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GBIF 22 (Antananarivo, Madagascar)
APPENDIX I: Notes from GBIF Nodes Meeting, 6-7 October 2015
APPENDIX II: GBIF Governance Meeting
APPENDIX III
NEW ORLEANS. A courtesan, not old and yet no longer young, who shuns the sunlight that the illusion of her
former glory be preserved. The mirrors in her house are dim and the frames are tarnished; all her house is dim
and beautiful with age. She reclines gracefully upon a dull brocaded chaise-longue, there is the scent of
incense about her, and her draperies are arranged in formal folds. She lives in an atmosphere of a bygone and
more gracious age.
And those whom she receives are few in number, and they come to her through an eternal twilight. She does not
talk much herself, yet she seems to dominate the conversation, versation, which is low-toned but never dull,
artificial but not brilliant. And those who are not of the elect must stand forever without her portals. New
Orleans . . . a courtesan whose hold is strong upon the mature, to whose charm the young must respond. And all who leave her, seeking the virgin's un-brown, brown, ungold hair and her blanched and icy breast where
no lover has died, return to her when she smiles across her languid fan.... New Orleans.
Fairchild laughed. “Now, you lay off our New Orleans bohemian life; stay away from us if you don’t like it. I
like it, myself: there is a kind of charming futility about it, like—” “Like a country club where they play
croquet instead of golf,” the other supplied for him. “Well, yes,” Fairchild agreed. “Something like that.”
The iron benches of Jackson Square were empty this morning ... but the old men are there in spirit.
There was a moon, low in the sky and worn, thumbed partly away like an old coin, and he went on. Above banana
and palm the cathedral spires soared without perspective on the hot sky. Looking through the tall pickets into
Jackson square was like looking into an aquarium—a moist and motionless absinthe—cloudy green of all shades from
ink black to a thin and rigid feathering of silver on pomegranate and mimosa—like coral in a tideless sea, amid
which globular lights hung dull and unstraying as jellyfish, incandescent yet without seeming to emanate light;
and in the center of it Andrew’s baroque plunging stasis nimbused about with thin gleams as though he too were
recently wetted.
Outside the window New Orleans, the vieux carré, brooded in a faintly tarnished languor like an aging yet still
beautiful courtesan in a smokefilled room, avid yet weary too of ardent ways. Above the city summer was hushed
warmly into the bowled weary passion of the sky.
The violet dusk held in soft suspension lights slow as bell-strokes, Jackson square was now a green and quiet
lake in which abode lights round as jellyfish, feathering with silver mimosa and pomegranate and hibiscus
beneath which lantana and cannas bled and bled. Pontalba and cathedral were cut from black paper and pasted flat
on a green sky; above them taller palms were fixed in black and soundless explosions. The street was empty, but
from Royal street there came the hum of a trolley that rose to a staggering clatter, passed on and away leaving
an interval filled with the gracious sound of inflated rubber on asphalt, like a tearing of endless silk.
Sojourners in New Orleans who take their afternoon drive down Esplanade street will notice, across on the right, between it and that sorry streak once fondly known as Champs Élysées, two or three large, old houses, rising above the general surroundings and displaying architectural features which identify them with an irrevocable past--a past when the faithful and true Creole could, without fear of contradiction, express his religious belief that the antipathy he felt for the Américain invader was an inborn horror laid lengthwise in his ante-natal bones by a discriminating and appreciative Providence. There is, for instance, or was until lately, one house which some hundred and fifteen years ago was the suburban residence of the old sea-captain governor, Kerlerec. It stands up among the oranges as silent and gray as a pelican, and, so far as we know, has never had one cypress plank added or subtracted since its master was called to France and thrown into the Bastile. Another has two dormer windows looking out westward, and, when the setting sun strikes the panes, reminds one of a man with spectacles standing up in an audience, searching for a friend who is not there and will never come back. These houses are the last remaining--if, indeed, they were not pulled down yesterday--of a group that once marked from afar the direction of the old highway between the city's walls and the suburb St. Jean. Here clustered the earlier aristocracy of the colony; all that pretty crew of counts, chevaliers, marquises, colonels, dons, etc., who loved their kings, and especially their kings' moneys, with an abandon which affected the accuracy of nearly all their accounts.
There was a moon, low in the sky and worn, thumbed partly away like an old coin, and he went on. Above banana
and palm the cathedral spires soared without perspective on the hot sky. Looking through the tall pickets into
Jackson square was like looking into an aquarium—a moist and motionless absinthe—cloudy green of all shades from
ink black to a thin and rigid feathering of silver on pomegranate and mimosa—like coral in a tideless sea, amid
which globular lights hung dull and unstraying as jellyfish, incandescent yet without seeming to emanate light;
and in the center of it Andrew’s baroque plunging stasis nimbused about with thin gleams as though he too were
recently wetted.
THE CABILDO, a squat Don who wears his hat in the king's presence, not for the sake of his own integer vitae,
but because some cannot, gloomed in sinister derision of an ancient joke; within the portals Iowa wondered aloud
first, why a building as old and ugly could have any value; and second, if it were valuable, why they let it
become so shabby.
BENEATH the immaculate shapes of lamps we passed, between ancient softly greenish gates, and here was Jackson
park. Sparrows were upon Andrew Jackson's head as, childishly conceived, he bestrode his curly horse in terrific
arrested motion. Beneath his remote stare people gaped and a voice was saying: "Greatest piece of statuary in
the world: made entirely of bronze, weighing two and a half tons, and balanced on its hind feet."| BHL Staff meeting, 2015 Smithsonian, Washington, DC |