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.
“Garden zinnias, though among the most commonly grown annuals, are one of those flowers whose influences are greater than might easily be recognized. Originating as a lowly Mexican wildflower, they have held sway over subjects as far ranging as music, social customs, community design, larceny, art, battles at sea, and even outer space.
“[In] the early 1900s communities on the American side of the Atlantic recognized the importance of zinnias as they became more popular among designers. In 1913 zinnias were touted as elements of ‘Futurist designs’ harmonizing ‘with designs formed of cubes and triangles’ because of their rigidity and colors. The bright, clear colors of ‘this flower suggest those in the giddiest futurist silk,’ thus being used for fresh corsages and, in their artificial forms, as trimmings for hats and frocks. Zinnias were also being mentioned in the household decorations of society’s best….
“Most recently zinnias appear in yet another aspect of human endeavor, this time… in outer space. In January 2016 US astronaut Scott Kelly announced that a zinnia had bloomed on the International Space Station…. The purpose in specifically growing zinnias was as a testing phase for eventually more useful plants such as tomatoes because of the long growth periods and light conditions associated with both plants. It was also thought that flowering plants might raise the spirits of space station crew members.”
A lifetime Was too little to think all this up in. But As the garden grew with the plan So does the plan with the garden.
The powerful oak trees on the lordly lawn Are plainly creatures of the imagination. Each year The lord of the garden takes a sharp saw and Shapes the branches anew….
Around the vast tangle of wild roses. Zinnias and bright anemones Hang over the slope….
So we’ve come to the end of the zinnias for this year. Or, perhaps not: I went on an aster-hunting expedition yesterday and saw that the zinnias were still going strong, waving in the breeze as bees and fritillaries bounced around, bloom-to-bloom. Since this is the first autumn I’ve given zinnias attention, I’ll keep an eye out to see how long they last — and also see if some new colors (or shapes!) appear that I haven’t photographed yet. If so, they may be back — nobody knows for sure!
“The majority of the zinnias are natives of Mexico, where they were cultivated at a very early date. The horticultural art of the Aztecs was highly developed, and at the time of the Spanish invasion of 1520, the gardens of Montezuma equalled, if not surpassed, anything that was to be seen in Europe. Besides the zinnia, his flowers included the dahlia, tigridia, sunflower, and morning-glory; and he sent his gardeners to all parts of his realm to collect and introduce new plants and trees….
“When planting a shrub or flower newly imported from a distance, Montezuma’s gardeners were accustomed to prick their ears and sprinkle the leaves of the plant with blood. The new chrysanthemum-flowered zinnias, which have quite lost the neat French-millinery elegance of the older kinds, look as though they had been reared with the aid of some such ceremony.
“The plant was named in honour of J. G. Zinn, Professor of Physics and Botany at Gottingen University, who died in 1758 at the early age of thirty-two…. It is sometimes called Youth and Age; a name for which I can find no explanation.”
It isn’t always, but at this moment, today, it is enough
Enough, to stand in the sunlight of my garden, to peel off the dead heads of the yellow flowers of the huge and glorious bush, to bend down and examine the brownish furry moth, with its tiny pale iridescent salmon-colored dots, as it pauses on the pale, salmon-colored zinnia….
Here we have some in lavender, purple, or pink — followed by a return to some of the red and orange ones that, perhaps, are descendants of those sprinkled with blood by the Aztecs as described in Flowers and Their Histories above. This may or may not be true, of course, but it can be fascinating to consider how generations of these plants made their way from Mexico in the 1500s, then to Europe, then eventually to the United States to land in a garden a mile from my house — transitions through time I had never really thought about until I started photographing flowers like this (obsessively!) and digging into their genesis and history.
