ruminating on the Pæonie

spellbound by a flamboyant flower

I cannot recall when it was that I first encountered pæonies, but my memories of them go back a long way. Tante Rose had enormous blood red ones in her garden in Göttingen, whose blooms were the size of my ten-year-old head and whose fallen petals could be very satisfactorily smooshed into my white cotton shirt, where their stains quickly turned from pink to purple to blue. I was convinced I could do magic. Now I know that the colour change is due to the anthocyanin dyes in the petals reacting with the alkaline detergent residue clinging to the fibres of the garment and while accepting the chemical explanation for the process, I still think there is magic afoot and though I cannot truthfully say that I have any particular “favourite flower” (there is a list a long as my arm) I will admit to being spellbound by this particular genus.

My grandmother used to tell of the plants in her gardens in Latvia. I say gardens, because she moved a lot during her married life, following my puckish grandfather around the country as his whims and inclinations changed. We would sit together on the porch of her home in Elsternwick, Melbourne (number 74, Seymour Road) in the sixties, watching the sky change at sunset, and she would tell me stories. Of the war, and their escape from the Soviets, of life in the displaced persons camp in Germany, of her schooldays in Pskov with her friend Zelma (where the two were the only girls in a sea of boys, studying physics, mathematics and also poetry in their final school year), of her beloved cow that won a gold medal for being the best milk producer in the district, of the magical ball of wool she was given for Christmas (you’ll find the full story of that in the opening pages of my book ‘Second Skin’ ) and about the plants that surrounded us in her garden.

In the 1960s it was possible to wander the suburbs in Melbourne and play “spot the Latvian”, as most self-respecting Latvian households planted their front gardens with (at very least) Syringa sp., Betula pendula, Picea abies, Philadelphus sp. , and Myrtus tarantina with a seasonal understory of lilies, cornflowers, ox-eye daisies, poppies, calendulas and freesias. In those days vegetables were not considered ‘de rigeur’ in front yards so essentials such as potatoes, cabbages, tomatoes, cucumbers and dill were concealed out back. Not many of them had pæonies, though, as it is not a plant that travels or propagates easily in the form of seeds, which is how most of the other species arrived here from Europe. Grandmother had all of the above in her garden, too, except a pæonie, but she told me of the magnificent ones in her farm garden, and how bumble bees sometimes slept inside them, intoxicated by their magnificence like grandfather by Allažu ķimelis but with more beautiful snoring.

Whenever I am in the northern hemisphere in summer I look for them. I took a glorious bunch from the Portobello markets with me on my bundle-making road trip to Scotland on the way to my exhibition ‘Incomplete Journeys’ in Birmingham in 2019.

They began life dressed in rich coral pink (I’m pretty sure the variety was ‘Coral Sunset’) but gradually faded as we drove north, their lemony sweet scent exhausting itself along with the colour. William Cullina, in his book “Understanding Perennials,” suggests we have a ‘Pavlovian response’ to the ethylene contained not only in pæonies but in all sweet, penetrating floral scents which when inhaled “produces a mild, pleasurable euphoria.” Maybe all cars should be fitted with flower holders as a preventative measure against road rage.

In 2015, while trying to convince my mother that she (and her dicky heart) might indeed survive a long plane flight to Latvia, I suggested we make a small journey to Aotearoa instead. Ma dug her heels in until I mentioned there were pæonies to be seen on the South Island (they’re on the North Island too, but we only had a week) and that she could afford to fly business class (because you’re a long time dead when you’re gone, and you might as well enjoy a little comfort if you can). So off we went.

I learned a lot on that trip, including that it is impossible to stop taking pictures of pæonies once you start, that my mother could cheerfully have eaten an entire Whitestone Farmhouse cheese (consumed in slivers slathered in butter and with a sprinkling of salt) had I not reined her in, and that the vibrations of the plane previously declared to be unendurable are miraculously softened at the pointy end, especially when there is a Gin and Tonic to hand. In between managing Mama’s diet, I played with petals.

So many pictures of pæonies. Now I wish I had taken more of Ma, but we did get to Latvia as a result of this delightful dress rehearsal.

In the glory years before the Plague I enjoyed several summers in Vancouver, teaching two-week classes for Maiwa. There would always be a visit to a farmers market where I inevitably invested in armfuls of this seductive flower. There is still a little phial of pæonie ink in my fridge from this time, made by my friend Tim McLaughlin from some fallen petals. I’m saving it for something special.

There is also a small dispenser of an infusion of a different kind, kindly given to me by the lovely Mickey Robertson with whom I share a fascination for harvested fragrance. I think every refrigerator should come with a potions compartment.

It’s summer again in Europe, and I am packing my bags for Bretagne. When I step off the ferry in Roscoff (France) I’ll be dropping my bags at my helltell and wandering out in the hope of finding a flower vendor, if it is not too late in the season for that alluring pæonie. Fingers crossed.

Is there a flower that fascinates you? It doesn’t necessarily have to be a favourite, just one that casts a spell. I’d love to read about it…

Meanwhile here, for my kindly supporting subscribers, is the wool ball story from ‘Second Skin’, presented as a series of screenshots from the original manuscript and with the paragraph that introduced it, for context.