Journal Entries

It turned out that keeping this elm under control while giving it the freedom of growing in the ground was not practicably possible. When I cut it back in the spring the tree would simply explode with new growth, as if it would just as soon be a big bushy shrub if I wasn’t going to let it climb up to the sky.

People who get into bonsai in a big way typically go through a phase early on in which every woody plant they see is evaluated for its potential to be made into a bonsai. That is, they will look at any smaller sized tree or shrub in a pot or in the ground and imagine how it might literally be turned into a designed miniature tree.

After twenty minutes or so, Duane came to my office and stood silently in the doorway. I looked up at him. "I think you better come look at this," he said. I walked down the short hallway to the headhouse work area, and there was the landscape planting out of the pot and sitting on the table.

We talked easily enough. Mr. Yoshimura's new surroundings were newer, cleaner and less cluttered than his home in Briarcliff Manor had been, and it felt different encountering him there. One thing hadn't changed, though — he still spoke to me in riddles sometimes.

Nine thirty the next morning I was at the hotel and Mr. Yoshimura was not waiting in the lobby. I stopped at the front desk and asked the woman working there what room Mr. Yoshimura was in. She told me the number then asked if I wanted her to call his room and let him know I was there. "No," I said. "He's expecting me."

On a mostly forgotten day in February, 1995, the telephone in my office rang. When I picked it up I heard Mr. Yoshimura's voice on the other end of the line. It was a happy surprise to hear his voice, because we hadn't spoken since my study visit with him in early January.

We decided we’d get out to the Three Sisters Swamp together and set about making plans to do that. A trip to an unfamiliar swamp in a remote area is not something to be undertaken casually. The only access to the Three Sisters site is by boat, so with the aid of the Internet John found a guide who leads tours of the swamp and we got in touch with him.

Sometimes you have to get away. No matter how you spend your time on a regular basis, and it doesn’t matter if you truly enjoy what you do, sometimes you have to get away. This year having a vacation meant more than simply getting away from the work routine for a little while.

In this part of the world, to be out in the woods in autumn is to know something of the sublime. More than a mere colorful delight for the eyes, there is a spirit in autumn that reaches deep into memory to massage an aching place of melancholy acceptance. Autumn out in nature is like free therapy.

A grower needs to recognize a tree's nature and accept it. If it can't be accepted, then maybe that tree isn't the right one to work with. Many a bonsai has come to an ugly end because the person growing it was determined to make the poor tree conform to a preconceived design idea.

Short of taking the sackcloth and ashes route and resorting to a life of humble debasement as penitence for having lived with eyes closed while whistling a happy tune in the face of the brutal randomness of our existence, there's little for it but to gather ourselves up and get back to business as usual, best we can.

From that low beginning, an entity seeking to recover must first endure and summon the will to go on. It must suffer the defeat but fight back, and persist in the struggle for however long it takes. Forever after, such an entity bears the stamp of the ordeal, for better or worse.

The heavy rain continued the rest of the afternoon, then all through the evening and all through the night without letting up. Somewhere in the darkness, as most people slept, the wind got up and started moving around, making itself known with murderous force. When morning came the damage that had occurred overnight gradually revealed itself.

Last night you read how the hurricane would land on the Gulf coast of Florida, then travel north-northwest through Georgia and South Carolina before arriving in western North Carolina. There would be lots of rain, the forecast said, maybe as much as twenty inches. There would be high winds too.

It amazed me that people were so generous. Their only motivation, so far as I could see, was to be helpful. They were supporting a new arboretum that was trying to start a new public bonsai collection, and if anything they had could be of use in that effort, they were happy to give it to us.

I had to actively advocate for bonsai's place within the Arboretum. Bonsai was still in the institutional position of being a curious side venture, an experimental anomaly, and nothing like a full-fledged program in its own right. I was no curator then. I was allowed to refer to myself as the bonsai caretaker for public relations purposes, but that was an unofficial title.

I sensed I had been maneuvered into a situation that had been carefully pre-arranged by Kent. I didn't mind it so much because he had made clear what was possible and what wasn’t, and he had done it so smoothly, with such good cheer and affability. I turned attention to the trees he was offering.

The bonsai professional had been taking the Englishwoman and her husband on a tour of the professional's bonsai garden. The professional introduced the curator to his English guests, explaining to the guests that the curator was in charge of a public bonsai collection in the United States and had come to Japan to study.

Those pots were made in Japan or China and their character was part of the whole “Ancient Art of Bonsai” package. In the beginning this was not a problem. The desirability of producing bonsai that adhered to a certain conventionally approved form was only another of the rules in a game I was learning to play. After some time, however, an unanticipated dilemma arose.

Containerization of plants is a remarkable phenomenon that few people ever think about because it's been done forever and the practice is so widespread and common. The discovery that a plant might be taken out of its natural context, introduced to an artificial environment and kept alive and thriving over a prolonged period was revolutionary.

We parked and got out of the truck, spending some time out in the chill and wind-driven rain, under the leaden sky, getting soaked while walking a beach all strewn with massive old trunks of driftwood dead trees. These giants were scattered here and there like matchsticks, the moving of them child’s play to the powerful currents of the strait.

After being greeted by the bear there in the dark early hours of the morning, I crawled off to bed. A few minutes later, or so it seemed, there was daylight streaming through the window. Then there was a bang on the door and it flew open and there was Dan, dressed and ready for the new day. In a booming voice he called out "You going to sleep all day?"

I was dead-tired as we stumbled through the night to the door of the house. I could not see so well but somehow sensed the house was of unusual construction, as Dan got out his key and opened the door. He stepped in and I followed. My head was lowered, making sure of my step in the dark through the unfamiliar threshold, and Dan said, "Say hello to Charlie!"

The call has come on many occasions. Someone has a bonsai collection that's become too much to handle, and now the trees need a new home. Our entire bonsai enterprise at the Arboretum began with just such a call, when the Staples family reached out to us about their mother's collection. The situation that prompts the call is almost always sad because it signals the end of someone's bonsai journey.

A fact that hadn't been so obvious before gradually became more evident to me while revisiting the history of this tree. Our Chinese quince bonsai seems to have served me as a personal gateway to naturalism. Naturalism in this context refers to a bonsai style, just as classical, neoclassical and modern are also bonsai styles.

The big "Y" shape formed by the sharply shifting angle of the trunk in combination with the strong right angle first branch was still in the middle of the composition, looking as awkward as ever. I wanted to address that now, but short of removing that big branch what could be done?

Such a state of full resolution is never achieved in bonsai. Because of the living nature of the medium, creative work with any individual bonsai is ongoing for the duration of the bonsai’s existence. The fact that the bonsai is alive dictates that it will change. Life entails growth and decline, and both are expressed in transformation.

I raised the tree from a seedling, birthed it as a bonsai, gave it its form, worked with it for nearly three decades and have always been fond of it. It was on display in the bonsai garden for many years and was even an Expo poster child. Yet somehow I've never been satisfied with this bonsai and have always struggled to work through my issues with it.

I'm a solitary sort of person, strongly inclined towards quiet introspection, with an unfortunate tendency to be cranky in social situations. I might be tempted to say I'd like my job even more if all it involved was working with the plants, were it not for a certain mysterious phenomenon that occurs on a regular basis.

It takes a little imagination for a water feature like Mountain Spring to mentally transport a viewer to some other, more natural watering hole in the forest. But even if the viewer has no imagination, they can still appreciate just the sight and sound of water cascading over the face of a big, craggy rock and into a pool. That experience is elemental and accessible. It's another matter altogether when the water feature is conceptual — that is, when the water feature doesn't actually have any water in it.

This little feature works familiar bonsai territory — the suggestion, in simple strokes, of something greater, calling upon the imagination of the viewer to make the connection. In the mind's eye of the visitor standing at the railing, the little splash of water may bring them back to the seclusion of a forest retreat.

Redcedar is not a favored bonsai subject, I think mostly because it is difficult to find suitable old trees with which to work. Trying to grow a redcedar bonsai from young material is a long term, long shot project. All four of the redcedar bonsai in our collection were donated to us, so they all had some age on them before we started working on them.

On the eve of construction, before the bulldozer came to work over the site in preparation for building the garden, I dug up one of the scraggly young serviceberries and put it in a pot. The little two-trunked tree didn't look like much. Collecting it was an impulsive act, done in the spirit of saving some living piece of what used to be, knowing that the space was about to be transformed.

The time leading up to the big weekend is a strange mix. There's stress because there's demand and a deadline, and the closer the deadline gets the more stress there is. The deadline is a worry, but that which must be done by the deadline is very enjoyable and really shouldn't be rushed, and therein lies the problem. All the high-value, creative pruning work an avid pruner could wish for comes due all at once, with a deadline. 

The little red maple trees in the tray landscapes grew and presented a set of options with the multitude of parts they produced. In shaping them I relied entirely on the cut-and-grow method, using no training wire. With a pair of scissors I went about imagining life stories for the landscape trees, making choices as to what parts were lost and what path the canopy branches followed in their unending quest for sunlight.

Three Asian species — Japanese maple (Acer palmatum), trident maple (Acer buergerianum) and Amur maple (Acer ginnala) — are all considered excellent for bonsai use. Why not red maple, which is abundantly available in Western North Carolina? The answers I heard from bonsai people I asked were so emphatically negative I became leery of even asking.

The experience is suggestive, not limited by any need for what the viewer is looking at to be literally "old." The plants are shaped to look like they are old, to mimic the effects of age, done in a way convincing enough that the illusion prompts a response similar to what people would experience if they were in the presence of full-sized old trees of great character. Bonsai art, like all other art, works on our minds at the crossroads of memory and imagination.

The incredible character of these naturally miniaturized specimens lies somewhere at the heart of the bonsai impulse. Nature has always produced such trees in environmental extremes all over the world. Humans have always found something in the nature of these trees that speaks to us, compelling us to a more philosophic state of mind. They inspire us.

The tree looked more convincingly decrepit but still grew strongly in its branching and foliage. The container made of chestnut wood also became more picturesquely weathered as it aged. For a few years everything was right about this planting and it attained that golden stage of development when the illusion of timelessness seemed permanent. Then the bubble burst.

There is a sense of timelessness inherent in a finely crafted bonsai. When the viewer stands before such a piece, there is the illusion of a moment suspended, an impression of all that came before and all that is to come obscured as if under enchantment. It is as if the bonsai came into existence just as it is and will always remain just so.

Gardens are beautiful because there is beauty in life. There is more than that, though. It is the inescapable fact of existence as we know it, that where there is life there must inevitably be death. Life feeds on death, on all levels from the microscopic to the largest manifestations of creative energy.

It is impossible to know what the future might hold for young and undeveloped talent. When I was young and collected baseball cards, the card manufacturers treated rookie baseball players the same way for the same reason. "Rookie" cards combined two unknown young players on one card. Usually, neither of the players would amount to much.

My guess is that very few of the many people who have admired "Yoshimura Island" over the past three decades have taken note of the ingenious composition. In truth, I did not fully appreciate it myself until I learned more about bonsai than I knew at the time the planting was created. What Mr. Yoshimura had done with the arrangement of this planting and why he did it was something I discovered only after years of looking at it and thinking about it. 

Even today I can't think of a great many technical tips I can say for certain came to me from Mr. Yoshimura. He contributed a good deal of information in that regard, but it all gets blended in with things I learned elsewhere, before and after my time with him. The real gold of my Yoshimura experience was in all the stuff that perplexed me at the time.

I had brought along three ceramic tray containers — low-profile, good quality Japanese stoneware ovals, the kind traditionally used for forest plantings. Mr. Yoshimura looked at those a moment, then said, "Come with me!" At this he became animated to a surprising degree, scurrying in short, rapid steps toward the greenhouse. I followed.

When Mr. Yoshimura wasn't preparing me for the future, he was looking back over the decades of his own past, trying, I think, to discern why things went the way they did. He spoke of episodes from all different phases of his life, from the distant days of his youth up to the most recent years.

Mr. Yoshimura's teaching style was direct. He spoke declaratively and took pains to be exact in his statements. He expressed himself with authority that arose from an absolute command of his subject, acquired over an entire lifetime spent immersed in the art of miniature trees and landscapes.

Mr. Yoshimura loaded my slides into the projector's carousel then started projecting the images onto a small screen, also crammed into the room. Here my lessons began. As each tree's image was thrown up on the screen, Mr. Yoshimura would study it briefly and then begin a critique.

In January of 1995 I traveled to Briarcliff Manor, New York, for a three-day study session with Mr. Yuji Yoshimura. Shortly after my return, I wrote an account of the experience and submitted it to Arboretum administration to communicate the value of what I had learned. What follows is an unedited transcript of that report.

In writing about my experience with Mr. Yoshimura, I am looking back over a span of nearly thirty years— long enough ago that some significant changes have occurred in how we live everyday life. Perhaps greatest among them is the revolution wrought by advances in electronic communication.

As the new year began in 1959, thirty-seven-year-old Yuji Yoshimura began teaching bonsai classes at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. He'd arrived in America laden with all the bonsai materials needed because they would not be otherwise available. This amounted to more than a ton of baggage, and the whole operation must have required prodigious planning and organization.

The time has come for me to talk about Yuji Yoshimura. His name has appeared repeatedly in this Journal, because his influence on me — and, through me, on the Arboretum's bonsai identity — has been profound. But I have not yet told the story of the experiences with him that set my bonsai thinking on such a fateful course.

Once Don designated the bougainvillea as being excess plant material — not worth the trouble — it became valuable to me. I was not trying to prove anything or setting out on a mission to save it, but once the bougainvillea was deemed unworthy that meant nothing I might do to it would mess it up. I could try to make a good bonsai out of the wild bougainvillea just for practice, and if it didn't work out the plant could still go to the compost pile.

Those little trees earn their keep at this time of year by providing a leafy green bonsai presence in the Baker greenhouse from December until the middle of May. People appreciate seeing the tropical bonsai looking so vibrantly alive while the temperate world outside, wrapped up in the somber cloak of dormancy, settles into the relative dullness of cold winter.

Although the growing season is now over for temperate plants in our part of the world, there is at this time a flurry of important work that must be done. The last two months of the year see a reordering of business all across the bonsai front.

Let us take one last walk through the garden, down 

The path we have strolled so many times before

In earlier days made golden by the alchemy of time.

The beech trees used in this planting were grown from seed at the Arboretum in 1993 as part of the landscape nursery operation. When California bonsai artist Ben Oki visited us in 1996 we gave him some of these very young trees and asked him to make a group arrangement of them.

It might be supposed by people who don't know the backstory that this specimen was given the poetic name The Ogre in reference to the gnarly features of the deadwood, which can be read as a monstrous creature with one small, beady eye glaring out. But really it was named for the person who collected, styled and donated the little tree to our collection: Nick Lenz, the original wild man of American bonsai.

Who does not feel something stir within them when they look upon the sight of autumn color in the landscape? What accounts for the melancholy we often feel, contemplating the changing landscape under a gray and cloudy sky, with the smell of wood smoke and a quiet chill carried on the breeze? Why does the past sometimes feel so close in autumn?

To say the herbaceous plantings are accessories or accents or even filler can seem a little dismissive. They have their own merits and can be appreciated for what they are. If we think of bonsai as being a miniature, living expression of the human experience of nature, why should herbaceous plantings not be included? Are they bonsai? The answer to that question depends on whom you ask.

A natural tendency toward obstinacy was only one factor in my inability to let go of the maple and put the sorry tale down to experience. While I was fumbling around with all the difficulties caused by the bifurcated root structure, I was having much more success shaping the upper portion of the tree. This maple was one of my earliest efforts at naturalistic styling and I was pleased with its progression.

An acquaintance back in the late 1990s gave me a little red maple (Acer rubrum) in a pint-size pot. It had been grown from a cutting taken from a tree that exhibited outstanding autumn color. Although this very young plant offered absolutely nothing to suggest it would make a good bonsai, I thought I would aim it that way because in those days every plant I came across was a likely candidate for that purpose.

There are times when the growing season feels never-ending, like the pruning and watering and close monitoring of the display trees and the garden landscape will go on forever. Nothing goes on forever, though. Summer is where the action is. Summer is alive and vibrant, demanding and exhausting. This was the thirty-first summer of bonsai at the Arboretum, the eighteenth summer in the bonsai garden. It was a good one, and now it's officially over.

Bonsai that are very big, or very small, or very old, tend to be the kind of bonsai that attract the most attention. It is their novelty that makes them so appealing. But the fact is that most bonsai do not fit into any of those three categories, and so it should come as no surprise that most of the bonsai in the Arboretum's collection don't fit into those categories either.

There was a lot of experimentation going on in those days. I tried many different techniques as a means of self-education, and some of these efforts succeeded while others failed. Starting new Amur maple bonsai from cuttings was a success. Starting a new Amur maple bonsai from a cut-back stump was a success. Putting these maples together as a group planting was also successful, although there was a hitch in the process that I didn't recognize until later.

Dana was a true lover of all sorts of plants, but especially bonsai. Even as she reduced her bonsai collection by sending much of it to the Arboretum, she was constantly acquiring new ones because she always had to have bonsai around to look at and tinker with. The trees she brought to my workshops for the club were always interesting subjects, whether for the type of plant or the age and development they exhibited.

In 1994, even as I was working toward the goal of a regional bonsai community with The North Carolina Arboretum at its center, I was trying to accelerate my personal bonsai learning curve. Word reached me early in the year that Yuji Yoshimura was going to be in Charlotte, doing a workshop program for the Bonsai Society of the Carolinas. Ever since meeting Mr. Yoshimura at the convention the year before I had been trying to figure out how to pursue the tantalizing offer of personalized instruction with him.

When the 1993 World Bonsai Convention in Orlando was over and I returned to work, there was so much to do. It was springtime and our fledgling bonsai collection was leafed out and growing, and now my imagination had been sparked by both the convention experience and the study period in DC before that. My mind was full of big ideas about improving the Arboretum's trees and all the work it was going to take to begin building a program to support them. But it was springtime in the nursery, too.

The idea of using a wooden planter for a tray landscape had somehow become appealing to me early on. The box used for the Graveyard Fields planting was a first attempt at such, and provided lessons that helped improve the wooden planters we subsequently built for use. After ten years in the wooden container, however, it seemed Graveyard Fields was ready for a modification to its look.

There is another Graveyard Fields. It is considerably smaller than the one off the Parkway but much more accessible, and it is never crowded there unless you want it to be in your imagination. The Graveyard Fields I'm talking about now is a miniature representation of the real place and it can be seen on just about any visit to the Arboretum's bonsai garden when little trees are on display.

When you look at an old bonsai you might never guess the history of it. For example, we have in the Arboretum's bonsai collection a large podocarpus (Podocarpus macrophyllus), which we can reasonably surmise to be around seventy years old. To look at it you might well recognize that it looks aged, however nothing in its appearance will give you reason to think our podocarpus grew up at a correctional facility. But it did.

This small area is referred to as the Upper Level Entry Garden. It is very much part of the bonsai garden and it is maintained in the same manner. That means the Scots pine is pruned and shaped in a way that gives it an appearance suggestive of a bonsai.

No bonsai is created in a day. This particular maple has been years in the making and the session it goes through today is just another step along a path, another increment working off the increments that preceded it and setting up the increments that will follow.

There was a big pot made of redwood, the kind you might use for growing a tree out on a patio, and jutting up out of the soil in the pot was a piece of wood like an upside-down baseball bat. Mr. Staples came along so I asked him if the trunk in a pot was supposed to go with us. “Yeah,” he said, “That goes.” I bent to pick it up. “Be careful with that,” he said, “I paid five hundred dollars for that stick!”

In bonsai, American hornbeam is more commonly used than hop-hornbeam. The reason for this is somewhat mysterious, given both species work equally well for the purpose. This disparity is reflected in the Arboretum's bonsai collection, where we have numerous American hornbeam specimens but only one hop-hornbeam. The one hop-hornbeam specimen we have is substantial, however, and we've had it for a long time.

Most tray landscapes depict generic scenes from nature, but the possibility exists to have them represent more specific, real-life places. The challenge in doing this is finding a key feature of a given place that can be worked into the design of a tray landscape, suggesting the identity of the place being represented.

A person ought not walk on ice. Ice is slippery and hard, and although you might move across it carefully, thinking you are doing okay, suddenly your feet are flying out in front of you and gravity yanks you down from behind. When you hit the hard ice you get hurt. Best altogether to avoid walking on the stuff, if it is avoidable.

He didn't crack this like an obvious joke. He said it straight faced and then went about his business. This was one of several instances during the program where Mr. Yoshimura projected what I took to be an iconoclastic tendency. He was conservative in his appearance, precise and formal in manner, but seemed rebellious in his attitude. At the conclusion of the program I turned to Janet and said, "What a dangerous old man!"

Don was formulating a plan to have me further my education by studying with a well-known bonsai professional who was a friend and associate of his. When my horticultural mentor Dr. Creech caught wind of this he immediately stepped in and made arrangements for me to go to Washington DC to study with bonsai curator Bob Drechsler. Dr. Creech was insistent that this be done and he pulled all the strings to make it happen.

Even after removing the dead beech tree, I did not do much with the hemlock for a while. I spent the time taking care of other plants while keeping an eye on what remained of Mr. Yoshimura's tree and thinking about what to do next. I had always seen those trees as being subsidiary to some larger element: first the original primary trunk of the hemlock and later the American beech that replaced it. Now it was time to evaluate them on their own. 

In the four years since the demonstration that brought them together, the beech and hemlock did well and both attained an agreeable degree of ramification in their branching. It is worth pointing out that even if a person is persnickety about larger sized leaves on deciduous bonsai trees, half the year there is no problem at all. American beech has distinctive leaf buds, too, so the winter look of this planting was particularly pleasing to me.

Faith is required, along with a bit of imagination, to see past the moment and focus on an outcome that is perhaps years away. That visionary aspect of bonsai design was another of Mr. Yoshimura's strengths. I should add that my decision to take a chance and try for something different, to be creative and innovative in my thinking, was also a product of Mr. Yoshimura's influence. Those were traits he stressed to me when I studied with him. I was paying attention.

Even without the little trees, the jewels at the heart of the garden’s identity, the place enchants. People slow down as they walk through, they speak more softly and look more carefully. The bonsai garden is not large but there is much to see in the layers of detail contained within. The second stage of spring in the bonsai garden begins on the second Saturday in May — World Bonsai Day — when the bonsai are returned to their benches and the garden is made whole.

The drive between Butner and Asheville took nearly five hours each way and the two journeys there and back were done as day trips, only a few days apart. We really had to pack the trucks to make everything fit in two trips, but amazingly we hauled everything without doing any damage. I had plenty of time on the long drive to think about how these desperate little trees would impact my life, but honestly, I don't remember what went through my mind.

Whatever their appearance and however they may be judged aesthetically, bonsai of this sort have the essence of some greater identity due to particular circumstances. This something extra may be a remarkable story involving the individual bonsai itself, or, as is the case with our dawn redwood (Metasequoia glyptostroboides), the added interest may pertain to the species of plant from which the bonsai is made.

This homegrown bonsai specimen stands out in autumn with foliage the color of a fire truck, a feature attributable to the tree's genetic inheritance as a red maple. It is large, standing just under thirty-inches in height, with a diameter of eight-inches just above the surface roots. That is big for a bonsai but small for a mature red maple, a consequence of the environmental impact of being cultivated as a bonsai.

In the case of this dwarf white pine, I decided it was not worth undoing what had been accomplished because I could not think of a better tree to make out of what already existed. If this bonsai were a maple or hornbeam, it could be pruned back hard to nothing much more than a trunk and a new design could be constructed from the resulting regrowth. Pines are different.

When the Arboretum accepted the unsolicited donation of a bonsai collection and I was offered the job of caring for the little trees, I tried to turn down the assignment. I was happy doing what I was doing at the time, which was most often manual labor out on the Arboretum property. We were outside most of the time, working on our own with more than four hundred wooded acres to keep us busy, and we rarely saw anyone else all day.

What do you want to be when you grow up? That is a standard question older people feel obliged to ask the young, or so it was when I was younger and I suspect the question is still out there. The older person who asks the question is only making conversation, trying to find out a little bit about you and what you are interested in.

The American hornbeam had previously been part of a different Arboretum landscape planting, but was removed because it had a more noticeably crooked trunk than the other trees with which it had been planted. The rejected hornbeam was in a storage area for several years when I noticed it and asked about its availability. The same crooked trunk that was previously seen as a flaw made the tree attractive for its new assignment.