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San Francisco Chronicle
a day ago
- Entertainment
- San Francisco Chronicle
Rare flower that smells like rotten flesh to bloom in S.F. Spare your nose and watch the livestream
The San Francisco Conservatory of Flowers has launched a livestream of one of its famously stinky corpse flowers, allowing fans to watch the rare bloom without enduring its pungent smell. The plant, also known as titan arum or the amorphophallus titanum, is expected to unfurl within a week, according to an Instagram post from the historic Golden Gate Park greenhouse, which houses a total of five of the plants. Scientists have nicknamed this particular one Chanel. Chanel's livestream began Tuesday, July 1, on the Gardens of Golden Gate Park YouTube channel. It shows a birdseye view of the plant, which has been roped off, as visitors cycle through the space. Those who want to get a closer look, or take a whiff of the phallic-shaped plant once it blooms, can still visit the Conservatory of Flowers in person between 10 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. Thursdays through Tuesdays. Titan arum is native to the rainforests of Sumatra, Indonesia, and is considered endangered by the International Union of the Conservation of Nature. It spends years cycling through dormancy and growth phases, during which it produces a giant leaf that can reach up to 15 feet tall. This process can occur multiple times over several years before the plant accumulates enough energy to bloom. Its bloom only lasts for about 24 to 48 hours During the first evening, its putrid odor, which has been compared to the smell of rotten flesh, releases to attract pollinators such as carrion flies and beetles. After the event, it can take between three to five years for the plant to bloom again. The Conservatory confirmed on Friday, June 27 that Chanel will bloom soon, distinguishable by the plant's tall central spike, called a spadix, poking out through its ruffly spathe leaves. Chanel last bloomed in 2022. Scarlet, another one of the Conservatory of Flowers' titan arums, bloomed in 2023, while the California Academy of Sciences ' corpse flower bloomed last year. Both were livestreamed.
Borneo Post
25-05-2025
- Borneo Post
My botanical affair: Falling in love again at Kew Gardens
I have always found joy wandering through gardens, whether in Malaysia or abroad. From the tranquil trails of Sandakan's Rainforest Discovery Centre to Singapore's futuristic Gardens by the Bay and the timeless grace of all the Royal Botanic Gardens. Each visit nourishes something deep within me. So when I had a chance to revisit the legendary Kew Gardens in Richmond on a recent UK trip, I didn't hesitate. Some fall in love in Paris, others lose their hearts in Venice. Me? I found my second great botanical romance at Kew – lush, leafy, and utterly irresistible. As a botany student at UKM, Kew shimmered in my textbooks like a faraway green paradise. I was no stranger to the plant world: from oil palm estates to chilly labs, stomatal debates to tree-whispering, chlorophyll coloured much of my life. At Cambridge, I dove deeper into the science of plant breeding – yet Kew remained a missed stop, just beyond reach. My first visit came only a few years ago. This was my second, but somehow, it felt richer, perhaps laced with nostalgia. I came for two reasons: to savour the lushness of this living sanctuary, especially the majestic Palm House, and to reflect on Kew's quiet but vital role in the history of the oil palm, a plant that transformed tropical landscapes, including Malaysia's. Now retired, I was no longer racing clocks. I wandered freely, breathed deeply and let wonder take the lead. Aging slows your step, but sharpens your gaze. What I felt was not discovery but rediscovery. As a believer in God the Creator, I see more than beauty in plants. I see design in the symmetry of petals, intention in leaf veins, divinity in the miracle of photosynthesis and more. Even palm oil metabolites carry whispers of awe about God. That day, in the soft spring light beneath ancient canopies, I fell in love again, not just with plants, but with their stories. Their quiet power to connect science and soul, memory and meaning. Kew doesn't just display flora, it honours them, welcomes them like old friends. And for one glorious day, it felt like Mother Nature threw a garden party and I made the guest list. Oh, and if you're curious: 'Kew' comes from Old French kai (landing place) and Old English hoh (spur of land) fitting for its Thames-side perch. On this visit, I was fortunate to make a few thoughtful stops around Kew – each one a quiet marvel. Here's a little glimpse of what I discovered. Titan Arum: The Bloom That Clears the Room Stepping into the Palm House at Kew Gardens feels like slipping into a tropical dream – humid, green, and a world away from London's usual tempo. The air thickens with warmth and the earthy scent of damp foliage, while towering palms and broad-leafed giants reach skyward, their fronds grazing the glass dome that filters golden, dappled light. On this visit, I was blessed with a rare sight – one that quite literally stops you in your tracks: the Titan arum, also known as the corpse flower. In Bahasa Indonesia, it's 'bunga bangkai' – the dead body flower. Aptly named, gloriously grotesque and absolutely not for the faint of nose. I haven't seen this botanical beast in a while, but it's gearing up for a bloom and that's no small event. Towering up to three metres tall, with one of the largest inflorescences in the plant kingdom, the titan arum doesn't just flower, it stages a spectacle. Its claim to fame? That stench. A noxious cocktail of dimethyl trisulfide found in rotting flesh and sautéed leeks – makes this plant a master of morbid marketing. It doesn't politely invite pollinators. It screams: 'Free buffet for carrion beetles and flesh flies!' Native to the rainforests of Sumatra though some smelly cousins lurk in parts of Borneo, the Titan arum blooms perhaps once every decade. And even then, the window of pungent glory lasts just 48 – 72 hours. Miss it, and it's gone. Smell it, and it's forever burned into memory. The Titan's blooms have been witnessed by lucky visitors in botanical gardens throughout the world. Indonesian planters may speak of this mythical jungle marvel in hushed tones, but few have witnessed its grotesque grandeur. And yet here it is, under glass at Kew – young, brooding and preparing its olfactory ambush. So, if you ever find yourself at Kew and catch a whiff of something suspicious wafting through the Palm House, don't hold your breath. You might just be in time for the world's greatest stink-show. And trust me, it's worth every eye-watering second. Old Age Plant (OAP) in Palm House (for many others aka Old Age Person!) Meet the OAP of the plant world in the Palm House – the Eastern Cape giant Cycad at Kew Gardens. This leafy legend, officially the oldest pot plant on Earth, weighs over a tonne and towers above four metres tall. But don't be fooled by its grandeur; it's been chilling in its tropical Palm House since 1775. That is 250 years old! How did this ancient green giant get here? Thanks to Kew's original plant hunter named Francis Masson, who braved months at sea to bring it from South Africa's Eastern Cape. Imagine strapping a giant, palm-like plant to the deck of a wooden sailing ship – soaked by rain, basking in sunlight all the way to London. Once it arrived, it was ferried up the Thames by barge, finally settling into its new home. So, next time you spot this botanical heavyweight, remember: it's not just a plant, it's a survivor with tales taller than itself and a lot more leaves! Princess Tree with a Dowry Dream While strolling through a quiet grove in Kew, I stumbled upon an elegant tree with heart-shaped leaves that fluttered like whispered secrets in the breeze. It was Paulownia kawakamii – the Sapphire Dragon Tree. What a name! Equal parts poetry and fantasy. Honestly, who names trees like this? It's as if botanists moonlight as mythmakers Curious, I leaned in and found myself caught not just by its beauty, but by its story. This was no ordinary tree. This was a Paulownia, Japan's beloved kiri or Princess Tree. And it comes with an age-old tale worth telling. In Japanese tradition, when a baby girl is born, a kiri tree is planted in her honour. Fast-growing and noble in stature, it's not just a leafy ornament – it's a living time capsule. By the time the daughter is grown and ready to marry, the tree, too, is mature. Its fine-grained wood, light but strong, is then crafted into a beautiful dowry chest, rich with meaning and ready to carry keepsakes into her new life. Named after Anna Pavlovna, daughter of Tsar Paul I, this East Asian native has royal flair with humble roots. And while it may not come with a tiara, it wears its legacy with leafy pride. So there I was, unexpectedly wrapped in a moment where botany met tradition, and a simple tree whispered a centuries-old tale of daughters, dreams and dowries. Who knew an afternoon wander could bloom into such a story? Lily Giants: A Splash of Wonder at Kew's Lily House I stepped into the Lily House at Kew Gardens and instantly felt like I'd wandered into a botanical fairy tale where I had somehow shrunk to the size of a curious insect in a giant's greenhouse. This was no ordinary glasshouse. It was the watery kingdom of Victoria amazonica, the legendary giant water lily. Their enormous leaves, that can stretch over two metres wide, can float like regal green platters across the pond. Strong enough to support a small child (though best not to try – Kew's staff aren't fans of impromptu science experiments), they looked like nature's very own lily-shaped trampolines. This time, the lilies were still young – think awkward, oversized teenagers – but already hinting at the grandeur to come. I also wandered over to the Princess of Wales Conservatory, where another family of lilies put on their own elegant show. Here, with 10 computer-controlled climate zones, this conservatory is a glassy labyrinth leading visitor through a series of fascinating ecosystems. Clearly, at Kew, water lilies don't just bloom – they perform on site. The Lily House and the Conservatory are magical splash of grandeur and grace – proof that in the plant kingdom, sometimes bigger really is better. The Mighty Oak Gets a Digital Glow-Up This spring and summer, Kew Gardens decided it was time to celebrate one of Britain's botanical legends – the oak tree – with all the flair of a West End premiere. I happened to be there amid the leafy fanfare and stumbled upon 'Of the Oak', a glorious 6-metre-tall LED spectacle that had both nature-lovers and tech geeks gawking in awe. It was innovative, immersive and judging by its grandeur, probably not cheap. But oh, was it worth it. Created by the wildly inventive collective Marshmallow Laser Feast (yes, that's their real name and yes, they're as creative as they sound), this 12-minute interactive video installation transforms the humble Lucombe oak into a digital diva. Standing tall like a portal to an enchanted forest dimension, it guides you through the oak's transformation across all four seasons with visuals and sound that make you feel like you're inside the tree, or perhaps becoming the tree. Reminds me of the movie Avatar. You don't just see leaves change colour. You're taken on a hypnotic journey beneath the bark to witness the flow of water and nutrients, the oak's subtle act of carbon sequestration via its underground mycelial web aka nature's own WiFi, and the quiet release of oxygen that keeps us all breathing. Oh, and let's not forget the 2,000+ species that depend on this tree, because every great oak throws a party for the entire ecosystem. How did they pull this off? With a blend of sci-fi wizardry and cutting-edge tree-hugging. The team used LiDAR scanning to create a precise 3D model of the oak, photogrammetry to capture the fine textures of its leaves and limbs, and even Ground Penetrating Radar (cue futuristic soundtrack) to map its root system. This isn't just art. It's a high-tech love letter to one of nature's grandest elders. 'Of the Oak' isn't just a tribute. It's an immersive wake-up call that reminds us we're not separate from the natural world, but very much a part of it. Marshmallow Laser Feast's genius lies in turning data into wonder, science into story and trees into stars. I am just imagining if we can one day soon do the same tribute for oil palm. Temperate House Closed – A Botanical Letdown I have to say, I was genuinely disappointed to find the Temperate House closed during my visit – apparently for maintenance. I wasn't alone; many visitors wore the same puzzled, let-down look. What baffled me more was the lack of any announcement on the website. Surely, a heads-up about scheduled closures is the least a world-class garden could do? I even met an English lady in a wheelchair with her daughter, both equally crestfallen after planning their trip around this very highlight. No lush plants, no dreamy strolls through the Temperate House – just empty promises. A little courtesy goes a long way, especially when visitors travel far hoping for a green escape. Here's hoping next time, Kew remembers to send out an RSVP before closing the doors on eager plant lovers! Whispers in Bronze: The Beauty of the Leaf Spirit at Kew This spring, many days were kissed by golden sunlight, stretching lazily past 7 p.m. under flawless skies. It felt as though I had smuggled a sliver of Malaysia's tropical glow across continents, sharing a whisper of warmth with the UK, with love from Malaysians. As I was about to leave Kew after a long, soul-stirring day, something made me pause. Tucked quietly among the foliage stood Simon Gudgeon's Leaf Spirit – a serene bronze face unfurling from sculpted leaf forms, its open spaces offering glimpses of the garden beyond. It wasn't just a sculpture; it was an invitation. To breathe. To be still. To remember that nature doesn't shout; it whispers. In that tranquil moment, I felt embraced by the Leaf Spirit, as if it gently said, 'Rest here awhile.' It was a soft farewell, a promise of return. In a world spinning ever faster, this quiet companion reminded me that true beauty isn't only found in dazzling blooms – but in the silence between them. Farewell for Now, Dear Kew Visiting Kew Gardens was truly a memorable experience I want to share with first-timers. Nestled on 300 acres in southwest London, Kew Gardens is much more than a park – it's a living museum of over 50,000 plant species from around the globe. Transportation to get there is convenient. Its origins date back to the 1750s as part of the royal estate, blossoming into a world-renowned botanical garden and research center. The gardens played a crucial role in the history of plant science and global botanical exploration. For first-time visitors, I recommend setting aside a full day, wearing comfortable shoes and taking your time to absorb the beauty and science intertwined here. Kew is a perfect blend of history, nature and discovery – an oasis where the past and present of botany meet. As I leave the winding paths and hidden corners of Kew Gardens, I carry with me memories of leafy whispers, vibrant blooms and moments of quiet wonder. You have been a gracious host, a sanctuary of nature's marvels and human creativity intertwined. Though our time together is drawing to a close, I know this is not goodbye – just a gentle 'until we meet again.' I look forward to returning, to uncover new stories, new blossoms and that familiar sense of peace you can offer. Chelsea Flower Show – Or the One That Got Away Extra. As I flew back, a cheeky thought bloomed in my mind – I'd just missed the Royal Horticultural Society (RHS) Chelsea Flower Show. Tragic. Officially dubbed the Great Spring Show, this annual floral fête, held from 20–24 May this year, is the crown jewel of garden shows. Hosted by the RHS at Chelsea since 1912, it's graced by the green thumbs of royalty and horticultural heroes alike. But fret not. In true London fashion, when the Chelsea Flower Show is in town, the city becomes one giant bouquet. Storefronts, sidewalks, even street signs, everything is abloom. It's as if the whole capital of London sighs in petals and perfumes. They call it the world's greatest flower show, and for good reason. It's not just a garden show; it's horticultural haute couture. Think cutting-edge garden design, show-stopping floral installations, and enough plant envy to make your plants blush. Alas, I missed it. But let's be honest, if I'd stayed any longer, it might've turned into another love story. And I've already got enough tales to tell. Next time, maybe.
CBC
07-02-2025
- General
- CBC
POLL — Would you smell this stinky flower?
Titan arum is sometimes called 'corpse flower' due to its stench No, you didn't step in something. The rare blooming of an endangered plant in Sydney, Australia, on Jan. 23 attracted crowds who lined up to get a whiff of its famously bad smell. The flower of the titan arum, scientific name Amorphophallus titanum, takes years to bloom and only lasts for a few days once it does. When you think of blooming flowers, you probably think of their sweet scent. This is not one of those flowers. The titan arum has been nicknamed the corpse flower for its awful odour, which some compare to 'rotting meat' or a 'slaughterhouse'. Despite that, people go out of their way to smell its blooms because they are so rare. The funeral-inspired display for Putricia. (Image Credit: Rick Rycroft/The Associated Press) This plant's home, the Royal Botanic Garden Sydney, decided to have some fun with the special occasion. It leaned into the famous fragrance, naming the flower Putricia — a pun on the word 'putrid,' which means disgustingly smelly, and the name Patricia — and even set up a 24/7 livestream for fans to watch it bloom. Garden staff also made a funeral-like display for the flower, complete with red velvet ropes and a black curtain. Not quite coming up roses Estimates say there are only 300 titan arums left in the wild. Sophie Daniel, spokesperson for the Royal Botanic Garden Sydney, said part of the problem is how rarely the flower blooms. 'When they open, they have to hope that another flower is open nearby, because they can't self-pollinate,' Daniel said. In its natural habitat, the titan arum only blooms once every seven to 10 years. Putricia was the first corpse flower to bloom at the botanical garden in 15 years, and drew around 20,000 visitors who hoped to catch a glimpse — and a whiff. What does this plant smell like?
