Tag Archives: Chanticleer

Paths of Enlightenment

Like Tolstoy’s happy families, all gardens are alike … fundamentally. Of course, the Humes Stroll Garden would never be mistaken for, say, Dumbarton Oaks; and no one is going to be taken, blindfolded, to Chanticleer, have the mask removed, and think that he is in Bellefield. Size, style, history, level of theatricality – all these vary from one setting to another. But the building blocks are the same: a swath of land, designated and designed planting areas, and a ribbon or network of walkways to get you to things and around the place. It’s the similarities that define “garden”; it’s the differences that define “art” and “memorable.”

Of the elements that make up gardens, the one most overlooked and kicked around, literally, is the walkway. And, yet, it can be as vital to the entire garden-appreciation experience as the choice of perennials or the water feature. Where you view something and the way you move about it can be as intrinsic to pleasure and understanding as what is viewed: too close, too far, wrong angle, too high, too low, confusing circulation, too authoritarian a mandated traffic pattern – whether noticeably or subtly, all are ruiners.

But, even taking these characteristics into consideration and doing them smartly and well, most gardens we’ve been to – and we’ve just returned from a journey to some snazzy ones – seem to give little or no thought to what the walkways are made of. Gravel or cement, asphalt or mulch, or whatever, little preferential effort – beyond the imperative to keep visitors from stumbling over chunks of things – appears to have been  invested in garden-path design. If anything, sometimes you can see ecological philosophy at work – permeable surface vs. non, natural material vs. manmade – but not much more.

Everything counts, god is in the details, blah, blah, blah. We all know this, or have been told it. But the walkway in a garden? Who cares, right? It’s only the flowers and plants and trees that matter, no? Nobody goes to a garden to see the paths. A path is just “there,” not there to note.

But what a lost opportunity for added expression, distinctive identity and artfulness of place. I will not, I know, hold in memory for long the patches of green and colors that we walked through at Thuya Garden and the nearby and related Abby Aldrich Rockefeller Garden, both on the ritzy south shore of Mt. Desert Island, Maine, beautiful though they were. What I will remember, and what I can see, vividly, in my mind’s eye even now, are the sculptural rakings of the crushed stone that makes up the gardens’ hardscape. 

Early in the morning, before visitors arrive, a worker rakes the narrow paths in a way that would please and even elicit admiration from a Japanese garden’s master artist. At Thuya, especially, the sweetly crafted but nearly imperceptible patterns vary from place to place: here, serpentine; there, herringbone; beyond, cross-hatch – and variations and combinations of those, and others. More: Once one notices the path art, it is already too late to avoid destroying it – you see the beautifully rendered squiggles and geometry now obliterated by your shoeprints, and you feel like a criminal, a defiler. But you also know that the path art is, like most earthworks, like much of the work of an Andy Goldsworthy, for example, designed to be ephemeral, to fade and disappear with time and the vagaries of nature … and the unthinking perambulations of man.

(A parenthetical here: One would be incredibly remiss if, in this discussion, he did not mention the notable efforts evident in Robert Dash’s wonderful Madoo Conservancy, in Sagaponack, New York – an elegant, whimsical one-off of an artist-fashioned garden highlighted by its paths composed of varied, surprising and unlikely materials. Perhaps our eye towards the importance of paths in a garden was opened in our visit to this Long Island landmark.)

This path art is so easy to be unaware of as one focuses on the flora – why look down? We rarely do, and especially if we’ve come a great distance to look up – and, yet, it is that extra something, that act that says that everything counts, that makes that garden a more magical place … that is a key ingredient in the formulation of its placeness. Not an accessory, but integral; more than a pleasant surprise at a casual gift, but an imperative relationship. Man’s intellectual beauty paired with and enhancing the natural. Arslocii.

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Farrand and Sears: Spirit of Site

From what we at arslocii have witnessed, great landscape architecture can create placeness – a feeling and unique spirit of a site. There are two particular, noteworthy practitioners, sadly gone from this Earth who, based on visual supporting evidence, had a most rare ability of creating site-specific placeness. As amazing as it is, they were contemporaries, and both attended Harvard for their studies. They might even have been rivals for commissions – but, no matter which of the two was chosen to design an estate, garden, or public park, it was a win-win for the person doing the hiring. Both have left remarkable memorials of their prowess.

The two notables are Beatrix Jones Farrand and Thomas Warren Sears, designers of the highest order who are remembered by some, but not enough. Landscape architects, even currently, don’t get the kind of status that architects do, and back in the founding days of the profession the praise and honor was probably more scarce. Lucky for us, there is some scattered evidence of the genius of these two in sites along the East Coast, showing their different approaches but their shared sensibility to place and place-making. (There is also a third practitioner of note, who left his marks on the western landscape, Thomas Dolliver Church, but we will discuss him another time.)

So, what is it that these luminaries were able to do to rise above mere garden design? And why do their designs remain, largely intact, as places worth protecting? They were, both of them, skilled in combining materials with the landscape and creating something greater than the two parts, forming a living, breathing combination that has an inevitability. A bit of artfulness and science, alchemical and nearly godlike. And we believe that it comes from an extraordinary sensitivity – to seeing what is there, to knowing what is possible, and sensing how far is far enough, of allowing the materials and the site to be as one, of being craftsmanlike but knowing when nature does it better – a fine balancing of ego and egolessness. And that’s just the starting point.

It is hard to speak in generalizations about their works because each effort is unique and, alas, we have not seen all examples. However, we have seen enough to be awestruck. The works that we have had the privilege to behold have been jaw-dropping, holy places – places that might appear at first to have just sprung from the ground, although logically that could not have happened, but they have that kind of impact and presence and integration. Places that, when you leave them, have left you changed. A mentor of Ms. Farrand’s told her that the plan should fit the ground, and that one should never attempt to change the ground for the plan. Good advice. Mr. Sears must have had a similar concept, considering that he was also a landscape photographer.

So what have we seen by these two artists? From the mind and desk of Ms. Farrand: Bellefield, Princeton’s Wyman House, the long driveway at The Mount and Dumbarton Oaks. We have also, unknowingly, enjoyed the benefit of her work at Yale and the University of Chicago, and other sections of the Princeton campus. As for Mr. Sears’ contributions: the back terrace and fountain at Chanticleer, the swimming pool at Chanticleer, original designs for Mt. Cuba and the Scott Outdoor Amphitheater at Swarthmore College. Any one of these projects could be a candidate for a lifetime-achievement award, but the lists go on.

Using a common palette of materials, the designs are uncommon. The references to classicism are present but with a modern swagger. The work is of a time and yet timeless in its effect. Sometimes it is the simplicity and, in other situations, it is the details that bring it all to life. Enhancement, decoration, interpretation, visionary splendor, harmony, seduction, arslocii.

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Cultivating Our Garden

Gardens, no matter their size or consequence, create a sense of place. Just the act of establishing a garden is one of place-making, stake-claiming and root-setting. And although most gardens are made up of pretty much the same elements, the arrangement of those elements is what makes each one unique. Then, going beyond unique, there are gardens with an eye for something special – making placeness out of a place.

For us urbanites, finding enough land and available sunlight in a concrete-covered environment is not easy. Thankfully, community gardens – like the one we’re members of, just up the block – have appeared, rising from the dead on weed-filled, unwanted, unusable or simply unused and abandoned dumping grounds. A remarkable thing is how forgiving abused land and nature can be, given half a chance. A community garden already has a sense of place as reclamation, it having been rescued from a state of neglect and nurtured into one of care and reuse. Usually fenced, giving it the status of a place apart, the community garden has an arrangement of spaces – rectangles for planting beds and aisles for moving through and around. (Not unlike a cemetery, really, but for quite the opposite purpose.) Skillfully designed and laid out examples of community gardens have a more meaningful use of space and flow; others can be a bit helter-skelter with no plan to guide them. The same could be said about the individual plots.

A community garden is representative of its community: a diverse group of backgrounds and approaches all coming together in like-mindedness for interaction with nature’s forces and for mutual support. Each gardener in our community effort has her/his own method: some plant like a traditional farm, in long rows within the parameters of the plot; others apply a grid for a square-foot approach – divvying up the precious small area into even smaller portions; while still others have an innate sense of color and texture and ways of arranging and pairing the plants in a decorative way. Some people feel a need to populate their patch with elfin figures, frog statues and ceramic mushrooms, creating a bizarre scene among the shin-high foliage. And, as in “The Three Little Pigs,” a few build more permanent structures for their climbing foodstuffs, while others take their chances with prefab, mass-produced, easily replaceable temporary cages that could be susceptible to some huffing and puffing.

It is the human interaction with nature that creates the initial sense of place. Taking a rigidly defined parcel – a functional allotment of relatively flat ground with no distinguishing features, a subdivision of preceding subdivisions (similar to tract housing parcels on a smaller scale) – and making it have a real presence is a willful act by a human hand to work with and enhance the setting beyond its functional requirements: creating a place of sustenance for the body and soul. But, within the greater garden, certain rare gardens can project a sense of place all their own, an added dimension of place within place – the surprise inside the Cracker Jack box, unnecessary but totally welcome – a bonus. We have found a few that qualify.

One effort of note in our community garden is simple, straightforward and effective. The mini farm: A larger than average plot that lends itself well to its design motif, it has a focal point of an antique manual tiller (the before), long furrows of planted fields (the after), cold frames, simple bamboo tripod supports – it is a microcosm of a real farm, a place of food production, and a bit of theater. That someone would build a world inside another world, like nesting eggs, emphasizing the placeness of an already unique site, is laudatory. It is the exception for individual food gardens, albeit personalized or decorated, to rise above form as function and create place. A second example: Another simple garden within the larger one has an Asian theme, four squares of orderly, gridded, raised beds divided by bamboo poles, its paths made of gravel with nods to mountainous landscape. Again, a world, a place defined beyond practical need.

Although all gardens stimulate the senses, the food garden is the most sensible of gardens – especially now with industrialized food production trying to remove us from our essential connection with our most basic need. One of the most integrated food gardens we have ever seen is at Chanticleer, a former estate, now public gardens just outside Philadelphia, in Wayne, Pa. Touted as a pleasure garden, it is a textural and visually stimulating array of gardens, mostly decorative and consciously artistic and largely successful. But its greatest success is the “veg-edible garden,” its function and form intrinsically merged: the clever uses of food plants like asparagus for a long perimeter wall, trellised tomatoes climbing on and becoming the surrounding fences, espaliered pears creating a geometric screen, plant supports fabricated of simple bamboo, transitional arches graceful and ceremonial. The materials are mostly natural and are used in ways that remove the garden from the merely functional into the artful, making you want to spend time there. The care and design do not make the food grown there taste any better; however, you do devour it with your eyes. It is its own expression and shared interaction with nature – the stuff of true nourishment.

Both the literal and figurative definition of garden is one of life and source, a place of creation or cultivation and sustenance. It is even suggested as the answer to all of society’s ills in Voltaire’s Candide, as a respite from world upheavals and the only place where one can find contentment and, if not control, at least a semblance of being on an equal footing with destiny. Two hundred sixty years later, it still makes sense out of nonsense. Our search here is for inventive food gardens that set up a dialogue with nature, a thank you for the bounty, an offering to the partnership, a kind of shrine to garden-ness, a place to be and grow. Arslocii.

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