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Chrysanthemums, affectionately known by the diminutive “mums,” are that autumn show-stopper whose petals seem to hold the last light of the year, and have a story that spans continents and centuries.
From ancient Chinese medicine to Leonard Cohen’s poetic gestures, the chrysanthemum has endured as autumn’s most elegant survivor – its petals carrying stories of love, longevity, and quiet rebellion.
The chrysanthemum was not traditionally associated with romance. Originating in China around the 15th century BCE, they were first cultivated not as ornamentals but as medicinal herbs – their petals steeped into teas to lower fever and purify the body. The Chinese revered them enough to dedicate an entire city, Chu Hsien (“Chrysanthemum City”), to their cultivation. Over time, the bloom became one of the “Four Gentlemen” of classical Chinese art, symbolizing integrity and perseverance in the face of winter’s approach.
When chrysanthemums migrated east to Japan around the eighth century, they found even higher status. The Japanese Imperial Family adopted the sixteen-petaled chrysanthemum as its official crest and imperial seal. The country still celebrates “Chrysanthemum Day” – known as the Festival of Happiness – where people drink chrysanthemum sake and float the flowers in cups for long life. The bloom’s geometry, at once precise and exuberant, became an emblem of order and vitality in Japanese aesthetics.
By the 17th century, Dutch traders had ferried the plant to Europe, where it quickly captured the hearts of botanists and breeders. Victorians adored its layered petals and cool weather resilience, weaving it into floral language as a symbol of loyal love and truth – although in some countries, like France and Italy, it became the flower of remembrance, laid on graves each November. To this day, it is a common flower at Iranian weddings and is associated with Mother’s Day in Australia. This duality – joy and mourning, endurance and fragility – only adds to its complexity.
Chrysanthemums belong to the vast Asteraceae family, sharing lineage with daisies and sunflowers, yet they hold a particular alchemy: their blooms arrive when most gardens fade. They thrive in shortening days, offering a riot of ginger, crimson, gold, plum, copper, and ivory when the landscape turns muted. Breeders have coaxed the plant into astonishing forms – spider, pompom, anemone, quill, spoon, and the dramatic “incurve,” whose petals curl inward.
Chrysanthemums, affectionately known by the diminutive “mums,” are that autumn show-stopper whose petals seem to hold the last light of the year, and have a story that spans continents and centuries.
From ancient Chinese medicine to Leonard Cohen’s poetic gestures, the chrysanthemum has endured as autumn’s most elegant survivor – its petals carrying stories of love, longevity, and quiet rebellion.
The chrysanthemum was not traditionally associated with romance. Originating in China around the 15th century BCE, they were first cultivated not as ornamentals but as medicinal herbs – their petals steeped into teas to lower fever and purify the body. The Chinese revered them enough to dedicate an entire city, Chu Hsien (“Chrysanthemum City”), to their cultivation. Over time, the bloom became one of the “Four Gentlemen” of classical Chinese art, symbolizing integrity and perseverance in the face of winter’s approach.
When chrysanthemums migrated east to Japan around the eighth century, they found even higher status. The Japanese Imperial Family adopted the sixteen-petaled chrysanthemum as its official crest and imperial seal. The country still celebrates “Chrysanthemum Day” – known as the Festival of Happiness – where people drink chrysanthemum sake and float the flowers in cups for long life. The bloom’s geometry, at once precise and exuberant, became an emblem of order and vitality in Japanese aesthetics.
By the 17th century, Dutch traders had ferried the plant to Europe, where it quickly captured the hearts of botanists and breeders. Victorians adored its layered petals and cool weather resilience, weaving it into floral language as a symbol of loyal love and truth – although in some countries, like France and Italy, it became the flower of remembrance, laid on graves each November. To this day, it is a common flower at Iranian weddings and is associated with Mother’s Day in Australia. This duality – joy and mourning, endurance and fragility – only adds to its complexity.
Chrysanthemums belong to the vast Asteraceae family, sharing lineage with daisies and sunflowers, yet they hold a particular alchemy: their blooms arrive when most gardens fade. They thrive in shortening days, offering a riot of ginger, crimson, gold, plum, copper, and ivory when the landscape turns muted. Breeders have coaxed the plant into astonishing forms – spider, pompom, anemone, quill, spoon, and the dramatic “incurve,” whose petals curl inward.
Beyond beauty, chrysanthemums are surprisingly useful. Their dried petals flavour chrysanthemum tea across Asia, prized for cooling properties and gentle fragrance. Pyrethrum, a natural insecticide derived from certain chrysanthemum species, has been used for centuries as an eco-friendly pest control. Even in perfumery and modern gastronomy, the flower’s bitter-sweet aroma finds avant-garde expression. They are celebrated with fall festivals the world over, with Korea’s nine-day Chrysanthemum Festival each November being the most extravagant.
What makes chrysanthemums special isn’t just their variety or colour range, but their sense of defiance. They bloom against the odds – brightly alive as frost creeps in – embodying endurance, transformation, and the art of making endings look radiant.
One of the more charming anecdotes about this fall flower centres around Joan Juliette Buck, the first and only American editor of French Vogue, who recounts it in her luminous biography, The Price of Illusion. She met the late Canadian poet Leonard Cohen in Paris during the 1960s and the two were instantly smitten. He invited her to his modest home on the island of Hydra, Greece (where he would go on to write some of his most famous songs and poems). She agreed, but then torn by her romance with an Austrian designer, recanted. To try to win her over, Cohen sent her a 5-foot long box containing deep brown chrysanthemums with a poem that ended with the line “Never lie to a great poet, or even a minor one.” Cohen would go on to become one of the most significant talents of his generation and the pair became lifelong friends.