studio_bleuetorange — LEAH LAPALME

Bridging human spaces

and natural habitats

In order to live, humans need spaces for rest, work, and commerce. To provide these, we have built various types of architecture, often accompanied by exterior areas around the buildings. We tended to treat exterior spaces without much thought, covering them with grass fields and scattered trees. However, if we were to transform exterior spaces into shared habitats with the native species that lived there before us, perhaps we could help, even slightly, in protecting biodiversity against the pressures of endless human expansion.

“Back in 2020, I bought my first home in a newly built residential project.”

At the time, I had neither a clear idea nor any intention yet of how to use the empty backyard.
My understanding of gardening was basic: sow a seed, cover it with soil, water it, and it would grow. So, I just laid grass all over. The first year, I was pleased. I liked the green, and it looked good enough. But as the years passed, I began to notice something: one or two unfamiliar, uninvited plants started to appear. My first thought was, “These must be weeds. I should get rid of them.”

But then a new thought emerged: “Isn’t this what early ecological succession looks like?” Annuals and perennials returning to disturbed ground—much like what happens when a forest is stripped away. After all, before my house was built, this was a forest. I wondered what kind of plants these were, so I allowed them to grow. I took some of them and put them in a separate plant pot to observe. After a while, they bloomed, revealing flowers with countless fine white petals surrounding a vibrant yellow center! It was an annual plant native to this region. I was truly surprised. Why had I tried to get rid of it? I could certainly invite this into my backyard! I had called it a weed simply because it wasn’t something I had chosen. That shift in thinking changed everything. I began looking around. Under my deck, unnoticed and reaching for light, were plants I didn’t know the names of, simply wishing to grow.
There were 'Heal-all' with a small tower of fuchsia blooms; 'Prairie violet', its petals opening outward, the color deepening to purple at the lower lip; and 'Wood sorrel' with five dainty yellow petals. That shaded patch beneath the deck slowly transformed into a quiet, spontaneous blend of native flowers and a few naturalized plants.

Through this experience, I realized I should make some flower beds, not just a lawn. But as a beginner, I chose to start gradually, beginning with five percent of the yard. Furthermore, I started thinking about what kinds of buildings and surrounding spaces might invite local species and support a healthy ecosystem—approaching it not just as my property, but as a place meant to be shared with what was here before.

studio_bleu et orange began with these ideas in mind. It’s where I share what I’ve learned about native plants in eastern North America, mainly around Quebec, Canada. I present garden concepts that move away from monoculture lawns toward layered, varied plant compositions, and explore how these plants shape a thriving web of life, observing which other living beings come to visit. As part of this practice, five percent of every purchase you make will be donated to conservation NGOs dedicated to restoring ecosystems and protecting wildlife.

Bring Life
to Your Space

With petals of deep violet that seem to glow against the tundra and alpine stone, this flower is among the first to bloom in the Arctic spring. The purple saxifrage shows that resilience is not just a trait but a role. It sustains pollinators, builds soil, anchors fragile ecosystems, and marks the return of life in places where survival is measured in millimeters and minutes of sunlight.
Its brilliance lies not only in its color, but in the quiet, essential work it performs in a landscape few others dare to inhabit.

When spring warms the soil, the tawny mining bee emerges—small, vivid, and vital. She lives alone, digging tunnels in sunny soil where she stores pollen and nectar. Above ground, she pollinates early blooms like willows and fruit trees, supporting ecosystems and food webs. Though solitary, she nests in groups, never swarming or stinging unless handled. Her presence signals healthy land. Yet threats like habitat loss and pesticides endanger her. She asks little—bare earth, spring flowers, no chemicals—and gives back the quiet labor that sustains life.

Beneath Indo-Pacific waves, the magnificent sea anemone anchors life on the reef. Though it looks like a vibrant marine flower, it is predator, host, and partner. Its tentacles sting prey, yet shelter clownfish in a mutual bond—protection for nutrients. Within its tissues, photosynthetic algae provide energy in nutrient-poor waters. Wherever it thrives, biodiversity gathers. But warming seas and pollution now threaten this fragile system. The anemone is not just beautiful—it is essential, sustaining reef life through balance and cooperation.