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.
“From a botanical and evolutionary perspective, there is no doubt whatsoever that zinnias have grown in Mexico for eons. After all, species of this genus are endemic to the region and, having evolved in the area, would have been known to any peoples who viewed and valued the countryside in which they lived. If a plant had any use at all, whether ornamental or material, the inhabitants would have explored the possibilities of making it service their needs. [A] question is whether the Aztec peoples [cultivated] these zinnias in their gardens. The answer is almost certainly ‘yes,’ but… there appears to be little written evidence from the period….
“As with zinnias, multiple species of dahlias and marigolds are also endemic to regions of Mexico and are found growing under similar conditions — hot, dry, and even somewhat hostile. These are all members of the family Asteraceae (once better known as Compositae), and in their original wild or natural forms each group of plants was attractive enough to warrant attention: a common dahlia (Dahlia coccinea) with single red flowers, marigolds (Tagetes of several species) with yellow or orange flowers (some mixed with burgundy petals), and zinnias (of several species) with pink, yellow, or reddish flowers. Thus, the trio — dahlia, marigold, and zinnia — may be taken as a unit with regard to their potential inclusions in Aztec gardens. Certainly they all find their place in today’s gardens, but these plants were viewed in different contexts in their own times….”
I used to worship East to West, imbibing light, air, water; forming seeds too heavy for the wind and, sturdy, rough, a firm stalk, an unconscionable desire to burst into the sky. Thick with ochre now, and umber, thirsty for the water I no longer have the strength to bear, leaves parch and rustle. Turn a countenance that used to rival Sol’s from sunlight to the medium on which I root: see zinnias, still scarlet, blooming.
Orchards bow and apples dream of falling. I am spent and crackled, dry but full of seed; I hear the clamour of a tangled germ of voices from within. The earth demands ascetic posturings: I bend, but wryly — only from the neck — not to the soil, but to the fallen smell of shrivelling leaves, to summer’s end, its gathering, hiss and crumble — to necessity.
Since these are close-up photographs, it’s not apparent that they grow in a garden space that resembles the “hot, dry, and even somewhat hostile” environment described in the quotation at the top. The stone wall shown in the first three photographs may give the impression of flowers popping up in a sweet, cool spot — but in August and September it’s one of the hottest sections in the gardens (which is why I’d rather photograph them on cloudy days!) The wall also belies the fact that they’re actually growing on a hill, one graded at about forty-five degrees and mostly filled with loose, sandy soil.
The first time I encountered this zinnia patch a few years ago, I didn’t quite understand why they didn’t just slide down the hill along with the grains of sand that would roll onto my feet every time the wind blew. But they’re more resilient than that — and it turns out that they have a fast-growing fibrous root system capable of wide horizontal spreads with additional root-shoots that help stabilize them (and the soil) under these conditions. And since the root system typically goes no deeper into the soil than a twelve inches, they’re able to snag plenty of water from any rainstorm (or gardener’s hose) before it runs into the nearby road. The bees, the butterflies, and The Photographer certainly appreciate that!
“Zinnia: Among the most effective of summer-blooming plants, they flower well until autumn, their blooms not easily injured by inclement weather, but retaining freshness and gay colour when many flowers present but a sorry appearance. In mixed borders, beds among sub-tropical plants, well-grown Zinnias are always attractive, but require a deep loamy soil and a warm open situation….
“Seed should be sown in gentle warmth. Nothing is gained by sowing before the middle or end of March, as, if the young plants have to stand before being planted, they become root-bound and seldom fully recover. If the tissues once harden so much as to bring the young plants to a standstill, there will be little chance of rapid progress when finally set out. It is not advisable to plant them out much before the second week in June, as they are sensitive to atmospheric changes, and are completely ruined by a few degrees of frost.”
And before that, in the hot day, many were the moons of zinnias.
And the whole time there was the moon of my thoughts in its skull basket.
One was the color vermillion and others the red and yellow of celebration.
One swallows the universe like snow swallows a field…
Hello!
This is the first of three posts with photos of zinnias from Oakland Cemetery’s gardens, taken during the last few weeks. I’ve photographed and posted them once before (see, for example, Zinnia Elegance (1 of 4) from last year), and while these aren’t substantially different from the previous photos, they are new — which counts for something, too! After I took the first six photos, the sun slipped behind some clouds — so while those first six look a little like I used a camera flash (I didn’t), the rest are more to my liking because the lighting is more balanced yet the colors still shine through.
With temperatures remaining very high this fall — nights in the 60s and days pushing 80 — there hasn’t been a lot of traditional fall color (you know, red, yellow, and orange filling the trees) so far this year, so taking new photographs of zinnias, asters, mums, and daisies is fulfilling my autumn color needs instead. My favorites of the zinnias are the ones that resemble tiny pineapples, but the others are pretty sexy too — especially those with yellow threads stitched around the centers of the flowers.
larger than life, a gesture toward the thing that passes
almost unseen. A small wind
disturbing a bonfire, for example, which I found the other day by accident
on a museum wall. Almost nothing is there: a few wisps of white
thrown idly against the pure black background, no more than a small gesture trying to be nothing
more than itself. And yet it is not here and to my eyes will never become a question of trying to simplify
Hello!
For this post, I took a selection of photos from my midwinter mums series and recreated them on black backgrounds. I had only intended to do a handful, but ended out with several handfuls instead — getting a bit carried away when I saw that these flowers looked especially good on black. There were some challenges here: where I left the delicate, parsley-like leaves in the photos, much detailed brushing was necessary in Lightroom to keep them intact. And because the leaves tend to be toward the back of the scene and less focused, I also darkened the color green so that out-of-focusness doesn’t distract from the rest of the image.
Why should this flower delay so long To show its tremulous plumes? Now is the time of plaintive robin-song, When flowers are in their tombs.
Through the slow summer, when the sun Called to each frond and whorl That all he could for flowers was being done, Why did it not uncurl?
It must have felt that fervid call Although it took no heed, Walking but now, when leaves like corpses fall, And saps all retrocede. Too late its beauty, lonely thing, The season’s shine is spent, Nothing remains for it but shivering In tempests turbulent.
Had it a reason for delay, Dreaming in witlessness That for a bloom so delicately gay Winter would stay its stress?
I talk as if the thing were born With sense to work its mind; Yet it is but one mask of many worn By the Great Face behind.
Hello!
This is the last of the midwinter mum-posts!
Well, not quite… it’s been raining a lot (really a lot!) lately so I’ve been indoors poking at Lightroom and slinging some of the flowers onto black backgrounds, as one does sometimes. So this is the last of the original mum photos, with those blackground variations in post-processing and to be revealed shortly.
