And speaking of scary combinations that I myself caused to happen:
Here's a somewhat-pink daylily, Dora Carey, blooming with bullet-proof enthusiasm as always.
So far so good, except that I planted it next to a truly-pink indigo...
...whose flowers patiently show Dora was "pink" is really supposed to be.
Which is not pink-ish. That, I now get, is actually apricot. Pale but fervent, virgin but looking for action, apricot is the problem child of colors. It doesn't go with pink. Or with the orange and red in a red garden either. Or with yellow, which is what I have everywhere else.  Plant it anyway—you know you want to—and it just gets into trouble.
(Yes, it goes with blue, burgundy, white, green, and grey. But I don't (yet?) I have a garden that is just BBWG&G. Pink or red or yellow are always part of the picture.)
I already do, now that I think of it, have a few other apricot-colored flowers in the garden. (You'll see my hardy Boone gladiolus soon.) And they don't go with anything around them either. Maybe the solution is an apricot bed, off by itself, so all the apricots can play together in peace. There are plenty of peonies and roses and quince and coneflowers to add.  Apricots too?  The literal fruit tree?
Right-colored fruit.  But what about those flowers?  Does the actual apricot itself have apricot-colored flowers? Pink or white, thank you. But white is the Little Black Dress of colors. So OK, a white-flowered apricot too.

If Giacometti had designed perennials instead of sculpture,
this would be one of his greatest:
Asian burnet is so distinctive, to elongatedly elegant, that I have it right by the path to my back door: It's a star, worthy of such prime real estate. Strong straight-arrow, nearly leafless flower stems shoot up almost five feet.
They filigree the foreground, so are the perfect front detail to embellish long-distance views.
The leaves themselves are almost all at the base, and they are a narrow ferny bunch. (The latin is Sanguisorba tenuifolia, where tenuifolia means, literally, "narrow leaves". Think "tenui" like "tenuous" or "attenuated": all mean, one way or another, narrow, thin, stretched.)

The quirky pendant bottle-brush flowers are the Dr. Seuss touch.
Intriguing and even comical, they are the dancing levity atop all this startlingly-severe and anorexic geometry.
Normally in burgundy, pink, or red, this white-flowered form keeps elegance at least in coloring if not in habit. As with all the burnets, tangential pollinators like flies and small wasps are the chosen few, not the usual mainstream bees. Even here, then, the perennial is proud in its iconoclasm.