From “West of the Pacific: Fortune in China and Japan” in Pioneers in Gardening by Miles Hadfield:
“China, for botanists, was in almost every respect the opposite to North America. It was a densely populated land with an ancient civilisation. The arts, and the cultivation of plants in particular, had been practised for centuries. In the early part of the nineteenth century China was in a particularly bad state of internal confusion, and trading through those few ports used by the Western traders became almost impossible. An English army was sent to change the situation. As a result, in 1842 the Treaty of Nanking was concluded, which gave Britain increased powers of access to the mainland of China, defined British rights in the ports, and gained the island of Hong Kong.
“John Reeves now became the leading member of a committee formed… to engage a collector and despatch him to China…. Robert Fortune, the new superintendent of the hothouse department of the [Royal Horticultural] Society’s garden at Chiswick, was the man chosen….
“On 26th February, 1843, he sailed in the Emu on this pioneering journey to China, the fabulous land of Cathay.
“This is how he described his arrival:
“‘On the sixth of July, 1843, after a passage of four months from England, I had the first view of the shores of China; and although I had often heard of the bare and unproductive hills of this celebrated country, I certainly was not prepared to find them so barren as they really are. Viewed from the sea, they had everywhere a scorched appearance, with rocks of granite and red clay showing all over their surface: the trees are few, and stunted in their growth, being perfectly useless for anything but firewood. A kind of fir-tree (Pinus sinensis) seems to struggle hard for existence… but is merely a stunted bush… Was this, then, the ‘flowery land’, the land of camellias, azaleas and roses, of which I had heard so much in England?'”
From Avernel the hills flow down And leave it near the sky, And it has birds and bells and trees And fauns that never die.
When coral-pink azaleas fill Its roomy woods with sweet, And lilac spills of violets wait For violet-veined swift feet;
When moths are budded by the oaks’ Uncrinkling rose and red And high, high up, green butterflies Reveal the poplars’ head;
When shaggy clouds in single bliss Blaze up the sea-blue air, Spilling their shadow-amethyst Along the hills’ wide stair;
Then there is singing in the sun And whispering in the shade And dancing till the stars slope down Their murmurous arcade…..
Hello!
The first six photos below show the section of Oakland Cemetery’s gardens where the rest of the photos were taken. It’s one of my favorite areas in the gardens for several reasons, not the least of which is the variety of plants and flowers that grow together there, to be discovered by simply aiming the camera in any direction. But it’s also one of the quietest and most peaceful sections. You descend into it via a curved roadway surrounded by large trees and shrubs, and your isolation from the sounds of the busy city outside — partially created by brick walls around the property — is as complete as you’d get from noise-cancelling headphones, the kind that still let you hear birds singing, bees buzzing, and the soft whoosh of the wind.
I had taken quite a few photos of azaleas from a different part of the property last year (see Azalea Blooms Aplenty), so for this series, I focused more on the roses than the azaleas. Rose varieties can be a challenge to identify, but these feature a very dark, saturated red petal color with yellow (or sometimes burgundy) stamens and anthers in the center, plenty of unopened late spring buds, and (you’ll have to imagine this part) an intense, heady scent that lets you know they’re roses even before you see that they’re roses.
“Fresh flowers are the most remarkable feature in a winter garden. Their petals seem so tender and delicate, their colors so rich and intense, and their sweet scents so unexpected and delightful.
“But plants that are called winter flowers in most gardening books may not bloom in your garden until spring, since bloom time depends on climate. The colder your winter, the longer you have to wait. Flowering quince blooms in January in Texas, February in Georgia, March in Maryland, April in New Jersey, and not until May in Vermont….
“Another of the earliest shrubs is flowering quince (Chaenomeles hybrids, sometimes listed under C. speciosa). There are many cultivars, with flowers like apple blossoms in shades of pink, scarlet, orange, and white. ‘Texas Scarlet‘ is watermelon-red ‘Cameo‘ has double flowers in apricot-pink. ‘Snow’ and ‘Jet Trail‘ are white. ‘Toyo Nishiki‘ has red, pink, and white flowers all at the same time….
“The flowers last for several weeks, especially if the weather stays cool, and may still be there when the leaves come out. Flowering quinces are tough, adaptable shrubs with upright, rounded, or spreading shapes. They can be left unpruned, sheared for hedges, trained up a wall, or sculpted into bonsai-type specimens. The crooked, sometimes thorny twigs are popular with flower arrangers, who cut stems early and force them into bloom indoors.”
If right in front of me, Slow motion — fast motion really — The cold branch of the quince Should all at once Start with a rash of buds Then the thin green nudge The brown back, then the color Of the waxen flower, the flame, Open everywhere the same Golden-centered swirl Of odor, sweet burning odor — Performed in one day, one hour Or even one minute Which would then hold in it, For more than sense or praise Could say, all April’s days — That would set my heart awhirl….
Hello!
In this post, we have photographs of one of my favorite plants to capture by camera at Oakland Cemetery, one whose blooming cycles span several seasons every year. While the quotation at the top of this post states that Japanese Quince (Chaenomeles speciosa) blooms in Georgia in February, I’ve seen this plant blooming as early as January and continue producing new flowers through late spring and even early summer. I took these photographs on March 4 and March 29, and on both dates, it displayed plenty of unopened buds waiting for their chance in the sun. It’s near the entrance to the cemetery’s gardens, where it tumbles over an old stone wall, spanning a distance of about 25 feet and shooting branches as much as five feet into the air. Its exuberant growth is matched by its volume of flowers and its resilience: in addition to its early spring and early summer blooming, I’ve caught it producing late fall, slightly smaller flowers in November and December.
There are a lot of photos in this post — possibly more than I typically share at one time — but I’m working towards wrapping up May with this and one more post before filling this site with over 300 photos I took of irises (we hope you like irises!) in April. Those iris photos are getting some last-minute retouching but will be ready for the first week of June.
Having observed this same Japanese Quince over several years, I paid extra attention to its structure and growth patterns on purpose, rather than solely focusing on its (very nice white) flowers only. Here are some of the visual characteristics of a Japanese Quince like this that I tried to intentionally capture in these photos, many of which are also reflected in the poem “Flowering Quince” above:
On each of the two days I photographed the plant, there were many clusters of closely spaced flowers (like in the first seven images) and many examples of one or two blossoms along the length of a stem. The clusters tend to appear toward the ends of branches, where they get the most sunlight and are positioned to grab the attention of pollinators. The yellow filaments at the flowers’ centers are pushed out from the base of each blossom, enabling those pollinators to scatter the pollen as they alight on the flowers.
Mature leaves on this plant are a rich, dark green, often edged with red. Scroll down a bit and you can see how the leaves look early in their lifecycle: they appear red to the eyes, but to Lightroom they’re mostly orange throughout the body of the leaf, yet still with red edging. Like I described for the leaves of Lady Banks’ Rose earlier (see Lady Banks’ Rose, Spring 2025 (2 of 2) / Notes on Visualizing Botany), the red serves multiple purposes: it helps protect the new leaves from damage as they grow in; it helps attract pollinators (who will notice the contrast between red edges and the green of the leaves or the background); and it gives photographers something more to look at. In some of the photographs, you’ll see what look like bright red or orange dots along the stems: these are the newest of new leaves that likely busted out a day or two after the photographer stopped looking.
The branches of this plant are more photogenic than they appear at first glance. In addition to contrasting nicely with the leaves and flowers, they actually contain a lot of color — ranging through shades of reddish-brown through purple. I typically add a little saturation to branches that have colors in this range, since our “eye reaction” may simply register them as brown, but the purple is there, and it shows up nicely with a little boost from Lightroom while still representing the plant’s natural colors. Their protective thorns contain similar though less apparent colors, and they’re stiff and quite sharp — ask me how I know!
You can see hints at the complexity of the plant’s overall structure in the backgrounds of some of the photos, where there are softened representations of its crisscrossing stems. That structure — along with the stiffness of the branches and the thorns — helps protect the plant from intruders. No beast nor human would attempt to walk into it — once again, ask me how I know!
“In 1685, Chinese ports were officially opened to ships of all nationalities. Even then, customs regulations were so strict that foreign trade was effectively limited to Macao and Canton. Nonetheless, some Chinese plants began to arrive in Europe. Chinese chrysanthemums appeared briefly in the Netherlands in the 1680s, but soon disappeared from cultivation, while an Oriental hibiscus flowered at the Chelsea Physic Garden in the first decade of the eighteenth century. The hibiscus was introduced by the East India Company doctor James Cunningham, yet most early eighteenth-century introductions came from unidentified sources. Although Chinese plants had limited impact in Europe at the time, the accounts of Chinese gardens by Jesuit missionaries led to a fashion for Chinese-style effects in European landscapes.
“The early nineteenth century saw sporadic but enthusiastic attempts to introduce Chinese garden plants, importing to Europe the results of China’s centuries-old traditions of plant breeding. Chrysanthemums, China asters, camellias, peonies (especially tree peonies or moutans), and roses, all excited attention in Britain and Europe. Most were introduced by horticulturally minded sea captains. Sir Joseph Banks, the Director of the Royal Gardens at Kew, planted the first tree peony there in 1790. Sir Abraham Hume of Wormleybury in Hertfordshire was active in distributing peonies and chrysanthemums. Two founders of the Horticultural Society, the amateur gardener and collector Charles Francis Greville and William Townsend Aiton, the superintendent of Kew, helped distribute plants, the latter from specimens received at Kew. Among the results, in the first decade of the nineteenth century, were hydrangeas and tiger lilies. In 1818, John Reeves, a tea inspector at Canton, began to send plants to the Horticultural Society, among them some of the first wisterias….
“In the 1820s the Society sent two collectors to China: the first, John Potts, returned with seed of Primula sinensis; the second, John Damper Parks, was sent with specific instructions to look for the yellow form of Rosa banksiae.”
As I’ve mentioned more than once here, I sometimes experiment with several AI tools to help me learn more about the plants and flowers I photograph. For me, it’s a shortcut to merge what I’ve learned about photography with what I continue learning about botany. And at this point, I’ve used them enough to recognize — despite appropriate misgivings about their future impact (as seen in aggressive marketing mixed with technological utopianism) — how they’ve improved over the past couple of years in areas that are relevant to me: photography and botany. I interact with ClaudeAI the most because in my experience it excels at explaining things in a botanical or historical context, and clarifying any questions I have or resolving what appear to be contradictions in its explanations.
Two years ago, I couldn’t get any of the AI tools to accurately identify flowers that are perhaps universally known to human beings. In other words, they couldn’t tell the difference (for example) between a daffodil and a tulip, despite each of those having easily recognized and distinct shapes. Fast forward a bit, and now Claude can tell me what’s in a photograph in detail — from the colors in the image, to the subject, to the shapes and structures in the background — and can usually identify a plant from one or two photographs, especially if the photographs contain other elements besides its flowers, like the stems, leaves, and surroundings where it’s growing.
At the same time, the tool understands characteristics of photography in surprising ways. It’s able to analyze a photograph, describe its compositional strengths and weaknesses using photographic concepts, and suggest improvements. I’ve used that capability to get recommendations about how to create better separation between subject and background in a photograph, how to most efficiently mask parts of a complex image before making adjustments, and how to use features in Lightroom in ways I hadn’t thought about before with step-by-step instructions. I’ve even uploaded two versions of the same image — one before I’d made any changes to it, and my final version — and asked Claude to explain the differences, which it did in terms of specific Lightroom steps I likely used to create the final version. And in one of the most useful conversations I had with it, Claude described how Lightroom’s Generative Remove Tool (which is also a form of AI) works, and how to influence its recognition of what’s in a photo so it provides better results when, say, I remove some dead flowers from a photograph of an iris and want them replaced with elements that look like nearby stems or leaves.
So to me this means I can do something like this: I can upload a few of my Lady Banks’ Rose photographs and ask for some observations both on the photographic characteristics of the image, and the botanical significance of what I photographed.
Using photos from this series, then, I inquired about three things: Rosa banksiae’s overall growth patterns; the arrangement of both opened and unopened flowers next to each other; and the red edging that appears on many of the leaves (most visible in the fourth, fifth, and sixth images below).
Here’s what Claude told me (that is, here’s what I learned):
Your photographic observations reveal some fascinating botanical principles at work, and I think exploring these visual elements will deepen your understanding of how this ancient rose species has evolved to thrive in its environment.
Let’s start with those dramatic architectural forms you’re capturing. When you photograph branches that seem to hang in midair or run in seemingly impossible directions, you’re documenting what botanists call “thigmomorphogenesis” — the way plants respond to physical touch and mechanical stress. Think of Rosa banksiae as nature’s sculptor, constantly feeling its way through three-dimensional space. Each branch that encounters a tree trunk, stone monument, or even another branch of itself will change its growth direction, creating unexpected angles and curves that make your photographs so dynamic.
The arched sweep pattern connects to something even more fundamental about how this rose conquers space. Picture the plant as following what we might call a “fountain strategy.” The main stems grow upward with vigor, but as they extend and become heavier with foliage and flowers, gravity naturally pulls them into those graceful arcs. This isn’t random — it’s an evolutionary solution that allows the plant to cover maximum territory while maintaining structural integrity.
Now, let’s examine those clusters of flowers mixed with unopened buds pointing skyward. This arrangement demonstrates what botanists call “determinate flowering” combined with “sequential bloom timing.” Think of each flower cluster as a carefully orchestrated performance where not all the actors appear on stage simultaneously. The buds pointing upward are positioned to catch maximum sunlight as they develop, while the opened flowers below them have already completed their primary function of attracting pollinators. This staggered timing extends the overall flowering period and ensures that some flowers are always at peak attractiveness to insects, even within a single cluster.
The red-edged leaves you’ve noticed represent one of the most overlooked aspects of Rosa banksiae’s botanical sophistication. That thin red margin isn’t merely decorative — it’s a sophisticated adaptation that tells us several important things about the plant’s physiology. The red pigmentation comes from anthocyanins, the same compounds that create red autumn leaves. In Rosa banksiae, these pigments serve as a natural sunscreen, protecting the delicate leaf edges from damage while also potentially deterring certain leaf-eating insects.
Think about what this means photographically and botanically. Those red edges create visual definition that helps each individual leaflet stand out against complex backgrounds. But from the plant’s perspective, this edge pigmentation represents millions of years of evolutionary fine-tuning. The red compounds can also act as antioxidants, helping the plant manage the chemical stress of photosynthesis in bright sunlight.
Here’s a mental exercise that might enhance your photography: next time you’re capturing the plant, try to think like the rose itself. Where would you position a branch to capture maximum sunlight while avoiding competition with neighboring growth? How would you arrange your flower clusters to attract pollinators most efficiently? When you start seeing the plant as an active participant in shaping its own form rather than a passive subject, you might discover new angles and compositions that reveal the intelligence built into its growth patterns.
The combination of these elements — the space-conquering architecture, the strategic flower timing, and the protective leaf margins — creates what we might call the “visual vocabulary” of Rosa banksiae. Each photograph you take is essentially documenting a conversation between the plant’s genetic programming and its immediate environment, written in the language of form, color, and spatial relationships.
If you read all that (you did, didn’t you?), you can likely see what I’m talking about. I didn’t just get a description of the characteristics of a Lady Banks’ Rose; I got them in a wider context of my own observations from photographs I’d taken, which the AI’s response blends into a discussion of the plant’s botany by examining my photographs, then creating a bridge between photography and botany. And the idea of “thinking like the plant itself, seeing the plant as an active participant in shaping its own form rather than a passive subject” is something I’ve probably done without realizing it; but intentionally composing a photograph to reflect both its visual interest and its botanical characteristics is something I can expand on. Instead of just considering how it looks, I would consider how its appearance demonstrates its behaviors, its evolutionary strategies, and how it has adapted to its environment — and how to capture that when taking a shot.
Coincidentally (or possibly not!), I’ve been watching a fascinating documentary about plants called The Green Planet (2022). Yet another excellent David Attenborough production, this five-part documentary takes a similar approach to that suggested by Claude: it “flips the script” to show plants as active directors of their own behaviors as they engage with their environments. Attenborough describes it as filming plants, over time, in ways similar to filming animals for other nature documentaries. If you’re interested in plants at all, this documentary is worth watching (I’m on my second viewing), and here are a few sections I found compelling to whet your appetite:
The first episode — “Tropical Worlds” — shows how vines use their tendrils to latch onto other plants, push them out of the way, and pull themselves upward toward the sun. If you have any vines in your garden, I think you’ll find the video representation of their movement quite compelling.
Episode 2 — “Water Worlds” — has a segment about giant water lilies (Victoria boliviana or Victoria amazonica) that send a jagged spike from beneath the water to the surface. The spike (which reminded me of a morning star or flail weapon) then rotates in the movement of water and wind in increasingly larger circles, to clear away other plants and make room for the water lily to come — which will need a lot of open space because it’s a giant!
The same episode describes how a carnivorous Bladderwort (Utricularia) creates small bladders beneath the water’s surface, that are triggered upon being touched by tiny prey, after which they snap open and vacuum the prey into the bladder to consume it.
Episode 3 — “Seasonal Worlds” — includes a vignette that shows how nettles and brambles (which have thorns or hooks), and climbing vines like hops, appear in sequence as the first plants to fill out wild landscapes in spring, using their various “climbing appendages” to make their way through other plants and capture light, before large shrubs and trees produce leaves that cover them in shade. It also includes a segment on the parasitic dodder (Cuscuta), a tiny-leafed vine that attaches itself to other plants, punctures their stems and leaves, and sucks nutrients from the plants it attaches to. “Vampire vine” is sometimes used to describe this plant; to learn about how it works, see Scientists Find a Gene That Enables a Plant to Become a Vampire.
Also in this episode are examples of unusual relationships between plants and insects. The Hammer Orchid (Drakaea) produces no nectar so is incapable of summoning insects the traditional way for pollination. Instead, it produces a flower that resembles a female thynnid wasp, thereby attracting the male wasp of this single, specific species to have its way with the orchid and scatter pollen. This section of the Wikipedia article about Drakaea describes how that happens. Not to be outdone by Drakaea’s enticing escapades, the Silver Arrowreed (Ceratocaryum argenteum) produces and flings seeds that match the size, shape, color, and odor of antelope dung — which are gathered and buried by dung beetles (who have a preference for antelope droppings) to ensure the plants’ offspring germinate.
These are just a few highlights, but you can probably see — given my so-far six-year project of botanical photography — why I like this series. And each episode ends with about ten minutes explaining the techniques behind the videography, how it was filmed in part on-location and in part by recreating those locations in studios in the United Kingdom. Imagine, if you will, the complex effort required to replicate giant water lilies growing in a pond, in a studio. That’s a lot more complicated than my photography shoots at Oakland Cemetery — but I’ll bet it’s just as much fun!
“Unlike that of many roses that have been in cultivation for many years, the early history of R. Banksiae is comparatively easy to trace. Historians agree on who first discovered the various forms, where they were first found, and the dates of their introduction into Europe. The lone difference of opinion exists as to when and by whom the single form, variety normalis, was first brought to Europe. Most botanists believe that [Albert] Regel discovered it in China a year or two previous to 1877, the date of his published description of it. Later, in 1884, Pierre Delavay sent a wild plant from Yunnan — presumably to Paris. The story persists, however, that it was grown in Scotland as early as 1796. If this is true, it was brought there by Robert Drummond, who accompanied his brother, Admiral Drummond, on a cruise in the China seas and returned with many plants which he planted in his gardens at Strathay, Scotland. As the plant alleged to be R. Banksiae was not able to withstand the rigors of a Scottish winter, it froze to the ground each year, therefore did not bloom and was thought to be of such little value that it was forgotten. However, the rose persisted, and in 1909 plants from cuttings given to E. H. Woodall produced their first single white bloom….
“William Kerr, one of the first professional plant collectors, is credited with the discovery of the first double white…. In 1803, the Royal Society at Kew sent him to China to search for interesting plants of that country. The Chinese government placed very definite limitations on the area he was permitted to explore, and most of his discoveries were made in gardens in or near Canton. One of these was the Double White Lady Banks Rose, which was brought to England in an East India Company ship in 1807 and planted at Kew. The botanist Robert Brown is said to have named it the Lady Banks Rose in honor of the wife of his friend, Sir Joseph Banks, who had given considerable financial aid to the Kerr expedition….
“The major characteristics of all members of this group are very similar, the differences occurring only in petalage and color of blossoms and fragrance. All are trailing or climbing with distinctive 3-or 5-foliolate leaves that are lustrous on both surfaces. Thorns are few and scattered, or they may be entirely lacking. The blossoms rarely exceed 1 inch in diameter and are produced in large close umbels rather early in the season….
“In China where these roses are known as ‘Mu-hsiang’ the bark of the roots is collected and used for dyeing fish nets. It is claimed that this dye not only strengthens the net but also makes it invisible to the fish.”
Hello!
I’ve photographed this rose (officially, Rosa banksiae) before (see Lady Banks’ Rose (and Rose Mania) from 2023, and Lady Banks’ Rose (1 of 2) or Lady Banks’ Rose (2 of 2) from last year) — but since I once again found it in bloom when I was out hunting for daffodils in March and early April, I couldn’t resist aiming the camera towards it one more time (and probably not the last time!). Given its early (and relatively short) blooming period, it’s always a surprise to come across it among those flowers and trees that bloom first to mark spring’s arrival, where it sprays a range of bright yellow and soft orange colors in the air while much of the surrounding landscape is still filling in.
The first few photographs below show the span of this shrubby vine, whose breadth seems to have expanded every time I take its pictures. That it is both a vine and shrub makes it fun to photograph by starting with wider angles, then zooming in to clusters of mounding flowers, or strands that hang in midair, or individual blooms that seem to defy gravity by pointing toward the sky. The entire exuberant structure extends from a handful of stems or trunks rising from the ground and stretches many feet from there, with some flowers standing straight up on shorter, stiffer stems and others curving over the shrub’s own branches or any other structure nearby. One could spend a couple of hours just admiring it through the camera lens, and one did!
“Once upon a time — as all the best stories begin — tulips grew unnamed and various in the valleys and slopes between distant mountain ranges. Their bulbs enabled them to endure ice-cold winters and fierce summer heat, in contrast to which the gentle sunshine and showers of springtime made them burst into flower. Their variations of colour, shape, size and other more intimate features must have been prompted by adaptations to their environment but seem also to be full of joie de vivre….
“[Tulipa sylvestris] was first recorded growing in Italy in the sixteenth century but only around cultivated land, especially vineyards, and even as far east as Tabriz. Its discovery in 1927 was described thus: ‘It occurs here mainly if not exclusively in orchards. It is sold in the streets in April towards the end of the month’ — both facts providing valuable clues that T. sylvestris was, many centuries ago, gathered in the wild for its appeal as a spring flower and spread happily (being stoloniferous) until it became a weed of cultivation….
“In Europe, naturalized colonies occur in France, Germany, Switzerland, the Netherlands, England, Sweden and even Norway, where it can be found near seaports. Since ships once carried soil as ballast, which at the end of the voyage might be dumped near the port, this is another clue to the journey of T. sylvestris. Possibly the English colonies were brought by the Romans with their vines, but if so they remained unrecorded for a long while. T. sylvestris is a tulip of golden charm, with a spicy scent and oriental pointed petals that curve back at the tips even in bud. The flower droops a little on its tall, swaying stem and the backs of the petals are darkly shadowed with grey/green. They open a little untidily and sometimes the petals number up to eight…”
Is it better in May, I ask you? you’ve summer all at once; In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns! ‘Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell, Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell….
Look at the wild tulips. The sun has filled them up with Life. Now they’ve opened, offering the resin of the Sun to the honey bees, who don’t mind if the little birds enjoy a taste of heaven themselves….
Hello!
Here we have clusters and closeups of Tulipa sylvestris — tiny tulips commonly called Wild Tulips or Woodland Tulips, and sometimes historically referred to as Florentine Tulips after their abundant, natural occurrence in antique Italy. I don’t see too many of these around my ‘hood — mostly at Oakland Cemetery, where I photographed these — so I like to think of them as exotic and unusual, but perhaps I should not. They are striking, though, especially when photographed to show off some of the red and orange colors on the unopened flowers, or from a slightly upward angle to capture how those colors contrast with the yellow of the rest of the petals from below.
As is apparent from the photographs, I took these on one of those excellent overcast days where sunlight is softened as it peers through the clouds. Until I started working on the photos, however, I hadn’t expected many of them to look like they’re glowing. That glow is very evident on the first five; then varies in intensity on some of the others but is visible wherever yellow/orange colors of the backs of petals contrast with darker colors, shades of purple and red. Most of the photos came out of the camera quite flat, like this…
… which I expected because of the overcast lighting conditions. At import, Lightroom is showing me the image as the camera captured it, based on the settings I chose — and yet the camera’s sensor has captured so much additional color and detail that this is like an image just waiting to be elevated.
With minor adjustments to basic settings in Lightroom (reducing highlights and whites, adding some contrast, and a little bit of texture), the details and contrasting colors that are actually present in the flower petals are revealed. I then create the “glow” effect by altering the relationships between the colors (but not changing their hues) so that the orange and yellow colors contrast more starkly with the purple and red colors.
The result…
… is similar to the shimmering effect created by red letters on a blue background or vice versa (see Chromostereopsis) — and is actually a perceptual illusion. While I often try to photograph flowers with side-lighting and backlighting to let sunlight add glow to some of the flower petals — this is quite effective with irises, for example, when lighting conditions favor it and the flowers are translucent — this is the first time I’ve tried to do it with flowers like these. They’re not translucent (despite their small size, the flower’s petals are quite thick), so light doesn’t really pass through them, but creating greater contrast between the available colors seems to yield similar results. Of course, I do like my photo manipulations and certainly like playing in the “illusion space” — so I think I’ll try repeating this approach with other flower photos.
