Life in Every Thorn: A Meditation on Succulents and Survival
"I Have Something to Show You," Grandpa Dave Said
The wind was howling that morning, carrying flurries of snow that stung my face as I stepped out of the car. My grandfather, Grandpa Dave—wrapped tightly in his oversized blue parka, the hood drawn up over his head—motioned me toward the greenhouse. "I have something to show you," he said, his voice low but deliberate. The door groaned as he pushed it open, both hands gripping the handle to fight against the wind. I followed him inside, shaking the snow from my hair as the dry, warm air enveloped us like a blanket.
A World Hidden in Warmth
Rows upon rows of alien-looking plants stretched out before us, their forms surreal against the backdrop of a snowy January morning. Grandpa Dave moved with purpose, stopping occasionally to point out a flowering succulent or trace his fingers over a spiny stem. He spoke their names in Latin, his tone almost reverent, and I hung on every word, enchanted by the way he could make these otherworldly plants feel like old friends. Then, at the far corner of the greenhouse, he stopped and gestured toward something extraordinary. A single Pachypodium geayi stood, its spines catching the light like a crown of thorns.
Pachypodium geayi
A Plant That Keeps a Memory Alive
That moment stayed with me, long after the snow melted and winter gave way to spring. I purchased a Pachypodium geayi of my own, almost as a memorial to him. It has since become a cornerstone of my collection. Its thick trunk—“pachy” meaning "fat," and "podium" meaning "foot"—swelling and tapering as it stretches toward the ceiling of my studio. Its spines form intricate defenses, a kind of natural armor, while its few leaves gather sunlight with quiet efficiency. This plant is more than just a succulent—it is a link to memory, resilience, and artistry.
Madagascar: The Island That Creates Miracles
Madagascar is often compared to the Galápagos Islands for its unmatched biodiversity. Separated from the African mainland millions of years ago, it became a crucible for evolution, its unique climate and isolation giving rise to ecosystems found nowhere else on Earth. The Pachypodium geayi is one of its many marvels, a survivor shaped by the demands of its extraordinary homeland. In an environment of intense heat, scarce rainfall, and nutrient-poor soil, it has developed ingenious adaptations. Its thick trunk stores water, enabling it to endure long droughts, while its spines deter grazers and reduce water loss by limiting airflow near its surface. To survive in such conditions isn’t just resilience—it’s artistry.
Drawing Strength From Spines and Shadows
This plant’s presence in my studio feels almost surreal. As winter tightens its grip outside, with frost creeping up the windows, the Pachypodium stands tall, a reminder of warmth, persistence, and life’s determination to flourish. Drawing it with brush and ink becomes an act of communion. Each spine, each curve of its trunk, demands attention and respect. The process is meditative, almost reverent, as I try to capture its essence on paper: a creature that turns inhospitable surroundings into something striking and alive.
Patience: The Lesson Every Succulent Teaches
Grandpa Dave never told me why he liked succulents. He just did. But now that I’ve been collecting them for a while, I get it. Being a steward for a plant like the Pachypodium is about patience. They grow slowly, revealing their secrets over years, not days. They force you to wait, to observe, to care. As an artist, I find this mirrored in my work. The brush-and-ink technique is unforgiving yet deeply rewarding, requiring precision and presence. When I draw the Pachypodium, I’m not just capturing a plant—I’m honoring its story, its improbable journey from a far-off land to my Brooklyn studio, and its quiet resilience.
A Portal to Resilience and Warmer Days
In these colder months, when I can’t venture outside to sketch landscapes, the Pachypodium brings the natural world to me. It is my window to warmer places, a bridge to the exotic and the enduring. Through it, I’ve come to see resilience not as a grim determination to survive but as a joyful adaptation, a thriving against the odds. And in its spines and curves, I’ve found a reminder that life’s most inhospitable moments often yield its most beautiful forms.
Explore more: Other botanical drawings