planted terraces, dominated by drought resistant Mediterranean and South African species. "Individual plants have been chosen to work in harmony with the particular quality of light found under the roof canopy." Which presumably means "a lot, year-round, though not as much sunshine as in more sun-favoured parts of the world such as the Mediterranean". The website also claims that "colour and flowers flourish all year round". Well, those we witnessed came from a lonely cymbidium orchid and a handful of Strelizia flowers. But January is perhaps not the best month to judge, I'd like to see it again at some other time of year.
.  
All said, I'd wholeheartedly recommend the experience if the weather is half-decent (i.e. you are likely to see more than an all-enveloping glum grey) but perhaps not primarily for the planting.

Choicer planting can be found at the third big conservatory (third after Barbican and Sky Gardens, of course), the roof garden on top of the new Crossrail Station in Canary Wharf. For the uninitiated: Crossrail is a major new infrastructure project here in London, providing extra rail capacity and faster access between the East and the West of London and beyond, with the first trains running later this year (though it is not scheduled to fully open until 2019). Some stations in London have been upgraded for it, but there are quite a few built especially for Crossrail, the station at Canary Wharf being one such.

The actual station is subterranean - 18 metres below the waterline of the surrounding former West India Quay docks - and there are several levels above with amenities such as shops and restaurants. British firm Foster + Partners designed the cladding enveloping the storeys above ground, as well as the most striking part of the building by far: the roof structure. Somehow the latter reminds me of an empty chrysalis. 310 metres long, it consists of an elaborate timber lattice of beams, overall forming something like a tunnel with its ends opening outwards and upwards and the timber lattice creating a series of triangles. Apparently it is to evoke "a ship laden with unusual and exotic specimens from around the globe" - at least that's what the garden designers' website says.

I'm told the complex geometric is all based on a pattern of code, with hardly two triangles the same size or shape. The majority are filled with transparent panels built so that an air cushion between ETFE layers (a type of plastic) helps insulate and shelter the gardens, but some of these triangles are left empty, meaning they are open and rain, wind etc. can all enter. This creates a unique microclimate: not fully enclosed, but sheltered enough to allow for planting that would not otherwise be possible in such an exposed situation, especially since the nearby skyscrapers of Canary Wharf create fierce wind tunnels and ensure that the roof gardens - north of them - get very little direct sunlight.

The Crossrail Place roof garden thus is highly unusual - I don't know of a single other example with such a combination of 'sheltered and open to the elements'. It means that strictly speaking this is no conservatory, of course. But for the purpose of this blog and due to a number of characteristics they share I'd still class it as such. Like the Sky Garden, the actual garden was designed by landscape architects Gillespies. It opened to the public in May 2015, well ahead of the Crossrail station, and has won its creators a host of awards, most recently the European Garden Award 2018. 

The concept here is much more convincing, at least to my mind. North of Greenwich, sitting almost exactly on the Prime Meridian dividing the globe into an Eastern and a Western hemisphere, atop a train track that will link East and West London and, moreover, in what used to be the docks where ships unloaded their cargo from all corners of the British Empire, the theme seems a no-brainer. But I guess that this is the case for all the best concepts - in hindsight! Anyway, the garden is divided into an Eastern and a Western half (though not physically, wandering through you won't notice such a clear distinction) with planting chosen from the respective hemisphere.

It is said that some of the species planted in the roof garden first entered Britain through the very docks that used to be in this place, the wheel hub of the historic British Empire's worldwide trading. (Today, of course, they are docks only in name, "basin" or at best "marina" being a more appropriate description.) Other plants at least are native to places the ships unloading their cargo here had visited. So in the "Eastern hemisphere" you have bamboo, Nandina domestica (also know as "sacred bamboo" though botanically no bamboo at all), Fatsia japonica, Phormium (the New Zealand flax), acers and magnolias, for instance, and sweet gum and tree ferns in the West. 

The latter actually come from New Zealand and Australia, which should place them in the Eastern hemisphere, but I guess the design isn't that strict and "the West" needed some tall evergreen plants to give structure and the sculptural quality of the tree ferns was perfect. Especially when you consider that the world is a globe and if you go just that little further west from the Americas... I was surprised to see just how much some plants, Nandina in particular, had grown since the first time I took some pictures - which was about two years ago and unfortunately on an equally bleak winter day! So these pictures here really don't do the garden justice, I'm afraid.

A wide path curves or zigzags through the garden, with narrower ones meandering off it into "the undergrowth" - or at least some more secluded parts. Benches are dotted throughout which prove very popular at lunchtime with people working locally. There's also a small amphitheatre-like structure, which a website explains is a "60-seater performance space" where "a programme of music and theatre" is offered in summer, with an explicit invitation to local community groups to get involved. There are also several educational panels, explaining the concept of the garden and thus also a bit about the history of the docks, the voyages of discovery and some plants important to trade - such as pepper, tea, coffee, bananas, sugar or silk.

I'm told that the original concept involved park pavilion-like structures at either end of the garden where you could get a coffee, for instance. Unfortunately this has morphed into restaurants which do not feel part of the garden at all but quite separate as they face away from it, bookending the garden instead.

Access, by the way, is easy enough: the roof garden is just an escalator-ride away from the shops and restaurants, with no need to book or anything (unlike the Sky Gardens). As the building currently is still a bit tucked away, off the main routes in Canary Wharf, it still feels secluded and almost as if you are let in on a secret only some "in-the-know" people share. This sure is to change as soon as Crossrail opens to trains as then it suddenly will become one of the busiest places in Canary Wharf. So get thee there as soon as you can, before everyone else does, too!