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Vernissage Again

Sixteen years ago, on April 1 of 2009, I published a blog post, appropriately entitled “Vernissage”. The title of the post was my very loose interpretation of the French word that refers to art openings. As much as the essay signaled the opening of my gardening season, it was a very special beginning for me. I published on this date the first journal style blog essay focused on garden and landscape design under the name of Dirt Simple. To date I have published 1750 essays. This edited version of the 2020 Vernissage will make the 1751st post. Some are good, some are OK. I am sure there are some flops. Some are fun, and others I hope are challenging. You decide. I have thoroughly enjoyed the process of organizing my thoughts, and writing them down in some in some coherent form. Every moment that I have spent photographing gardens, landscape projects, and plants for this column has been time in the garden that has made me slow down, observe, reflect – and document.

Most recently, my posts have been fewer. There were several years that I did not write at all, and several more years when I did not write much. I write when I think I have something to say. The older I get, the less I have to say – which seems appropriate. I am vastly less certain of almost everything now than I was when I was 30.   To follow is a revisited, rethought, and revised version of my first post in 2009, annotated in 2010, 2012, 2014, 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2020, and today-April 3 of 2025. I must have been speechless in 2019-if you write, you know how that happens.

 

 

This date has another very special significance to me. April 1 of 1992 was Rob’s first day working with me. It has been a very engaging and productive 33 years.  33 years! Yes, we have had our rough moments, but I take a great deal of pride in what we have created. I have a respect for him that continues to grow. I feel sure there will be more to come from the two of us. To follow is the original essay from 2009.

Strictly speaking, the French word vernissage refers to the opening of an art exhibition.  I learned the word almost 40 years ago from a client with whom I had a history spanning better than 25 years. She was an art collector. Our conversation over the years spoke to the value of nurturing long term interests and commitments in the landscape.  I learned plenty from her, and from her garden, over the years. In the beginning, I planted flowers for her. Our relationship developed such that I began to redesign, reshape, and replant her landscape.  She was passionately involved in the disposition of every square foot of her 8 acre property. The years flew by, from one project to the next.  I have favorite projects. An edited collection of fine white peony cultivars dating from the late 19th and early 20th century was exciting to research and plant. A grove of magnolia denudata “Ivory Chalice” came a few years later. Another year we completely regraded all of the land devoted to lawn, and regrassed. I learned how to operate a bulldozer, I so wanted to be an intimate and hands on part of the sculpting of the ground. We had a relationship that I still think about.

There were disasters to cope with, as in the loss of an enormous old American elm. Deterring deer became nearly a full time job. Nature is like that. As mean and spiteful as it is giving. Spring would invariably bring or suggest something new. All these years later, there is a body of work generated by the two of us that I call the landscape – that living and breathing discussion about nature that draws every gardener closer to the knowledge that life is equal parts mystery and miracle.

She sold this property some years ago.  Change comes sooner or later to people and gardens alike. The landscape of her new and much smaller property was a design challenge for the both of us.  That new landscape was all about a conversation about letting go of what had brought her so much pleasure, and embracing the challenges posed by starting over. Making that move with her from one large landscape to a city lot landscape was just plain hard. That transition was not pretty for either of us. I am sorry to say that we broke up over the stress of this move. I am sure she felt just as bad about it as I did. I ran in to her some years later. We talked up a storm, as if nothing untoward had ever happened. This treasured client passed away September 20, 2017, at the age of 86. It was more than hard for me to bid her farewell. I will never forget her. She encouraged me to be the best that I could be. She trusted my eye, and I loved hers. The following is in sincere regard, love, and respect for Marianne.

In a broader sense, vernissage might refer to any opening. The opening of the gardening season has a decidedly fresh ring to it.  I routinely expect the winter season to turn to spring,  and it always does, sooner or later. Every spring opening has its distinctive features. Some springs are notable for their icy debut. Grape hyacinths and daffodils ice coated and glittering and giant branches crashing to the ground-this is not so unusual. Snow can be very much a part of the landscape in mid April. This year is a challenge like no other to all. Gardening at its most distilled is in many ways a solitary pursuit. What gets shared after that high voltage one on one relationship is a wealth of information, interest, discussion and passion that I believe will transmit a love for the garden from one generation of gardeners to the next.

I usually associate spring with the singing of the birds. I hardly noticed the singing this year, until this past week. The cold that has been reluctant to leave means there has been much more anticipation than experience.  I see a few small signs now. The snowdrops are in bloom, but they look bedraggled. The magnolia stellata is still silent. Perhaps there will be no flowers this year, but perhaps there will be a few. To add to, revise, or reinvent my relationship with nature is a challenge I usually anticipate. It has been hard to rev up this time around. This persistent bad news reduces my spirit to a puddle on the ground. A client suggested yesterday that February had been steady at 30 degrees, and March seems to be in a a chilly and threatening holding pattern that could last for months. How well said. But truth be told, spring is finally within sight, in a chilly and miserly sort of way. Everywhere I see fat buds, waiting for that signal to proceed. I have hellebores in bloom. Thanks to the heavens for them. Spring is on the way.

Much of what I love about landscape design has to do with the notion of second chances. I have an idea. I put it to paper. I do the work of installing it.  Then I wait for an answer back. This is the most important part of my work-to be receptive to hearing what gets spoken back. The speeches come from everywhere-the design that could be better here and more finished there. The client, for whom something is not working well, chimes in. The weather, the placement and planting final exam test my knowledge and skill. The land whose form is beautiful but whose drainage is heinous teaches me a thing or two about good planning. The sky and the ground is in the process of opening up.  The singing comes from everywhere. I make changes, and then more changes. I wait for this to grow in and that to mature. I stake up the arborvitae hedge gone over with ice, and know it will be years or more anticipating the hoped for recovery. I might take this out, or move it elsewhere.  That evolution of a garden seems to have ill defined beginnings, an uncertain mid ground, and an equally ill defined end.

VERNISSAGE (4)This spring will see an average share of burned evergreen and dead shrubs. The winter cold and wind was neither here nor there. I am still wearing winter clothes. But no matter what the last season dished out, sooner or later, I get my spring. I can compost my transgressions. The sun shines on the good things, and the not so good things, equally.  It is my choice to take my chances, and renew my interest. The birds singing this first day of April l means it is time to take stock.

I can clean up winter’s debris. My eye can be fresh, if I am of a mind to be fresh.  I can coax or stake what the heavy snow crushed.  I can prune back the shrubs damaged by the voles eating the bark.  I can trim the sunburn from the yews and the boxwood.  I can replace what needs replacing, or rethink an area all together. Three years ago I removed 100 Hicks yews that have been in my garden for close to 20 years. They have been ailing for years in a way that defied any remedy. I now have 60 feet of planter boxes, that will be mine to plant for a third season. It is unclear when I will be able to plant, but I have hope.  I can look over what I did the first time, and make changes. I can wait. Being a gardener, I know all about waiting.  A pair of new arbors installed over a year ago hold roses, clematis and Dutchman’s Pipe. I see buds on those plants. I can sit in the early spring sun, and soak up the possibilities. I can sculpt ground. I can move all manner of soil, plant seeds, renovate, plant new.  What I have learned can leaven the ground under my feet-if I let it.  Spring will scoop me up.  Does this not sound good?

April 1 marked 33  years that Rob and I began working together, and 29 years that the shop has been bringing our version of the garden to all manner of interested gardeners. That relationship endures, and evolves.  Suffice it to say that Detroit Garden Works is an invention from the two of us that reflects the length and the depth of our mutual interest in the garden. In 1996, our shop was a one of a kind. We plan to keep it that way. No matter how hard the winter, no matter how hard the news, once we smell spring in the air, we stir.

Our shop reopened for the spring season on March 1,  like countless other garden businesses – as well we should be. Today it feels like spring is on the way.  Monday’s forecast calls for an inch of snow. Rob says it takes nature quite a while to make up her mind about changing seasons.  Today you will see, smell, and hear it. As for tomorrow, I can only recommend that you persevere.

Detroit Garden Works March 31 2020

Detroit Garden Works April 2025

 

Posted on: April 4, 2025 28 Comments
Filed Under: Uncategorized

Do It Now


I usually write about hydrangeas in the late summer, when they are gracing most every garden in my zone with their armloads of marvelously frothy flowers. Ha. Hopefully that written description sounds just as extravagant as they appear in full bloom. This shrub, and all of its many iterations and cultivars, energizes and endows our late season landscape with an unparalleled and succinct representation of summer. Who doesn’t swoon over hydrangeas in bloom? I do. Each properly placed and well grown shrub is covered in flowers for weeks at summer’s end. It is indeed the super nova stage of the summer landscape. A brass band playing loudly in perfectly brassy unison, if you will. Hydrangeas representing in all their glory define what it means to be robust. They are so willing, and eminently worth cultivating. They give so much more than they need or demand. They are not wall flowers, or delicate ephemerals, or  gracefully weedy perennials-nor are they on that tough to grow list. They are like a freight train pulling in to the station with steam billowing up from the tracks and a horn blaring. Are you ready? If the leaf buds have broken dormancy and are swollen all along the stems of the shrubs  – and if those swelling buds are greening up  – it is time to prune.

Let me get what not to do out of the way first. My opinion on the matter is all I have to offer. Do not prune in the fall. Pruning is a call to grow.  Encouraging a shrub that is facing the winter to get up and grow is just not a good idea. Your best move is to encourage the long sleep. Movement towards winter dormancy in woody plants starts in my zone in August.  Once the leaves turn color, mature, and drop, leave all of the rest of the shrub intact. The most important thing to do to hydrangeas in the fall is nothing. Do not cut the flower heads off.  They look lovely with snow on them, and they wave in the winter winds. That cinnamon brown color is beautiful with evergreens. If you must remove the flower heads, OK, but do not cut these shrubs down to the ground in the fall.  That will force them to sprout from below ground in the spring. Be merciful. Leave at least 3 or 4 buds above ground when you prune-in the spring. If you are growing big leaf hydrangeas-as in hydrangeas that bloom on the previous year’s wood/growth, do not prune in the fall or the spring. Prune them promptly and only after they finish blooming. If you don’t know which type of hydrangeas you are growing, find out before you prune.

Hydrangeas do not respond very well to a formal shearing. Few plants do. Shearing hydrangeas  encourages multiple breaks below the cut, which result in a dense thicket of stems and leaves at the top. The bottom half of the shrub gets shaded.  I am amazed at how many hydrangeas I see pruned like this, but it is not good for the health of the plant, or the flowers.  I give my hydrangeas a shag haircut, keeping the stems at the top shorter and the stems nearer the bottom longer. The idea is to provide a sunny and airy space for each branch to live free. You can see this arrangement in the location of the flower heads in the photo above. Each branch has its own address.

What might not be so obvious is that these last 2 pictures show two different types in hydrangeas.  On the far left and far right of a center block of Limelight hydrangeas, as in Hydrangea paniculata “Limelight”, are rows of Incrediballs – Hydrangea arborescens “Incrediball.   They add flowers at a lower level, and they bloom earlier than Limelight. Their upright plant habit and carriage is vastly superior to their predecessor, the storied “Annabelle”.  You can see the Incrediball flowers are fairly round, and the Limelights are broadly cone shaped.  A certain amount of legginess is inevitable with Limelight. That mess of twigs is what you get over the winter with them. The Incrediballs help cover up those bare legs. These cultivars have different parentage, but they are pruned the same way.  They bloom on new growth. On what will be the current years growth.

So if it’s not appropriate to prune hydrangeas by shearing, what is the purpose of setting stakes and string? My yard, where these photographs were taken, slopes dramatically from one end to the other. The blocks of hydrangeas are a good distance apart. I would want those blocks to loosely resemble one another. The only way to tell if they approximately occupy the same spot in the landscape composition on both the north and south is to set up a level line. It’s easy to do with a bamboo stake or metal fence post, and a ball of spring. A tiny level can be clipped on to the string.

Pruning by eye can be incredibly inaccurate. I see a lot of that too. Pruning that matches uneven terrain, or follows a sloping driveway. Or pruning just to prune, with no thought to the horizon. I see that too. Sometimes it is hard to believe a level attached to a string line is accurate, but it is. I would never trust my eye to see a level line for pruning. It is terrible to wade through a big pruning project only to discover your vision for them is lopsided. And what is required to set it to right is not possible until the mistake grows out. I shudder to think of that. Happily most plants are very tolerant of off the cuff pruning. The recovery just takes time.

My level line set up is an approximation of the horizon. In the ballpark, as it were, or within shouting distance. It is not exact. It does not represent or enforce a rule. Nor does it rule the pruning process. It provides orientation. As in up and down, and left and right. It provides a framework from which to work. Taking the time to set up 2 poles and a level line is a way to walk away from the the noise of the day, and study on this first foray into the new garden season. It is a way to get ready for the job at hand. But in spite of all this, should you decide to prune your hydrangeas from the hip, Mother Nature will treat you just the same as any other gardener. Indifferently. But indeed you will notice the difference.

The pruning of my hydrangeas is underway.

Posted on: March 28, 2025 18 Comments
Filed Under: the garden, flowers, garden maintenance, Woody Plants, Seasonal Tagged With: , , , ,

Let It Be

As much as a landscape and garden evolves over time, the same could be said for a gardener. Those of us who garden probably don’t give much time to that thought, as the process can take years and really never ends.  No one becomes a gardener overnight. Just like a landscape does not come in to its own for years. I was in my twenties when I first started gardening seriously, so my process was governed by an intense curiosity tempered by ignorance. Trial by error – and more error than not. And then there was the issue of restricted funds. A sympathetic Mom bought loads of plants for me. She was never critical of my failures. Like most Mom’s, she was generous with her knowledge and support. She only wanted me to keep gardening. I had so much more energy than experience. So I threw myself at all of it like I had 10 minutes to live.


I would move plants around 3 or 4 times until I was sure they were in the right place. And maybe again for good measure. Even then, I fretted. I watered, all the while worrying that I hadn’t watered correctly. I would quit with the water for a while and then start up again. I poured over catalogues of companies that sold seeds and starts – and then agonized over which and what to buy. I bought too much. I visited every nursery I could within hundreds of miles. I could barely keep my eyes on the road for looking at the trees. I pulled the weeds and turned the soil. There were soil tests, amendments and additives to be considered. There was mulching and feeding. I edged, dead headed, divided, pruned and paced from one end of the landscape to the other.  Had my plants been able to talk they surely would have protested.  I never let or left them alone. I told myself that all that tinkering was a way of learning. Luckily, plants are very tolerant of glad handling, and can survive all but the most egregious missteps. I killed plenty of plants, and continue to do so to this day. But I garden differently now.


These photographs depict my driveway, and the landscape that has grown up around it. 25 years ago, the drive was surrounded by grass. I like grass, but I better liked looking at plants going and coming home from work. A driveway garden is an important garden, as the gardener is there almost every day. And sometimes multiple times a day. So I planted and maintained every bit of it for years. The pruning and was important, as the drive had to accommodate a vehicle coming in and going out. It would not do to have a magnolia branch scraping across the windshield. The drive surface has to be shoveled and the sticks picked up.

This small drive court was too prominent a spot to not plant up, so I did. As much as I dared. I did on occasion get called out for letting things get out of bounds. Heaven forbid any dirt or dead leaves would stick to his car. He was not a gardener. I kept the landscape on the perimeters.  This was Buck’s driveway and parking place, and I respected that. He passed on five years ago, so there was no longer any need to prune, trim, rake,  shovel, dead head and spit polish. So I have let it be. I let it all be what it wants to be now. I have not and do not intervene or maintain unless there is a dead branch or leaves to sweep up. I don’t inspect it anymore. I glance at it. Or make a trip down the driveway which is now a walking path. I don’t shovel the snow here.

winter pots

See what I mean?

The fountain landscape and garden had been planted every bit as densely as the driveway, but the time came when it had to be redone. The new group of trees – a vase shaped cultivar of tulip tree called “Emerald City” – was planted as a grove, and not in a row on the property perimeter. The sunny spots left over were carpeted in grass. The shady spots were planted with a grassy and vigorously growing perennial liriope spicata. A collection of black Belgian stoneware stools are sprinkled throughout the space.  The cedar fence was stained black, and the tree trunks were whitewashed with watered down latex house paint.

The liriope protects the tree bark from the mower. That protection does not require any maintenance. Should the liriope spread into the surrounding grass, the mower will slow it down. Grass invaded by liriope is fine by me. I am willing to let it happen, and give the natural course of events a chance. I have not decided yet what will happen as the trees grow and cast more shade. More liriope? Take note that this plant will spread with abandon, so if you have to have your hands on your garden, this plant is not for you.

The grass and liriope mix around the tree trunks-and the stools. Though there is not much too this, I find it supplies what I need from my garden now. It could be it is my most favorite garden ever. I am always glad to get home from work and go here. I pick a spot to sit.

This raised bed dating back decades is all liriope now. The stone captures it, and keeps it from spreading. I would not at all be surprised one day to see it growing through the stone.  That will be fine too.


It was not easy to get my crew to do a casually messy job of mowing the grass.  They wanted it mowed shorter. And edged. I said no.  I don’t garden like that anymore.

Posted on: March 7, 2025 60 Comments
Filed Under: nature, the garden, garden maintenance, Plants, Good Design, Landscape Design

Good Bones

The picture above was taken in the early morning of Jan 3, 2021. I remember waking up well before dawn to a landscape whose every surface was transformed by mounds of snow. Giant snowflakes floated downward on the still air like feathers, and stuck to whatever surface they touched first. The quiet was disconcerting. My yard was truly a fairyland – the first time ever quite like this. Every shape in the landscape was faithfully described and added to by this extraordinary snow.  Within minutes of opening my eyes, I was dressed, out the door, and marveling.  I took photographs for several hours, and several hours after that the snow had completely melted and was gone. This was an incredible weather event of  breathtakingly striking and shocking beauty, the likes of which I had never seen before.

That snow dispassionately described the landscape design. I was happy about what that revealed. A good landscape composition celebrates the depth of a space by beautifully revealing its background, mid ground and foreground. Of course a landscape is a sculpture –  a three-dimensional object, if you will. Great landscape design explores that uniquely spatial quality created by land and sky-and edges. I can’t really explain what I mean by edges, except to say that everything and everyone has them. Expressing depth in a composition fuels the means by which a landscape space can be wrought and experienced. A design. Depth in a landscape composition creates mystery, and reveals surprising outcomes at unexpected or opportune moments. Some designers describe this as flow. Others describe this as rooms with transitions in between. The background space above is a thicket of tree branches indicating trees that are a ways away. The focal point of that background space is a a centrally located container with a cut evergreen tree inside. That planter box is in the front of the back – ha. The mid ground space is defined by the hedge of arborvitae that is open in the center to permit travel and views through. The gate marking that entrance and exit is overseen by a steel arbor wreathed in a pair of John Davis roses. That gate explains how the end of the mid ground space becomes the beginning of the foreground space. That arbor is centered in the transition between the front and the back. It also separates the public space from the private. The structure of those climbing roses in the snow is every bit as beautiful here as they are in bloom in June.  I mean this. The foreground space features Limelight hydrangeas, faced down by hedges of clipped boxwood, and opens up to a widening path of snow covered grass.  This composition features layer after layer of plants from front to back. What is it that makes the relationships established by this design so dramatic and clear?  The weather.


The landscape here is very simple. Lots of boxwood clipped in various shapes, heights and volumes, and symmetrically placed containers framing the walk to the front door. The containers feature fan willow faced down by cut fir boughs. This view is unexpectedly dramatic, given this rare type of snow. The snow reviewed the design, as it reduced all of the major shapes to their simplest forms. What is usually experienced in varying and often romantically subtle shades of green is presented without ceremony in black and white. A significant snowfall can reveal the bones of the design. Are they good sturdy bones?

Our most recent snow was not nearly as spectacular as the 2021 storm, but it was good nonetheless. The skirt of this container is set with cut evergreen boughs that radiate out from the center. A second set of evergreen boughs are set on end against the centerpiece. Separating the vertical fir from the horizontal is a loosely defined ring of green and white pine cones in a nest of lights. A single evergreen material has special visual interest given its multi-dimensional placement. This simple arrangement with only a few elements is all the more striking given the landscape around it.  The snow tells that story.

A different year in this location, the container sparkled with an abundance of lights. An unusually textural snow cover produced yet another visual version of this landscape. Over the course of a year or a gardening season, the weather should play a major role in the landscape design. I am an advocate of landscape design which takes a sweeping bow to that element we call nature.

Rob took this photograph of my driveway near the garage a few nights ago. I have not parked here for better than 15 years, so the landscape has grown in and over the edges of the space. I like that. I have a piazza now, rather than a driveway. There is no real need to shovel the space, as it is for viewing, and not foot or car traffic. It is amazing what an enormous difference it makes visually to make such a simple change in the treatment of a landscape space.  The snow revealed this.

That same night, the snow illustrated the transition between the driveway and the fountain garden. The pots, arbor and fence occupy that mid ground. That middle ground space can be the most difficult to define and develop in a landscape.  It sometimes involves putting an idea or an object or a plant out there in the middle and building from there. Starting a design at the front or the leading edge or the beginning is not necessarily the best or only way forward. A landscape will speak back, if you give it sufficient time. This mid ground space took many years to establish. There is no substitute for age on a landscape.

This is as close as I have been to that extraordinary snow in 2021. I am happy for it. Beautiful snow is a hallmark of our winter. Having a well designed landscape on which beautiful snow can act makes the winter season welcome, yes. The fence pictured above, punctuated by a gated arbor and flanking pots, is not that unusual a treatment of an outdoor space –  but the considerable change of level does give pause. But the simple arrangement of bold and thoughtful forms emphasizes the main idea. The legibility of intent is key to good landscape design.

Most of my landscape is going on 28 years old. That age has enriched design decisions made decades ago.  Sometimes it is good to stay the course, and see what grows.

 

Posted on: February 6, 2025 36 Comments
Filed Under: Landscape Design, Garden Design, Good Design, Lighting, Deborah Silver and Co Inc, Weather, Seasonal Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,