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

Tag: autumn

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!

Lantana montevidensis, Weeping or Trailing Lantana

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From “Lantana montevidensis (Weeping Lantana)” in Annual Gardening by June Hudson:

“The weeping lantana, from South America, is treated in much the same way as the shrub verbena. However, for the best standards, run the plants up a stout post and train the shoots to cover an upturned basket….

“From a distance the resulting growth when in bloom gives the effect of a rosy lavender waterfall and is very beautiful. Keep pruned to shape throughout the season. Feed heavily with liquid feed to encourage a high density of bloom….

“Very effective in raised beds cascading over a wall or in Victorian-theme gardens. [These] are excellent plants for cool greenhouses, conservatories, and sun rooms. A white form, “Alba’, is also available.”

From “Lantana montevidensis (Trailing Lantana)” in Identification, Selection, and Use of Southern Plants for Landscape Design by Neil G. Odenwald:

“Native of South America and widely planted in the South as a perennial and in the North as an annual. Especially well adapted for plantings in the center-city with stressful conditions. Performs best in full sunlight and a well-drained soil but tolerates a wide range of site conditions. Fast rate of growth. Propagated by cuttings in moist sand or vermiculite and seeds….

“Nearly vinelike drooping stems for a low-mounding, loosely informal mass with medium-fine textured foliage. If unpruned, forms a rambling ground cover. Excellent perennial planted at top of retaining walls and other raised plantings. Rosy-lilac flower heads, each one inch or more across. Verbenalike. Profuse flowering summer through autumn….”

From “Arrival at L.A.” in Poems of Cornwall and America by A. L. Rowse:

Oleander, palm, hibiscus, yucca,
Sepulveda Boulevard, the Security First National Bank,
To tell us we have arrived at Los Angeles.
Ahead the Verdugo hills, reminiscent of Tuscany,
Terra-cotta coloured and serrated ridge
Of old earthquake country.
Here begin eucalyptus, peppers, camphor trees,
The cuttings carpeted with purple lantana….

Now Inglewood Park cemetery, where lies
The dust of a small child of my blood and bone,
A child wise and sad beyond his years,
Who once looked long into my eyes,
Was frightened by what he saw,
Something beyond tears….

The airport-bus billows along Florence Avenue,
Past Realtors, Refrigerators, Records, Eat with Joe,
Every solicitation of eye and ear and taste.
Not a breath in the air.
Sweat pours down behind the ears.
The scarecrow palms gesticulate
Above the desolation of houses. We journey
In gathering dusk towards still sun-tipped peaks.

Hello!

Various forms of Verbena are common at Oakland Cemetery, but their presence there doesn’t typically attract my attention because most of those I encounter don’t produce notable flowers, or produce clusters of flowers scrunched atop each other that are difficult to isolate for a photogenic image. They’re often used as ground cover, or to add visual contrast to scenes where other plants and flowers dominate, and I imagine if I trolled through my own photos I’d find plenty of images where Verbena variants play a supporting role. When I went on my first autumn aster-hunt a couple of weeks ago, though, I noticed these verbena-looking plants tumbling over stone walls near the property entrance, and the prominent purple flowers caught my eye, as purple flowers often do.

As some landscaping work was going on near this spot and my views were partially blocked by one of the city of Atlanta’s Giant Garden Trucks, I took most of these photos from a distance with a zoom lens and, through the camera’s viewfinder, didn’t get a clear look at the flowers. But I took a series of photos anyway, waited for the truck to rumble away, then took a few more — all the while thinking that even though this was Verbena, I might end up with some interesting photos anyway.

Several days later, I started working on the photos, having randomly picked this one to start…

… and thought: “Gasp! This isn’t Verbena after all — it looks like Lantana!” As I’ve grown multiple Lantana variants on my own property — including flashy annuals as well as perennials like Mary Ann Lantana and Chapel Hill Yellow Lantana — I recognized the flower shape immediately. Equally compelling were the color and shapes of the leaves, the way the flowers were connected to the stems, and how buds that were just barely opening look like a collection of tiny pillows arranged in a circle. These wee pillows, especially, are quite unique among flowers and definitely a sign that you’ve encountered something other than generic Verbena. Even though it’s true that Lantana is a species in the same family as Verbena (Verbenaceae), these visual differences are among the reasons Lantana has its own distinct name and is typically not referred to as Verbena.

But the fact that this looked like Lantana presented me with a mystery for several reasons: It was blooming on October 6, late for Lantana in my experience, with many flowers still waiting for their turn; the flowers were purple, and I’d never seen purple-flowered Lantana; and there is no other Lantana at Oakland Cemetery, not a single stem. I always assumed Oakland avoided Lantana because it’s often considered invasive in many regions including the Southeast where, counterintuitively, you can often buy it at grocery stores. And, I reckoned, Oakland’s caretakers may have chosen to avoid the maintenance it needs: it spreads wildly during the hottest part of the summer, then over the fall and into winter its stems become hard pointy spears that get so tough you might need a saw to cut them back. It’s easy to lose control of it; the perennial variants really have to be contained within some hard boundaries (mine are bounded by rows of stone), and cut as close to the ground as possible in spaces where people, small animals, or even children might bounce around in the garden and could get impaled!

After uploading a few of my photos to PlantNet, I learned that this plant was Lantana montevidensis — originally named after one of its native regions, Montevideo in Uruguay, and tagged with the common names Weeping Lantana and Trailing Lantana. Though in this case it’s not a component of an Oakland memorial display, it’s quite suitable as a plant providing visual interest and depth, along with early fall color, since it tends to bloom long after summer flowers have left the landscape but before most of the colorful asters and mums have started blooming in volume.

Both “trailing” and “weeping” (in the sense of a Weeping Willow) describe its growth patterns accurately: the plant expands along the ground in multiple directions, and the weight of the flowers causes it to spill over walls. Even though some of the plants will imitate their Lantana relatives and push upright for a while (see the last photos below), you can tell that those are arcing downward and will eventually join the rest of the pack on the ground. As the plant dies off toward winter, it’s most likely going to become a desiccated vine, rather than developing the unmanageable woody spikes that upright Lantana varieties produce. I think I’ll need to check its condition on my next visit to the property, and perhaps keep an eye on it over several years to see how it progresses. It’s always exciting to discover a new-to-me plant on my photoshoots, something that gives me a chance to explore yet another line of fresh botanical research — and it will be interesting to see if Oakland has enough success with this Lantana montevidensis that they expand its presence to other sections of the property.

Thanks for reading and taking a look!

White Zephyr Lilies, Zephyranthes candida

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From “Diverse Bulbs for the South” in A Garden of One’s Own: Writings of Elizabeth Lawrence, edited by Barbara Scott and Bobby J. Ward:

“Among the plants contributed to American gardens by the warm countries are representatives of the three great bulb families: the Amaryllidaceae, the Liliaceae, and the Iridaceae. Ranging in color from flaming orange and scarlet to clear pink and pure white, and in size from the magnificent crinum to the dainty Brodiaea uniflora [Ipheion uniflorum], they also offer a wide variety in form and foliage.

“The Amaryllis family is a major source of bulbs for mild climates. Their grace and charm is suggested by the poetic and mythological names of some of the genera: Lycoris and Nerine for sea sprites; Amaryllis for the nymph celebrated by Theocritus and Virgil; Hyacinthus for the unfortunate shepherd, beloved of Apollo; and Zephyranthes, flower of the west wind….

“The fairy lilies (Zephyranthes) are charming dwarf amaryllids. In April the low lying meadows from Virginia to Florida are white with our native atamasco lilies (Z. atamasca), but their possibilities for the garden have never been fully realized although they are easily transplanted and respond to cultivation. The atamasco lily is the lily type of zephyranthes. It has single white flowers and very narrow strap-like foliage….

“Z. candida, another white species — called the summer crocus although it blooms in the fall — is the crocus type. The small, cupped flowers tinged with pink on the outside when the nights get cooler appear in September and October, and the perennial leaves make a green edging for winter.”

From “The Rainflower” by Richard Edwards in Green Poems, collected by Jill Bennett:

Down in the forest where light never falls
There’s a place that no one else knows,
A deep marshy hollow beside a grey lake
And that’s where the rainflower grows.

The one silver rainflower that’s left in the world,
Alone in the mist and the damp,
Lifts up its bright head from a cluster of leaves
And shines through the gloom like a lamp.

Far from the footpaths and far from the roads,
In a silence where no birds call,
It blooms like a secret, a star in the dark,
The last silver rainflower of all.

So keep close behind me and follow me down,
I’ll take you where no one else goes,
And there in the hollow beside the grey lake,
We’ll stand where the rainflower grows.

Hello!

Here we have a collection of landscape border plants from Oakland Cemetery, Zephyranthes candida or white Zephyr Lilies. Zephyr Lilies are known by quite a few other common names, including Atamasco Lily, Rain Lily (or Rain Flower), Fairy Lily, Swamp Lily, Wild Easter Lily, and Stagger Grass. Several of the common names are specific to countries or regions, while “Zephyr Lily” reflects the plant’s scientific name; “Rain Lily” and “Rain Flower” represent its habit of blooming in large quantities a day or two after spring or fall showers; “Atamasco Lily” is a close relative similar in appearance but with longer and thinner flower petals; and “Stagger Grass” refers to their intoxicating effect on livestock (which you can read about in my posts from last year, Discovering Zephyr Lilies (1 of 2) and Discovering Zephyr Lilies (2 of 2)).

As is so often the case, Zephyrs aren’t actually lilies — they’re members of the Amaryllis family. Oakland uses them as border plants in several sections of the property, with some in bloom in the spring and early summer, and others blooming in the fall. I tend to notice them more as fall approaches, since there’s less competition from other eye-catching flowers and Zephyrs fill the gap between late-blooming Amaryllis and the October to November waves of asters and mums. Zephyranthes candida has especially bright pure-white flower petals that contrast nicely with their orange anthers, their wispy dark green leaves, and any nearby monuments — so they do tend to attract attention despite their small size.

Thanks for taking a look!

Pink Daisies, Pink Mums (3 of 3)

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From “Worcester: The Canal” in Under the Cliff and Other Poems by Geoffrey Grigson:

The autumn daisies dipped in the wind
In the olive water,
Oil patches, like a marbled fly-leaf,
Turned in the wind, on the water.

A swan; and the black, elegant bridge,
Like a theorem, over
The canal and the towpath: a circle
Over an arch, by a great arch.

And a black engine on the bridge, named
As a Princess, smoking. Rusty
Galvanised over the coffin yard,
A man passing with leeks….

Hello!

This is the third of three posts with photographs of Persian (or Painted) Daisies (Tanacetum coccineum) and mums (Chrysanthemum zawadzkii). The first post — where I also wrote about the significance of mums and daisies at Victorian garden cemeteries — is Pink Daisies, Pink Mums (1 of 3); and the second post is Pink Daisies, Pink Mums (2 of 3).

Here we are on the last day of November (how did THAT happen?), right on the cusp of starting the month of curiosities and baubles, clouds of glitter, and the lights and candles we use to ward off winter darkness. For my part, I’ve engaged the services of my decorating assistant — The Small Dog — who supervised the work yesterday as I untangled the first of two strings of 900 (three sets of 300 each) lights and began shoving them into the Christmas tree. You can just barely see his head peaking around the wall in the first image, but the more I swore at the lights to encourage them to straighten out, the more interested he got!

Pink Daisies, Pink Mums (2 of 3)

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From “Sensory” by Marian Harmon in The Best Poems of the 90s, edited by Caroline Sullivan and Cynthia Stevens:

Eyes to photo flights of hummingbirds
As television lions mate, Vesuvius explodes.
Eyes to read the shape of breasts that swell
And turn to milk for one as yet unborn.

Tongues to taste new kernel corn
The bite of dill,
The sweet bright mouth of love.

Ears to hear the measured paragraphs of Bach
The stamping of the tiny hooves of deer.
Unfinished words that slither into nibbled cries.

Nose that knows delight in spring verbena,
Summer phlox and autumn mums,
The perfumed sweat that rises with my touch.

Yet all those wonders fade, become as garden weeds,
Or dust on lamps
When you no longer share
The scents, the sounds, the tastes,
The beating of my wings.

Hello!

This is the second of three posts with photographs of Persian (or Painted) Daisies (Tanacetum coccineum) and mums (Chrysanthemum zawadzkii) — all in shades of pink, starting with saturated blends of pink, purple, and magenta followed by those that are more purely pink. The first post — where I also wrote about the significance of mums and daisies at Victorian garden cemeteries — is Pink Daisies, Pink Mums (1 of 3).

Thanks for taking a look!

Pink Daisies, Pink Mums (1 of 3)

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From Old Fashioned Flowers by Sacheverell Sitwell:

“The pleasure garden would seem to have come through the fourteenth, fifteenth, and most of the sixteenth centuries, without many changes or additions to its stock of flowers. They had a few, a very few, Roses, and the simple stock-in-trade of Carnation and Pink. Daisies, Violets, Periwinkles, Poppies, Primroses, such were their flowers. They had but little, and of that little, less still is lost to us….

“And so it continued, until the period of great voyages began. During the reign of Queen Elizabeth many new flowers were introduced into our gardens. By 1580 or 1590 at latest, the Tulip had arrived from Turkey, with intermediate stopping places in Germany and the Netherlands upon the way. At about the same time the Auricula came from Flanders. And, by 1600, we may say that the florist’s cult had been established. The possibilities of these garden flowers were at once apparent. It was only a matter of a few years before regular nurseries were in being. So many qualities in the florist’s flowers made their appeal to the curious, if even precious, minds of the English Renaissance. For the reign of James I, even more than that of Queen Elizabeth, represents the flowering of the Elizabethan Age….

“This age, with its humanistic learning, was apt to look upon flowers as not less a part of the dominion of man than the beasts of the field, or the bricks and mortar of a human dwelling. All such things were given to mankind for his use or pleasure. They responded to his care and rewarded him with their plenty.”

From “October” in Leave-Taking: Poems by Marilyn Potter:

White-cloud ribbon crocheted through the sky’s
baby blanket. Cradles with pure fall day.

Pink mums, banked row upon row, a child’s picnic treat
— scoop upon scoop of ice cream — strawberry sweet.

The gingko’s leaves, fan-shaped and falling.
buttering the stones, the grass, earth’s dirty face.

A single rose, dark crimson, droops like a floppy hat.
Not here a week ago. She’s come back for the last dance.

Light breezes ripple water, sashay against her petals,
spin twirl after twirl fire-gold. Dizzy, giddy,

the sun totters. Stipples a shadow from the tallest
pine. Descends through leafless trees in a curvy,

winding line. Vanishes.
Like a flat-edged cloth, pale gray felts down.

Sudden gusts, leaf somersaults, the chase —
October escapes.

Hello!

Since it will be a busy week of glitterizing the house for Christmas each day around Thanksgiving, we have prepared three posts featuring 54 photos I took in late October that our Post-Processing Department (me!) finished up just in time, as in today. The flowers in these photos are a mix of Persian (or Painted) Daisies (Tanacetum coccineum) and mums (Chrysanthemum zawadzkii). Those with smaller, more compact bunches of flowers are mums; the embiggened ones are Persian Daisies. Wherever you can’t tell the difference, you may call them by either name.

As is so often the case, I went a-hunting for some interesting historical tidbits about the flowers whose photographs I was planning to post, and searched Books to Borrow at the Internet Archive for the phrase “pink daisies.” It wasn’t until I was copying and pasting the up-top quotation from Old Fashioned Flowers by Sacheverell Sitwell that I realized “Pink” was the last word in the second sentence and “Daisies” was the first word in the third sentence. In other words, the excerpt wasn’t about “pink daisies” at all, but about a flower Sitwell was calling “Pink” — even though, if you drop the period between “Pink” and “Daisies,” the sentences seem to work as one anyway.

I had no idea what “Pink” meant as the name of a flower. So, as one does, I turned to my imaginary research assistant ClaudeAI and learned that “Pink” was often used as a common name for flowers in the Dianthus genus, many of which (no surprise here) were actually pink in color. Dianthus plumarius is a typical example, where you can see a fine pink flower with serrated or scalloped edges if you click the link. So even though my excerpt from Old Fashioned Flowers wasn’t about “pink daisies,” I kept it anyway because I liked how it provided a brief tour through the very early history of plant exploration and the British empire — one of my favorite subjects to dig into when I’m researching flower ancestries.

I have to say I sometimes get carried away with my ClaudeAI conversations, and I ended out asking twenty questions about the Old Fashioned Flowers excerpt, the history of imperial Britain, and how that intersected with the movement of plants and flowers around the world. Eventually the conversation swirled into a discussion of the use of daisies and mums, specifically, at cemeteries like Oakland Cemetery that were originally designed as Victorian garden cemeteries. (For more on this, see In the Garden Cemetery: The Revival of America’s First Urban Parks, which describes how early garden cemeteries came about, and includes Oakland among those discussed.) While I knew quite a bit about the design of public spaces like this, I didn’t realize that these flowering plants — daisies and mums — and their placement among the cemetery’s architectural elements was intentional. Here’s what I learned when I told ClaudeAI that I had photographs of these flowers situated among some of their surrounding stone structures and monuments:

Victorian-era garden cemeteries like Oakland Cemetery were revolutionary spaces that blended mourning, horticulture, and landscape design. These were not just burial grounds, but carefully designed landscapes that reflected complex cultural attitudes toward death, nature, and memorial.

Daisies and chrysanthemums were particularly meaningful in this context. Victorian flower language (floriography) assigned specific symbolic meanings to plants. Daisies traditionally symbolized innocence and purity, making them poignant choices for memorial plantings. The pink varieties you’ve photographed would have been especially significant — pink often represented gentle remembrance and tender emotions.

Chrysanthemums in Victorian culture had layered symbolism. In European traditions, they were associated with death and mourning, while in Japanese culture (from which many varieties were imported), they symbolized longevity and nobility. In American garden cemeteries, they represented both memorial and hope.

Oakland Cemetery is an exceptional example of this Victorian garden cemetery aesthetic. Established in 1850, it reflects the era’s approach to commemorating the dead through carefully designed botanical landscapes. The use of ornamental flowers like the pink daisies and mums you’ve photographed would have been intentional — creating spaces of beauty and reflection that transformed mourning into an almost aesthetic experience.

At places like Oakland Cemetery, each planting was essentially a form of three-dimensional storytelling. The positioning of flowers in relation to monuments, paths, and stone structures wasn’t random but carefully calculated. Pink daisies and chrysanthemums would be placed to soften hard stone surfaces, create visual rhythms, and provide emotional nuance to what could otherwise feel like a stark memorial environment.

In these spaces, plants were chosen not just for aesthetic reasons, but as living symbols of human experiences. Pink daisies and chrysanthemums represented nuanced emotional states. Their delicate, somewhat ephemeral nature mirrored Victorian contemplations about life’s transience. The pink color specifically — neither bold red nor stark white — suggested a liminal emotional space of remembrance tinged with hope.

Botanical placement was deliberate. These flowers weren’t randomly scattered but carefully positioned to create narrative landscapes. A cluster of pink daisies might symbolize a child’s innocence, while chrysanthemums could represent a mature life’s complexity. The layered meanings allowed mourners to ‘read’ the landscape as a form of emotional expression.

“Botanical placement was deliberate.” This insight fascinated me, especially since I photographed some of these daisies and mums at wider angles rather than as close-ups, to show their positioning against nearby stone. Some of the photos in this series, for example, show the flowers as they’re tumbling over walls and across memorial structures — something I just thought was aesthetically pleasing (the contrast between delicate flower petals and hard, grainy stone) — but now I know reflects intentional landscape design blended with the property’s monuments and other stone structures. I’ll likely bring a completely different perspective to my next photoshoot at the gardens….

Thanks for reading and taking a look!