Spend enough time looking through plant listings and certain words begin to appear again and again: true pink, albo, aurea, tricolor, mint, marble, ghost, half-moon, stable, reverted, mutation, sport, lineage, K Version, Holland, Canadian made, made by me, genetics, rare, ultra rare, unicorn, and even the names of people well known within the plant community, such as Kunzo.Some describe colour or pattern. Some identify plants in horticulture and commerce. Some suggest provenance, propagation or lineage. Others communicate scarcity, desirability or association with a particular person or place. And some are simply wonderfully evocative.
That does not make them meaningless. Trade names, horticultural names and collector terminology help plants circulate, distinguish selections, preserve histories and give growers and collectors a shared language. An imaginative name can also have a documented horticultural story behind it.
So this exploration is not about separating “good” plant words from “bad” ones. It asks something much simpler: 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝘂𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗮𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝘅𝘁?
𝗖𝗼𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗿, 𝗣𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗔𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲
Pink, white, yellow, cream, bronze, burgundy and mauve can describe colours we see. Albo and aurea are familiar horticultural and collector terms. Then there are tricolor, mint, marble, ghost, half-moon and high or low variegation. These can be useful descriptions, but they are not all doing the same job.
Tricolor suggests three colours, but which three? Mint can describe a particular pale or mottled appearance. Marble evokes a pattern rather than a colour. Half-moon describes an arrangement. High and low variegation communicate a relative amount of visible variegation without necessarily establishing a universal numerical threshold.
And Ghost?
Thankfully, the plant did not have to die first.
Ghost is wonderfully evocative horticultural and trade language. Depending on the plant and context, it may evoke pale or silvery foliage, or it may already form part of an established horticultural or trade identity.
Then there is “true pink.” Pink can describe what we see, but what does “true” add? Does it identify a documented selection or lineage, an expression known to persist through propagation, or simply emphasize the visible colour?
The words can still be useful without answering every one of those questions.
𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗖𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝗜𝘁𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳 𝗧𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗨𝘀?
One plant in our Grove gave me a particularly useful reason to think about this.
I acquired an Alocasia under the horticultural or trade name Heart Balloon Pink. At the time, the source described her as reverted. Her present foliage is green.
Heart Balloon Pink - mother plant, current foliage.
That mother subsequently produced cormlets in our Grove. Some developed into daughter plants now displaying conspicuous mauve, burgundy, bronze or pinkish colour alongside green.
Daughter plant grown from a cormlet produced by the mother.
The photographs accompanying this Scroll document what I know: the identity under which I acquired the mother, her present green foliage, the relationship between mother and daughters, and the colours those daughters are expressing now.
What the photographs cannot establish by themselves is why it happened.
I do not need to say that “the pink came back,” declare the daughters “true pink,” or assign a genetic explanation to what I am seeing.
𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻. 𝗛𝗲𝗿 𝗱𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗲𝘅𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗼𝗹𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗴𝗲.
That is the observation. Why it happened is another question.
The same distinction helps with words such as stable, reverted, mutation, sport and genetics. “Stable” invites us to ask stable across what - successive leaves, time, propagation or changing conditions? A visibly unusual plant may give us reason to investigate mutation or sport, but appearance alone does not necessarily identify the biological mechanism involved. And knowing that two plants are vegetatively related does not turn a photograph into a genetic analysis.
Sometimes the plant gives us evidence. Sometimes it gives us a question.
𝗣𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗮𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗣𝗿𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗛𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆
Words such as clone, lineage, mother plant and tissue culture can tell us useful things about propagation. A documented lineage can connect a plant to a particular selection, grower, nursery or introduction. TC tells us something about how a plant was propagated. Neither word, by itself, necessarily tells the entire history of the original plant.
Geographic terms raise similar questions. K Version is used in the collector trade and is commonly associated with Korea, but I have not found one universal documented definition establishing exactly what qualifies a plant as K Version. Holland may refer to where a plant was grown, selected, bred, obtained or exported. Each can be a genuine connection while describing a different part of its history.
Names of people can also carry real horticultural significance. Kunzo Nishihata, for example, is well known within parts of the aroid community. If his name is attached to a plant, the interesting question is what the documented association represents: breeding, selection, introduction, distribution or traceable propagation material. Asking that question does not diminish the name. It helps preserve the actual story behind it.
Archipelago taught me why I should ask these questions in both directions. I initially wondered whether Monstera adansonii “Archipelago” was simply an evocative name. Investigation uncovered documented horticultural history, including a European plant-variety-rights application filed in 2017 and later withdrawn, associated with Emelie Karlsson.
What I still have not established is why “Archipelago” was chosen or which island or islands the name refers to - if it refers to a place at all.
Sometimes an imaginative name really does have a history I simply have not discovered yet.
The same precision helps with phrases such as Canadian made and made by me. Grown in Canada, propagated in Canada, selected in Canada, discovered in Canada and bred in Canada describe different events. Growing a plant, propagating it, selecting an unusual individual and deliberately breeding it are also different activities.
My Heart Balloon daughters were produced and grown here from cormlets of their mother. I can document that. I can also document their unusual colour. I cannot therefore jump to the conclusion that I “made” that colour.
The actual story is interesting enough.
𝗥𝗮𝗿𝗲, 𝗨𝗹𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗥𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗻
Rare is a legitimate word, but rarity depends on context. A plant can be uncommon in nature yet widely propagated in cultivation. It can be readily available elsewhere but difficult to obtain in Canada. A new selection can initially exist in small numbers and later become widely available through propagation or tissue culture.
So “rare” invites a simple question: 𝗥𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲?
Ultra rare intensifies the message and can communicate desirability or scarcity in collector and marketing language. Whether it represents a measurable threshold beyond “rare” is another question.
And unicorn? I have used that one myself. It is wonderfully expressive collector language for something coveted, unusual or difficult to find. No botanical definition is required for people within a community to understand the feeling it communicates.
Not every word attached to a plant is trying to make a scientific claim.
Sometimes plant people are simply being plant people.
𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗩𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗴𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝗙𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗜𝗻
Variegated Greens uses evocative language too.
My named expressions - “Rosewood Divide,” “Mauve Patina,” “Lavender Fault” and others - are intentionally descriptive and memorable. They capture something I observe in an individual plant and give that expression an identity people can remember.
That is why I place my expression names inside quotation marks. The botanical or horticultural identity tells one part of the story. My named expression tells another.
I am not presenting “Mauve Patina,” for example, as a newly established botanical identity, cultivar or genetic lineage. It is my very own named expression for what I observe in that individual plant.
Nor do I force an individual plant's visible expression to match colour terminology attached to the horticultural or trade name under which I received it. That documented name can remain part of its history while I describe the colours actually visible in the plant before me.
The photographs document the expression as it appears today.
Future leaves remain free to surprise me.
𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗠𝗲
I began this exploration by looking at words. I ended up thinking much more about what different kinds of plant language are actually designed to do.
Botanical language, horticultural names, trade names, collector terminology, provenance, descriptive language and marketing language can all contribute useful information. Sometimes a name preserves history. Sometimes it communicates appearance. Sometimes it identifies a plant in commerce. Sometimes it simply makes a plant memorable.
Often it does more than one of those things at once.
The lesson for me was not to place those forms of language into a hierarchy. It was to stop expecting every word to answer every question.
Perhaps the useful question is not 𝗜𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱?
Perhaps it is:
𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲? 𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗻𝘁? 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝗳 𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗺, 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗱𝗼 𝘄𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄?
If you have documented evidence that helps answer any of these questions, I welcome it. Exploration Scrolls are not meant to be the final word. When better evidence becomes available, I am happy to revisit and revise what is written here.
And if you have encountered a plant term that made you stop and wonder what it actually meant, I invite you to share it. It may lead us into another rabbit hole worth exploring.
— Mandy Vasquez
Owner, Variegated Greens