Stamp Out Binomial Abuse!

 by Tom Waters

It is said that a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing. One manifestation of that pervasive truth is slapping botanical names onto plants where they don't belong. Is it perhaps the urge to seem erudite, or the mistaken notion (propagated in school biology classes), that every organism has a species name, or just unthinking propagation of error, dripping down through the years?

'Absolute Treasure'
Please don't call me I. germanica

I present a list of the four types of irises often identified incorrectly with a botanical species name that does not correctly apply to them. Each of these types is a group of hybrids with ancestry from multiple species. There is no need for a botanical species designation for hybrids of complex ancestry. The tall bearded iris 'Absolute Treasure' is best described---as I have just done---with the classification and registered cultivar name. If classification is clear within context, it can be left out. If one feels more botanically inclined (as might be the case if writing for a technical publication), the correct designation is the genus name in italics, followed by the cultivar name: Iris 'Absolute Treasure'.

Identifying a hybrid with a particular species is not just annoying to those of us with a pedantic streak but can lead to real confusion. People who want to acquire actual species out of botanical interest or for hybridizing, for example, can be sent down time-wasting rabbit holes by this practice, and it is even worse when false botanical names end up in published pedigrees and official descriptions.

So, let's look at the major offenders:

1. Referring to all Siberian irises as Iris sibirica or Iris siberica. This error is reinforced, I think, because of the similarity of the classification name to the botanical name. Most Siberian iris cultivars are advanced hybrids involving I. sibirica and I. sanguinea. The 40-chromosome Siberians do not involve I. sibirica at all.

'Katharine Hodgkin'
Please don't call me I. reticulata

2. Referring to all reticulata irises as Iris reticulata. Yes, there is a species, I. reticulata, sold in the bulb trade and grown in gardens. However, the horticultural group known as reticulata irises includes hybrids and cultivars from a range of species, including I. histrio, I. histrioides, and I. bakerana. Many of Alan McMurtrie's colorful recent hybrids involve I. danfordiae and I. sophenensis. Once again, I think the fact that the common name for the whole group ("reticulata irises") is so similar to the species name I. reticulata is largely to blame for the confusion.

3. Referring to all dwarf bearded irises as Iris pumila. Although the species I. pumila is important in the background of modern dwarf bearded irises, most cultivars are advanced-generation hybrids involving I. pumila and tall bearded iris cultivars in various combinations. Modern standard dwarf bearded (SDB) and miniature dwarf bearded (MDB) irises are far removed indeed from the species. I think part of the problem is that pumila is the Latin word for "dwarf," so people who are not botanically knowledgeable believe they can just translate the term "dwarf iris" to Iris pumila.

'Beetlejuice'
Please don't call me I. pumila

4. Referring to all tall bearded irises, or sometimes even all bearded irises of any type, as Iris germanica. Tall bearded irises are advanced-generation hybrids involving many species, most prominently I. pallida, I. variegata, and various tetraploid plants from the Eastern Mediterranean, such as I. mesopotamica. Botanists have differing views about how to apply the name I. germanica, which is unfortunate since it is the type species for the genus Iris. The plant given this name by Linnaeus is a natural hybrid of the intermediate bearded (IB) type. The approach taken by Warburton and Hamblen in The World of Irises is to regard this as a cultivar, not a species (thus 'Germanica'), and to avoid using the term I. germanica entirely. On the other hand, Mathew in The Iris broadens the term to encompass an assortment of similar plants, including many identified as distinct species, such as I. cypriana, I. trojana, and I. mesopotamica. Even taken in this broad sense, however, I. germanica does not include the modern tall bearded hybrids. Given the confusion around using this species name, the best practice is to avoid it in favor of more specific designations for particular plants and populations. Sadly, the use of I. germanica for tall bearded hybrids has become entrenched through generations of misuse, and it is continued unthinkingly by nurseries worldwide.

As a final aside, names that look like species binomials are sometimes used for groups of hybrids. For example, hybrids of I. domestica and I. dichotoma are referred to as Iris ´norrisii, and Iris ´hollandica may be used for Dutch Irises. Note that the "´" is a necessary part of these names. Furthermore, the Latin name for the hybrid group should never be identical to the name of some particular species.

Be wary of these widespread but incorrect uses of botanical names. They not only make it difficult to identify plants correctly but also add to a general confusion concerning the hybrid nature of popular groups of garden irises.

Pronouncing Botanical Latin: a Personal Perspective

By Tom Waters

No One Knows How To Say It

As a passionate student of both horticulture and language, this is a subject I have strong interest in. If you search the web (or a library) looking for guidance on how to pronounce a particular Latin name, you will quickly find an array of conflicting recommendations. You are also likely to see such recommendations prefaced by a remark such as the following (no, I cannot bear to link to this site):

Relax! The good news is there is NO "correct" way to pronounce them! You may pronounce them any way you wish, and you will be just as "correct" as any Ph.D. botanist. So have confidence, and just say them however feels comfortable to you. Anyone who corrects you is only showing their own ignorance, and the correct response is to just smile and say "Yes, that's what I said, (and repeat the name as you pronounced it before).

In my experience, the more strident the assertion that there is no correct pronunciation, the more scattered and arbitrary the pronunciation advice that follows. Still, the sentiment above has been expressed in milder form by a number of respected writers knowledgeable in botanical Latin, including the modern pontiff on the subject, W. T. Stearn:

How they are pronounced really matters little provided they sound pleasant and are understood by all concerned...

Now one can hardly take exception to the pragmatic assertion that the purpose of language is to communicate, and if one is communicating successfully, there is no cause for anxiety or concern. Yet it strikes me as odd that people writing about the pronunciation of botanical names so often feel obliged to include such a disclaimer. Writers on other disciplines do not. When was the last time you read a chemistry text that reassured students with "You can say OX-i-gen, ox-EYE-gen, or OH-zee-gen, and they are all correct!"

From the standpoint of linguistics, which regards the spoken language as primary and the written language as secondary, it is quite a strange circumstance that a community of speakers would not know how to say the words they use. How did this come about?

A Little History of Latin as Spoken in England

Long after the fall of the Roman Empire, Latin remained the lingua franca of Europe, particularly among the learned. Although it ceased to be a native language, it did not cease to be a spoken language. Even into the nineteenth century, classically educated people in Europe would converse in Latin, as well as writing and reading it. Because the language was in continuous use, its pronunciation changed with the locale and the era, as does the pronunciation of any language. Especially significant were the changes that occurred in England. During the Middle English period, English experienced what is known as "the great vowel shift", which dramatically changed the sounds of the long vowels: A went from "ah" to "ay", E from "eh" to "ee", and I from "ee" to "eye". Thus Old English mis (pronounced "mees") became Modern English mice. Keep in mind that this shift in pronunciation was not something people were conscious of; it happened gradually over several generations. The older pronunciations were forgotten. And the change carried the pronunciation of Latin words with it. So as "mees" changed to "mice", so linum (Latin for "flax") changed from "LEE-num" to "LYE-num". (Of course, there have been many other changes in English pronunciation between when the Romans introduced Latin to England and the present day, but these are some of the most pertinent for the present discussion.) Other pronunciation changes were happening all over Europe, so that Latin as pronounced in England was different from Latin as pronounced in Germany, which was different again from Latin as pronounced in France.

As many of our modern sciences blossomed from the seventeenth century onward, they took their terminology from Latin. Botany was no exception: following Linnaeus's system of binomial nomenclature, every species was assigned a genus name and species name, both in Latin form (although the root words from which these names were formed were often Greek or from some other language). In England, these Latin (or Latinized) names were all pronounced as Latin was pronounced in England at the time. There was at this time no disagreement over the pronunciation of words in Latin. Even those constructed on Greek roots were easy to pronounce for anyone with a classical education (just as people of our generation knew how to pronounce "internet" when the word first appeared, since although it was a new word it was made up of familiar components.) Furthermore, many technical terms were adopted straight from Latin into English, with perhaps only a minor change in form. Many of these borrowings from Latin are transparent to us today: area, species, orbit, formula, momentum.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Open Your Mouth...

By the late nineteenth century, linguists had worked out, based on careful study of ancient sources and comparisons between the various Romance languages, how Latin was actually pronounced in the classical era of Caesar and Cicero. Latin began to be taught according to this reconstructed classical pronunciation, rather than the English pronunciation that had been familiar up to that time. This was a positive change in terms of appreciating the previously forgotten sounds of the ancient language, but it gave rise to problems in using the Latin or Latinized technical vocabulary of the sciences. In most cases, the traditional English pronunciation was retained, as the words had already become quite familiar. Thus species remained "SPEE-sheez" (the traditional English pronunciation), rather than becoming "SPEK-ee-ess" (the classical pronunciation).

Note: I've come across a few references that erroneously use the word "traditional" to refer to the reconstructed classical pronunciation of Latin. In this context, the word "traditional" does not mean "oldest", but instead refers to what has been handed down through tradition (with changes along the way), rather than what has been reconstructed by linguists studying ancient Latin.

But for words less often encountered, such as the names of lesser-known genera and species, English speakers after 1900 were left in a state of uncertainty. The traditional English pronunciation was no longer being taught, and fewer people had any instruction in Latin at all. So from the 20th century on, people encountering a Latin species name for the first time would either (1) use the traditional English pronunciation if they could infer it from the pronunciation of similar names they had actually heard spoken, (2) use the classical Latin pronunciation if they had learned this in school or from books, or (3) make something up. You will find all of these approaches evidenced in the pronunciation guides now in circulation, almost always mixed together without much attempt at consistency.

Botany (or biology, more broadly speaking), I think, has suffered worse from this confusion than the other sciences that make use of Latin terms, simply because we have so many names to contend with (many of which will be encountered in writing before they are ever heard), rather than a manageable set of technical terms whose pronunciation is reinforced by use in conversation. It is small wonder that writers on the subject have given up trying to maintain a pronunciation system that is shared by all.

OK. Now What?

So what is one to do, assuming that one is actually interested in pronouncing the names in a way that has some basis in linguistic tradition, rather than just arbitrary guesswork? For me, it comes down to two viable choices: (1) use the traditional English pronunciation, or (2) use a mixture of the traditional and classical systems, informed and tempered by the practices of people you converse with.

Why not just use the classical pronunciations exclusively? Surely this has the best claim to being the "real" pronunciation of Latin. The reason is that many plant names have become familiar in their traditional English pronunciation, and they are here to stay. Iris itself is a perfect example. The classical pronunciation is "EE-ris". Try this at your next local iris society meeting or at your local nursery and see how it goes. Many other examples are easy to come by. Who is going to talk of "gair-AH-ni-ums" instead of "jer-AY-ni-ums"? "SAY-dum" instead of "SEE-dum"? "nar-KISS-us" instead of "nar-SISS-us"? (If you do adopt a consistently classical pronunciation, though, you will come closer to the way many non-English speakers pronounce the names.)

My own inclination is to use the traditional English pronunciation, up to the point where it isolates me from contemporary practice in my area. An example is the term plicata, which is "pli-KAH-ta" classically and "pli-KAY-ta" traditionally. In North America, at least, I don't ever expect to hear the latter as the name for the familiar iris color pattern - or the pseudo-species for which it was named. I will, however, say "re-tik-yoo-LAY-ta", "flor-en-TYE-na", and "hoog-i-AY-na", even though I often hear "ret-tik-yoo-LAH-ta", "flor-en-TEE-na", and "hoog-i-ANN-a". The traditional English pronunciations have several advantages. We can use English words borrowed from Latin as a pronunciation guide (alpine helps us pronounce alpinus, albino helps us pronounce albinus, variegated helps us pronounce variegata, etc.) It also provides a consistency that reinforces the pronunciation of common elements in different names, and thus makes new names easier to pronounce when you encounter them. Finally, it connects us to the English-speaking botanists and gardeners of the past, who knew no other way to pronounce Latin. W. R. Dykes and Sir Michael Foster are excellent company, in my view.

If you mix traditional and classical pronunciations (provided you get your mix from listening to others, rather than randomly), then your choices are less likely to stand out in your locality, and will probably come closer to what people in your area would expect, having encountered the names only in writing. 

Etiquette

Just in case anyone should interpret the above to imply that I'm some kind of obsessive pronunciation enforcement officer, have no fear. It is bad manners to correct anyone's pronunciation, particularly in an area where informed people can and do have different preferences. My approach is to respect others' informed choices, to encourage struggling beginners (it's much more important that they want to talk about iris species at all than that they pronounce them well), and to work to inform myself as best I can, so that I can be a resource to others if asked. In my experience the oft-cited unpleasantness of people correcting each other's pronunciation is a rarity.

An Anecdote in Three Parts

Let me conclude with a story of one iris name and its pronunciation, spanning several decades. When I was a teenager, I was already interested in Latin and knew its (classical) pronunciation rules. In one of our iris society round robins (a sort of pre-internet discussion group, conducted through the quaint media of paper, typewriters, and envelopes), the question came up of how to pronounce Iris pseudacorus. I asserted that pseuda- meant "false" and that I didn't know whether corus had a long or short o in Latin, which would determine which syllable to stress. Bee Warburton, one of the iris world's luminaries, patiently explained that there is plant called Acorus, the sweet flag, that the prefix pseudo- lost its -o- in the compound, and that Acorus is stressed on the first syllable. So the pronunciation can only be "sood-ACK-or-us". It was my first encounter with the names as living words, words that could be understood if you knew about the plants as well as the language.

Recently, while attending an open house at an amazing display garden in my area, someone remarked on irises growing in a watercourse, and asked if they were Louisianas. The garden owner said they were not, but could not recall the name. He said they were the fleur-de-lis. Being helpful, I suggested pseudacorus. Because I was stressing the a instead of the o, he didn't recognize my suggestion as being the same as the name he had read in books. I mention this because it provides a cautionary note to the oft-repeated advice to "say it however you like, people will understand". There are some advantages to using a shared pronunciation.

Finally, out of curiosity, I decided to try to verify Warburton's assertion that the a is stressed, and that it is short. Internet searches quickly revealed many web sites stating with authority that the pronunciation is "sood-AY-cor-us", many others stating with authority that it is "sood-ACK-or-us", plenty holding out for "sood-a-COR-us", and one lone site with enough honesty (or bewilderment) to offer a choice of pronunciations. None of them provided the etymology in enough detail that I could verify the vowel lengths in either Latin or Greek. In this research game, you soon find that the older the source, the more reliable, consistent, and informed it is likely to be. If you can get back to the nineteenth century, any book you find is likely to be written by someone who actually knew some Latin and Greek, and who had a good idea what the words meant and how they had been adapted. Sure enough, I eventually came upon A Manual of Scientific Terms: Pronouncing, Etymological, and Explanatory; Chiefly Comprising Terms in Botany, Natural History, Anatomy, Medicine, and Veterinary Science: with an Appendix of Specific Names, by the Reverend James Stormonth (1885, digitized by Google), wherein I learned that all three vowels are short in Greek akoros as well as in Latin acorus. Bee was right all along. Not that I doubted that.

Footnote: -oides

One often finds, in pronunciation guides that are informed and careful, the advice that this ending, common in plant names, should be pronounced "oh-EYE-deez". The reasoning is sound: -ides comes from Greek -eidos, "resembling", with the -o- as a connective. Thus the i is long, and the short o is separate from it. Yet strangely, I kept encountering venerable and reliable sources suggesting it be pronounced "OY-deez". Why should that be? I learned that in the traditional English pronunciation of Latin, when two vowels are in hiatus, the first usually became long. Furthermore, oi is a diphthong in Anglo-Latin, though an uncommon one. Since most of the words with this ending are coined technical terms, not natural borrowings into Latin from Greek, early speakers of scientific Latin in England may have had some latitude in pronunciation, whether to regard the -oi- as a diphthong or not. In the cases where a coined Latin word with this ending was borrowed fully into English (asteroid being a prime example), the -oi- was pronounced as a diphthong. "OY-deez" is certainly more natural for English speakers than the trisyllabic alternative.

Interesting factoid.

Understanding Iris Descriptions

by Tom Waters

If you've spent some time looking for information about particular irises, you've probably encountered something like this, which I've copied from the American Iris Society (AIS) online Iris Encyclopedia:

'Montmartre' ( Keith Keppel, R. 2007). Seedling 01-49B. TB, 33" (84 cm), Early thru midseason bloom. Standards greyed red-purple (M&P 45-J-5), 1/4" straw yellow (10-F-2) edge; style arms straw to reed yellow (10-I-1), midrib flushed red purple; Falls velvety dark red purple, darker and brighter than raisin purple (54-B-12), narrow oyster white (10-B-1) edge, inner haft lemon (9-L-2), white around beard; beards chrome yellow (9-L-7), white and lemon at end. 99-61A: (96-11D, sibling to 'Moonlit Water' x 'New Leaf') X 'High Master'. Keppel 2008. Honorable Mention 2010, Award of Merit 2012, Wister Medal 2014.

Most of this text is from the official description of the variety as published by the AIS. The information is presented in a standardized order and format. Even unofficial descriptions, as you might find in catalogs or other publications, tend to follow this format to some extent, although usually somewhat simplified.

This is a rather intimidating mass of text for the novice iris enthusiast to process. In this post, I will step through it all one piece at a time, explaining what it all means and sharing some interesting background information along the way.

The first portion is this: "'Montmartre' ( Keith Keppel, R. 2007)." 'Montmartre' is the name of the iris; Keith Keppel is the person who created it, and 2007 is the year it was registered ("R.") with the AIS.

Registration is the process by which a new iris is assigned a unique name. Why is this necessary? Can't the person who breeds a new iris just call it whatever he or she feels like? That was essentially the state of affairs in the nineteenth century, when nursery businesses devoted to ornamental plants were coming into their own. The result was a great deal of confusion. Different plants were being sold under the same name, and some plants were being sold under more than one name. Furthermore, plants were sometimes given names that looked like botanical names but were not. The bring order out of chaos, an international system for naming cultivated plants was created. This is the International Code of Nomenclature for Cultivated Plants (ICNCP). The code includes rules about what form a name may take (it can't look like a botanical species name, for example, cannot be excessively long, or be just a descriptive word like "yellow"). For many types of ornamental plants, the ICNCP rules are implemented through a designated International Cultivar Registration Authority. For all irises except those that grow from bulbs, the registration authority is the AIS. So it is the role of the AIS to ensure that new irises are named according to the rules, and that each name is officially assigned to a single particular cultivar.

(The world "cultivar", coined from the phrase "cultivated variety", is the technically correct term for a unique plant. Although the term "variety" is often used, that word has a different meaning to botanists.)

Cultivar names are enclosed in single quotes, according to the ICNCP. There was an older practice of printing iris cultivar names in capitals, which you may still encounter from time to time.

So 'Montmartre' was registered with the AIS by Keith Keppel, the hybridizer who created it, in 2007. The person who registers an iris is usually the hybridizer who made the cross that produced it, but this is not always the case. One can register a particular or distinctive form of an iris species found in the wild or raised from collected seed with no deliberate cross-pollination involved. In this case, the person who registers the cultivar is just the person who has grown the plant and decided it should be named. It also sometimes happens that one person selects the plant to be registered, even though the cross that produced it was made by someone else. For example, 'Brown Lasso' resulted from a cross made by Gene Buckles, whose seedlings were passed on to David Niswonger when he died. So it was Niswonger who registered 'Brown Lasso' on behalf of the deceased hybridizer. The registration for this iris reads as follows:

'Brown Lasso' ( Eugene Buckles by David Niswonger, selector. R. 1972).

There is no requirement that the person who made the original cross be acknowledged in this fashion, but it is a commonly observed courtesy. 

It also sometimes happens that an iris has been in circulation for many years, without ever being registered, and an iris society or knowledgeable individual may step in and register it, so that its name can be officially recorded with a proper description.

I sometimes encounter people who are under the impression that registration somehow implies that the iris is deemed worthy by the AIS, or "approved" to be sold. This is not the case. The AIS does not make any judgment on the merits of the cultivars that are registered. The sole purpose of registration is simply to officially assign a name to a cultivar.

The next part of the description of 'Montmartre' is

Seedling 01-49B. TB, 33" (84 cm), Early thru midseason bloom.

First comes the hybridizer's seedling number. Hybridizers usually raise so many seedlings that they use numbers to keep track of them until a few are selected to be named. There is no standard format for numbering seedlings; each hybridizer has his or her own system. Why is this number included in the official description? It seems superfluous once a name has been chosen. One reason is that the iris may have been used for breeding, and referred to by number in a pedigree, before being registered. It also helps people in the future interpret the hybridizer's breeding records. Furthermore, the iris may have been grown and seen under its seedling number, for example at an iris convention, and this lets everyone know that this new iris is the same one they admired (or detested) when they saw it earlier.

TB stands for "tall bearded". Each class of iris has its own abbreviation. Next follows the height in inches and centimeters. The height of an iris can vary considerably, even in one garden, and much more so if grown in different climates and soils. So the height figure is best taken with a grain of salt.

Next comes the season of bloom ("Early through midseason"). You may also see the bloom season expressed in abbreviations: E-M, in this example. Bloom season is not referred to calendar dates, because that changes enormously from one climate to another, and even from year to year. Rather, it is expressed relative to other irises of the same type. So in this case, we know that 'Montmartre' starts blooming somewhat earlier than most TBs and continues blooming into the middle of TB season. These designations are always relative to the type of iris involved, so a standard dwarf bearded (SDB) iris with midseason bloom means it blooms in the middle of SDB season, even though this may be a month or so before TBs bloom.

Next comes the color description, which is often the longest part. The standards (upper petals) are described first, followed by the falls (lower petals, which technically are sepals). In this particular description, you will notice alphanumeric codes being used to describe the colors. There are a number of different color charts published by various individuals and organizations to help identify colors more precisely than common language can do. In this case, the system being used is that of Maerz and Paul (note the "M&P" given the first time a code appears in the description). Other color systems often encountered are RHS (Royal Horticultural Society) and Ridgeway. If you have access to the specified published color chart, you can consult it to see precisely which colors are referred to in the description. There is an important caveat, though: colors can vary depending on soil and weather and the age of the bloom. So the precision implied by using a color chart is somewhat illusory.

The M&P color system used in this description also assigns English names to colors, and these are used in the description ("reed yellow", "raisin purple", and so on). These sometimes strike me as rather too fanciful to be useful without consulting the color chart, but they can convey some general distinctions. (I think we all have a sense of how straw yellow differs from lemon yellow, for example).

One is not required to use a published color chart when describing an iris, and many hybridizers do not. In recent years, the AIS has been collecting photographs along with the registration descriptions, which is a wonderful development. A picture is indeed worth a thousand words. A photograph is not required, however, just encouraged.

At the end of the description comes the parentage, or pedigree, of the iris. The pod parent is given first, then a large X, then the pollen parent. These may be named cultivars, or seedlings identified by number, parentage, or both. The parentage can sometimes be dauntingly complex if the hybridizer has been using their own seedlings for many generations.

Let's untangle this particular parentage, which is fairly easy as such things go. First look for the large X that separates the two parents. We can see right away that the pollen parent is 'High Master'. What about the pod parent? It is this:

99-61A: (96-11D, sibling to 'Moonlit Water' x 'New Leaf')

The pod parent is a seedling numbered 99-61A. (Since no other hybridizer is indicated, this is one of Keith Keppel's own seedlings.) That seedling's parentage is given inside the parentheses, after the colon. Its pollen parent is 'New Leaf' and its pod parent is another seedling, 96-11D, which we are told is a sibling to 'Moonlit Water'. So if we want to know that seedling's parentage, we can look in the description of 'Moonlit Water' (siblings have the same parentage, by definition.) Why refer to it that way? Why not just give its parentage? In this case, it is an enormous space saver. Look up the parentage of 'Moonlit Water' and you'll see what I mean!

Sometimes you will see a description that says "parentage unknown", or lists a pollen parent as unknown. When the pollen parent is unknown, it could be that the cross was made by insects, rather than the hybridizer. (These are often referred to as "bee pods".) This is not always the case, however. Particularly when the entire parentage is unknown, it is likely to be a case of an intentional cross with lost of confused records.

Following the parentage, we see "Keppel 2008". What is this? We already saw at the beginning that the iris was registered by Keppel in 2007. This last bit of information is the record of introduction. "Introduction" is short for "introduced into commerce" and refers to when and by whom the iris was first offered for sale to the public. In this case, Keith Keppel sells his irises himself, so we just see his name and the year 2008. It is rather common for an iris to be registered in one year and first offered for sale in the following year, although the gap can be longer, or an iris can be introduced the same year it is registered. If the iris were introduced by a commercial garden, it is the name of the garden that is used. For example, Mid-America Garden introduces irises bred by Paul Black and Thomas Johnson.

Why is introduction important? One reason is that where and when an iris is introduced determines its eligibility for AIS awards. (AIS awards are given only to cultivars introduced in North America, and the year of introduction determines when an iris becomes eligible for awards. The AIS does not recognize an iris as having been introduced until the person who registered it sends evidence of introduction to the registrar.

In fact, the year of introduction is so important that when an iris is referred to in text, the hybridizer and year of introduction are often given in parentheses following the name: 'Montmartre' (Keppel, 2008).

Can an iris be registered and not introduced? Indeed. Registration, remember, is just the official assignment of the name to the plant; it does not imply anything about whether the iris should or will be offered for sale. The hybridizer might lose the plant, decide not to sell it, or be unable to sell it for some reason.

Conversely, there are irises (mostly older ones) that have been introduced into commerce but never registered. The ICNCP is not a legally binding set of rules, nor does the AIS have any legal standing to require irises to be registered before they are sold (although an iris must be properly registered to be eligible for AIS awards). So there have been iris hybridizers (mostly in past eras, and mostly working outside the US) who did not bother with registering their creations before selling them.

Finally, at the very end, is a list of the awards the iris has received: in this case, Honorable Mention, Award of Merit, and the Wister Medal.

I hope this post has given some insight into the nuances and complexities of iris descriptions. If you have any questions, please ask in the comments below, and I will do my best to answer!