DaleDucatte.com

"Pay attention to the world." -- Susan Sontag
 

Rosa laevigata, the Cherokee Rose (1 of 2)

 , , , , , , 0

From “Rosa laevigata” in History of the Rose by Roy E. Shepherd:

“R. laevigata and R. multiflora cathayensis were the first roses sent from China to Europe by the English East India Company, and the former was first mentioned botanically by [Leonard] Plukenet in 1696. How it reached America is not known, but it is difficult to believe that a species as well established as was R. laevigata in colonial times had been introduced by Europeans…. We know definitely that R. laevigata is one of the most ancient and common roses of China, and that it was found in several of our southern states by the first white men to explore those regions.

“The name R. laevigata was first applied to this species by [Andre] Michaux in 1803. He found it in many of our southern states and was firmly convinced that it was a native American species. Many names have been applied to this rose, but the most popular one is the common name Cherokee Rose….

“This very beautiful and distinct species thrives only in the far south, and although it may live farther north, it will rarely bloom…. The large, pure white, single flowers with fluffy golden yellow stamens are fragrant and about three inches in diameter. They are produced in May or June on a vigorous trailing or climbing plant, whose canes are often 15 feet or more in length. The leaflets, 3 or 5 in number, are bright green and highly ornamental. The hips are oblong to round and are densely covered with small prickles.

“Left undisturbed, R. laevigata will make a prodigious growth; a plant in Florida has attained a height of 50 feet and covers an approximate area of 10,000 square feet. In Georgia, where it is quite generally distributed, it has been named the state flower.”

From “American Beauties” in The Rose: A True History by Jennifer Potter:

“The Cherokee rose is not native to America…. It comes from China…. Leonard Plukenet, Royal Professor of Botany and gardener to Queen Mary, first introduced it into European literature under the name Rosa alba Cheusanensis in a work of 1705. How it had spread across the southern American states by the time of Michaux’s journey is a mystery….

“This Chinese native was still masquerading as an all-American champion in 1916, when the Georgia Federation of Women’s Clubs persuaded the state legislature to adopt the Cherokee rose as the floral emblem for Georgia…. [The] Georgia state legislature located the original Cherokee rose firmly ‘among the aborigines of the northern portion of the State of Georgia’, claiming that it was ‘indigenous to its soil, and grows with equal luxuriance in every county of the State’.

“Mythic histories continue to stick to this very tenacious rose, linking it to the ‘Trail of Tears‘ that marked the US government’s forcible removal of more than 16,000 Cherokee Indian people from their homelands in Tennessee, Alabama, North Carolina and Georgia, sending them to Indian Territory in what is now Oklahoma. Hundreds of Cherokee died during their trip west, and thousands more perished from the consequences of relocation….

“According to the legend of the Cherokee rose, when the Trail of Tears began in 1838, the Cherokee mothers were grieving and crying so much they were unable to help their children survive the journey. The elders prayed for a sign that would lift the mothers’ spirits to give them strength. The next day a beautiful rose began to grow where each of the mother’s tears fell — white for their tears, and gold-centred in recognition of the gold taken from Cherokee lands….”

Hello!

This is the first of two posts with photos of a Cherokee Rose that I took at Oakland Cemetery in March. The plant’s scientific identification is Rosa laevigata; and while it is sometimes known as Camellia Rose or Mardan Rose, Cherokee Rose is its most enduring and historically significant common name.

Despite having walked by it many times on my trips to Oakland, this was the first time I was able to photograph it successfully while its flowers were in bloom. Unlike many roses that will produce a succession of blooms (sometimes across seasons), the Cherokee Rose has only one short burst of flowers during the spring, most of which will last just a few days. I usually find the flower petals already spent and scattered along the sidewalks, but apparently got there just in time this year.

Here you see the widest shot of the plant I was able to get, where you can also see some of the botanical characteristics mentioned in the two excerpts I included at the top of this post. The plant emerges from the ground toward the lower right of this photograph, in an elevated section of the garden bounded by a four-foot wall, then sends its canes in arcs toward the statue at the left — which, not coincidentally, is where the most sunlight reaches the plant. I estimate that the statue is about 15 feet tall, so we can conclude that the plant has spanned 15-20 feet to get to it, supporting itself along the way with any tree branches, shrubs, or vines it contacts.

It’s a challenge to photograph, partly because it’s only approachable from one side since the space behind the plant isn’t accessible. Its presence in the shade of one of Oakland’s giant Magnolias means that while the plant may benefit from the mottled light that filters through, that same lighting overpowers a sunny-day photograph with blown-out highlights, rendering the translucent flower petals nearly invisible. I was fortunate to have this encounter on an overcast day, which made the background lighting more manageable and easy to further reduce in Lightroom, revealing the plant with sufficient detail. And this meant I was able to capture wider views of the plant — rather than just shooting closeups of the flowers — and use various magic formulas in Lightroom to visually separate the plant from its botanically complicated background.

Since I hadn’t photographed it before, I was unfamiliar with its history because I typically only research plants when I take their pictures. I’ve been quite surprised by the rich botanical and cultural history of the Cherokee Rose, and how much coverage it gets in the sources I typically use, like those from the Internet Archive I excerpted above. Its ambiguous origins in the United States — still indeterminate — are a fascinating part of the plant’s history, given that it was once considered native to the United States but subsequently identified as native only to China. Its distribution map from Plants of the World Online…

… illustrates that precisely, where (colored green) we see the boundaries of its native regions in China, and where it was introduced and propagated (colored purple) to a contiguous region of U.S. southern states and persists in only those states.

Many of these states were among those instituting the Trail of Tears displacement and ethnic cleansing of Native Americans in the nineteenth century, or were states through which those Native Americans traveled as they were forced out of the South. While the plant’s common name Cherokee Rose wasn’t derived from one of the displaced tribes — the Cherokee — it is associated with the plant’s endemic presence on the tribe’s lands. With that in mind, the Cherokee Rose’s connections to the Trail of Tears and the mythical story of how it came into existence with white flowers with gold centers (excerpted above) create an intense relationship between its history, its appearance and botanical attributes, and its presence in a historical memorial garden like Oakland.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

Spanish Bluebells, Fine and Subtle

 , , , , , , 0

From “Spanish Bluebells” in Garden Bulbs for the South by Scott Ogden:

“The flower that comes to mind for most Southerners when squill is mentioned is the Spanish bluebell or wood hyacinth. Although long known in garden literature as Scilla campanulata, botanists have shuffled these poor flowers about, first to the genus Endymion, and more recently to an uncomfortable resting place with the alliterative appellation Hyacinthoides hispanica.

“None of these names do justice to the stately spikes of wisteria-blue that blossom in April gardens. The unscented, bell-shaped flowers of the Spanish bluebell hang down from twelve- to sixteen-inch stalks. Their thrifty bulbs seed and multiply in lavish pools, which spread out under the trees. This old Southern favorite is one of the finest spring bulbs for naturalizing in woodland, and will even succeed in the dark shade under live oaks. The round, white bulbs are happy anywhere they receive ample spring moisture. They have been popular since Elizabethan times and came to the South with the earliest settlers.

“In addition to the common sky-blue strain of the species, there are several fine selections of Spanish bluebells with darker violet, pink, or white flowers. Nurseries sometimes offer these in a mix, but such combinations are best avoided or quickly separated following bloom, as the various colors combine in a gaudy pattern. Although beautiful, the related English bluebell (Hyacinthoides non-scripta) needs cooler, damper conditions than the South can provide.”

From “Spring Comes in February” in A Southern Garden: A Handbook for the Middle South by Elizabeth Lawrence: 

“The squills are companions to the tulips, the large late-flowering types blooming along from the end of March to the end of April. They bloom well under all conditions and present no difficulties. The Spanish bluebells, Scilla hispanica, bloom in all degrees of shade, also in full sun, and in any kind of soil. They are in delicate tints of lilac and blue-violet, and are particularly useful in white. These are among the first of the flowers that give much and ask little….”

From “The Bluebell” by Anne Bronte in The Complete Poems of Anne Bronte, edited by Clement Shorter:

A fine and subtle spirit dwells
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling breathes
With more or less of power.

There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell,
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell.

Yet I recall, not long ago,
A bright and sunny day:
‘Twas when I led a toilsome life
So many leagues away.

That day along a sunny road
All carelessly I strayed
Between two banks where smiling flowers
Their varied hues displayed….

Hello!

Here we have a collection of Bluebell photographs that I shot at Oakland Cemetery on March 30. When I passed some of my photos through PlantNet to identify the species, the site provided three probable scientific names: Hyacinthoides non-scripta (English or Common Bluebell), Hyacinthoides hispanica (Spanish Bluebell), and Hyacinthoides × massartiana (an English and Spanish Bluebell hybrid). With the above excerpts from Garden Bulbs for the South and A Southern Garden in mind, though, I’ve decided these are Spanish Bluebells, given their growing environment (a large open field with normal to dry soil conditions); their height (many stems a foot tall or taller); and their colors (a blend of blue and violet, sometimes translucent enough to approach white). The blended colors especially became important to their identification when I was working on them in Lightroom, where the presence of purple and violet (and not just blue) became very apparent, in the same way those two colors are more evident in my photos where the sunlight was brighter.

This is only the second time Bluebells have posed for me. The first time was in 2024 (see Blooming Bluebells) where I photographed them mostly at the base of a gigantic Water Oak, where they’re still thriving…

… and where they’ve expanded to nearby areas along a wooded and azalea’d path, producing some lovely color contrasts with the azalea’s pink, and some texture contrasts with another smaller Water Oak.

They’re also moving into new territory either on their own or by intentional planting (or a little of both) as they’re now growing far from their original oak tree location and spreading into the rest of the field, whose characteristics and layout I described in a previous post, Ambitious Spring Snowflakes (Leucojum vernum) (3 of 3).

Given the consistent spacing between many of the plants, I think I can speculate that Oakland’s landscapers may be attempting to fill this entire corner of the field with Bluebells — so we’ll keep an eye on it because an unbroken sea of Bluebells every March would be a visually epic addition to the gardens and to this corner of that field.

You may have noticed that the two book excerpts above use the word “squills” to describe Bluebells. This was a new word to me, one I feel like I could have made up; yet it turns out it has ancient Greek and Latin roots, becoming part of early European botanical literature in such writings as those of herbalist and botanist John Gerard. It was later used as a substitute for the plant genus Scilla, under which the Spanish Bluebell was once known as Scilla hispanica; and is often associated with the botanically and medically significant Sea Squill (Drimia maritima) — a plant in the same family (Asparagaceae) as Bluebells. I still might make up my own definition for “squill” and use it inappropriately, because I like how it sounds when you say it out loud.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

Iris japonica (2 of 2)

 , , , , , , 2

From “Iris Chinensis: Chinese Iris” in The Botanical Magazine, or, Flower-Garden Displayed (Curtis’s Botanical Magazine), Volume 11, 1797:

“The public are indebted to Mr. Evans of the India-House, for the introduction of this plant from China, where it is a native.

“It flowered last year, at different periods, for the first time, in many collections near London; this irregularity of its blowing was occasioned, we presume by its being kept in different degrees of heat, in the stoves of some, and the green-houses of others; Mr. Thomson, Nurseryman of Mile-End, at the close of the year, had it growing very luxuriantly in the open ground; but the very severe winter of 1796–1797, in which the thermometer at Brompton was three degrees below 0, destroyed it; nevertheless, there is no doubt but it will bear the cold of our ordinary winters, and thrive better in the open ground, in a moist situation, than in the stove, or green-house, in either of which, however, it will flower very well; and, where the plant is luxuriant, continue to do so for a considerable length of time, the blossoms being numerous, and unfolding gradually: in a strong plant at Mr. Colvill’s, Nurseryman, King’s-Road, we counted seven blossoms expanded at one time on its different branches.

“It differs from all other known Iris’s, in having a root perfectly of the creeping kind, sending out shoots to a considerable distance, by which it is rendered very easy of propagation; its flowers, in form and colour, come nearest to those of Iris cristata, and have a considerable degree of fragrance.”

From “Iris japonica” by Kayoko Miyazawa in Flora Japonica by The Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew:

“Rather unusually among irises, this species spreads by a slender branching rhizome on the surface, forming handsome spreading clumps of dark, glossy foliage. The flowers, which open in late spring, are relatively small but very attractive when examined closely. This is a popular plant in gardens in southern Japan, where it is also common in the wild….

“Iris japonica is also appreciated in Western gardens, where it prefers a rather sheltered position in the sun or light shade in cooler regions. and where it does not always flower freely. Each leaf fan dies off after its flowers finish. A few selected forms have been named, including one with striking white-striped foliage.

“Iris japonica is just one of many plants first named by Carl Thunberg, the Swedish pioneer of Japanese botany, some years after the publication of his Flora Japonica. It was first introduced into Britain by Thomas Evans in 1812, and the informal group within the genus to which it belongs is called Evansia in his honour, although its formal classification is in the section Lophiris….”

From “The Village Curate” by James Hurdis in The Botanical Magazine, or, Flower-Garden Displayed (Curtis’s Botanical Magazine), Volume 11, 1797, cover page:

Not a tree,
A plant, a leaf, a blossom, but contains
A folio volume. We may read and read,
And read again, and still find something new
Something to please, and something to instruct.

Hello!

This is the second of two posts with photographs of Iris japonica from Oakland Cemetery, that I took at the end of March. The first post — where I wrote about some of the plant’s visual characteristics and described how I banished unattractive background fronds from the images — is Iris japonica (1 of 2) / Notes on Image Reconstruction. In this post, we’ll spend some time taking a look at individual flowers, with close-up and macro photos of one or two blooms per stem that I photographed while sitting on the ground and meshing with the plants, as we take a compressed tour through the plant’s representation in historical botanical drawings.

As I mentioned in the previous post, Iris japonica is known by common names including Japanese Iris, Fringed Iris, Butterfly Flower, and Shaga or Shaga Flower — names reflecting its flowers’ visual appearance or its natural origins in China and Japan. In iris horticulture, it’s classified among crested irises or Lophiris, and passed through a number of scientific names once it migrated to Europe and began to be propagated and observed by eighteenth-century Western botanists. Plants of the World Online lists ten prior scientific names (see Iris japonica synonyms) from 1784 through 1980. The first one from 1784 — Iris squalens — was later discarded since it was already associated with a known plant, and 1797’s Iris chinensis (derived from its Chinese nativity) then took its place as the inaugural scientific name.

The 1797 iris chinensis name leads us to the first known European botanical drawing of the plant we now call Iris japonica, a fine rendition of a specimen where parts of the composition — in this case, the flower itself and the base with roots and rhizomes — are drawn in larger proportions to the rest to show their botanical characteristics. Use of magnification like this — which may have actually involved using a magnifying glass — helped document detailed characteristics of the plants for scientific evaluation and study.

That drawing is from Volume 11 of Curtis’s Botanical Magazine, published in 1797, which is available in scanned form on the Internet Archive, so (lucky for us!) we can see how the magazine published the image originally with a detailed description of the plant on its facing page. The text of that description (transcribed to modern usage by Claude.AI for me) appears as the first excerpt at the top of this post.

A decade later in 1807, famed illustrator Pierre-Joseph Redoute published his own version of Iris japonica, in Volume 3 of his book Les liliacees — a book whose title (“The liliaceae”) reflects the fact that the Lily (Liliaceae) and Iris (Iridaceae) families were less distinct than they are now, and plant membership overlapped. That drawing (on page 152) shows Redoute retaining the plant’s scientific or botanical characteristics in accurate detail without exaggerating the plant’s proportions, thus blending science and art to produce drawings that merged both visual approaches and served botanical experts as well as the general public.

By 1827 when Redoute produced another Iris japonica illustration in his book Choix des plus belles fleurs: et des plus beaux fruits (“A Selection of the Most Beautiful Flowers and the Most Beautiful Fruits”), as Plate 46, he stylized the image further, dropping all but one of the plant’s leaves from it as well as its roots, and eliminating the inset sketches showing other parts of the plant. Alert observers will also notice that despite the twenty-year gap between the two illustrations, the flowers and the single leaf in this second image are identical. They were likely created from the same initial drawings or plates, then altered and cropped to focus the viewer’s interest on the flowers.

The artistic connections to photography, photo editing, and selective image reconstruction (like I described in the previous post) are so obvious I won’t use up more words to explain them. But I thought Redoute’s evolution in the use of color was as interesting as his compositional choices: the 1827 version shows the wider range of colors that Iris japonica flowers can produce. While in both images the color blue appears to dominate when we first look at them, the second image actually contains subtle and transitional blending of blue, purple, and violet tones that reminded me of the red and magenta color exploration I did with Camellia photographs (see Camellia japonica (1 of 2)).

To verify that Redoute’s color interpretation wasn’t my imagination, I imported copies of both of his images into Lightroom and added purple saturation. Here’s how that turned out…

… where you can now more readily see where Redoute added purple tones to the image, tones that aren’t present in the first one (whose colors didn’t change when I saturated purple). We might speculate here that in designing the 1827 image, Redoute knew that the plant’s botanical structure was scientifically accurate (so he reused the 1807 image as the starting point), but had learned about or observed the plant’s ability to produce additional colors, and incorporated them in 1827. Or he may have simply expressed a new style preference by adding purple and violet tones so their softer colors blended better with the alterations he made to the leaf and stem colors. Either way, the second drawing retains the botanical precision of the first one, more accurately demonstrates the color potential of Iris japonica variants, and represents the shift toward enhanced artistic renderings of plants and flowers that was common to nineteenth-century advancements in botanical art — expressed as “something new, something to please, and something to instruct” in the poem I included at the top of this post.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!