I had the the good fortune to tend a garden on the Island of Elba back in the summer and Fall of 1998. I have the good fortune 10 years later to be invited back. Today I’m packing, but not my lap top. There is no internet access, or electricity even, where I am going, il eremo di Santa Caterina and her adjoining gardens, il orto dei simplici elbano. But I will bring my camera and a notebook, so I can post thoughts and photos from my trip when I return near the end of October.
Arrivederci.
There’s a link to the right if you’d like a sneak preview.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
PRETTY IS...
My love of beauty, which is relatively expansive, rarely ventures toward the “pretty”.
These craving for prettiness that I’m having seem odd this time of year when beauty tends towards boldness, the orange of pumpkins, the flames of turning trees. The sublime morning fog clothed the the valley with a gothic secrecy that is far from pretty, but is beautiful.
Maybe like the proverbial dirty old man I long for the sweet youthfulness of the year inherent in prettiness. In spring prettiness is everywhere in the young fresh growth and pastel flowers. In fall prettiness is melancholy, and momentary, ready to leave with the windstorms and downpours. Prettiness seems so fragile, more precious in fall.
I met an old artist friend, who now works as a gallerist. It seemed the worst critique she could give a piece of art was that it was “precious”. I’m sure she would have thrown the word “pretty” around like an insult too.
It seems we have moved away from prettiness, like we moved away from TB or polio.It is almost criminal or uneducated to appreciate the precious beauty called prettiness. According to Webster “pretty” comes form the Old English word for “tricky”, what transformations this word went through to reach its current meanings--- “ pleasing by delicacy or grace”, “having conventionally accepted aspects of beauty” or “appearing or sounding pleasant but lacking strength, force, manliness, purpose or intensity” --- I don’t I understand. But prettiness without purpose seems absurd, all the pretty little flowers that spend their days attracting bees, what sort of strength is that? I must admit I’ve always preferred the manlier aspects of beauty --the majesty of mountains, the garish hotness of reds and oranges, the architecture of agaves and yuccas. But right now at this strange intersection of time when the world seems a little too full of majestic hot architecture, I crave some prettiness.
And I found some.
This pretty china aster is not a agave. And I love it.
The not so pretty collapse of Colchicum 'Violet Queen'. Poorly sited and rained on, they were truly a momentary beauty.
Colchicum 'Waterlily', need I say "pretty"?
These craving for prettiness that I’m having seem odd this time of year when beauty tends towards boldness, the orange of pumpkins, the flames of turning trees. The sublime morning fog clothed the the valley with a gothic secrecy that is far from pretty, but is beautiful.
Maybe like the proverbial dirty old man I long for the sweet youthfulness of the year inherent in prettiness. In spring prettiness is everywhere in the young fresh growth and pastel flowers. In fall prettiness is melancholy, and momentary, ready to leave with the windstorms and downpours. Prettiness seems so fragile, more precious in fall.
I met an old artist friend, who now works as a gallerist. It seemed the worst critique she could give a piece of art was that it was “precious”. I’m sure she would have thrown the word “pretty” around like an insult too.
It seems we have moved away from prettiness, like we moved away from TB or polio.It is almost criminal or uneducated to appreciate the precious beauty called prettiness. According to Webster “pretty” comes form the Old English word for “tricky”, what transformations this word went through to reach its current meanings--- “ pleasing by delicacy or grace”, “having conventionally accepted aspects of beauty” or “appearing or sounding pleasant but lacking strength, force, manliness, purpose or intensity” --- I don’t I understand. But prettiness without purpose seems absurd, all the pretty little flowers that spend their days attracting bees, what sort of strength is that? I must admit I’ve always preferred the manlier aspects of beauty --the majesty of mountains, the garish hotness of reds and oranges, the architecture of agaves and yuccas. But right now at this strange intersection of time when the world seems a little too full of majestic hot architecture, I crave some prettiness.
And I found some.
This pretty china aster is not a agave. And I love it.
The not so pretty collapse of Colchicum 'Violet Queen'. Poorly sited and rained on, they were truly a momentary beauty.
Colchicum 'Waterlily', need I say "pretty"?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
FEAR OF BROWN
I have developed a healthy respect for brown.
It was hard won. As a professional gardener, I grappled with perceived expectations. When was a browning plant in my clients gardens “wrong”. There is this need to please, and to please one must see with their clients eyes. But what do they see? And what do they want to see? Do they want to see the freshness of spring even though it is not spring? Do they want summer’s robustness to hang on until the first frost? Or are they, like me, enjoying the slow decline of plants? Rarely have I heard from a client my favorite color is brown. Why is that?
Brown is an indicator.
Of death. Even more than black.
We would all rather not look at death. Whole psychological systems are based on our fear of death. Whole spiritual systems created to prove there is no death. But in the garden there is death and brown is it’s indicator.
I feel an impulse to sweep brown away the moment it appears. Like a criminal, or her cohort, I want to eliminate the evidence that the garden is going down. But then again I like to watch the garden mellow. As brown creeps in yellows get grounded, the greens harden up, even blues bend low to brown. As if all colors know they’re headed that way, at least in the garden.
Brown is not pale or vulgar, though shit is brown and unwashed potatoes. Brown is also evocative like chocolate, or cuddly like a fuzzy kiwi.
Brown in the garden spells the end. The end of flowers, of sex, of play. Is that what we fear? Brown is not lonely, though no bees buzz around browned flower heads. There is a secret to earthy old brown, at least in the garden. It contains the next flush of color. the brown spent flower heads house seeds, tulip bulbs are sheathed in slick brown coats, the brown leaves feed next years growth. Manure is brown.
So is it aesthetics only fueling my plucking? Creating an illusion?
This garden is not going down.
Is a wave more beautiful going up that down?
Why are we afraid of brown?
Sometimes brown is almost red, like in the old flower heads of sedum 'Moerchen"
Do the clusters of boxleafed hebe seedheads distract form the scene?
Dying day lily foliage definitely a downer in the garden.
It was hard won. As a professional gardener, I grappled with perceived expectations. When was a browning plant in my clients gardens “wrong”. There is this need to please, and to please one must see with their clients eyes. But what do they see? And what do they want to see? Do they want to see the freshness of spring even though it is not spring? Do they want summer’s robustness to hang on until the first frost? Or are they, like me, enjoying the slow decline of plants? Rarely have I heard from a client my favorite color is brown. Why is that?
Brown is an indicator.
Of death. Even more than black.
We would all rather not look at death. Whole psychological systems are based on our fear of death. Whole spiritual systems created to prove there is no death. But in the garden there is death and brown is it’s indicator.
I feel an impulse to sweep brown away the moment it appears. Like a criminal, or her cohort, I want to eliminate the evidence that the garden is going down. But then again I like to watch the garden mellow. As brown creeps in yellows get grounded, the greens harden up, even blues bend low to brown. As if all colors know they’re headed that way, at least in the garden.
Brown is not pale or vulgar, though shit is brown and unwashed potatoes. Brown is also evocative like chocolate, or cuddly like a fuzzy kiwi.
Brown in the garden spells the end. The end of flowers, of sex, of play. Is that what we fear? Brown is not lonely, though no bees buzz around browned flower heads. There is a secret to earthy old brown, at least in the garden. It contains the next flush of color. the brown spent flower heads house seeds, tulip bulbs are sheathed in slick brown coats, the brown leaves feed next years growth. Manure is brown.
So is it aesthetics only fueling my plucking? Creating an illusion?
This garden is not going down.
Is a wave more beautiful going up that down?
Why are we afraid of brown?
Sometimes brown is almost red, like in the old flower heads of sedum 'Moerchen"
Do the clusters of boxleafed hebe seedheads distract form the scene?
Dying day lily foliage definitely a downer in the garden.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
WEED FREE
Today I was weeding a part of the garden I let go. I hadn’t done the necessary deeds since March. I covered my laziness with trailing nasturtiums which made the mess messier, but also prettier. At least for a short while, until the nasturtiums melted under a pelt of silvery mold, so I could no longer ignore that my pretty mess was really just a mess.
I was on my hands and knees most of the day. Around mid-day I looked up, wondering whether the native orange jewel weed ( Impatiens capensis ) needed yanking, too. I “inadvertently” let take over as part of the “pretty mess” I was creating. The orange jewel weed and the orange nasturtiums looked momentarily splendid as they tangled with the weeds i was trying to hide.
All my questions of the validity of my gardening methods were answered as a hummingbird flew into the picture. Jewel met jewel as the shimmery hummer,on this seamlessly gray day probed, for nectar. I decided to save the jewel weed yanking for another day.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
THE CITY OF ROSES
Who can ignore the fact the Portland is the Rose City? The International Rose Test Garden was in full bloom in late September. Mind boggling.
Monday, September 22, 2008
THE EAST TO THE SOUTH
Two of my favorite gardens in the world are not far from home, but worlds away from the western gardening traditions I grew up with. The Portland Classical Chinese Garden and the Portland Japanese Garden are stunning examples of traditional gardens from the other side of the Pacific. These styles have certainly influenced contemporary gardens here, but these 2 gardens executed under strict guidelines of form and tradition transport us away from this frontier civilization of the American west coast to the ancient grace of the east.
The Chinese Garden is a scholars garden. A walled garden that would have been placed in an urban setting. In Portland the towering high rises just outside the walls create a surreal effect.
The Japanese Garden are tucked into the western hills of Portland. Snug in a heavily wooded ravine one truly feels “somewhere” else. I talked briefly with the head gardener; I asked her if her work felt like a spiritual practice. All she replied was .” This is a a sacred place.” I hope these pictures convey some of that quality. This electronic medium seems so distant from that garden.
The moon viewing garden. The gravel is raked in the pattern of rice paddies for the harvest moon viewing.
The multiple textures blend beautiful when used with a restrained color palette.
The Chinese Garden is a scholars garden. A walled garden that would have been placed in an urban setting. In Portland the towering high rises just outside the walls create a surreal effect.
The Japanese Garden are tucked into the western hills of Portland. Snug in a heavily wooded ravine one truly feels “somewhere” else. I talked briefly with the head gardener; I asked her if her work felt like a spiritual practice. All she replied was .” This is a a sacred place.” I hope these pictures convey some of that quality. This electronic medium seems so distant from that garden.
The moon viewing garden. The gravel is raked in the pattern of rice paddies for the harvest moon viewing.
The multiple textures blend beautiful when used with a restrained color palette.
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