On a visit to a local dahlia grower’s field in August, I find the range of flower shapes and colors head spinning. Apart from the variety of shapes and sizes, what amazes me is the range of color on offer for our consideration. And everyone faces decisions about color for their gardens, whether to have all of it, none of it but green, or make judicious selections based on color wheel compatibilities. There’s no escaping it. Even if you forego flowers, there’s still decisions to be made on the color of leaves.
Back home at the computer, it’s also head spinning how easily my random musings can be validated and expanded on now that AI assists my inquiries. For example, on color: Outside the natural world, for furnishings and clothing, vibrant color wasn’t always an option. Which is part of my pet theory explaining an eternal and abiding love for gardens and the natural world, places that provide astonishing sights whether you’re rich or poor. From a quick AI-assisted search string (“daily experience of color before aniline dyes”):
Before the invention of aniline dyes in the mid-19th century, the daily experience of color was markedly different from today, shaped by natural sources, cost, class, and the fading effects of time. Rather than an array of vibrant, readily available shades, color was a precious commodity, its intensity and permanence dictated by its origin.
And we all know the period before aniline dyes must include the critical chapter on cochineal. This insect-based source of crimson farmed from opuntia was brought back to Europe from Mexico by Spanish explorers/conquistadors in the 16th century, a precious commodity hoarded by the wealthy, military and religious orders. The working class world would be dressed and furnished in hygge greige until 1856. But the color-saturated splendors of the natural world unfurling every spring, summer and fall were classless experiences and free for all to enjoy and celebrate with Maypoles and harvest festivals even before the hybridizers got to work. (Yes, my search strings seem to betray slightly socialist leanings.)
Flowers that are useful in several arenas can be especially problematic as far as making choices for the home garden. Dahlias, for instance, are bred for flower show competition, floristry, as well as including in summer gardens, and it would be a rare dahlia that can serve all three purposes. For my main garden I prefer the long-stemmed singles — nothing too complicated. And it’s always a kick in the morning to find bumblebees asleep on the flowers. For a cut flower garden, the choice is limitless.
Some genera like tulips and dahlias really get you wondering about the outsized influence of hybridizers on our gardens, especially as far as color choice. When the rhododendrons are in bloom in spring, I’m convinced, perhaps wrongly, that their searingly vivid colors are probably the work of men. Both anecdotally and scientifically, there is support for the male preference for, say, strong reds. And seeing as the early plant explorers and nursery professionals were exclusively male, it stands to reason that their color preferences ruled in early hybridization. Of course, other considerations besides color were in play, such as hardiness and the plant material available at the time — yellow shades were not available for early hybridization efforts. (Search string: “choice of color in earliest rhododendron hybrids.”)
House-high sheets of magenta-flowered shrubs when color-dozy eyes are just waking up in spring? No thanks. But what about house-high sheets of magenta bougainvillea in summer? Absolutely! No wonder discussing color in gardens is so difficult — we’re all so arbitrarily opinionated! And we have to be when there are thousands of colors and shapes in some genera to sort through and judge as to which to include or reject.
And tastes are of course ever evolving, though some selections do stand the test of time. Last summer I grew pale pastel Dawn Creek hybrid zinnias, a far cry from the saturated colors bred by Ernst and Friedriech Benary in 19th century Germany, which have been the gold standard for strong colors and stems to the present time.
Now easily satisfied by AI, my musings are in danger of becoming out of control, to wit:
And just how did Amsterdam become the world’s producer of tulips, a bulb native to Central Asia? Search string “Ottoman tulips arrive in Amsterdam” provides a quick answer with enough specifics to ring reasonably true:
“Ottoman tulips were brought to the Netherlands, and eventually Amsterdam, in the mid-16th century after a diplomat, Oghier Ghiselin de Busbecq, took seeds from the Ottoman Empire to Carolus Clusius in Vienna, who then brought the bulbs to Leiden, Netherlands, in 1593. The flowers quickly gained popularity, leading to Tulip Mania in the 17th century, a speculative market frenzy where a single bulb could be worth a fortune.
But I’ll leave it there and spare you further musings, with just a few more photos of the dozens taken.
Okay, just one more: First plant catalogue in history?
“The first plant catalog is generally considered to be the Florilegium Amplissimum et Selectissimum, published in 1612 by Dutch grower Emmanuel Sweerts. This catalog was distributed at the Frankfurt Fair and contained 560 hand-tinted illustrations of flowering bulbs and plants he had for sale, marking the first time a publication was used to sell plants in this way.”
