H. hortensis

Flowers have a mysterious and subtle influence upon the feelings, not unlike some strains of music. They relax the tenseness of the mind. They dissolve its vigour. - Henry Ward Beecher 

   

Hydrangeas - a small watercolour sketch on Bockingford 300gsm  

Hydrangea H. hortensis, the common garden species, is a native of China or Japan. Here in South Africa they are also known as "Christmas Roses" as they normally flower in December. For us in South Africa, Summer means a bright, sunshiny Christmas and it also means Hydrangeas! They start flowering during late November, through December until January. Instead of Holly and Ivy decorating tables and mantles, it is the Hydrangea that takes pride of place! 

Some years ago a friend gave me a huge bunch of Hydrangeas and, after sketching them, they were hung in my potting shed to dry. Provided you hang them in a fairly damp-free area, they maintain their full, bright colours for a really long time.

Hydrangeas speak of Summer

W&N watercolour on X-pressit 300gsm

Hydrangeas on my kitchen table

To me Hydrangeas speak of Summer and their fading colours speak of Autumn. In winter they are silent and in Spring they shout, “We’re here! We’re back! And Spring has come with us!”

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Enthroned in his earthenware pot

 

Watercolour on Bockingford 300gsm – 8″ × 12″
Dried Hydrangeas from my garden (Tarlton, South Africa) standing in my potting shed.

 

From the bottom of the garden,

enthroned in his earthenware pot,
the hydrangea god surveys his minions—
lavender agapanthuses bowing starburst heads,
red begonia calyxes trumpeting his fame,
oleander leaves whispering of his misdeeds.
The central path leads straight to him. Behind,
a stained mirror and mossy wall back up his power.
Thousands of crinkled, tiny, white ideas occur to him
with frilled and overlapping edges. No one else
deploys such Byzantine metaphysics. No one
can read his mind. Only he remembers
the children’s secret fort by the cypress tree
among fraught weeds, rusted buckets, and dumped ash,
and how lost the grown-ups sounded, calling, as night came.
“Hydrangea” By Rosanna Warren

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