Date: May 2025 – ongoing
Role: Supervision and observation

A BLOOMING ANAMORPHOSIS

A Birthday, A Sowing

May 12, 2025, was a special day. On the other side of the world, in Siberia, my father was turning 70. I called him live, right in the middle of one of the most emotional moments I’d experienced in a long time: the sowing of the Anamorphosis.

I had never done a sowing like that before. And time was incredibly tight — just five days to go before the festival opened. To be safe, I decided to triple the recommended seed density: 9 grams per square meter instead of the usual 3. It was an instinctive — perhaps bold — but honest choice. I had calculated the area of each bed precisely and prepared custom seed envelopes for each one.

The soil was laid using a crane and hopper: workers would climb into the beds, unload, and spread it using long poles.

Irrigation was a real challenge. The beds had a considerable slope, and finding an effective system wasn’t easy. We went with drip irrigation, although — even now — I’m not fully convinced it was the best choice. A spray system might have provided more even coverage, especially in shallow, sloped containers. For drip lines, I would have preferred a tighter layout — at least 70 cm between lines — to avoid excess water pooling at the bottom and dryness at the top. In any case, the choices were made.

The Buckwheat Field

By May 17, opening day, the first heart-shaped leaves began to emerge — small, tender, luminous. I was over the moon.

Only on June 25, forty-four days later, did I realize what those romantic leaves belonged to: buckwheat (Fagopyrum esculentum). It had decided it was its moment and claimed the stage — tall, vigorous, and present in every bed. It looked more like a field of grain than a floral installation.

Fortunately, some pink Cosmos also emerged — a surprise, as they weren’t even included in the seed mix — along with some yellow Coreopsis with red centers.

Meanwhile, one bed in the back-left corner lagged behind. At first, I thought it was due to a lack of water or overly deep sowing. So I began returning each week, notebook in hand, camera around my neck, with patience and a mix of curiosity and concern, observing everything carefully.

First Blooms (and a Few Mysteries)

Five days later came the first breakthrough: Zinnias began blooming with vivid colors — red, pink, violet, orange. Alongside them came delicate Gypsophila, bringing light and softness. Then yellow Coreopsis, pale blue cornflowers, white Lobularia (alyssum), orange poppies… finally, the meadow began to take shape — like a spontaneous, free-flowing chorus.

The anamorphosis began blooming fifty days after sowing, on its own terms.

But that one “silent” bed still wouldn’t take off. Together with the Radicepura team, we tried to figure out why. Marcello, the groundskeeper, joked: “Maybe a cloud passed by when you were doing your magic with the seeds!” But I was certain: “Impossible — that envelope weighed just like the others.” We tried restarting the irrigation system — and finally found the culprit: a blocked solenoid valve buried in the ground had completely stopped water from flowing.

We took the opportunity to adjust other beds with irrigation issues and re-sowed in the first week of July. Just days later, in the smaller basins, new seedlings began to sprout.

Chaos and Order

With the seed list in one hand and a pen in the other, I kept observing. In the first 40 days, only the buckwheat had bloomed, dominating the scene. Then, little by little, around 25% of the species began flowering. Alongside them appeared unexpected but welcome guests: Cosmos bipinnatus, Phacelia tanacetifolia, Echium plantagineum (viper’s bugloss), Portulaca oleracea (purslane), Datura stramonium (jimsonweed), Clarkia unguiculata, Glebionis coronaria (field chrysanthemum), Amaranthus retroflexus (redroot pigweed).

Seventy days after sowing, around 35% of the original seed mix was in bloom. New flowers appeared too: purple cornflowers and wine-colored Mirabilis jalapa (four o’clock flowers).

It was a delicate balance between what I had planned and what nature chose. I had selected the seeds, calculated the doses, packed the envelopes, and distributed the materials. But nature had chosen the timing, the places, the percentages. To us, that looks like chaos. But to her, it’s just natural order.

What I Take With Me

I’ve learned that in a flower meadow, maintaining the irrigation system is key. Usually, these meadows thrive even without watering, but this was an unusual case: sloped metal beds, only 15 cm deep — the soil would dry out in a single day.

And I’ve learned that patience, perseverance, and passion always pay off. Now I gather some of the flowers, press them, and frame them — a way to remember, every time I return, that it was worth it to take a risk and believe.