Yellow

I’ve never liked the color yellow. Yellow has always struck me as glaring, strident even. The only time it is excusable is in early spring, when the first tiny daffodils and crocuses appear, the eranthus and the spidery yellow flowers of the Witch Hazel. But only in small doses surrounded by green, and even then, given the choice, I prefer the crocuses that are blue. That was true even when I was a child. The yellow-green of euphorbias are excusable, but it is only in recent years that I have found them so. They do look smashing combined with the dark vibrant purples of Salvia nemerosa ‘May Night’. The worst offense is when the solid mass of yellow forsythia is combined with the mauve/muddy pinks of flowering plums which bloom at the same time. This is an affront to my eyes, that is almost painful to see. Just let me close my eyes and lead me through, letting me know when the worst has past.

Just as bad is the glowing yellow of Lysimachia nummularia ‘Aurea’ combined with purple tulips. At least there is consistency in the depth of color, and the attraction of a certain harsh glare, like that of a circus clown walking down the street in broad daylight, or the overdone make-up of a street prostitute walking through a formal wedding party. It is amusing for a second, but then I need my shades. Fortunately this combination is rare here in Albuquerque.

But yellow is such a prominent color among wildflowers. The insects love this color, this bullhorn announcement of the need to procreate. In the wild, where the flowers are relatively sparse, there is a lot of neutral green and brown, or the dilution of yellow among other flowers, yellow can be almost, almost, dare I say it…delightful. Those first yellow beams of light speak of happiness. Perhaps I’ve been too seduced by the antiquated opinions of the historical English garden guru’s who similarly declared yellow to be the color of the uncouth. Perhaps it is the trauma of having to wear solid gold/yellow t-shirts in gym class through the high school years. I am reminded of the Coldplay song “Yellow” which in my mind is a song about a person dying of hepatitis.

Look at the stars,
Look how they shine for you,
And everything you do,
Yeah they were all yellow,

I came along
I wrote a song for you
And all the things you do
And it was called yellow

So then I took my turn
Oh all the things I've done
And it was all yellow

Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
D'you know you know I love you so
You know I love you so

I swam across
I jumped across for you
Oh all the things you do
Cause you were all yellow

I drew a line
I drew a line for you
Oh what a thing to do
And it was all yellow

Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
D'you know for you i bleed myself dry
For you i bleed myself dry

Its true look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine for you
look how they shine
look at the stars look how they shine for you

Some people do delight in the color yellow, like the solid yellow that the Spanish Broom (Spartium junceum) becomes in the Spring. I’m just not one of them. I can appreciate the heady sweet scent of the broom, and I can appreciate the profusion of bloom, but not the color. Speaking of Spanish Broom, what is it that makes people plant so much of it here? It has the awful color in the Spring, then just a tall weedy mess of sticks (and I’m not one to criticize sticks – after all, I love Ocotillo). It produces copious seeds that germinate in profusion in my yard after being dropped by the overhanging plant in my neighbor’s courtyard, the haggard seed pods hanging for months. “They” say it is not invasive here, but I am suspicious when thousands of seedlings overwinter in my yard to grow even more vigorously in the Spring. It is an invasive weed in many other parts of the West. It drops the spiny twigs copiously, and does not have attractive trunks or bark (in fact rather raggedly).

The cultivated forms of Cytissus scoparious are more palatable, such as the cultivar ‘Moonlight’ in pale yellow, or ‘Burkwoodii’ in rusty red and a yellow spot.

As I ruminate on my distaste for yellow in the garden, I look at my orchids. What’s blooming? A solid yellow variant of Psychopsis papilio (‘Yellow Bird’), a gift from my sister many years ago, and Laeliocattleya Love Fresh, a yellow orchid with a red lip that is one of my favorites. Hypocrite.