The Majorelle Gardens are a feast for the eyes, and a nightmare for photographers in Morocco.
As is the case everywhere in Morocco, tripods and flash are banned, forcing you to perform some tricky acrobatics whenever you try to take a macro shot of flowers. Supposedly because tripods are the mark of professional photographers, not amateur photographers. So they have to prevent a professional from taking *THE* original photo of the Majorelle Garden – the one that nobody has ever taken, the one that would fetch a fortune because nobody has ever seen it…
Because that is Majorelle’s worst nightmare. How many thousands of photos of those big yellow pots against blue walls, and lost against that very same blue wall, how many thousands of photos of the pink and green door? (I plead guilty).
Fountains are a bit less common… you have to manage to capture a moment when there’s no one in the frame, and when – by sheer luck – a bird comes to perch there. All this needs to be in the right light and from the right angle.
Because Majorelle is always packed, all year round, from 8.30 am to 6.30 pm, and the moments when you can take a photo without a silhouette in front of the pavilion or the small pond can be counted in seconds, in between long waits of a quarter of an hour. This is Majorelle’s second nightmare.
Today, I took a rather different sort of photo at Majorelle. In fact, it could have been taken anywhere else, but those two little kittens, with their big blue eyes – so much softer than Jacques Majorelle’s – completely unfazed by all the passers-by who were admiring them but didn’t dare touch them, those two little balls of fur were absolutely adorable.
I spent two lovely hours in the gardens. Looking for a good photo is a great pleasure, even if you don’t find one. It helps you to observe the world: the twists and turns of the cacti, the subtle shades in the paving, the texture of the large earthenware pots. I enjoyed the backlighting of the setting sun on the tips of the succulents, and the dancing shadows of the palm trees on the ochre walls.
I realised the last visitors had left as silence fell over the garden, where the murmur of the fountains could be heard, the chirping of birds filled the air, and the cooing of the doves mingled with the distant call to evening prayer.
I sat down on a bench in a side path, enjoying the coolness of the evening air, waiting for the caretaker to come and collect me so he could lock the gates behind me.
We made our way back slowly, the palm trees rustling as we passed, birds taking flight, thinking they were already safe.
I left feeling happy after two hours spent in the beauty of the garden, with memories more precious than photographs. I love to dream of Majorelle…
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