How Old is It?

Shakespeare asked: What's in a name? He then followed up with an observation: That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

In that spirit let me ask: What's in a number? That which we identify through the use of a number has its own existence without that number, and an inherent value unto itself that the number attached to it only attempts to quantify. The number we assign to something is often a handle by which we grab hold in an effort to comprehend. Sometimes the number tells us everything we need to know. There are three of us and I have three apples, so each of us can have one. The number does not tell us what kind of apples we're dealing with, however, or if they are all similar in size or condition, or even if they taste good and are worth eating. The number simply tells us there are enough apples for each person to have one if they want one, and if that's all you are concerned about then the number tells you what you need to know. There is value in knowing the number, but there may be other factors that warrant consideration and make the number less relevant.

Here is a different example: Suppose you are on a journey and you have one hundred miles to go; is that a lot? If you are walking and you have so far made only a few steps, then, yes, one hundred miles is a long way to go. But if you are driving and you have already covered one thousand miles, then one hundred miles to go will probably feel like you are almost there. And if you are in a rocket ship hurtling through space and you have one hundred miles to go before you make impact with an asteroid, you may not have enough time left to say a quick prayer. It is, as they say, all relative. Numbers are dependent on context.

Dwarf Hinoki Falsecypress (Chamaecyparis obtusa ‘Nana Gracilis’) This specimen came with documentation stating it began as a workshop tree in 1985. A fair guess is that it would not have been more than ten years old at that time.

There are many reasons people ask questions, but perhaps the most common purpose is to collect information. If we want to better understand something and there is someone we think knows more about it than we do, we ask that person questions. In theory, the answers we receive to our questions will contain information that will help us to better understand. Working in the bonsai garden entails interacting with visitors to the garden who, because they often don't know much about bonsai, ask us many questions. This is good because it can be viewed as an indicator that the visitor's interest has been stimulated and they want to learn more about what they are seeing. At its core the Arboretum is an educational institution, so helping people learn is why we are here. Sometimes visitors ask surprisingly good questions, indicating some depth of thought or a unique perspective. More often they ask basic questions such as How often do you water them? or Can any plant be made into a bonsai? But without a doubt, one question gets asked more often than any other — How old are they?

This question may be asked about any bonsai in particular (How old is that one you're working on?), or about the collection in general (How old are some of these trees? or How old is your oldest one?). It gets asked pretty much every day and usually multiple times on any given day. It gets asked so often that we have developed a list of stock answers: We don't know (shortest answer); We don't know, because unless someone keeps track from the very beginning and keeps detailed records, it's largely a matter of guesswork (more detailed answer); We don't know, but in the end the appearance of age matters more than the actual age (explanatory answer); How old do you think it is? (turnabout-is-fair-play answer); It's as old as you want it to be (weary answer); Not nearly as old as I am! (comic answer). Volunteer bonsai assistant Rebecca Ayres has her own answer. If someone asks her how old the bonsai are she responds, Decades! Somewhat mystifyingly this answer seems to work. I keep waiting for someone to ask, How many decades? There is a big difference between two decades and ten decades, but nobody ever asks.

Blue Atlas Cedar (Cedrus atlantica ‘Glauca’) Documentation accompanying this donated tree said it was received by the donor as a gift in 1960. The donor then kept track of the age from that point onward, but they had no idea how old it was at the time it was received. They went on to note “don’t believe in aging info anyway”.

How did age get to be such a big part of people's general conception of bonsai? There are bonsai trees that are authentically hundreds of years old, and that sort of information makes an impression. People are fascinated by longevity, particularly if the age is beyond that which any person might expect to attain in a lifetime. It makes an even bigger impression if the old thing in question is living. A three-hundred-year-old building is notable, but a three-hundred-year-old tree is even more so. A three-hundred-year-old tree that stands two feet tall and is contained in a pot is almost miraculous. Who would not be interested in seeing such an amazing sight? There are not so many of them, either, which makes them even more alluring. The problem is not so many people could tell the difference between a seventy-five-year-old bonsai and a three-hundred-year-old bonsai, unless you told them how old it is. Ascertaining the age of a tree is not easy, whether it grows in the ground or in a pot, because there are too many variables at play and looks can be deceiving. Growth rings can be counted, but to do so requires either cutting down the tree or doing a core sample, and few people would think that a good idea with a bonsai. If meticulous records are kept of a bonsai's history over an extended period of time, as is sometimes the case in places like China and Japan, then a claim of great age can be authenticated by that means. Otherwise, it's difficult to know exactly how old a bonsai might be. If great age is considered valuable, and verifying age is difficult, the door is left wide open for exaggeration.

I am sorry if what I am about to say is something you never thought possible, but bonsai people are prone to exaggerating the ages of their trees. It's too easy not to. Like the fisherman telling you about the one that got away, the story just gets better with a little fudging of the numbers.

American Elm (Ulmus americana) 150-years-old… Actually, started from an air layering made in 2009, from a tree that was started from seed in 1993.

Here's the salient point: The value of a bonsai does not have to be based on its age. Yes, a very old bonsai can be a fine thing. It is a wonder to think of a miniature tree that has somehow survived for centuries. But there are other ways in which a bonsai might be appraised, most notably by its health and design. If bonsai is an art, what is of greater importance than its visual effect? If you see a bonsai and are struck by its beauty or drama or the story it tells you, if it speaks to you by prompting a pleasurable response to its appearance, what difference does it make how old it is? Sure, if it's beautiful and a hundred years old, that's wonderful. But what if it's beautiful and only thirty years old? Should you wait until it's older to appreciate it? What if it’s one hundred years old and ugly to look at? The problem is that many people are not knowledgeable enough to feel comfortable in their judgment of quality in artistic design, or even in their assessment of plant health. You might think it looks good, but maybe it isn't. It is much easier to feel certain about numbers, especially if all you need to know is that more is better.

While we're at it, let's consider the matter of age in the light of relativity. Take a bonsai that's thirty years old — is that old? Trees live to be hundreds of years old, so unless it is a short-lived species, a thirty-year-old tree is only getting started. Perhaps it is as Rebecca often reminds me, that people who do not know bonsai so well are impressed that someone has cared for a tree and kept it trained to be small for so long a time. Again, thinking in relative terms, there are bonsai that have been trained and cared for much longer than that. But it is also possible that the thirty-year-old bonsai was not introduced to bonsai training until it was already twenty years old. Such a tree is thirty years old but it has only been a bonsai for ten years. Is this less impressive?

This entry is full of questions, and here is another: Why all this rumination on the importance of age in a bonsai? The answer lurks in the fact that the Arboretum's collection contains few genuinely old trees. Lately when pressed on the age question, I will tell the querying visitor that if they think of a span of time from twenty to seventy years, that will cover the ages of just about all the trees in our collection. Bonsai of that age are not old, relative to many other bonsai that exist elsewhere and given the greater ages trees can attain in nature. If a bonsai needs to be old to be good, then our collection is not good. I refuse to think that way.

Eastern Redcedar (Juniperus virginiana) Could this be the oldest tree in the Arboretum’s collection? Maybe, but there’s no way of knowing. It was collected from the wild in 1995, but how old it was at that time is anyone’s guess. Sure looks old!

We could just do the easy thing and make up ages for all the bonsai we have. We could make the effort to estimate, given what information we have about any given specimen, or we could just invent an impressive number that does not stretch credulity too badly. Then we could install little signs next to each tree that proclaim this supposed age, like they do at pretty much every other public bonsai display, and everyone would be happy. We would not be the first to do this, either.

But if we did that we would miss the opportunity to talk to interested visitors about how much more there is to bonsai than simply a number that denotes a supposed age, and by inference a certifiable degree of value. We would miss out on many lively and enjoyable interactions with the people who come to see us and are interested enough in what we do to venture a question based on the little bit they think they know. It would be our loss.

Besides, my Mom taught me not to lie.