6
‘Weeds’
as trace
Plants
as archive?
Fieldcress - Prenzlauer Berg, Berlin
Dandelion - Pankow, Berlin
I’ve always found a lot of solace in ‘nature’, specifically in this case, plants.
I was born in Hong Kong and like many others started coming to the UK at a young age for school, finally settling in London at the start of my adult life. Amidst this change, ‘nature’ somehow served as a faithful constant – perceived places of neutrality towards which I wouldn’t need to conform, and with which I could enjoy with anyone. Living more or less between cities, my meetings with ‘nature’ – be it a trip to the countryside, a walk in the park or a chance encounter with some roadside plant – always felt like an escape. A momentary deviation from structure.
Moving to Berlin in the spring of 2023, I realised this was the perfect city for my fascination. Often named ‘Europe’s nature capital’ with 40% of the city covered by ‘green’ space, it promised an interesting study of city and ‘nature’ as one. Upon arrival, I discovered it was not so much the cultivated parks and gardens, but the massive swathes of spontaneous plant growth that caught my eye. As the weather warmed, hordes of plants began to inhabit pavement cracks, tramtracks, drainage grates, building sites. Any lapse in sealed ground seemed to present itself with new growth.
First the yellow spots of dandelions, celandines, fieldcress, then the drooping blue stems of bird vetch, purples of fiddleneck, then more than I could really see or count. These weedy shoots seemed to transform the city, and with it my perception of ‘nature’.
Moving to Berlin in the spring of 2023, I realised this was the perfect city for my fascination. Often named ‘Europe’s nature capital’ with 40% of the city covered by ‘green’ space, it promised an interesting study of city and ‘nature’ as one. Upon arrival, I discovered it was not so much the cultivated parks and gardens, but the massive swathes of spontaneous plant growth that caught my eye. As the weather warmed, hordes of plants began to inhabit pavement cracks, tramtracks, drainage grates, building sites. Any lapse in sealed ground seemed to present itself with new growth.
First the yellow spots of dandelions, celandines, fieldcress, then the drooping blue stems of bird vetch, purples of fiddleneck, then more than I could really see or count. These weedy shoots seemed to transform the city, and with it my perception of ‘nature’.
Following this curiosity, I began a process of mapping and identifying these spontaneous plants, tracing roadsides and the edges of concrete. Within the space of a short walk, I found myself stunned by the diversity of species, and the rich histories that then unfolded just a scratch away from the surface. Take just a few of my most common encounters – Chenopodium Album (Wild Spinach), whilst widely considered a weed in Europe, is extensively consumed in Northern India and Nepal, and has been found by archeologists in storage pits and ovens dating as far back as the Iron Age, likely to be deliberately collected and even cultivated as a common grain. Or Plantago Lancelota (Ribwort Plantain) used as an indicator of agriculture in western Norway from the early neolithic period, also edible, and now still used as a traditional Austrian herbal medicine against respiratory illnesses and insect bites. Or Malva Neglecta (Dwarf Mallow), part of the same family as Okra, used in salads or to thicken stews, and as a grain substitute in 19th century Europe during food shortages.
“Every child used to know the “Bréidercher”, the pleasant tasting fruits of the common mallow (Malva neglecta). In times of need, they were no longer the little ones' favorite snack, but were collected shortly before they were ripe and sent to the mill.”
“Every child used to know the “Bréidercher”, the pleasant tasting fruits of the common mallow (Malva neglecta). In times of need, they were no longer the little ones' favorite snack, but were collected shortly before they were ripe and sent to the mill.”
As I went along, a far larger map beyond Berlin began to form. Whilst many of these plants were indigenous to Europe, almost half were archaeophytes or neophytes – having migrated to Germany either before or after the European discovery of America respectively. Of the first variety, often from wider Eurasia, and more recent arrivals stretching far further...
One highly documented is Ailanthus Altissima (Tree of Heaven), cited as very invasive in Europe and particularly the US, is mentioned in the oldest existing Chinese dictionary (3 BC), later used in China as wood to make steamers, as host plants for moths in silk production and as an astringent. It was first brought to Europe in the 1740s as an ornamental plant as part of the trend for chinoiserie, then commonly used as a street tree in the 19th century.
Another ‘escaped ornamental’ is Solidago Canadensis (Canada Goldenrod), cited as one of the most successful invasive species in Europe, is native to North America and first introduced in Europe for its attractiveness and ease to grow in 1645.
Medicago Varia and Medicago Sativa (Alfafa), found all along roadsides in Berlin, originated around Anatolia, Iran, and the highlands of Turkmenistan. Its common English name Alfafa dates back to around 700 BC in its association with the horses and military power of the Indo-European empire, stemming from Arabic and Persian linguistic roots with the meaning ‘best horse fodder’.
Galinsoga parviflora (Gallant Soldier), native to South America, cited as used in a soup in Columbia, was brought to Kew Gardens from Peru in 1796 before escaping into the wild across the UK known as ‘Kew Weed’. It is named after a Spanish botanist Ignacio Mariano Martinez de Galinsoga.
Senecio Inaequidens (Narrow-leaved Ragwort) is cited to be introduced through imports of wool from South Africa where the plant is native, first detected in Germany near a wool factory in Hannover-Döhren, then in Bremen in 1896. Climate change also plays a part in this plant’s migration, where warming temperatures in Europe enabling longer vegetation periods appear to have considerably increased reproduction rates.
Reynoutria Japonica (Japanese Knotweed), listed by the World Conservation Union as one of world’s worst invasive species, is native to East Asia, first brought to the Netherlands by a European adventurer from a Japanese volcano, and donated to Kew Gardens in 1850. It gained popularity with gardeners for its lush growth and resemblance to bamboo, later classed as ‘controlled waste’ in the UK by the Environmental Protection Act of 1990, requiring disposal at licensed landfill sites.
There is far more research to be done, but I was struck by how tightly the stories of these plants seemed to trace histories I had read in books, watched in films, heard on podcasts. How closely their fate mirrored the arc of human migration, from valued resource or exotic ornament, to nuisance. Each of these plants, valued at some point in their past, picked up by routes of trade and conquest to gather on the streets of Berlin. In each tangled mess of shoots and stems, I saw fragments of history. History often occluded in lengthy texts, sometimes with no voices left to recall, but right there on the street. A botanical archive of resilient descendants, finding small spaces to thrive, and living on.
I looked back at my original perception of ‘nature’: a perception of neutrality, objectivity and stillness. My love of big long walks in countryside that felt unchanging to escape the pace of the city, filling my camera with picturesque stills of vast landscape with little question of how it all came to be, and how it might change. I still think they’re wonderful things, but I began to realize how incomplete, and inaccurate a picture I had formed in my head. Perhaps the same postcard-imaginary of the national park, or perfectly sculpted houseplant delivered to my door, harbored the same disconnect as me buying another single-use coffee cup, or bag for not-quite life. Imagining me as unconnected to a planet full of beautiful ‘nature objects’, perpetual in their abundance.
The origins of urban green spaces, as we know them in Europe and countless places touched by European influence, can be traced back to the first public parks of Victorian Britain. In the heat of mass industrialisation, creating access to open green spaces in cities was thought to aid in providing respite, but also a moral education and civilisation, of a fast growing working populace feared to threaten the decorum and physical safety of society. Landscaped parks, modeled after the ideals of the picturesque, took flight across the world such as Olmsted’s Central Park in New York…
Cultural anthropologist Bettina Stoelzer posits traditional urban green spaces as falling into either the ornamental or botanical – ‘nature’ ordered and introduced into city spaces, reinforcing man’s dominance over the natural world, or his control over even the most exotic far corners of it. Looking back, one may argue as Stoelzer does, that the legacy of these traditional parks leave an imprint of a fortified city-nature divide – a distinct hierarchy between the civilized man and wildness, wild plants, wild animals, including wild people. The design of parks have indeed now evolved to include more socially inclusive and ecologically beneficial intentions, seen for example in the incorporation of sport or performance facilities, or the building momentum in rewilding. But it is hard to unsee the still dominant legacy of ‘nature’ as objects throughout our cities. Perhaps my aforementioned disconnect was always baked into the design of my most familiar environments. Trees, plants, and landscape arranged and maintained, upholding an idealized narrative and structure to our world order.
Bikenhead Park, 1847 - One of Britain’s first public parks
Granger Collection
Berliners planting potato seedlings by the ruins of the Reichstag, 1946
Photo by Fred Ramage.
In the aftermath of the Second World War resulting in widespread destruction of Berlin’s cityscape, the city also experienced a boom in biodiversity. It became a locus for study by local botanists and ecologists such as Herbert Sukkop and Hildemar Scholz, attracting researchers from abroad for decades to come. Where rigid city structures broke away, new environments, new climates enabled unique new weedy flora and texture of Berlin to emerge. Why do people say Berlin is so beautiful in the summer? I think it is in part, due to this.
Seeking closer connectedness with and understanding of ‘nature’ should clearly not be conflated with blind pursuit of any ‘natural’ order. ‘Nature’ is a tricky and loaded word, too often co-opted as a concept in rhetoric that fuels division, hierarchy and hate. As geographer and urbanist Matthew Gandy discusses, ‘rather than a predetermined stage set, nature presents a field of possibilities that are revealed through multiple types of cultural and historical interactions.’ Picking up this line of thinking, with what culture do we interact with each other, and with ‘nature’ now? What stories would plants tell next?
Having the privilege, yet at times discomfort, of having grown up between cities and their cultures, I find a certain kinship with this feeling of fluctuation. At times feeling a sense of unwantedness in one space, yet entering another and feeling perhaps I should not take up so much. I imagine this feeling could be common to many, from any number of intersections of experience. When I see ‘weeds’ now on city streets, as I rush through a commute, I see little reminders of an acceptance of this plurality. I also see reminders to be continually curious.
There are few objective unifying characteristics in how to define a ‘weed’, but one is in their resilience. Perhaps this is also a useful reminder.