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

Category: photography

Hello, Clematis! (1 of 2)

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From “The Growing Anticipation of Spring” in On Gardening by Henry Mitchell:

“The day before the cold and snow began I planted two clematis, knowing snow was predicted. As always, when you find clematis at this time of year in cartons, the plants had already sprouted, and that soft growth will be killed. The alternative is to plant it in a pot, keeping it cool and damp until mid-April, but when I have done that in the past I have neglected the pots and only got the plants set out months later.

“One thing a novice may not know is that the clematis roots, which are like leather shoelaces, are rammed into the little pots and packed with peat to keep them moist. That is good. But when planted in the garden (in a one-cubic-foot hole, with plenty of leaf mold) the roots should be dusted free of the stuff in the little pot and spread out, and the crown of the plant (where the stem joins the roots) set a full two inches below soil level.

“Another thing not obvious to gardeners the first time a clematis is planted is that the stem is quite delicate and brittle where it joins the roots and is easily broken off. Use care when unpotting and never hold the plant by its stem but by its roots.

“Even if the top is killed, new growth will rise from below ground, and by the third year the stems will be like modest ropes and the plant will cover a space the size of a door.”

From “Clematis” in Jewel Sensed: Poems by David Jaffin: 

These white-

climbing flow
ers at lyrical-

rhythmic in
tervals to

their chosen
taste for up

lifting-color
ings.

Hello!

One day last week, in my back yard whilst I was sound asleep, this happened…

… and me and the dog spent the better part of that day photographing these fresh Clematis flowers, even as they continued opening while the photo session went on. I got a little carried away (as one does!) and ended up with enough photographs for two posts, but it just seemed imperative to capture their images before they started to thin out and drift away. It’s what they wanted, I’m sure….

These Clematis have a story (see Clematis Reincarnated), one that has not yet completed. They were originally among several Clematis plants that I had in pots on my back steps years ago, that got frozen to burnt, black shreds in those pots when we had an extended deep freeze one late winter. As an experiment, I took the crispy remnants of their roots and hopefully transplanted them into a large pot where a Concord grapevine lives (the pot is about three feet high and two feet in diameter, with a steel trellis), hoping they’d find their way back. They didn’t do much the first year — producing just a small handful of flowers — but this year, they seemed to have found their footing (their rooting?) and spread across the top of the pot and up the trellis supporting the grapevine. They want to climb, after all.

There are two or possibly three varieties now flowering among these vines, though most of the flowers resemble that of a Bernadine Clematis (see Bernadine Clematis) I bought about five years ago — with the stripes less prominent than they originally were. This post features Bernadine’s descendants; the next post includes the other varieties, which (unlike the Bernadines) still have distinct purple or violet striping through each of the flower petals, but were not identified with a name other than “Clematis” when I bought them.

These Bernadine progeny, as you can see, might technically be considered white in color now, but in diffused sunlight they take on a light blue cast; and, in warmer sunlight, it’s easy to find violet or purple among the petals. That’s often the case with flowers in blue or purple shades: the color of surrounding light shifts the shades toward cooler (blue) or warmer (purple) tones, and that shift is actually easy to see in programs like Lightroom where they can be rendered in either color (or anywhere in between) and still look natural. As I look at them through the back door, though, they most often show off this dusty or muted light blue, so that’s how I chose to present them here.

In these galleries, we transition from some of the buds and vines with flowers in the background — the vines often make elegant and captivating twists — to single flowers in full, then to closeups of the flower’s central structures. Clematis are members of the Ranunculaceae or Buttercup family, many of which have a similarly complex central structure that contains reproductive organs, colors and shapes that attract pollinators, and of course the valuable pollen the bugs are after that also ensures continued life for the plants.

Thanks for taking a look!

Spring Snowflakes (2 of 2)

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From V. Sackville-West’s Garden Book, selected and edited by Philippa Nicolson:

“The spring Snowflake, Leucojum vernum, which started coming into flower at the beginning of this month, is worth noticing now with a view to future bulb orders. It is one of those things which repay looking closely into, turning its white, green-tipped bell upwards, as you might turn a child’s face upwards by putting your finger under its chin.

“Any right-minded child would resent and resist; the Snowflake has no option. You may then peer into the delicacy of its structure and its markings, always the best way to appreciate the tinies of drooping habit. Not that the Snowflake fails to make its own little effect in the garden. It accompanies the snowdrops and the aconites, and thus is welcome on a dreary morning when every harbinger and prophet means the beginning of spring.

“Practical note: plant the bulbs early, in September. Do not be disappointed if for the first year they do not do much. They need a year to settle down; so, obviously, you must never disturb them again once you have got them established. They like a bit of shade, so are useful to fill up a shady corner where other bulbs might not flourish.”

Hello!

This is the second of two posts with photos of Spring Snowflakes (Leucojum vernum) from Oakland Cemetery’s gardens. The first post — with a little Snowflake botanical history — is Spring Snowflakes (1 of 2).

Thanks for taking a look!

Spring Snowflakes (1 of 2)

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From “Snowdrops and Snowflakes” in Garden Bulbs for the South by Scott Ogden:

“The spring snowflake (Leucojum vernum) is as ill-suited to Southern conditions as most snowdrops, but this failure is of little consequence. Although the species often appears on the lists of importers, they invariably ship the similar summer snowflake (L. aestivum) in its stead. This one positively thrives in the South, and you could hardly ask for a more appealing spring flower.

“The name leucojum, an old one used by Theophrastus, translates as ‘white violet.’ These tiny, pure white, bell-shaped blooms have a subtle, sweet fragrance and appear in drooping clusters of two to six. They rise on twelve-inch stems directly from the robust, clustered bulbs. The six snowy petals are marked with unique thickened, green spots at the tips, and these give the fairy-sized blooms an air of unreality.

“This is somewhat overcome by the tremendous bunches of lush green leaves that rise from the round, narcissuslike bulbs. This excess foliage is needed to set off the tiny sprays of bloom, and does a fine job if the bulbs are planted in clumps of at least six. ‘Gravetye Giant‘ is a select large-flowered form that originated in the garden of English horticulturist William Robinson. Worth seeking out for its large blooms, it does not seem to be as rampantly vigorous as the ordinary strains common to Southern dooryards.

“In their homes around the Mediterranean these bulbs grow in mucky soils along streams. In such situations they prosper on a surplus of spring moisture and a long summer baking. This prepares the flowers especially for the heavy clay soils of the South, but they perform well on moist sand, also, thriving equally in sun or full shade.”

Hello!

This is the first of two posts featuring photos of Leucojum vernum, or Spring Snowflakes — which grow and spread in abundance in several shaded areas of Oakland Cemetery’s gardens. They seem to have a relatively long blooming period; I took some of the photographs on March 4 and the rest on March 29, and there were still plenty of unopened blooms getting ready for later visitors. The plants’ habit of filling in shaded spaces — along with the way its thimble-sized, bell-shaped flowers nod back and forth at the end of thin stems — can make it a challenge to photograph, but I did manage to convince quite a few to stand still for the camera. I try to make sure that the green dots at the bottom of the bells are in focus; if they are, then the rest of the flower is usually in focus too.

According to Wikipedia, the Spring Snowflake “is native to central and southern Europe from Belgium to Ukraine. It is considered naturalized in north-western Europe, including Great Britain and parts of Scandinavia, and in the US states of Georgia and Florida” — which means, in effect, that the plant has managed to establish itself so well and for so long in these two southeastern states that its presence is nearly indistinguishable from a plant that was native to the region.

I have mostly seen them at Oakland (though occasionally see smaller batches in yards or in wilder spaces) where I like to imagine that they were planted around the time of the cemetery’s founding (in the 1850s) — but that’s probably fanciful. To be fair, though, I’ve been aware of them in the same several spaces for about ten years, and they’re always robust, filling the sections they occupy with dense presentations of flowers and swordlike leaves, while also spilling around the edges of any structures trying for containment. The shape of the flower — a bell — perhaps fits as a memorial metaphor, with white suggesting purity, and its early bloom time reflecting the cycles of life and spring renewal that’s common to plantings selected for garden cemeteries.

Thanks for taking a look!