Bloom Day March 2013

If it weren’t for the few stems of Scilla peruviana in bloom I’d feel completely out of step this March Bloom Day, when so many participating gardens are sending forth crocus and iris and so many other traditional spring bulbs and blooms. We may have flowers every month of the year, as Carol’s Bloom Day muse Elizabeth Lawrence declares, but we won’t all necessarily have the same flowers.


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I’ve been trimming away the lower leaves from a Geranium maderense to let some sun in on this patch of scilla.
Even in perfect conditions this bulb takes some years off and refuses to bloom.

What I’m most interested in this year is a little meadow/chaparral experiment that I’m hoping will bloom through summer in full sun, fairly dry conditions. It’s really begun to fill in the past couple weeks.

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Diascia personata is part of this experiment, three plants, two planted in fall and a cutting struck from one of them that has already made good size. Thanks go to Annie’s Annuals & Perennials for being the only U.S. source, via Derry Watkins’ extraordinary nursery in England. In the 1980s I reverently brought new diascia species and varieties home from Western Hills Nursery in Occidental, California, the only source at that time. Now all the local nurseries carry them as bedding plants every spring, and of course being a plant snob I don’t grow them anymore. But diascias can be very good here along the coast in the long cool spring and early summer, dwindling off in the heat of August. This Diascia personata’s height to 4 feet is a very intriguing asset.

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Also in the little meadow is Anthemis ‘Susanna Mitchell,’ and self-sown poppies, probably Papaver setigerum.
I like calling it my “meadow” when in truth it covers as much ground as a large picnic blanket.

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Blue oat grass, helicotrichon on the left, borders one side of the meadow/chaparral.

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Bordering a pathway elsewhere there’s a big swathe of this silvery gazania, maybe five plants, which counts as a swathe in my garden. In full sun they’d be open and you’d see what a shockingly striped and loud harlequin variety I chose last fall. Can’t fault those beautiful leaves though.

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More beautiful leaves to shore up what few flowering plants I actually grow. Senecio leucostachys is the big silvery sprawler. Small flashes of color from the Moroccan toadflax, Linaria reticulata, and the saffron-colored blooms of Salvia africana-lutea picking up speed, especially in recent temps in the high 80s. The phormium was bought misnamed as the dwarf ‘Tom Thumb.’ Whatever it’s true name, it’s stayed fairly compact and seems to have topped off at about 3 feet.

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Closeup of the salvia bloom.

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Euphorbia lambii began to bloom this week.

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The tree euphorbia really grew into its name this year.

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Kind of amazing to write that Nicotiana ‘Ondra’s Brown Mix’ has been in bloom all winter.
I’ve been cutting off old branches as the flowers go to seed. The brick paths are full of its seedlings.
Fresh basal leaf growth is coming in strong.

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Salvia chiapensis backed by Melianthus ‘Purple Haze’

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And a different view against a backdrop of sideritis and a big clump of Helleborus argutifolius.

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The yellow-flowered form of Russellia equisetiformis is just so very cool.

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Nasturtiums are ruthlessly thinned, but this climbing variety was allowed to fill in the bottom of a tuteur that supports the coronilla, which is still in full, aureate bloom.

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The coronilla with the nasturtium growing at the base of its support

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The seductive little species geraniums/pelargoniums are at their very best in spring

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Also beginning bloom is one of my favorite sedums. S. confusum.

Thanks again to Carol of May Dreams Gardens and all who participate in opening their gardens on Bloom Day.

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passionflower progress

The garlic passionflower, P. loefgrenii, is supposedly one of the smaller, less-rampant species, described as a 10-footer, but that’s the size it’s reached in just its first year in my garden. The vine is planted against the eastern boundary fence, facing west, soaking up strong but coastal afternoon sun. It’s new to cultivation, so not much information is available on it yet. My vine comes from Annie’s Annuals & Perennials. Nice long stems for small vases, though it’s short-lived as a cut flower. The reflexive petals give the flower a wonderful dodecatheon/shooting star form. Native to coastal Brazil, the garlicky-tasting fruits are edible. If and when my vine bears any fruits, I know I will not be sober when I have my first taste.

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Outside it’s suddenly everywhere. Running along the fence, threading up into the 12-foot pittosporum pruned as a standard. As with all passifloras in a climate they approve of, this behavior is both thrilling and alarming at the same time. Some species of passiflora have become naturalized in Southern California, and chain-link fences have been known to disappear completely under the vines, which is exactly the point of a vine anyway as it relates to a chain-link fence. But I do fear for the pittosporum. For the moment, I’m loving the intensely purple UFO’s delicately weaving through the pale variegated leaves but will keep a sharp eye out for any throttling tendencies. My Sunset Western Garden Book, 40th Edition, says to “prevent buildup of dead inner tangle, prune annually after second year, cutting excess branches back to base or juncture with another branch.” In its second year, I resolve to do this faithfully.

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I’m hoping the pittosporum can handle some passiflora love.

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Echeveria ‘Opal Moon’

I always check the succulent tables at plant nurseries for something new and/or bizarre, but the offerings have been much the same so far this year. Once the eye has been well-trained on the familiar, whenever something unfamiliar pops up, like this Echeveria ‘Opal Moon’ did a year or so ago, it really stands out in the crowd. This echeveria made great size over the winter, so I slipped it out of its pot and planted it in the garden over the weekend. A pot of Echeveria secunda was thinned to add a few at the base, which gives an idea of scale. ‘Opal Moon’ has some faint breaks and streaking in the overall greyish-pink color of its leaves, a color very similar to that of Graptoveria ‘Fred Ives.’ (I’ve always called this color “puce,” but checking the dictionary I see that I’m mistaken.) I have to admit this greyish-pink color is not my first preference, but I can tolerate it if the succulent is a good one. Is ‘Opal Moon’ a good one? Still not sure. The irregular-shaped, loose rosettes build up higher and higher, and it’s formed about a 3-inch trunk, so it would be of no use tucked into nooks and crannies, making it more a specimen. It lacks the severe geometry of many echeverias, for instance, the E. secunda at its base, but I suppose that extreme fleshiness counts as a feature in its own right. It is an odd one. And wouldn’t you know, the snails never found it in its pot, but were nosing around among its leaves this morning, so this just might be the last photo in its pristine state. The snail hunt kit, a peanut butter jar, was produced and the mollusks were dispatched to the freezer and the Big Sleep.

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Echeveria ‘Opal Moon’

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be afraid: Frankenstein Petunia

OK, I find an old paperback of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in the house a few days ago and haven’t been able to put it down. So maybe I’m sensitized to the book’s themes, but I really didn’t expect to find Shelley’s ideas so explicitly animated in the present day, with a slight twist:

In a promethean leap, man and plant become one, creating new life.

Meet Edunia, the “plantimal” love child of artist/biodesigner Eduardo Kac, “who doesn’t merely incorporate existing living things in his artworks—he tries to create new life-forms.”

It lives. It is real, as real as you and I,” says Kac, a Brazil native living in Chicago. “Except nature didn’t make it, I did.”

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Kac selected the pink petunia, in large part because of the distinct red veins that hint at his own red blood. And though he refers to his creation as a “plantimal,” that may be overstating the case. The organism has only a minuscule stretch of human DNA amid many thousands of plant genes.”

“The DNA sequence was sent to Neil Olszewski, a plant biologist at the University of Minnesota…After six years of tinkering, the artist-scientist duo inserted a copy of Kac’s immunoglobulin gene fragment into a common breed of the flower Petunia hybrida.

“It’s not the first transgenic plant…’But you don’t have plants that have been made to explore ideas,’ Olszewski says. ‘Eduardo came to this with an artistic vision. That is the real novelty.'”


The tragedy and downfall of the scientist Frankenstein unfolds when he is unable to love his hideous creation. To be honest, I’d have some trouble loving a petunia. An agave, however, is another matter entirely.

Read more here.

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when agaves become homebodies

I’m sure these images have been kicking around design blogs for some time, but if they have I’ve missed them.
(Found here at Miluccia, via the magazine Ideat.)
It’s easy to become numbed by the tsunami of photos of interiors available online, but this one snagged my full attention. The light, the chairs, the fascinating wire armature, the writhing agaves. I’m wondering if our sagging 100-year-old wood floors could stand this kind of excitement.

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Posted in agaves, woody lilies, design, pots and containers | Tagged | 3 Comments

Jardin Majorelle, Morocco

What I know about Yves Saint Laurent, the fashion designer, as opposed to his enormous, well-known cultural celebrity, is limited to sewing up some of his “rich peasant” and stunning Russian collection designs off of Vogue patterns in high school. Before collecting plants and obsessing over gardens, I collected fabrics and obsessed over….well, mostly fabrics really. I never made the jump to obsession with high fashion, though there was a short stint in dress-making and pattern-making school. But as it happened, Saint Laurent did something later in life that left even those clueless about haute couture forever in his debt. He bought the fabulous Jardin Marjorelle, where the pigment bleu Majorelle was born. If you’ve ever painted a garden wall or a fence, as I did, a vivid electric blue, knowingly or not, this garden in Morocco created by French painter Jacques Majorelle is the source of that gesture.

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When I heard that photographer MB Maher was headed for North Africa, I made a special request that he photograph the Jardin Majorelle in Marrakesh, Morocco. For about 50 dirham, roughly $13.61 in US dollars, the Jardin Majorelle is open to everyone year round.

Boy, do I owe Maher for this one.

Continue reading

Posted in agaves, woody lilies, artists, design, garden travel, garden visit, MB Maher, Plant Portraits, succulents | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

hidden mesoamerican palaces

not in Central America but here, in Los Angeles.


http://www.utaot.com/2012/12/14/the-fame-and-darkness-behind-the-mayan-temple-like-sowden-house/ photo Sowden-House.jpg

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Sowden House, of textile-block construction, built for friend and photographer John Sowden in 1926. Renovations by a new owner in 2001 included restoring the stonework and the addition of a courtyard pool and spa. His son, Eric Lloyd Wright, “felt it was a ‘mistake’ to break up the courtyard space with a pool and spa,” which originally had been a lawn. (Wikipedia) Image found here.

In channeling classical Mayan architecture, this primal meditation by Frank Lloyd Wright on nature and civilization seems to have attracted its share of odd owners and a collection of lurid tales, including speculation that it’s the site of the infamous Black Dahlia murder. Now mainly used for film locations, the brooding Sowden house seems more a meditation on civilization and its malcontents.

I’d love to visit, but now I might be too spooked. Maybe in a large group…

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tulip report 2013

After all the mid-summer catalogue busywork, the list making, the dreaming in color, the potting soil mess, the ritual chilling of the little bundles of bulbs from September to November like some demented grocer, in other words, the really fun part of the whole tulip affair, some seven months later comes the sober truth. Will they or won’t they bloom?

Which is why I’m suggesting you might want to skip over several of the above steps and just order lots of ‘Queen of the Night.’ Never has this tulip disappointed. The color might be a little stressed this year and veering off its normal rich aubergine due to the unseasonably warm temps we’ve had, but it’s hands down the most reliable tulip for the 6-week prechilling regimen. Just be sure to keep fruit away from the bulbs while in the refrigerator, or the ethylene gas emitted can cause the flower buds to “blast” and not form properly.


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back in the garden

I’ve still got a big cosmic hangover from visiting the California Science Center last week. “Hubble 3-D” was at the IMAX theater. My brain was not built for IMAX movies, so what with the 3-D glasses and sitting too close because some in our party had stair issues, I thought I’d have to keep my eyes shut for the whole thing. When the movie started, I could feel the pressure building, like an anvil was sitting on top of my head, then two anvils. We were insanely close to the screen, but I hoped I could cope. Then three anvils were on top of my head. (I’d make a terrible astronaut.) At the last minute I fled the group and headed for high ground, the second-to-last row, which was empty. If this doesn’t do the trick, I thought, I can assume the 1950s atomic bomb, duck-and-cover posture for the whole movie, head between the knees, with none the wiser. In the last row behind me sat the usherette, absorbed in her iPhone. Final adjustment of the 3-D glasses, and I’m good to go. But instead of the voice of the gods, the narration appeared to be by an enthusiastic ninth-grader reading from his science report (Leonardo di Caprio). Then images from Hubble began to fill the screen, and I had my own private catharsis in the second-to-last row. Expecting to be more irritated by the experience than impressed, I now had to blink back tears so I wouldn’t miss an image. What was I getting so choked up about? I’ve been wondering ever since. I really don’t know. Is it because this might be the purest expression of our timeless curiosity? Is it because so many of these otherworldly shapes were somehow very, very familiar? Is it because we’ve been looking everywhere, and there’s literally no place like home?

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I’ve had Hubble goggles on ever since and hope I never lose them.

Images from Hubble

From the top, Ursinia sericea, Sonchus canariensis, rat-tail cactus, Eryngium padanifolium, Coronilla valentina, Leonotis leonorus, Cirsium occidentale, unnamed succulent, Senecio anteuphorbium.

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the buzz on plants

Got home from work yesterday and was still in the process of dropping all my gear off in the office, when the first person to greet me did so briefly then in quick order uttered those anxiety-making words: “I’ve got to talk to you about a plant.” Usually those words are the bare introduction to an ensuing narration about some human/plant interaction gone awry, in which the plant always ends up the loser. Or a proclamation that such-and-such plant is ruining everyone’s lives for such-and-such reason — in which case the plant always ends up the loser as well.

I braced myself and followed him. He led me to this plant. (Ein is always in on the drama.)


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Euphorbia rigida

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What a plant! To my eye, nothing gets the cones and rods dancing like chartreuse green and slate blue.

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Such an improvement on Euphorbia myrsinites, which snakes along the ground, its stems more often naked than leafed out, flowering sporadically. Euphorbia rigida is always presentable, upright, and most of the year plain stunning. Pam in Austin, Texas, grows it and loves it, as does Loree in Portland, Oregon. Euphorbia rigida has scope (zones 7-11.) It’s one of those sociable plants that plays well with others. See how the orange/russet colors of Sedum nussbaumerianum only intensify the blue/grey. I’ve just noticed some light reseeding of the euphorb this spring.

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My first guilty thought was someone had tripped. The walkway has narrowed slightly, I suppose. But everything seemed fine.

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No evidence of a human/plant altercation here.

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Just lots of bees gorging on the early spring blooms.

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Eye witness: “This plant was covered in bees.”
Me: “Yes, I do see lots of bees here. So glad they like this euphorb!”
Eye witness: “No, you don’t understand. I mean, this plant was covered in bees. You couldn’t see the blooms, there were so many bees. I was heading to the garage fridge for some milk when I heard this roaring sound I couldn’t place. I looked down at my feet, and this plant was covered in bees.”

Of course, the phrase covered in bees will forever be linked at our house to Eddie Izzard’s monologue on beekeeping, so I couldn’t tell at first if the eye witness just liked having an opportunity to use the phrase, or if there was truly a midday garden event where a fantastic amount of bees descended on Euphorbia rigida. The eye witness seemed quite moved by what he had seen, so I’m inclined to believe him. And as I write this, it is to the thrumming backdrop of a steady hum emanating from the garden outside my office door. We’ll see if another epic bee event occurs later today involving Euphorbia rigida. With all the bad news on bees lately, it’s nice to find some thriving.

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