Anyone with a passing knowledge of art history is familiar with the acanthus plant, whether they know it or not. The acanthus leaf, broad and serrated, is the decorative motif on the capital of the classical Corinthian column, more ornate than the simpler Doric and Ionic orders that came before it. The Corinthian style is said to have originated with a Greek architect and sculptor named Callimachus, who worked in the 5th century BCE, the pinnacle of classical Greek culture. Callimachus was apparently inspired by a votive basket filled with acanthus leaves that had been placed on a young girl’s tomb in the Greek city-state of Corinth. He worked in Athens and in Corinth, from which the order takes its name.

Classical Greek and Roman forms are a primary foundation of Western architecture to this day. Indeed, the classical influence is so ubiquitous that it’s easy not to notice it. Corinthian columns grace many significant public buildings including the U.S. Capitol, the Library of Congress and Thomas Jefferson’s rotunda at the University of Virginia, where I was a student guide many years ago.

I had never seen a live acanthus plant until last week, when I saw one at my friend Nicola’s garden in Amherst. It sits in a partially shady border flanked by ferns and astilbe. The plant was in full bloom, its narrow stalks rising to about 24 inches above a lush rosette of spiky green leaves. “Could that be an acanthus?” I exclaimed. Nicola, a professor of art history at Amherst College, confirmed that it was, and told me that a friend of hers from New York had given it to her several years ago because of her interest in classical architecture.

Acanthus is native to the Mediterranean area. It takes its name from the Greek word akantha, which means spike or thorn. Greek myth has it that the god Apollo was besotted with a beautiful young nymph named Akantha and turned her into a spiky plant to discourage attention from other suitors. Harsh!

The acanthus is traditionally associated with immortality and was often used in funerary rituals. Various parts of the plant were also believed to have medicinal properties. Crushed leaves were ground to make a poultice for scalds, burns, abscesses and other wounds. The leaves and roots were also ground and taken as an anti-inflammatory, diuretic and analgesic. It was said to relieve irritations in the digestive and urinary tracts. Acanthus is not known for its tastiness, but I did find a recipe on the internet for Khoresht-eKangar, a Persian spring stew of acanthus shoots, lamb and assorted herbs and spices. According to my son Tommy, a scholar of Persian culture, Kangar is the Persian word for acanthus, although it literally translates as “spear thistle.” The recipe writer claims that acanthus has lots of potassium and is beneficial to digestion. (If you’re curious, the website is yummology.com.)

Acanthus also goes by the name “bear’s breeches.” Why, I don’t know. If bears wore pants, they wouldn’t look anything like acanthus. Because of its association with ancient Greece I had always assumed that it only grew in milder climates. But it turns out that not all acanthus species are so sensitive. While A. mollis grows only in USDA zones 7-10, the species A. spinosus is the hardiest species and is comfortable in zone 5. The plant, whose flower stalks can reach four feet in height, is known to spread aggressively in areas with mild winters.

A. spinosus, the species in Nicola’s garden, is the showier of the two species. Its stalks bear small, slightly drooping pale pink flowers enclosed by large leaf-like bracts; the lower bract is silver with green veins, the upper is a deep lavender. The overall effect is stunning. One nursery catalog I consulted described the flowers as “prehistoric looking,” but to me they look like Goth snapdragons.

I discovered that a fellow garden club member who lives in Leverett also has a thriving acanthus spinosus blooming on the south side of her house. She told me she’s had it for about 10 years, during which time it has multiplied happily. Given the plant’s hardiness in our area, we agreed that it’s surprising how few people grow them. “I’ve always assumed that people don’t like them because they’re weird things,” she said, “but I like weird things!”

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If you’re wanting to add something dramatic and different — or just plain weird — to your garden, try an acanthus spinosus. It’s sure to turn heads.

Mickey Rathbun is an Amherst-based writer whose new book, “The Real Gatsby: George Gordon Moore, A Granddaughter’s Memoir,” has recently been published by White River Press.