Parrot on a Stone Plinth Jennifer Stock (bio) I An artist arranges five shells on a shelf. The shelf hovers in midair, juts out from a milky, dark background. Whorls, crenellations, spirals, speckles, and striations glow softly under an unseen light source. An austere color palette sharpens our sense of scale and shape. A small, peach shell lies like a recumbent amphora; a large, chalky one balances on a series of fang-like spikes. Three are oriented with their apertures toward us. We glimpse their inner voids; this shelf might be floating in outer space. An adage of my mother's returns: odd numbers work best for arrangements. The Dutch artist Adriaen Coorte will complete Shells on a Stone Plinth in 1698. At the time that he places the shells on the shelf to paint them, they are highly prized by collectors. Carried long distances to the Netherlands from Dutch colonies, the shells are part of the vast circulation of resources that will swell capital in the Western world. That the shells have been taken from a country from which much will be taken is not apparent. Their striking pose against darkness shows them to advantage but also erases their context. Coercion and beauty exist in their willful grouping against a blank background; they are at once collector's items and colonized objects. And as viewers, we are invited to savor their exoticism rather than imagine their plunder. II In 2008 I purchase a yellow-crowned Amazon parrot named Aria on Craigslist. I'm trying to improve the end of my mother's life. In pursuit of this goal, I drive to a suburban development tucked within the cancerous sprawl around Indianapolis to pick up the parrot. I know nothing about parrots, but my mother has recently said she would like one. She thinks a talking animal will make her less lonely. My parents already have a cat and two rambunctious dogs, and my mom's illness, combined with my father's dementia, puts caring for pets on an increasingly long list of things neither of them should be doing. But I'm on a mission to fulfill wishes while I can, so I pull over at a nondescript ranch house and fork over six hundred dollars. The small house is filled with birds; the people tell me that Aria was the pet of a friend who can no longer take care of her after having a baby. I gaze around at the cages lining the living room wall, the bird toys tossed across the tan shag carpet, the parrots walking around [End Page 10] everywhere, and realize that something's probably off. But soon I'm driving home with a shiny green creature crowned with a yellow lick of flame, her head cocked curiously, her eyes reptilian, flashing, inscrutable. III At the time of its construction in 1840, the Great Conservatory at Chatsworth House is the largest glass building in England. Broad translucent walls and a soaring, sixty-foot ceiling warm a collection of exotic plants: palms, moss, ferns, and aquatic lilies. Two carriages can drive within the jungle of the Conservatory side by side, allowing women in silks to gaze with an air of unfocused triumph on the spoils of imperial plant hunting in the dead of winter. Conservatory architect and Chatsworth House head gardener Joseph Paxton has created a protective environment for his transplants. He is a virtuoso at enabling plants to thrive in glass cages. He becomes the first person in England to bring the giant Amazonian lily to flower, which he accomplishes in a smaller glass house with a special tank to accommodate five-foot lily pads strong enough to sustain the weight of his young daughter Annie. His glass houses exemplify the careful control and culture that support conquest; they are an étude of the artificial. Sunlight alone does not allow plants like water lilies and lotus to survive the cold in England. So tunnels are dug under the Great Conservatory. Wagons run on subterranean rails and cart three hundred tons of coal to eight underground boilers over the course of one winter. These coal fires warm seven miles of hot water...