From “A Bulb I Can’t Resist” in One Man’s Garden by Henry Mitchell:
“I never met a crinum I didn’t like, though I know these handsome bulbous creatures with tall stems crowned by lilylike flowers are not hardy much north of Washington. Still, many of them will stand occasional freezes to zero. Once in Memphis the temperature dropped to twelve below zero and I feared for the crinums, just sitting out there unprotected, without even a mulch or a nearby wall for shelter, but they bloomed as well as ever the following summer….
“Crinum leaves tend to be long and floppy. The white ‘Carolina Beauty’, a free-blooming small white with clusters of fragrant trumpets on eighteen-inch stems, good for cutting, has neat leaves that stand up, and they are narrow. But most other crinums can soon occupy a circle five feet in diameter. The leaves may flop flat on the ground. If they are near a path, the gardener will trip over them twenty times a summer, and if well back in a garden border, the leaves will lounge happily over any plant within hollering distance, and the gardener will wonder what ever happened to those phlox or irises or whatever it was that used to be there….
“I often saw the white flowers, somewhat drooping, the central rib stained deep madder, in fat clumps in old parts of southern towns, and the sight of them (they bloom off and on from May to October when they feel like it) used to reassure me that winter was a long way off.
“Most crinums are fragrant, though I do not much like the smell. It suggests thin sugar syrup to me, though I notice specialist growers of crinums keep insisting that it is the headiest perfume in the world. It is nothing like the tuberose or night jasmine or gardenia, so don’t count on it too much. Still, it gives the nose something to do.”
Hello!
To wrap up October, here we have photographs of another member of the Amaryllis family: Crinum, one of the Amaryllis varieties that’s often called “Swamp Lily” (because in the wild, it often grows at the edges of wetlands), but may also get tagged with the names River Lily, Milk Lily, Cape Lily, or Cemetery Lily. That “lily” is in all these common names is a hoot, since they’re not lilies (I guess we’re getting used to that, aren’t we?). Cemetery Lily is a nice fit — since that’s where I photographed them — and you probably can imagine these growing near the edges of a spooky swamp.
I was hoping “Ghost Lily” was one of the common names, since tomorrow is Halloween and I found this one that actually does look like a ghost…
… but, alas, even with that costume, I can only pretend.
“The natural order, Amaryllidaceae, composed of about fifty genera, is a beautiful tribe of plants, and seems to be very generally and very deservedly admired…. Their brilliancy of colors combined with delightful fragrance have excited admiration from the days of Solomon, who called them the Lilies of the Field, to the present time.
“They are all bulbous-rooted, and with but few exceptions, they differ but little in figure and general outline; their flower-spikes are usually one to two feet in height, those of the Doryanthus, and some species of Crinum, however, far exceed that height. In foliage they possess a uniformity of figure which is very singular; in color they vary from white and yellow to deep scarlet and azure blue, some beautifully striped and marked; in fragrance some are delicious, others entirely free….
“Some of the species are natives of the cooler provinces of Europe and Asia; others are found deep-rooted in the burning shores of islands where scarcely a blade of grass interposes itself between them and the torrid rays of a tropical sun. Many are found in the damp and sultry woods of equinoctial America; others are found scattered throughout the states, while another group intermingle with the Ixias and the Gladiolus of Southern Africa….
“It is only to be expected that plants found so widely scattered, and growing under such varied conditions of temperature and soil, should require in many cases, special treatment. We shall notice each of the genera, as they are respectively entitled, estimating their value simply as flowering plants, and their adaptation to the open border, window garden, conservatory and green-house. Some of the genera we should not notice at all, if it were not that there is an earnest and increasing demand for all the information that can be obtained of any plant belonging to this noble family.”
For this post, we’ll take a close look at some of the flowers from a pair of tall Amaryllis — shown in the first three photos in the galleries below — by photographing them from different angles and then diving inside the blossoms.
The first time I photographed these flowers was in 2020, when I identified them as lilies because… well, they looked like lilies to me and I hadn’t yet discovered PlantNet. A couple of years later, I identified them correctly, and remained fascinated by the structures inside the flower.
Let’s, for example, zoom in on this one…
… where you can see that there are two pairs of three anthers each inside the flower. Those toward the front of the flower are lighter in color — almost white — while the three anthers deeper in the blossom’s throat are darker, the color of light brown sugar. In any of the photos where the anthers are visible, you can see the same pattern: three lighter-colored anthers toward the front and three darker-colored anthers toward the back.
These anthers are loosely attached to the ends of six filaments, where even the slightest breeze causes them to wiggle back and forth. That first time I saw them, the movement led me to believe I was looking at grubs or worms until I realized they were part of the flower’s structure. But they do look a little like grubs, don’t they?
Perhaps I spend too much time puzzling about the way flowers are constructed, but I couldn’t help asking my imaginary research assistant ClaudeAI a couple of questions about these (what I thought were incidental) observations: Why does an amaryllis have three light-colored anthers and three dark colored anthers? And: Why do the anthers wiggle like worms?
Claude’s answers were quite long, but here’s part of its answer to the first question about the anther colors:
This dimorphic (two-form) anther coloration in Amaryllis is a real and consistent feature. The three lower/front anthers are typically paler (often whitish or cream-colored) while the three upper/back anthers are usually darker (tan to light brown).
This feature combines with the slightly downward-pointing orientation of the flowers and the arrangement of the stamens to create an organized landing platform for pollinators. The color difference might help make the reproductive structures more visible to approaching pollinators, particularly in low light conditions when these flowers are often visited by moths.
And here’s part of its answer to my question about why the anthers wiggle like worms:
The wobbling movement of the anthers enhances pollen dispersal. When the anthers shake, they release pollen more effectively than if they were rigidly attached. This movement also helps ensure that visiting pollinators get dusted with pollen as the anthers brush against them. The loose attachment allows the anthers to make contact with different parts of a pollinator’s body as it moves around the flower.
Their resemblance to small worms or grubs is particularly interesting from an evolutionary perspective. This might serve as a form of visual attraction for certain pollinators, especially moths and other insects that are attracted to moving prey. The combination of the wiggling motion and grub-like appearance could create what’s called a “dummy pollinator reward” — a visual signal that tricks insects into investigating the flower, thereby facilitating pollination even though there isn’t actually a prey item present.
In other words, the Amaryllis has evolved this way as a pollination strategy — part of which optimizes pollinator attraction and part of which enhances seed dispersal. Plants are so much smarter than I ever imagined!
“The name of this medium-sized, horticulturally important family is derived from the South African genus Amaryllis (Belladonna Lily). The family is widely distributed, especially diverse in the Mediterranean, South Africa and South America (particularly the Andes). Three genera are native in Australia: Crinum (Murray Lily), Calostemma (Garland Lily) and Proiphys (Brisbane Lily)….
“Many members of the family are sold as cut flowers, and numerous genera are common in cultivation. These include Agapanthus, Clivia, Galanthus (Snowdrop), Hippeastrum, Ipheion, Nerine, Amaryllis, Leucojum (Snowflake), and Narcissus (Daffodil and Jonquil), and the last three are recorded as naturalised in Australia. The genus Allium includes cultivated onions, leeks and garlic as well as A. vineale (Wild Garlic) and A. triquetrum (Three-cornered Garlic), which are significant weeds. White-flowered Nothoscordum borbonicum (Onion Weed) is almost cosmopolitan, and commonly troublesome in gardens.
“Most members of the family grow from a perennial bulb, which produces a cluster of basal leaves each season. Others, such as the robust herbaceous perennial Agapanthus grow from a rhizome. Leaves are often linear, and often distichous. In some species, such as Amaryllis belladonna (Belladonna Lily) the flowering stem appears before the leaves.”
“Gardeners account the amaryllis, of which there are numerous varieties, a proud plant, because even after the greatest care it refuses to blossom…. The number of flowers is commonly from eight to twelve, and the circumference of each about seven inches. The corolla in its prime has the colour of a fine gold tissue wrought on a rose-coloured ground, and when it begins to fade it is pink….
“In full sunshine it seems to be studded with diamonds; but, by candle-light, the specks or spangles appear more like fine gold-dust: when the petals are somewhat withered, they assume a deep crimson colour. The name of these beautiful plants is derived from a Greek word signifying to shine, sparkle, flash.”
Waken, thou fair one! up, Amaryllis! Morning so still is; Cool is the gale; The rainbow of heaven, With its hues seven, Brightness hath given To wood and dale: Sweet Amaryllis, let me convey thee; In Neptune’s arms naught shall affray thee; Sleep’s god no longer power has to stay thee, Over thy eyes and speech to prevail.
Hello!
This is the first of three posts featuring a couple of Amaryllis variants, whose appearance during my hunts through the haunted gardens is typically a sign of late summer or early fall — though I found most of these a bit earlier this year, perhaps owing to a warm and very wet summer season. As you can see from some of the photos below, they’re all noteworthy for producing flowers at the top of tall, thick stems, with the flowers bending in a graceful curve — often turning toward the source of light, even when they’re growing in the shade.
“Swamp Lily” is a common name for these plants as they’re often found in the wild at the edges of wetlands, and they may also be called Belladona Lily, Jersey Lily, Barbados Lily, or even Easter Lily — which is fun because none of them are actually lilies. And today I learned that a similar looking plant often called Amaryllis — popular to buy or give as gifts as we approach the winter holidays because their forced bulbs will bloom indoors — is actually Hippeastrum, though both Amaryllis and Hippeastrum are in the same plant family, Amaryllidaceae. This may or may not seem confusing.
“In [John] Gerard’s time (1545-1612) lilies were certainly widely cultivated in many gardens; the most popular variety being the Madonna, L. candidum (its descriptive name was given it by Virgil), a native plant of southern Europe. This is said to have been first grown in England in 1596, though it must have been known by sight from Italian paintings many years before that. In 1596, William Shakespeare would have been thirty-two, at the height of his powers. In that year he was engaged in writing Romeo and Juliet, and the first sight of a Madonna lily must have been inspiration indeed to someone who loved and felt for plants as Shakespeare did….
“Or it may have been the martagon — the Turk’s Cap lily — which Shakespeare saw when he was a boy in Warwickshire, as there is a theory that the martagon, alone among lilies, is indigenous to England, as it is to northern Spain, Italy and Asia Minor.
“Until the last century, there were only a few types of lily cultivated in Western gardens and it is remarkable in the annals of the flower that the appearance of new varieties in Western gardens always coincides with the discovery and development of distant and little-known parts of the world.”
Up and down the garden walks Every day I watch her go, Past great clumps of nodding stalks Crowned with blushing crimson roses, Or with lilies, white as snow.
Lilacs dashing on the air Persian odors, in delight Bend and almost touch her hair; On the bough where he reposes Sings the oriole with his might….
Easter lilies crave the touch Of her carmine-tinted lips — Finer flowers by far than such As bedeck the fields immortal, Whose soft fragrance Juno sips.
Down a pink-plumed peony row Into purple iris lanes, Onward still I see her go, To a Turk’s-cap-lilied portal, Where perpetual coolness reigns….
It’s been a little over six years (six years!) since I published one of my earliest posts about learning to use Lightroom’s features, covering the software’s spot removal tool. In that post — Before and After: Red Brick with Ivy — I described using the tool to remove white spots from a simple photograph of a red brick wall framed with ivy. Then, after gaining more experience, I posted another example — Before and After: Bernadine Clematis, An Illusion — where I explained how I had learned to use it to not only remove spots, but repair damaged sections of flower petals and accurately blend their colors and textures. In both posts, I noted how time-consuming it could be to remove spots and heal blemishes, but that the work was often worth it because it noticeably improved the photos.
This kind of image cleanup has remained part of my workflow for all my images. Most of my photographs are closeups or macros of flowers and plants, taken out in the wild, where all manner of smudgies attach themselves to my subjects. Clumps of pollen, dust and debris, cobwebs, and photobombing spiders, ants, and other bugs are the most common distractors — so I use my first post-processing pass through every batch of photos to eliminate them.
These spot removal tools work like this: you use the mouse to select or brush over a spot, then release the mouse button, and Lightroom attempts to replace the spot you selected with something else from the image. What you selected is called the target, and the replacement Lightroom chose is called the source. Its choice of source, however, has always been hit-or-miss. With photos of flowers where even the smallest sections contain many different textures and colors, it would often fail to choose a source that matched in color or blended textures properly. This meant that I often had to manually reposition the source, or go over it multiple times until Lightroom provided a satisfactory match. Imagine — using some of these photographs as an example — that the raised parallel lines running down the center of individual flower petals were broken at several points after removing bugs from them — and you can visualize what happens when Lightroom selects a source improperly.
Then, in May of this year, Adobe released an enhancement to the spot removal tools called Generative Remove, which uses the AI capabilities from Adobe Firefly (see Irises on Black / Notes On Experiences (1 of 2) and Irises on Black / Notes On Experiences (2 of 2) where I wrote about Firefly) to help with the removal of unwanted objects from photographs. With this enhancement, the target-source approach I just described (and the frustration of using it) no longer applies. Instead — when you select something to remove from the image — Lightroom blends elements of your photo with what it interprets would have been behind or would have surrounded the spot you selected, if the spot hadn’t been there to begin with. Amazing, yes? Let’s look at a couple of examples!
Here are two photographs from this Turk’s Cap series, as they looked when I took them…
… where I didn’t like the mass of stems and leaves on the left side of each photo. Very distracting! In the olden days of six months ago, I would have probably just cropped them out and been content with a larger view of the flower. In neither case would I have been successful changing the image with the original spot removal tools — since for each element you try to remove, you have to manually choose something from the photo to replace it with.
With Generative Remove, however, a new kind of sorcery presents itself. Imagine now using the mouse to brush over the entire left quarter of each of these images and letting the Remove tool do its work. When I did that, here’s where I ended up…
… and here’s what’s happened. In the first photo, Lightroom has removed the stems, leaves, and flowers from the image — and filled the space by extending the stone behind the plants (which was actually there, in real life, how did it know?), and matched the stone’s textures and colors. In the second one, it has done something similar: it has removed the mass of stems and leaves behind the flower, and has created a blended background that matches the area nearby. It also adjusted the stems and leaves of the (now single-stemmed) flower, with new leaves.
While I would normally try to avoid composing pictures so changes like this would be necessary — by shifting my shooting position or zooming in closer — I framed these two like this just to see what I could do with Generative Remove. Here you can compare the images before and after I used Generative Remove by clicking on the first image and paging through.
But wait! There’s more! And this may be my favorite discovery….
Consider again this image of the spotty brick wall, that I mentioned above. With Generative Remove, I no longer have to select each individual spot and double-check that Lightroom chose an acceptable replacement before moving to the next one. Instead I can select all of the white spots one after the other (fastly!), press a single “Apply” button and go play ball with The Dog for a couple of minutes. When I return, Lightroom will have removed all the spots (I’ve tried as many as sixty) in one pass — and, in most cases, without making any mistakes matching colors and textures.
