“Strictly speaking, Masson was not a botanist — at least, he did not have a formal botanical education. He rose through the ranks, starting out as a garden boy in Aberdeen, where he had been born (in 1741) and brought up, with only the most basic education. When he was in his early twenties, Masson moved south to London, where he obtained a job as under-gardener to his fellow Scot William Aiton in what was then still Princess Augusta’s Royal Garden. A forerunner of the hard-working ‘self-improvers’ that are often thought of as typical of the Victorian era, alongside his gardening duties Masson taught himself botany and became a skilled botanical artist while working at Kew….
“Gardeners and florists have much to remember Masson by. His introductions brighten gardens, houses, and parks today….
“The vibrant Amaryllis is named after Amaryllis, a beautiful shepherdess lauded in both classical and English pastoral poetry. Masson brought back Amaryllis disticha and Amaryllis belladonna.”
The third photo below is my favorite of this series. It was also the most difficult one to cast on a black background, because of the seven stems holding the flower petals up. But — imho! — it came out pretty good, I think.
“The Amaryllis belongs to the bulbous class of plants, and under that name is generally included, for commercial purposes at any rate, the numerous family of Hippeastrums, as well as the Vallota and other species closely allied to the amaryllis proper, all of them belonging to the natural order of amaryllis.
“The first record we have of the introduction of amaryllis to European gardens gives the date as being early in the eighteenth century, about 1712, it being indigenous to the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa, where so many varieties of these beautiful plants have been introduced. These were herbaceous in their character, the foliage commencing to die down soon after the flowering season, followed by a period of rest…”
In the dead winter comes a thought to me Of Amaryllis in her maiden days, Threading her way along the winding Maze Of close-clipt yew and stunted myrtle tree — A leafy fortress where her heart was free.
Green was her dress, with billowy skirts that made A gentle rustle when the nights were still; The misty dawn of many a hidden frill Shot from the turnings of the puffed brocade And mossy velvet bound with twisted braid.
Hello!
As is often the case with my posts and their photographs, I went hunting for some new quotations about my subjects — in this case, I searched Google Books for title references to “amaryllis” to see what I could find. That’s where I discovered Viola Taylor’s book of poetry, The Story of Amaryllis and Other Verses, which includes nine poems (of 39 in the book) about amaryllis:
Amaryllis in the Maze Amaryllis and the Faun The Defence of Amaryllis Amaryllis in the Faith Amaryllis in the Shade A Memory of Amaryllis The Passing of Amaryllis The Last of Amaryllis Hic Jacet Amaryllis
After reading all nine, though, it wasn’t clear to me what (or who) “Amaryllis” in the poems referred to. Not that there’s anything wrong with that — poets do like to be obtuse, don’t they? — and most of the poems could be interpreted as metaphors for the life cycle of amaryllis plants and flowers, or maybe references to a person known to the author as Amaryllis, or even symbolic references to the Amaryllis of Greek mythology.
None of these possibilities satisfied me that much, so I tried some additional rabbit-hole digging on Taylor and her books — only to blonk my head against gated research sources (the scourge of the internet!) and very little else. While this may have suggested some (paywalled) academic interest in her, I then discovered that Viola Taylor also published using her married name from her first marriage (Viola Woods); her married name from her second marriage to British journalist and newspaper editor James Louis Garvin (so, Viola Garvin); that J. L. Garvin had a daughter also named Viola from his first marriage; and that that Viola Garvin wrote and published poetry too. All this of course made it very difficult to zero in on the correct “Viola” — even as I thought about paying for a couple of journal articles to learn more.
With the rabbit-hole having expanded into too many tributaries(!!), it seemed best to crawl back out and just enjoy the little book of poetry. It’s available for free, if you would like to take a look, here: The Story of Amaryllis and Other Verses.
This is the first of three posts featuring amaryllis from Oakland Cemetery’s gardens whose flowers were predominantly red, or — with a little extra light or by adding a bit of white — exhibited strong pink tones. I separated them from the mostly-magenta amaryllis (see Amaryllis, Mostly Magenta (1 of 2) and Amaryllis, Mostly Magenta (2 of 2)) for that reason, and it was quite a bit of fun to see how most of these could be rendered as deep red or intense pink by playing with Lightroom’s hue and saturation sliders for red and magenta. It was another kind of rabbit-hole I spent some time in, I suppose, before I settled on whether or not to finish these as red flowers or pink flowers, because any of them could be completely shifted from one color to the other, with no distortion.
Funny story (to me, anyway): as a tyke I dyslexically thought the word “magenta” was actually “magneta” (pronounced mag-KNEE-tah) — perhaps from some formative exposure to the Marvel comics Magneto character. It took me quite a few years to pronounce “magenta” correctly (luckily, it’s not a word you actually use a lot in daily conversation), and even now, half a century later, I still sometimes catch myself reading the word as “magneta” instead of “magenta.” Weird how things get stuck in your head and seem to stay there forever, eh?
“The process of making pictures involves keeping an open mind to single and serial image constructions, narrative and non-narrative formats, in-camera juxtapositions, and post-camera manipulations. How does changing the sense of scale, the size you expect something to be, affect viewer reaction? Does the unusual scale evoke humor, mystery, or horror? How does this make you rethink the subject? Consciously ask yourself questions like these: How does image size affect viewer response? How would changing to black-and-white or color affect the image’s emotional outcome? Examine how one photograph may modify the meaning of the image next to it. Consider what happens if text is added to an image. How can meaning shift with a title as opposed to leaving a photograph untitled? What is the most effective form of presentation, and what is the appropriate venue?”
“When making color images, the intensity and the relationship of one color to another within the scene plays a vital role in creating contrast. If you decide to make black-and-white images, then contrast is created by the difference between the darkest and lightest areas of the composition.”
“It’s clear that black and white is very important to certain kinds of garden photography. Why?
“For one thing, a black and white photograph is ‘art.’ In the context of gardens, black and white has a long history of rendering the shapes, forms, and composition of the garden….
“Up until fairly recently, photography was only black and white. Color was not an option. Nineteenth-century photographers, such as Eugène Atget (1857–1927) who worked near Paris, used the prowess of their monochromatic cameras to capture gardens around the world with a particular emphasis on the patterns and structure of formal French gardens. To some extent, this embrace of the static in garden photography was driven by technology: not only was photography monochromatic, shutters were also slow, so capturing anything in motion was non-trivial.
“As time went by, when color film was introduced, the great era of Kodachrome was on. Fast forward a few more decades, and the wet-film darkroom transitioned to digital. Not only is the default capture mode on most digital cameras or smartphones in color, to choose to render a garden image captured in color in black and white is an affirmative choice. In today’s world, to present an image in black and white is making a statement. The statements may well be: ‘Look at me, I am a work of art!’ ‘I am special.’ ‘I am the form and composition reduced to its essentials.’ Of course, it also helps that black and white photography is simply beautiful.”
Hello!
For most of my photo projects — where I clump a couple dozen similar photos into a Lightroom collection and work on them together — I often convert a few to black and white to see if I like the monochrome versions enough to produce a separate set. Usually, I don’t find them compelling; but for the mostly-magenta amaryllis I featured in the previous two posts (see Amaryllis, Mostly Magenta (1 of 2) and Amaryllis, Mostly Magenta (2 of 2)) the combination of colors in the pink-to-purple range (along with the slightly shiny glow produce by lots of rain the night before I took the photos) seemed to work out well in black and white. As I often do, I added a bit of silver tone (actually, a wee bit of light blue) to each of the images, which seemed to further emphasize the soft textures of individual flower petals.
“This interesting genus has had a hard struggle to establish its identity. At one period it had numerous species, and many sub-genera, all very beautiful. One by one these have been removed, becoming separate genera themselves, until there is scarcely enough left to hold the name. Some eight distinct kinds still hold, in trade, the old generic name….
“[The] Amaryllis is but little known in this country, while its synonyms are extensively grown and highly appreciated. Amaryllis is now simply a trade name for several genera, a popular name applied in the same manner as that of Calla Lily to Richardia, or Japonica to the Camellia. The genus formerly included Hippeastrum, Brunsvigia, Crinum, Nerine, Sprekelia, Sternbergia, Vallota and Zephyranthes…..
“The genus Amaryllis consists of but one species.”
