A Method Behind All the Wildness

Maybe one of the charms of azaleas is that, unless ruthlessly shaped into hedges, they really do appear to be wild, their flowers opening at varied times, reaching disparate heights, leaning in multiple directions, irregularly layered in waves — accidents of nature that just happen to be gathered here in immense profusion. While roses are generally seen in highly cultivated settings, and tulips are almost prim about their presentation, azaleas, which grow profusely along river banks and on hillsides, proudly display a heritage of untamed nature.

A great illusion, of course, particularly here. It doesn’t take long to realize how far from the accidental is every aspect of this Azalea Garden, except, perhaps, that some of the older azalea plantings from the 1930s and ’40s just happened to remain here, long after they had been overwhelmed by intrusions of other plants and the casual care once given this nondescript hillside.

But no haphazard planting could have led to such a calculated distribution of new low-lying plants that will, in time, create the living, flowering understory of this garden, plants whose very names — barrenwort and foam flower, Siberian bugloss and broad-leaved sedge — mix the exotic and the commonplace. And no random chance, in the midst of rocky outcrops and wet woodlands, could have inserted flowering dogwoods, magnolias and hydrangeas alongside 200-year-old remnants of the forest that once covered the Bronx.

The paths too, which are wide enough for the crowds who will doubtless come to see the peak blooms in coming weeks, artfully curve around rocks and plantings, offering inviting benches along the way. Almost unnoticeably the paths suggest contoured smaller gardens, defined not by hedgerows or borders, but by the character of the landscape: slopes of dappled shade, a rocky knoll, a moist, stream-fed woodland, each with its own plantings best suited to the setting.

As we are informed by one of the helpful signs, a meadow at the garden’s highest point is inspired by “balds”: “the grassy plant communities that inhabit certain mountain slopes and ridge tops in the southern Appalachians.” Grasses and wildflowers, including blueberry plants with delicate tubular florets, and miniature “daffodil garlic” flowers that burst out of semitransparent, elongated pods, fill the ground-space between Japanese hybrid rhododendrons and azaleas, many yet to bloom.

And finally, of course, there are those azaleas — some 3,000 plants from all over the world — members of the genus Rhododendron that share this garden with their thick-leaved cousins that usually bear that name. Signs identify each plant’s Latin name along with more informal varietal names; other signs offer explanations about important hybrids or plantings. This week, some azaleas were covered in a mist of freshly revealed petals; others, having already bloomed, had begun to shoot up their bright green new growth above their mass of leaves. Many more, still awaiting flowers, nearly concealed the tear-drop-shaped buds that will, in coming weeks, unfold, revealing fragrant, fragile blossoms.

No, this garden is precisely the opposite of accidental. It is an exhibition that has been meticulously designed. There are 70,000 new plants, including 40,000 bulbs, 28,000 woodland perennials and ferns, and more than 3,500 trees and shrubs. The plantings alone cost $1.5 million, and the garden as a whole $5 million. It is one part of a $150 million project that is reconceiving and reviving what is being called the “Heart of the Garden,” including the adjacent old-growth forest and a pedagogical wetland trail. The new Azalea Garden is one of the institution’s most ambitious recent projects and is so carefully planned that it reflects a particular philosophy of garden display.