Is beauty (in the physical sense) hope? Is it control? Is it escapism; the only natural drug? Is it pattern recognition? Is it magnetic north on the compass rose of consciousness (with “ugliness” being south)? Is it power? Is it circumstantial? Does beauty or anything else even exist? Is it a kind of rage in opposition to the latter statement? Musing on photographer Carla Rossi’s spread we are moved to bastardize a line of Shakespeare — beauty is as strong as a flower (and if you think that means that beauty is weak, you might know very little about biology).