As I write this, my garden is in an iris frenzy. Irises in the garden do what Gertrude Jekyll, the great English garden designer and horticulturalist, once said about gardening—“it’s painting the bland with living things.”
In early spring, in the throes of cold nights and frost, various varieties of iris reticulata emerge, tiny 4- to 6-inch jewels that finish so quickly. Introducing a lot of them gives a stunning effect. It seems like only yesterday that I planted their tiny, teardrop-shaped bulbs last autumn. The varieties in my garden emerge in royal blue or turquoise, splashed with yellow and white.
“Reticulata” refers to the bulb’s fishnet appearance, like a network of fibres, hence its name. They are native to rocky hillsides in Turkey, Iran and the Caucasus Mountains of Eastern Europe.
In mid-late spring, it is the turn of the majestic, bearded irises. The “bearded” part of its name comes from a central ‘beard’ in its flower, which really looks like a furry caterpillar protruding from the back of the lower petals. The ‘beard’ guides pollinating insects into the flower’s reproductive parts.
One weekend day in late May, I took a fast train from London to Paris, traveling under the English Channel (which the French call La Manche). I was off to visit Claude Monet’s home in Giverny. There I was carried away by hundreds of magical irises in every shade of purple and blue, planted in two long borders. Irises were one of his favourite plants, the subject of many works throughout his life.
Produced between 1914-17, his painting of irises at the Art Institute of Chicago is one of his large canvases completed during the First World War. Monet moves in to give us an intimate view of bearded irises. The background is a swirling riot of colour, so the irises stand out without any distraction from their pure forms.
Of course, who could forget the striking iris paintings of Vincent Van Gogh, one of which he painted while at a psychiatric hospital in Saint-Rémy in 1890. I love the powerful colour contrast of purple flowers (now faded over time to blue) against a yellow background. He captures bloom and faded flower in Japanese-inspired dark outlines.
The genus Iris is the largest and best-known plant genus in Europe. Its scientific name, coined in 1753, derives from the Greek goddess, Iris, who carried messages from Mount Olympus to earth along a rainbow. Thus, the multi-hued petals of irises suggested its name. No other flower is so rich or voluptuous as the bearded iris, and there are thousands of varieties in every shade, from white to almost black.
Bearded irises originated in France during the 19th century, when nursery breeders crossed two iris species together. When I lived and worked in London, the crème de la crème of bearded iris varieties hailed from a French nursery called Cayeux—Monet was a customer of theirs, and there’s even a variety named ‘Iris Mme. Claude Monet’!
In my garden, bearded irises have done superbly, largely because they get a good baking during the summer months after they have finished flowering. I divided the iris clumps last year, to give them the room they need to prosper. Bearded irises grow in open areas, the sunnier the better, and all need very good drainage.
They hate heavy clay soil, so I mixed in bits of gravel and sand. I’ve dedicated an area to nothing but bearded irises, as competing plants create too much shade. But then I got carried away and found some other sunny spots for another iris!
Bearded irises grow from something that looks like lumpy fingers of ginger that must sit on top of the soil. It’s called a rhizome. When planting, it is important not to bury these rhizomes, but to leave them to bake in the sun. The details and colouration of each variety, and their size difference from short to tall, never gets old. If happy, they can last for years and are generally quite trouble-free. If I find a black spot on a leaf, I simply cut it off and dispose of it. They don’t need fertilizer, unless you are dividing and replanting them.
Whatever I do for them is rewarded with bouts of me staring at them in silent wonder. I bring a bloom or two in the house, placing them on a shelf about the kitchen sink so I can spend more time admiring the flowers up close. I never tire of them, and as long as I tend to their requirements, they haven’t tired of me. A perfect relationship!
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image 1 All images courtesy of the author
