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

Category: photography

Painted Daisies and Aromatic Asters (1 of 2)

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From “Asters: The Stars of Autumn” in The Secrets of Wildflowers: A Delightful Feast of Little-Known Facts, Folklore, and History by Jack Sanders:

“Asters, someone once said, ‘are stars fetched from the night skies and planted on the fields of day.’ Indeed, it often seems as if there are as many asters as stars when September and October roll around. And to those who have studied the subject a little, it seems almost as if there are as many aster species — and, lately, aster genera — as there are asters…. Aster, of course, means ‘star,’ as in astronomy and astronaut, descriptive of the star-like form of the flowers….

“Until the 1990s, more than 150 North American plants were included under the genus Aster. However, close study, using DNA testing and other techniques, has determined that our ‘asters’ are not quite the same as Old World asters. Almost all North American plants once classified under the genus Aster now bear such tongue-twisting generic names as Symphyotrichum, Oclemena, Chlorolepis, Eurybia, and Doellingeria….

“Since there are so many species, aster spotting is almost an autumnal sub-hobby of wildflower hunting. With so many varieties-some exceedingly rare-amateur flower sleuths could spend many hours not only in finding but then in identifying asters.

“This is sometimes no simple task, for most wildflower guides do not pretend to list every species you might come across. Even armed with an extensive catalogue, identification can be tedious and technical, requiring close inspection of the leaves, seeds, or other parts. In addition, asters in the wild tend to form hybrids and to create tiny races that sometimes become distinct enough to be classified by some botanists as species….

“You don’t need a botany degree, though, to identify most of the common asters. Actually, it’s fun and challenging and, in the process of trying to separate similar species, you can learn a good deal about plant identification and structure.

“The season for aster hunting starts in August when the white wood asters (Eurybia divaricata) and other early species appear. September is the best time, since virtually every variety is in bloom sometime during the month. The flowers are a prelude to autumn’s bright colors…. Blues, purples, and variations thereof are common colors among asters. Many white varieties are also common, though often the white species will produce blossoms with subtle pastel tints of violet, pink, or blue. In many species the center disks start out yellow but turn to purple or brown later on.”

From “Asters and Golden Rod” by Helen Hunt Jackson in The Romantic Tradition in American Literature: Poems by Helen Jackson, series edited by Harold Bloom:

I know the lands are lit
With all the autumn blaze of Golden Rod;
And everywhere the Purple Asters nod
And bend and wave and flit.

But when the names I hear,
I never picture how their pageant lies
Spread out in tender stateliness of guise,
The fairest of the year.

I only see one nook,
A wooded nook — half sun, half shade —
Where one I love his footsteps sudden stayed,
And whispered, “Darling, look!”

Two oak leaves, vivid green,
Hung low among the ferns, and parted wide;
While purple Aster Stars, close side by side,
Like faces peered between.

Like maiden faces set
In vine-wreathed window, waiting shy and glad
For joys whose dim, mysterious promise had
But promise been, as yet.

And, like proud lovers bent,
In regal courtesy, as kings might woo,
Tall Golden Rods, bareheaded in the dew,
Above the Asters leant.

Ah, me! Lands will be lit
With every autumn’s blaze of Golden Rod,
And purple Asters everywhere will nod
And bend and wave and flit;

Until, like ripened seed,
This little earth itself, some noon, shall float
Off into space, a tiny shining mote,
Which none but God will heed….

Hello!

This is the first of two posts with photographs of pink Painted Daisies (Tanacetum coccineum) and purple Aromatic Asters (Symphyotrichum oblongifolium) from Oakland Cemetery that I took in October.

Referring to some asters as daisies is pretty common, as many asters look a lot like the daisies we accurately call daisies; and the family name — Asteraceae — is itself often called the Daisy family. But the historical nomenclature can be even more confusing than that, as the family was once called Compositae or the Composite family, because most of its extended family’s flowers are composite flowers. The quotation at the top of this post elaborates on that even further, explaining how some of the Aster family members were moved into their own genera — Symphyotrichum, Oclemena, Chlorolepis, Eurybia, and Doellingeria, and how that was a fairly recent development arising from genetic testing that occurred as recently as the 1990s. It is perhaps (or perhaps not!) interesting how these complex names of plants get modified in conjunction with scientific advances, but the common names — often derived from cultural associations, observed growth patterns, or their appearances — have a sticktoitiveness that their official names do not.

Composite flowers, as we have learned, can simply be thought of as flowers growing out of flowers — sometimes on top of and other times surrounding each other — such as the yellow and orange toppers we saw on the Zinnias I posted previously. Zinnias show off one of the most obvious visual occurrences of the composite flower feature, whereas these Painted Daisies and Aromatic Asters are a little more subtle about it. I was very pleased, however, to discover the early nineteenth-century poem “Asters and Golden Rod” by Helen Hunt Jackson, which describes a regal display of goldenrod standing guard over a patch of purple asters and takes note of their disk florets. The poem also reflects how the striking autumn color contrast between goldenrod and asters can be found in purple asters themselves…

… and evocatively describes an often overlooked variation in the appearance of asters that becomes apparent when we photograph them close up. At any given moment of image capture, the “little earths” of some disk florets have dispersed their seeds into the wind (turning the floret brown), while others haven’t gotten around to it yet, so those disks are still bright yellow and orange:

With every autumn’s blaze of Golden Rod,
And purple Asters everywhere will nod
And bend and wave and flit;

Until, like ripened seed,
This little earth itself, some noon, shall float
Off into space, a tiny shining mote,
Which none but God will heed….

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

Dazzling Autumn Zinnias (3 of 3)

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From “Plants of American Gardens” by Peggy Cornett Newcomb in Keeping Eden: A History of Gardening in America, edited by Walter T. Punch: 

“Although introduced as late as 1796, zinnias (Zinnia elegans) seem always to have carried the reputation of ‘old maid of the garden.’ During the first half of the nineteenth century, this coarse flower with plain scarlet and crimson blossoms persisted reluctantly in the trade….

“With the advent of double types in the late 1850s, enthusiasm for its possibilities increased. Charles Hovey observed in 1864 that, although still improving ‘under the hands of skilled cultivators… there is no reason to suppose it will not in time give us as great a variety as the dahlia.’

“Dwarf, double forms did arise to enter the ranks of bedding-out plants, but their ungainly or unattractive habit and unreliable colors from seed rendered their value questionable in highly controlled situations. Giant or mammoth strains entered the trade by the late 1880s, allowing the zinnia’s ungainly character full expression….

“This branching, freely growing flower delighted the creators of the ‘old-fashioned border’ during the early twentieth century. But as late as 1929 we are reminded of the zinnia’s earlier reputation. As [Harold] Hume observed, ‘Today it has grown forth into the prize and pride of many a garden… gorgeous and self-assured, new formed, new faced, new named, its despised position of former years entirely forgotten.'”

From “Au Revoir” in Open the Door: A Gathering of Poems and Prose Pieces by Elizabeth Yates:

I thought I could not bear to see
     the zinnias go —
color of fire they were against the
     garden’s green:
brick red and crimson, scarlet, gold
     and flame,
fawn and maroon, cerise and coralline.

     Frost came one night,
     finis in its track:
     flowers turned to cinders,
     foliage went black.

There were no zinnias left to crown
     the gardens year,
but on the lofty maple towering overhead
leaves were burning skyward, wind-driven flames,
copper and saffron, cinnabar and red.

Hello!

This is the third of three posts with photographs of Zinnias from Oakland Cemetery that I took in August and in October. The previous two posts are Dazzling Autumn Zinnias (1 of 3) and Dazzling Autumn Zinnias (2 of 3).

I think my photos cover most of the colors in the Elizabeth Yates poem above — especially since some of those colors are shades of the others — so we can pretend I matched the photos to the poem. I gathered all the double-flowering Zinnias together for this post, not realizing their significance until I started assembling them and conducting some research on this particular Zinnia form.

I first photographed Oakland’s Zinnias in 2021, and at the time didn’t know what they were (and hadn’t yet discovered PlantNet for plant identification), so simply called them wildflowers (see Ten Wildflowers and Three Butterflies) — because they resembled those motley collections of flowers that you might find at the edges of a forest or see on the side of a road. I didn’t photograph them again until 2023 and 2024, when they had incrementally spread across their hill and homeland, increasing their overall presence in the landscape each subsequent year.

While learning more about Zinnias for this post, I looked through all the previous years’ photos and saw that I didn’t have any showing the double form. This introduced a potential mystery: either I just hadn’t photographed any double Zinnias in 2023 or 2024; or, there weren’t any. Given that each of my earlier photoshoots followed the same pattern as this year’s trip — two visits in late summer and early fall — it seemed unlikely that I would have passed over them, especially given how much time I spend dwelling over any batch of flowers to capture their colors and shapes. So it’s more likely that they weren’t there, and that either Oakland’s gardeners planted them in 2025, or some of the single Zinnias developed the double form this year. To speculate on and potentially resolve this part of the mystery, let’s turn to the landscape itself and observe the messages it might be sending us.

Here we have two photos of double Zinnias from the galleries below. In the first photo, we see a double Zinnia growing in front of some Iris leaves, between — shall we say — a rock and a hard place, in a crevice barely six inches wide. In the second photo, we see one double Zinnia growing among a half-dozen single Zinnias. Neither of these placements suggests intentional planting: capable gardeners are unlikely to try growing one Zinnia in a crevice, nor plant one double among a group of singles. Instead, both growth patterns reflect the randomness typical of plants that are propagating on their own, where fertilized seeds have been distributed by pollinators or the wind, and favorable conditions let them sprout, take root, grow, and bloom from one season to the next.

For this speculation to be true, it would have to be possible for double Zinnias to evolve from single Zinnias. To help me understand whether or not that was possible, I turned to my digital research assistant, Claude.AI, and asked some questions about how a generational transformation between single and double Zinnias might take place. Here’s part of the explanation, where “ray florets” refers to each row of flower petals a Zinnia typically produces, and “disk florets” refers to the tiny composite flowers that grow at the top of a Zinnia’s pear-shaped seed structure.

This transformation doesn’t happen randomly — it’s the result of mutations in specific developmental control genes that regulate how the flower forms as it develops. To understand this, you need to know a bit about how composite flowers like zinnias are built at the genetic level.

During flower development, the plant must make a series of decisions about what kind of structures to produce and in what order. In a normal single-flowered zinnia, the genetic program says something like: “First, produce one whorl of ray florets around the perimeter. Then, switch modes and fill the center with disk florets.” This creates that classic daisy appearance — showy outer ring, functional inner disk.

The mutations that create double-flowered forms disrupt this tidy program in one of several possible ways. Some mutations affect genes that control the transition from “make ray florets” to “make disk florets.” When these genes malfunction, the plant essentially forgets to make the switch, or makes it much later than it should. The result is that the flower keeps producing row after row of ray florets instead of transitioning to disk florets. This is why heavily doubled zinnias have so many petal layers — the developmental program that should have said “stop making rays, start making disks” failed to activate properly or activated much later.

The production of “row after row” of flower petals is exactly what we see in fully-formed double Zinnias like those in my galleries below. Claude also went on to describe the genetics by which this transformation might occur in some detail — a couple of thousand words of detail, actually — and explained that, due to cross-breeding by humans or nature, any given Zinnia might contain the potential to produce flowers in the double form, and this potential might partially express itself between generations.

This seems to be confirmed by my Zinnia photographs from previous years: here we have some examples of that doubling potential emerging over time, where two of my photos from 2023 and two from 2024 show the flowers starting to develop a second row of ray florets. These aren’t just overlapping petals from a single row, but petals that are clearly growing from a slightly higher point at the center of the flower, and on top of the first row. That horizontal or height difference is most evident in the first photo; though once you see it, it’s easy to identify in the other three photos as well.

You never step in the same garden twice, of course, and I don’t know which of these Zinnias are perennials and which ones are prolifically-seeding annuals — so it’s not possible to know if I’m observing the same plants taking on different forms, or new variants expressing their double potential. In either case, however, next year’s crop will likely include even more double-flowering Zinnias, and, if it does, that will be strong evidence that the plants are producing additional forms on their own as each generation reappears.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

Dazzling Autumn Zinnias (2 of 3)

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From “Zinnia” in The Floral Kingdom, Its History, Sentiment and Poetry (1876), edited by Cordelia Harris Turner:

“Zinnia was named in honor of John Godfrey Zinn, a German botanist who flourished in 1757, when the science was in its infancy. In the cultivated plant of today can hardly be recognized the primitive flower found in the fields and roadsides of the Southern States, which, even in its simplest form, has been considered handsome. Formerly the blossom was only scarlet, and single; but care in propagation has doubled it to the center, and it has sported into hues many, rich and varied….

“The flower perishes slowly without closing its petals, losing its bright tints and assuming more sobriety as its days are numbered. On this account it is sometimes called Youth and Old Age.”

From “The Essence of a Garden” in Ambiguous Dancers of Fame: Collected Poems, 1945-1985 by James Schevill: 

Between form and force of color to find
the illuminating place of order
where fruit trees soar no longer bare
and brandish oranges, figs, mangos
above Birds of Paradise sailing in place,
orange flower-ships of natural grace,
gladiolas pointing bluntly through green blades
above red zinnias buttoning up their patch
until luscious fruits and flowers are too much
and the fertile garden shrivels, picked, dead,
dazed in silent time of sun and stone,
waiting dumbly for the sacred time of rain
when nature and man kindle care
into color-bursts again, and rejoicing air
crystallizes with bright, dying revelations
to teach our eyes wonder, art of glory.

Hello!

This is the second of three posts with photographs of Zinnias from Oakland Cemetery that I took in August and in October; the first post is Dazzling Autumn Zinnias (1 of 3). Here we have another collection of single-flowered Zinnias (those that have but one row of flower petals beneath their pear-shaped seed structure and tiny composite flowers), in variations of red and magenta colors ranging from pure red to blends of red and magenta.

Let’s explore these color variations, since they have more significance than just looking good in photographs. As we’re very fond here of traveling back and forth between the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries — we’ll start with this chart showing the separation of light from the sun into the colors we can see, from page 95 of the 1856 book Chemical Atlas; or, The Chemistry of Familiar Objects by Edward Livingston Youmans.

For his chapter entitled “Chemistry of Solar Light — Solar Dynamics,” Youmans conducted numerous experiments to analyze the color and heat-producing qualities of sunlight. Here’s an excerpt from that chapter where the author introduces several concepts that we’re going to connect — believe it or not — to the color variations in these Zinnia flowers while we speculate on what those colors tell us about how pollinators like bees might interact with the Zinnias. Youmans writes:

“The radiations which flow from the sun to the earth are capable of giving origin to several different kinds of effect. One of its effects is produced upon the animal eye, and is called light. In what manner light, or the luminous force acts upon the eye to generate vision, or cause the animal to see, we do not understand. We know many of the laws of light, but how the visual organ is finally affected in producing the sensation of vision, is not comprehended….

“If a ray of light be admitted through a small aperture into a dark room, and be suffered to fall upon a triangular prism of glass, it will not pass through it, and go forward in a straight direction across the room; but it will be turned out of its pathway (refracted), and be thrown upon the opposite wall, not in the form in which it entered the room, as simple white light, but decomposed into an oblong image of the most brilliant colors, which is called the solar spectrum….

“The colors produced under these circumstances are supposed to be the components or constituents of white light…. When the image or spectrum is thus formed, the colors are not seen with a clear and sharp outline; they blend and melt into each other, so that it is difficult to fix the line at which one ceases and another begins….”

If you look at more modern renditions of the color distribution Youmans provides here, you’ll see that one of his key insights — that the colors “blend and melt into each other” — is equally apparent in graphics like this one, where you cannot detect clear boundaries between individual colors. This is true even when the graphics, like Youmans’ image, identify the colors red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, and violet explicitly. These distinctions are only approximate, are always better expressed as color ranges — like the gradual transition from red to orange — and show why the number of colors we actually can see is often considered to be in the hundreds, thousands, or millions, depending on the context. That same graphic also leads us to those qualities of light that aren’t apparent to humans: infrared (beyond red and capable of producing heat that some pollinators can detect) and ultraviolet (beyond blue and violet), both of which are perceivable by or visible to pollinators whose senses can react to color properties we find inaccessible.

The blended range of colors presented by any of these individual Zinnia flowers is very evident in photos like this one…

… where the foreground flower shows a mix of red and magenta on its petals, and Lightroom doesn’t detect any colors other than red or magenta on those petals. Our vision doesn’t identify distinct boundaries between the two colors, but we’re certainly aware that both are present even though they’re inseparable. If, however, we take the same image and convert it to black and white, then increase magenta saturation while reducing red saturation, we learn from that variation how much magenta is actually present in the flower petals and that it — rendered as white in this image — is more dominant than red.

Now, let’s pretend we’re bees. As bees, we don’t see the color red; we’re drawn to colors close to or in the ultraviolet range — those from blue-violet and beyond in Youmans’ illustration — including colors that humans don’t see. So while humans see the flower in its color version, bees will see it more like our black and white version because magenta — a color chemically constituted with equal parts red and blue — contains enough blue to push the color toward the blue-to-ultraviolet range.

While this doesn’t mean the bee sees this Zinnia as a color-inverted black-and-white photograph, it does imply that the presence of magenta and its blue components creates color or contrasting patterns that are visible to that bee. Here’s an explanation of how that might work, from the book What the Bees See by Craig P. Burrows:

“If you think about all the colours of the rainbow and beyond on both ends of the light spectrum, humans see from the reds up to the blues. Bees don’t see the reds, but they do see past the blues into the ultraviolet spectrum. The contrasting colour patterns that matter to bees are different [from] the contrasting colour patterns that matter to humans. Using [ultraviolet] fluorescence photography… helps us to see some of the patterns on flowers that are visible to bees but invisible to us. Ultimately the benefit of seeing UV to an insect like a bee is to enable perception of contrast — of the flower from the leaves, and in the flower itself. Those striking patterns help the insect to identify pollen and nectar.”

By converting this image to black and white while selectively adjusting red and magenta saturation levels, we can simulate the effect of the ultraviolet photography Burrows describes — not to reproduce its capabilities exactly but simply to show how the presence of magenta might reveal hidden patterns in how these colors are distributed across the petals. In our black and white version, the bright white areas show where magenta — with its blue-violet component that bees can perceive — is most concentrated, particularly along the petal edges and tips. The darker areas represent zones where pure red dominates, color wavelengths that would appear dim or dark to bee vision. This technique isn’t showing exactly what a bee sees, but it does reveal contrast patterns that our human eyes naturally blend together into a uniform arrangement of magenta and red. To us, these blended colors are aesthetically pleasing; to bees, the resulting patterns likely create “visual guides” that direct bees from the petal edges inward toward the nectar-rich center.

The concentration of bee-visible patterns at the petal edges suggests these flowers have evolved sophisticated optical characteristics that remain appealing to pollinators whose vision differs dramatically from our own. These highly visible color patterns, along with the Zinnia’s relatively long blooming period and the way it produces easily accessible flower structures atop three- or four-foot tall stems, explain why groups of these zinnias attract so many different kinds of pollinators for several weeks toward the end of every summer and well into the fall.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

Dazzling Autumn Zinnias (1 of 3)

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From A History of Zinnias: Flower for the Ages by Eric Grissell:

“Zinnias fall into a class of plants that are generally self-infertile. This simply means that a single zinnia flower will not pollinate itself and requires pollen to be carried from another flower to induce fertilization and seed production. But with purebred parents, random crossing cannot be allowed or there will be a complex recombination of genes and loss of identify for each strain, a mongrel if you will. In commercial production, different purebred strains or series must be kept separate from each other if each is to remain stable and produce seed. This means that plants must either be hand-pollinated in isolation, an expensive option, or that each strain must somehow be isolated from other strains and be openly pollinated by natural elements such as bees….

“This method of seed production is achieved by growing each selection in fields distant enough from other such strains to prevent bees or butterflies from carrying pollen from one field to another. If color is not important but retaining the characteristics of the strain is, then colors can be mixed in a single field, which may be separated from a different strain by as much as five hundred feet of bare soil or interplanted with other flower species to prevent cross-strain interbreeding. If color is important, then within each strain each color must be planted in separate patches isolated from one another. This all requires acres of land or different locations to keep strains and colors pure and to ensure that pollinators do not travel between patches….

“Although zinnia flowers are a dazzling sight in themselves, one of their major advantages is a penchant for attracting other equally beautiful life forms to the garden…. With the exception of seed-feeding birds, most visitors do no cosmetic harm to zinnia leaves or flowers, as they merely feed on the nectar and pollen sources….

“Bees, whether solitary or social, visit only to collect nectar or pollen for their young…. In spite of the fact that there are hundreds of kinds of zinnias in all shape, sizes, and colors… there is no one answer as to which zinnia is the best for attracting butterflies, bees, or birds. The number of species and the diversity of wildlife attracted depends on where the gardener lives, which regulates what is available to visit a garden….”

From “Transition” in Collected Poems (1930-1973) by May Sarton:

The zinnias, ocher, orange, chrome and amber,
Fade in their cornucopia of gold,
As all the summer turns toward September
And light in torrents flows through the room.

A wasp, determined, zigzags high then low,
Hunting the bowl of rich unripened fruit,
Those purple plums clouded in powder blue,
Those pears, green-yellow with a rose highlight.

The zinnias stand so stiff they might be metal.
The wasp has come to rest on a green pear,
And as fierce light attacks the fruit and petal,
We sigh and feel the thunder in the air.

We are suspended between fruit and flower;
The dying, the unripe possess our day.
By what release of will, what saving power
To taste the fruit, to throw the flowers away?

Hello!

This is the first of three posts with photographs of Zinnias from Oakland Cemetery that I took in August and in October — a timeframe that demonstrates the long blooming cycle for these members of the Aster family, whose wide variety of different colors is well-known among floral connoisseurs and well-described in the poem I excerpted at the top of this post.

As far as I know, Oakland has but one collection of zinnias, which start to appear in late summer in a location I previously photographed during the spring (see Land of Azaleas and Roses)…

… and proceed to gradually replace the roses, irises, and greens you see in this photo with their tall, densely-leafed stems. By September and October, Zinnias will have filled out the section at the top of the wall and popped through the sandy hillside next to it, leading to displays like this (taken from atop the wall at the same location), where you can still see some of the rosebush branches they’ve crowded out:

Whenever I’ve photographed these Zinnias, the entire scene is very busy with pollinators, typically small moths, butterflies, and a variety of bees. Just watching their movements, without even taking pictures, becomes a nature study in itself — an experience similar to visiting a butterfly sanctuary and one that is unrivaled elsewhere in the gardens. A couple of years ago, I focused one of my posts on the striking orange and black fritillaries traveling from flower to flower (see Zinnias and Fritillaries from 2023); and this year, I was able to capture several other pollinators. The first group of photos below shows a honeybee, a small orange-brown butterfly that is most likely a Fiery Skipper common to the southeast, and a Black Swallowtail noted for its dark colors with iridescent blue shading.

The flowers in this first post show one of several distinctive Zinnia forms, a single-flowered zinnia — where “single flower” refers to the flat row of petals surrounding the pear-shaped seed structure at the center that’s topped with tiny composite flowers (often yellow or orange ones that look like flowers growing out of other flowers), which attract pollinators and lead them to both the nectar- and pollen-producing segments of the plants. In the second post, we’ll see more of this single-flowered form but in different shapes and colors; and in the last post, we’ll look at double-flowered zinnias featuring multiple petal rows that are typically shaped liked and about the same size as a golf ball, but a pretty one.

The circular flower petal row in the single-flowered Zinnia makes a convenient landing pad for our pollinators, providing one of the reasons Zinnias attract so many different kinds simultaneously. They help the flowers transmit pollen and seed the ground with future generations, something that leads to propagation of next year’s crop even if the original plants are annuals rather than perennials. The quotation I included at the top of this post covers these concepts in some detail, illustrating how the plants provide biological diversity through their attraction to multiple pollinators, which also explains why this crop of Zinnias expands every year even if the garden’s landscapers don’t plant new ones at the start of each season. Unlike their counterparts that are bred in separate fields to maintain genetic distinction and isolate specific colors and forms for distribution and sale, however, these Oakland Zinnias are more likely to cross-breed and share genetic characteristics — thereby blooming in a variety of different colors and blended forms that give them a more random appearance, like a vibrant patch of wildflowers growing on the side of a road.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

Eriocapitella, or: The Plants Formerly Known as Anemone (2 of 2)

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From “Anemone or Windflower” in Lexicon of Romantic Gardens by W. T. Wehmeyer and Hermann Hackstein:

“The name Anemone comes from ‘nemos,’ the Greek word for wind, and indeed the delicate flowers do move at the slightest breath of wind. The rather fragile-looking flowers have always been symbolic of innocence, trust, transitoriness, and vulnerability. Yet appearances are deceptive, because windflowers are in fact rather undemanding plants that do not require much care.

“Windflowers prefer a sunny to semi-shaded site in the garden. They look especially attractive when planted in small groups. Depending on the species and variety, the flowers may be white, pink, red, blue, or violet, and appear in spring, summer, or fall. Planting different species will thus ensure an enchanting display throughout most of the year.

“Very attractive species include Anemone blanda, for example, which is also known as Greek thimbleweed, and which flowers between March and May. Anemone coronaria, the poppy anemone, garden anemone, or crown anemone, also flowers in spring. Anemone japonica, on the other hand, also known as Japanese anemone, or autumn anemone, ensures color in the fall.”

From “Anemones: Flowers of the Wind” in The Secrets of Wildflowers: A Delightful Feast of Little-Known Facts, Folklore, and History by Jack Sanders:

“Anemone is based on the Greek word for ‘wind,’ whose root word means ‘breathes’ or ‘lives,’ the same root from which words like animated and animal stem. Some authorities say the generic name means ‘wind’ because the flower was believed to bloom when the wind blows. Another theory is more specific, maintaining anemone is a combination of anemos, meaning ‘wind,’ and mone, ‘habitat,’ suggesting that the plant lives in windy places….

“Anemones have a long history of folk recognition, for better or worse. The ancient Greeks believed that Anemos, the wind, used the flowers to herald the coming of spring. Romans carefully picked the first anemone of the year, with a prayer to protect them from fevers.

“Crusaders are said to have returned from the Middle East with the beautiful poppy anemone (A. coronaria). The sudden appearance in Europe of this red-and-white flower sparked tales of its having sprung from the drops of Christ’s blood, and it became a popular flower in the gardens of medieval monasteries….

“Oddly enough, however, many European peasants avoided some anemones as if they carried the plague. When they came upon a field of the flowers, they would hold their breath and run by, fearing they would fall ill if they inhaled the vapors of the blossoms. Egyptians considered the flowers a symbol of sickness, and in China they were planted on graves and called the flowers of death.

“Nonetheless, old herbalists found the plant useful for headaches, gout, leprosy, eye inflammations, and ulcers. Typical of the buttercups, anemones are generally acrid plants, and many species are said to be somewhat poisonous. North American Indians of Quebec used an anemone tea for just about any ailment, while other native nations employed it in treating boils, lung congestion, and eye illnesses. Virgil J. Vogel, in American Indian Medicine, reported that Meskwakis burned seeds to make a smoke that was supposed to revive unconscious persons. Some Ojibwas used the plant to soothe and prepare their throats for singing.

“Modern authorities usually advise against such practices because the plant has some poisonous constituents. Carolus Linnaeus, the Swedish botanist who developed the modern system of classifying and naming plants and animals, reported that underfed cows died from eating A. nemorosa.”

Hello!

This is the second of two posts with photographs of plants in the genus Eriocapitella, commonly called Windflowers, or, as we learned in the first post (see Eriocapitella, or: The Plants Formerly Known as Anemone (1 of 2)), less accurately called Fall-Blooming Anemones or Japanese Anemones, from Oakland Cemetery.

Like many of Oakland’s plants, Eriocapitella variants are used both as landscaping plants and as plants linked to memorial displays. The photos in my previous post show their use as landscaping plants providing visual interest and color contrast to open gardens or pathways; the photos in this post are associated with historical memory or family memorials. As such, photographing this post’s series meant that I could position the colors and shapes of the flowers among the surrounding stone structures to create compositional variations between the subject and background, especially since plants and flowers reflect light so much differently than the textured memorials nearby.

There are trees at Oakland Cemetery that date back to its founding decades (see Celebrating the Trees at Oakland), so may be 150 to 175 years old and represent a kind of historical continuity between the natural landscape and the human-built elements (some of which are just as old) because of their longevity. When I photograph plants like these Eriocapitella (or any of the others!), I often wonder about their longevity too: am I photographing the initial generation of a particular plant, or subsequent generations of the original plant, or a “branch” of the plant created by pollination or propagation? These are conjoined historical and botanical questions that occur to me because in addition to photographing the plants, I typically spend time researching their histories, and there are threads of merging timelines between any given plant’s botanical history and its use at Victorian gardens like those of Oakland.

Here, for example, is an overview of the plant’s early historical arc — which takes us from the 1600s to the 1800s — from Flowers and Their Histories by Alice M. Coats:

The flower so named [as Anemone japonica] is in fact a native of China, but was introduced to Japan at some early date as a cultivated plant. It was first described by a German, Dr. Andreas Cleyer, who lived in Nagasaki from 1682 to 1686 while in the employment of the Dutch East India Company. At that time, and for nearly two centuries afterwards, no European was allowed to penetrate further into China or Japan than the immediate vicinity of two or three ports, so it was natural for later botanists to believe that the flower was indigenous to Japan, more especially as it had escaped from cultivation and become naturalized there….

But the first living plant (as distinct from dried specimens) to reach Europe came from China; it was sent to the Horticultural Society in 1844 by Robert Fortune, who found it ‘in full flower among the graves of the natives, which are round the ramparts of Shanghae; it blooms in November when other flowers have gone by, and is a most appropriate ornament to the last resting-places of the dead.’

Coats goes on to explain subsequent botanical developments in detail, describing hybridization that resulted in many of the ancestral cultivars whose children are still used in gardens today, especially those created through the earlier twentieth century, to around 1910. Likely introduced to gardens in North America in the mid-to-late-nineteenth century, the plant engendered widespread use in the United States just as it did in England and Europe, because of its resilience and its late blooming period that provided pre-winter seasonal color. So we have overlapping timelines between the plant’s European introduction, the development of its first cultivars, its transition to North America, and its appearance in historic gardens — and the creation of Victorian-themed cemeteries like Oakland. These are not coincidental historical happenings, but instead represent the emerging and continuous connections between flowers, their histories, and their cultural significance. It’s noteworthy, too, that Robert Fortune’s explorations found the plants “in full flower among the graves of natives” and he described them as a “most appropriate ornament to the last resting-places of the dead” — given their frequent use in cemeteries and the memorial meaning attributed to them (explained in 100 Flowers and How They Got Their Names) as symbols of hope, resurrection, and rebirth.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

Eriocapitella, or: The Plants Formerly Known as Anemone (1 of 2)

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From “Anemone (Windflower)” in The English Flower Garden by William Robinson:

“Anemone (Windflower): A noble family of tuberous alpine meadow and herbaceous plants, of the Buttercup family, to which is due much of the beauty of spring and early summer of northern and temperate countries. In early spring, or what is winter to us in Northern Europe, when the valleys of Southern Europe and sunny sheltered spots all round the great rocky basin of the Mediterranean are beginning to glow with colour, we see the earliest Windflowers in all their loveliness….

“Those arid mountains that look so barren have on their sunny sides carpets of Anemones in countless variety…. Climbing the mountains in April, the Hepatica nestles in nooks all over the bushy parts of the hills. Farther east, while the common Anemones are aflame along the Riviera valleys and terraces, the blue Greek Anemone is open on the hills of Greece; a little later the blue Apennine Anemone blossoms. Meanwhile our Wood Anemone adorns the woods throughout the northern world, and here and there through the brown grass on the chalk hills comes the purple of the Pasque-flower….

“A. japonica (Japan Anemone) [is] a tall autumn-blooming kind, 2 feet to 4 feet high, with fine foliage and large rose-coloured flowers…. The various forms of the Japan Anemone are useful for borders, groups, fringes of shrubbery in rich soil, and here and there in half-shady places by wood walks.”

From “Anemone” in A History of Herbal Plants by Richard LeStrange:

“This mixed genus of rather charming, hardy, perennial flowering plants are native to several parts of the world, including North America, Japan and much of Europe and Asia. Their generic name Anemone is derived from the Greek word anemos meaning the wind. Hence Windflower, their common name, ‘so-called according to [John] Gerard for the floure doth never open it selfe but when the wind doth blow… whereupon it is named Herba venti: in English Wind-floure.’

“During the early part of the medieval period the bitter acrid juice of this particular herb was prescribed for leprosy, often under the names of Smell Fox or Wood Crowfoot, throughout much of Europe and Asia. The affected part was simply ‘bathed’ with a strong decoction of the leaves, which when mixed with ‘the grease of old hog‘ also made an excellent ointment good for cleanse malignant and corroding ulcers’. The juice was occasionally given to those suffering from paralysis of the body, but strong doses are known to have killed as well as cured….

“The use of the ‘Anemone in solution’ was still popular in the United States during the, late nineteenth century. It was applied direct as an external remedy to treat scalds, ulcers, syphilitic nodes, paralysis and even ‘opacity of the cornea’, a most uncertain procedure.”

Hello!

Whether you’ve seen them blooming in spring, early summer, or autumn, you’ve likely encountered plants like those in this post and the next one — which I found posing for me in early October in several different locations at Oakland Cemetery.

Those with white flower petals below had just started popping up behind Oakland’s new visitor center — which opened only six months ago — and are the first flowering plants I’ve seen growing there. I had previously written about how the visitor center’s garden was being designed to mimic or mirror the overall layout of the 48-acre property, complete with boundaries or markers shaped to match the cemetery’s sections — so it is no surprise that this new garden is being planted with matching plants. Ancestors to these plants made their way into European gardens and those of the United States in the middle of the nineteenth century, around the same time Victorian cemeteries like Oakland were being designed and created. Their historical-to-current use reflects the property’s longevity as a repository of plants that are native to China or Japan but became well-naturalized outside of Asia, then combined in the gardens’ landscaping with plants having native roots in the Southeast.

For several centuries, these plants were all grouped in the genus Anemone, with “Anemone,” “Japanese Anemone”, “Chinese Anemone,” and “Windflower” applied as their common names. “Windflower” is believed to have been derived from the observation, however improbable, that wind blowing from one direction induced the plants to flower — a characterization I wrote about in a previous post, discussing that the plants were called “Winde-floure” (or a variation of that) in the 16th and 17th centuries (see Anemone, the Winde-Floure (1 of 2)). Continued use of Windflower as a common name is likely based on a more botanically apt observation, though: that the plants’ tiny stamens — visible in the orange ring at the flower petal centers in my photos — produce equally tiny anthers that will tumble across the blooming flower and are easily scattered by the wind.

Plants originally in the Anemone genus — and still commonly called “Anemone” — demonstrate two distinct blooming periods: in late spring to early summer, or in the autumn. I have only photographed those that bloom in autumn (as late as November) at Oakland; and as I write this, I’m not sure if they have spring-bloomers or if I just miss them when surrounded by the fields of daffodils, tulips, and irises that tend to get my attention. I have a note somewhere in my head to check next year for spring Anemones, so it will be a surprise to all of us if I discover that there are some that I’d never noticed before.

These distinct blooming periods (spring/early summer versus fall), though, are relatively rare among flowers of the same genus — which leads to what has actually happened with the original Anemone genus in this plant’s story. Those that bloom in the spring under the Anemone genus or common name have now been separated taxonomically from those that bloom in the fall. The genus name Anemone is reserved for the spring-blooming plants; those that bloom in the fall have been placed in the genus Eriocapitella after a half-century scientific endeavor to determine that the spring- and fall-blooming varieties were genetically quite different. This means, therefore, that the Japanese Anemone whose scientific name was originally Anemone japonica is now named Eriocapitella japonica instead. And it also means that because these are recent developments — the distinction was only finalized within the last two decades — common usage still reflects the original genus name, and many botanical or botany-adjacent writings bundle them all together.

I’ll spend a little more time on other interesting characteristics of these plants and their histories in the next post; but for now, let’s pause for a moment on the word Eriocapitella. Like many of the Latin-based scientific names for plants (or animals, or a lot of other things), it’s odd to write or say in a way that “anemone” is not. I got used to it by breaking it up into “eerio-capa-tella” then noticed how the center ring of the flower looks a bit like one piece of cereal from a box of Cheerios…

… so now think of it as “cheerio-capa-tella” but without the “ch” and with a slightly brighter color. Having clarified that (!!), I can now point out that the white-petaled flowers below are most likely Eriocapitella japonica, and the pink ones (which apparently have a habit of occupying benches) are most likely a double-petaled hybrid called Eriocapitella × hybrida, a variant that is famous enough to have its own Wikipedia page.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!