Wings of the Thicket

In the darkest corner of the forest, where sunlight dares not to rush in like a torrent but as a secret, ferns dwell. They are the guardians of the green silence, ancient lace carved into the humid air, defying the passage of time with their perfect geometry. Tree ferns are relics of the past. They emerged 300 million years ago, and some shared time and space with cycads and conifers in the Jurassic period. A forest or garden with these ferns evokes the atmosphere of those remote places and times.

Photographing a fern is capturing the architecture of patience. Each frond is a visual score, a succession of lines that repeat in an infinite echo of fractals. When looking through the viewfinder, the outside world fades away. The photographer does not seek the strident burst of color from flowers, but the subtlety of nuances. There is an entire universe in the gradient that goes from the tender green of the unfurling shoot — like a child’s fist opening to the world — to the deep, moss-laden green of the oldest leaves.

Even Charles Darwin, the father of the Theory of Evolution, declared himself impressed by their majesty and the brilliant green of their magnificent and elegant fronds. After my travels to the islands of São Miguel (Azores) and Madeira, I couldn’t agree more with Darwin.