Captured Landscape Architecture and the Enclosed Garden, 2nd Edition by TD Garden

Captured Landscape

The enclosed garden, or hortus conclusus, is a place where architecture and landscape come together. It has a long and varied history, ranging from the early paradise garden and cloister, the botanic garden and giardini segreto, the kitchen garden and as a stage for social display. The enclosed garden has continued to develop into its many modern forms: the city retreat, the redemptive garden, the deconstructed building. As awareness of climate change becomes increasingly important, the enclosed garden, which can mediate so effectively between interior and exterior, provides opportunities for sustainable design and closer contact with the natural landscape. By its nature it is ambiguous. Is it an outdoor room, or captured landscape; is it architecture or garden? Kate Baker discusses the continuing relevance of the typology of the enclosed garden to contemporary architects by exploring inﬂuential historical examples and the concepts they generate, alongside some of the best of contemporary designs – brought to life with vivid photography and detailed drawings – taken primarily from Britain, the Mediterranean, Japan and North and South America. She argues that understanding the potential of the enclosed garden requires us to think of it as both a design and an experience.

Captured Landscape provides a broad range of information and design possibilities for students of architectural and landscape design, practising architects, landscape designers and horticulturalists and will also appeal to a wider audience of all those who are interested in garden design. This second edition of Captured Landscape is enriched with new case studies throughout the book. The scope has now been broadened to include an entirely new chapter concerning the urban condition, with detailed discussions on issues of ecology, sustainability, economy of means, wellbeing and the social pressures of contemporary city life. Kate Baker is an architect and has been a lecturer at the University of Portsmouth, UK, and previously at Cambridge University, UK. Before that, she was partner in an architectural practice. She is an active researcher in both architecture and landscape, and our sensory relationship with space.

‘Throughout, Baker supplements objective analysis of particular sites with “experiential” descriptions – observing such elements as acoustics, air-ﬂow and light. While aimed at landscapists and architects, this book will be useful to anybody interested in designing space.’

Garden Design Journal ‘Kate Baker is an architect and her real interest lies in seeing how places that are apparently cut off from the outside world in fact interact with it; how one can move in, through and out of them’

Historic Gardens Review ‘British architect and educator Kate Baker reviews the relevance of the enclosed garden in modern architecture and landscape design. Walled gardens have been landscape features for centuries; she ﬁnds that their long history continues in contemporary landscapes. Using examples from Britain, the Mediterranean, Japan, and South America, the author sets forth her argument that the walled enclosure is an option that designers should consider as a design possibility. The author does an admirable job in this study of the enclosed garden and opportunities for sustainable design.’

Marilyn K. Alaimo, Chicago Botanic Garden ‘Baker leads readers to moments of discovery – hinting, nudging, and intuiting toward the realization that design is more than something attractive; it is something that comprises meaning at its core . . . Readers will gain a profound appreciation of the present as they allow built environments to inform through their own aesthetic . . . Highly recommended’

S. Hammer, CHOICE, September 2012 ‘One of the strengths of the book is the diversity of case studies that are included reinforcing the versatility of the enclosed garden as applied to different cultures, climates, landscapes and historic periods. This mix of old and new emphasises the importance of the enclosed garden throughout time and lays the foundation for a discussion about why the form remains relevant today as urban environments adapt to the challenges of climate change.’

Massachusetts Horticultural Society ‘. . . this book is a valuable addition to current work on emotional/sensuous geographies and it sits well alongside existing investigations of the experience of the domestic garden and restorative landscapes and gardens. Meanwhile, the architectural analysis, historical background and the sheer breadth of case studies contained within makes it an admirable source book for those who will play a part in shaping our built environment. Hopefully for them, it will prove what a positive, profound and life-giving element the enclosed garden can be.’

Planning Perspectives

Captured Landscape Architecture and the Enclosed Garden Second Edition

Kate Baker

Second edition published 2018 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017

Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2018 Kate Baker The right of Kate Baker to be identiﬁed as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.

Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identiﬁcation and explanation without intent to infringe. First edition published by Routledge 2012

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Baker, Kate, 1949– author. Title: Captured landscape : architecture and the enclosed garden / Kate Baker. Description: Second edition. | New York : Routledge, 2018. | Includes Bibliographical references and index. Identiﬁers: LCCN 2017048531 | ISBN 9781138679245 (hardback) | ISBN 9781138679252 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781315563343 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Landscape design. | Gardens – Design. Classiﬁcation: LCC SB472.45.B35 2018 | DDC 712 – dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017048531 ISBN: 978-1-138-67924-5 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-138-67925-2 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-56334-3 (ebk) Typeset in Univers by Florence Production Ltd, Stoodleigh, Devon, UK

Contents

Acknowledgements Introduction 1

Deﬁning the territory: the ambiguous nature of an enclosed garden

vii

From patio to park: the enclosed garden as a generator of architectural and landscape design

Taming nature – and the way to Paradise

Ritual and emptiness – and the rigour of developing an idea

117

Sensory seclusion: the affective garden as a scene for living

155

Detachment: the separation of the garden from the building

187

Green city: the persistence of urban gardens

221

Selected bibliography

275

Illustration credits

279

Index

287

Acknowledgements

My thanks to: For the second edition: Jane Woodhead and Peter Middleton for early proofreading for the new edition and their help and encouragement. To Robin Key of RKLD for discussions over urban landscape, Jared Gilbert of COOKFOX for discussing current issues for sustainable cities. To Connie Barrett and John Sutcliffe for their help with Albert’s Garden, Peter Kramer and Jack Waters for their help with Petit Versailles, Kate Mackintosh and Deirdre Shaw for their help with 269 Leigham Court Road, Ben Flanner and Anastasia Cole for their help with Brooklyn Grange Rooftop Farms. To Mark West and Harriet Middleton-Baker for help with drawing. For the ﬁrst edition: To Elizabeth McKellar for her detailed comments and proof reading, Peter Middleton for his comments and insight, particularly with the early drafts, Nick Timms for discussing the ideas that have come out of our joint projects with architecture Masters students over several years, and visiting many of the places mentioned, Mary Ann Steane also for discussing the ideas and visiting many of the places mentioned and Martin Pearce for his thoughts on the shape of the book. To Mark West for drawing the plans and help with many software problems, Khalid Saleh, also for his help with drawings and Anna Cady for her support with the images. To Lorraine Farrelly for her encouragement to write the book in the ﬁrst place, the University of Portsmouth for its support in funding and providing time for writing and further funding for visiting some of the locations discussed. To everyone, especially colleagues, who has kindly taken photographs for me. Finally, to my family – Peter, George and Harriet – for being there for me.

vii

Introduction

The paradox of the enclosed garden Enclosed gardens are perennially compelling. Since I was a student, they have captivated me with their intensity, their myriad forms of containment and the ambiguity of their presence. I have visited these captured landscapes, old and new, in different parts of the world, taught generations of students to design horticultural enclosures as part of their architectural design, studied the design history of the shaping of enclosed gardens and experimented with my own. This experience has taught me that staking out, wrapping round and capturing the landscape with a built environment, can express many different sensibilities in memorable architectural settings. These spaces appeal to all the senses. As we walk around a stone ﬂagged cloister, for instance, the acoustic of the space makes the sound of our footsteps ring out as it bounces off the walls, and at the same time we are aware of the visual rhythm of the openings in the inner cloister wall as we pass them. We can smell the plants, feel the wind and still be sheltered from the weather, safe from the outside world. This outside space is both bound and unbound; it might be the urban environment in whose sprawl most of us live, or it might be a more open countryside whose intermittent boundaries may be trees, ridges, rivers or roads. The enclosed garden mediates between dwelling and nature, building and landscape, and this is one of the keys to the longevity of this architectural expression. The hortus

conclusus is often called an ‘outdoor room’ through its similarity and complementary properties to the internal building space we loosely call a room. Its fundamental typology provides many different possibilities for a speciﬁc response to its location.

Why is the enclosed garden such an enduring phenomenon? What relevance does it have to contemporary design? I shall show how architecture that incorporates landscape within its design is an expression of its cultural moment and a demonstration of our respect for the land and its natural organic resources. Industrialisation and urbanisation can force our relationship with landscape to the periphery of our lives and make us lose touch with the natural world. Living and working indoors for most of our waking hours, with only windowed contact with the outside, distances us from understanding of the context of place. Enclosing a space and transforming it into a garden allows us intimate contact with it and provides the opportunity for observation and reflection. In Captured Landscape I examine sites where, through architectural means, there has been a deliberate effort to negotiate the boundaries between the interior and exterior environment by creating a garden, always an ambiguous space. My focus throughout will be architectural design that negotiates with garden and landscape design. The discussion starts in ‘Defining the territory’ by questioning our understanding of an enclosed garden. What are its constituent parts? Why might it be significant and what is it doing for us? To put this in context, in ‘From patio to park’ I investigate buildings and gardens, mainly contemporary, that range in size, scale and function, all using the basic idea or typology of the enclosed garden. Through these examples I demonstrate the garden’s versatility of spatial arrangements for accommodating the needs of the users. In ‘Taming nature’ I put the designs into an historical context through looking into the origins of the enclosed garden, outlining its long genealogy, and discussing how it has flourished in specific periods of history in different global locations. ‘Ritual and emptiness’ follows, where I emphasise how the enclosed garden absorbs layers of symbolism. I also discuss its spatial form, how it becomes a focal point to orient our movements and provide access to other spaces. In ‘Sensual seclusion’ I consider the inhabited garden that we experience not just visually, but through all our embodied senses. In ‘Detachment’ I venture out to look at gardens that are not directly connected to a building yet, never the less, contain architectural ambitions connected to their functions. The final chapter, ‘Green city’, concentrates on the contemporary urban environment where land is at a premium and enclosed gardens have been embedded into a city’s material fabric. Pressure on available space for gardens has produced many surprising and innovative results.

Captured Landscape is intended as both a source book and a reference guide to good design. What ideas lie behind the design of these memorable places? I explore this question in each case study ﬁrst by writing an experiential analysis, accompanied with a historical background. Alongside this, I have a written description and where possible, I have used

Introduction

three ways of visually understanding each garden – plans/sections and analytical diagrams as well as photographs. For example when I analyse the Querini Stampalia Foundation in Venice (discussed in depth in Chapter 4) I show that the visual connection between the visitor and the garden is pivotal as a point of reference for negotiating their journey through the galleries inside. The full simplicity and density of the design of garden is revealed only as the visitor accepts the garden’s invitation to walk in and around it. Although the garden is totally of its period, the twentieth century, its success lies in the architect’s detailed understanding of history and its location that have been distilled into the design, illustrated in the drawings, diagrams and photographs. My approach is deliberately cross-disciplinary in an attempt to bring out the interdependence of both architecture and landscape. I look at three main climatic zones: the hot dry desert conditions of the southern Mediterranean and the Middle East, the western and northern Mediterranean; and the more northerly climates of Europe and America. I will demonstrate how the same underlying type of enclosure can be adapted to suit a wide range of conditions and extremes of climate. Although I offer many examples taken from the past this is not intended as a scholarly history. My perspective is that of the contemporary designer, and where I use historical examples, only periods that have relevance to current design issues are discussed. I have put much emphasis on an experiential or phenomenological approach to counterbalance studies where purely theoretical analysis or history dominate the theme and risk obscuring design principles. I wish to test abstraction against experience, and draw attention to an understanding of design through a sensuous embodied perception of a particular aspect of place. Throughout the discussion I offer experiential descriptions as essential ways of conveying the atmosphere that gives each garden its character and sense of place, because such descriptions help give depth to more conventional design analyses. The risk of relying solely on conventional architectural analysis of the enclosed garden is that it will depend too heavily on visual observation. To grasp why this may not be adequate, I want to reflect briefly on a particular type of traditional Persian rug and carpet design, and the iconography of flowers and gardens within it. The carpet in Figure 0.1 shows a classical Persian enclosed garden with an intricate pattern representing channels of water flowing from a central pool and dividing the garden into four, its flowering beauty a reminder during the winter of the gardens enjoyed in the summer months. In such traditional Islamic designs the garden layout starts with a clear geometry. As we walk around this enclosed area we sense its planar geometry and are therefore able to appreciate the whole as if we were to see it from above. The carpet illustration shows pattern and geometry of the garden from a bird’s eye

Introduction

Figure 0.1 Persian carpet 1670–1750 depicting an enclosed garden, bordered, with an interpretation of the four rivers dividing the garden into four distinct areas representing both the plan, (horizontal) and also the foliage in elevation, (vertical).

view, as a horizontal plan, the abstract of our idea of the room as enclosed by walls, ﬂoors and ceiling, and as part of a larger architectural building plan. But if we look more closely at the carpet we notice that some of the plants are depicted vertically in elevation. This might seem no more than the limitations of an art that has not developed perspective; more likely is that the artist wanted to evoke the way we might experience the garden plants as we walk among them. This layered experience of movement through the garden and our presence in it is crucial to understanding the enclosed garden. Although Captured Landscape is mainly aimed at students of architectural and landscape design, I hope that it will speak to people interested

Introduction

in this particular phenomenon of capturing the landscape, and converting it, through the architecture and architectural elements, into a place that is both garden and room. Many examples are chosen for their inhabitability as much as for their architectural merits. In some of the cases there has been no self-conscious designing of the space at all, but it has acquired a sense of place over time and human investment that demonstrates a precedent for good practice. All of them have been chosen for their contribution to uniting architecture with the natural world on which we so depend. In this second edition more case studies have been added to Chapters 1–6. Chapter 7 discusses the urban condition and the consequences for enclosed gardens. I could have chosen examples from all over the world, but have decided to use places that I have experienced and studied first hand. Gleaning information from photographs and text is not the same as visiting a garden on a blustery day, arriving after a long walk through busy streets, crossing the threshold from the city, walking along a herbaceous border, absorbing the colour and scent and sitting on a bench in the evening as the sunlight fades. A few exceptions have sneaked in where I have felt that a particular type of garden is relevant. My locations are London, Paris and New York; northern hemisphere cities, each very distinct with many cross cultural exchanges. They have all had periods of expansion, particularly in the nineteenth century. The gardens I have chosen emerged out of the pressure that growth and expansion bring. Many of them reflect current aspirations for designs that go beyond a purely visual aesthetic of decorative beauty in order to put into practice principles of sustainability. The gardens are all communal, some more public and some more private, examples of where people have made the most out of what space is left available. If there are no garden opportunities on the ground then a rooftop might be used or even the wall. It is encouraging to see how creative we have become in insisting on a garden presence within the architecture of the city. Re-capturing landscape gives us the opportunity to inwardly gaze and reflect on the broader landscapes of our lives.

Introduction

1 Deﬁning the territory The ambiguous nature of an enclosed garden

Discovery It’s the beginning of June. My friend and I have come, by recommendation, to visit the gardens of the Mottisfont Abbey1 in Hampshire, UK. After looking around the building we walk away, past the old stable block, into the grounds. So far, nothing appears striking enough to justify the garden’s reputation. We arrive at a closed-off section of the garden. There is a gravel path to the right that we take and it leads us to a small neatly shaped opening. It gives no clue as to what might be in store, apart from a faint waft of scent in the air caught in a coolish breeze. We walk on through a conﬁned space lined with hedges and a wall high enough to cut off any direct view. There is no apparent exit. As we continue we see a pool of light on the ground, and another opening appears to the left. We walk through it into a large courtyard containing several sheds, full of people milling about; queuing for ice creams, choosing plants to buy, looking at a small exhibition, sitting down with cups of tea around a group of outdoor tables. Conversation ﬁlls the air. This is a courtyard large enough to support a series of activities – the visiting members of the public as well as the gardeners who tend the grounds – yet small enough for us to feel the sense of containment that the walls provide. Beyond the crowds we see another small opening in the far wall with light streaming through, which catches our eyes and we are drawn towards it. The journey continues and we pass through the wall, into paradise. Pinks, irises, lilies, foxgloves, peonies, lilies, salvia, geraniums and many other plants surround us, all in full bloom, dispersed among one of Britain’s national collections of old roses. A cloud of scents envelopes us

as we walk in. The intensity is overwhelming. Our senses are seduced and we are immersed in the experience of the enclosed garden. The garden invites us to walk along a straight path toward the centre, toward the sound and movement of a constant trickle of water from a pool. A never-ending variety of colour combinations, texture, scent and shape encourage us to explore. We can disperse and be lost in among the drifts of herbaceous plants, sit on a bench in a shady corner, or ﬁnd a patch of lawn to sit on. We start to be aware of what is creating this experience, a dialogue between the architectural and garden components. The garden is divided into two interconnecting areas by high brick walls on all sides. Each has a central focal point that helps us negotiate our way around. Paths are placed strategically and the sparse openings in the walls provide ‘windows’ that provide us with distinct framed views. An experience like this is a reminder that to understand such gardens, it would not be enough to think of them by looking at pictures or exploring diagrams, by reading the ‘plan’, or even as visual phenomena to be observed only. They demand an active involvement by the participant. What they are is an immersive experience, just as a play or concert is the performance, and not the written script or score.

Exploring the idea Captured landscape is as much an idea as a reality. By internalising landscape within boundary walls, we transform it, and thereby demonstrate our beliefs and attitudes towards nature.2 Creating a boundary wall around a piece of land enables us to comprehend it as a deﬁned and owned space. Figure 1.1 Fisherman’s allotment in the Dunes with vegetable plots, with boundary clearly marked out. Wimmenummer Duinen Egmond aan Zee, North Holland.

Defining the territory

Figure 1.2 Church and graveyard protected by wall in open countryside in Les Alpilles, France.

The construction of an enclosing wall also has material consequences, making it possible to control or alter many features of the interior, including the climate. In Figures 1.1 and 1.2 the act of making a boundary around a plot of land in very different locations gives each space a distinct deﬁnition. Figure 1.1 is in the Netherlands, where the owner has staked out a sheltered Figure 1.3 Limits to limited space.

place in the dunes; Figure 1.2 is in the South of France, where a church has claimed space around it in an undeﬁned landscape. In each, the interior space, an enclosed garden, is as essential to the character of the dwelling place as its internal architecture and its outward façades. By manipulating the enclosed landscape, keeping untamed nature at bay, we intensify our relationship with nature, whether our purpose is for cultivation or enjoyment, for our bodies or our souls. In many cases this can be described as a poetic act. Some of the most memorable places around the globe are those where architecture, architectural components and landscape collude and affect our sensibilities.

Figure 1.4 Restricted views.

Is it an interior space with no ceiling or is it a garden that has the properties of an indoor room? An enclosed garden is neither and both, an ambiguous space by its very nature. Because our eyes are not free to travel to the horizon when we are within them, unlike other garden spaces, its scale can have the familiarity and even the security of a room, particularly within an architectural context. The view is interrupted by a horizontal plane that continually brings our focus back into the space, visually separating us from what lies beyond it. The enclosed garden gives limits to limitless space. The term outdoor room is well known in the realm of landscape and garden design, whereas in architectural design the relationship between

Figure 1.5 Room in a building.

Defining the territory

interior and exterior space since the early twentieth century, particularly in the West, has tended to have more emphasis on a visual connection

between the two. However, there is a lineage of enclosed gardens described as outdoor rooms that can be traced back throughout the history of garden design, and has continued into the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Hidcote Manor,3 for example, is not so much a garden as a series of outdoor rooms, devised to protect tender plants on an exposed site. It became one of the most influential gardens of its time. Hedges maintained with architectural precision enclose the Red Borders garden. They give it shape in winter months, and provide a backing in summer for the rich, vibrant crimsons and oranges of its herbaceous plants (see Figure 1.6). Wherever the location, outdoor rooms create spaces distinct from their surroundings, whether they are adjacent to buildings, within the cityscape or the open countryside. They can make a contribution to our daily lives, such as providing extensions to living areas and increasing the usable space of a dwelling. The patio garden in southern Spain, where the climate invites outdoor living, exemplifies how such spaces can be integral to the functioning of the building (see Figure 1.7).

Figure 1.6 Hidcote Manor, UK hedges act as walls to the Red Borders garden, and a retaining wall ﬁnishes off one of the sides, together with an architectural statement of two symmetrically placed pavilions. The orderly rows of severely-cut, pleached hornbeams complete the enclosure at a higher level, and provide us with a visual connection to the next ‘room’, and a restricted view of the land beyond it.

Defining the territory

Figure 1.7 An enclosed garden in Cordoba is used for a business meeting when it is still shaded and pleasantly cool.

Characteristics and component parts The whole question of the relation of vegetation to architecture is a very large one and to know what to place where, when to stop, and when to abstain altogether, requires knowledge on both sides. The horticulturalist generally errs in putting his plants and shrubs and climbers everywhere, and in not even discriminating between the relative ﬁtness of any two plants whose respective right use may be quite different and perhaps antagonistic. The architect, on the other hand, is often wanting in sympathy with beautiful vegetation. The truth appears to be that for the best building and planting, where both these crafts must meet and overlap and work together, the architect and gardener must have some knowledge of each others business. Gertrude Jekyll, Wall and Water Gardens4

Gertrude Jeckyll, although she is best known as a garden designer and horticulturalist, was primarily an artist, using her sensibilities for garden designs at the turn of the twentieth century. The artist Sarah Sze has used a palette of materials in her art installation ‘The Last Garden’ (Landscape of Events Suspended Indefinitely) at the Venice Bienale in 2015, in a context suitable for reflection in the twenty-first century. It was set in a neglected, forgotten garden.5 This is rare in Venice. As you enter there is little to see apart from a hammock suspended between two trees (Figure 1.8). Is this the work? But if you look for longer there are clues, enough to rouse your curiosity and make you start walking. As the sounds of Venice recede behind the walls they are replaced by the soft tread and rhythm of your footsteps. Your own presence in the space becomes more apparent. As you progress you start to find more interventions, little

Defining the territory

bursts of colour that might be ﬂowers but are not, where Sze has converted the ordinary into the extraordinary. She plays on the idea of discovery – that the visitor has to discover the garden is an important aspect of the artwork. You may see or hear something in the distance that entices you to go toward it, or you may not discover the next until you stumble across it.6 Several installations are suspended and will respond to wind and touch, others can be heard before they are seen.

Figure 1.8 Stages of discovery, the Last Garden: the hammock.

Figure 1.9 Crack in the wall.

Defining the territory

Figure 1.10 Mirror image.

Figure 1.11 Inside the drum.

Defining the territory

Sze uses manufactured materials designed for outdoor purposes, together with ‘found’ objects, asking you to question what you are looking at. She invites you to explore each location, which will often evoke memories of the near and distant past. The sound of quietly trickling water draws you towards different parts of the garden. Water is an important theme in the garden, as it is in Venice itself. You see a piece of string with a stone weight hanging at the bottom. A clue to something beyond. Further on, pieces of photographic paper are tucked into a vertical crack in a dilapidated brick wall and lead your eye up to a mirror (Figure 1.9). There, in the mirror, is the reflection of an inaccessible hidden place inside a large old concrete drum – another garden complete with hammock, appearing in miniature, captured within the perimeter of the mirror (Figure 1.10). This hidden space within the confines of the drum refers back to the narrative of the entire garden. The hammock you see in the reflection, similar to the one you have passed earlier is a poignant reminder of human presence and absence. Throughout the garden the juxtaposition between the man-made and the natural is sharply brought out, (not always comfortably) asking us to question (Figure 1.11). The experience has an air of archaeological discovery,7 of the distant and the not so distant past. Sze emphasises the already evocative ruins surrounding and within the enclosed garden, bringing into question the contrast and connection between interior and exterior. She also exemplifies importance of the sensory, where touch and sound is as important as sight. The pallet of materials and the way they are used makes us think beyond the genteel to a more profound reflection of the longevity of enclosed gardens. This powerful artwork encapsulates many of the aspects of enclosed gardens that make them exceptional; their

Figure 1.12 Vertical and horizontal components.

hidden-ness and the sense of discovery and thrill when we ﬁnd them. Figure 1.13 Looking down on a courtyard in the Alhambra. The paving, simply made from two different coloured pebbles, is patterned as if it were a carpet.

Defining the territory

Figure 1.14 Courtyard garden showing a small amount of earth for plants to reduce water loss through evaporation. Riad el Qadi, Marrakech.

Their content is often concentrated, a distillation of ideas and reflection, the morphological ambiguity of the space, of inside and outside, framing views, the sense of discovery that works at the scale of the city and of the detail, the play of architecture and the natural world. When we consider a room we think of an internal space with walls, floors and ceiling, and with at least one entry point, the door and an opening to allow light in and to look out of. We will furnish it with things appropriate to its use. A domestic room may well have a carpet; the walls will have a finished surface and most likely will be hung with pictures. It will have means of controlling the environmental conditions through varying its heating, lighting and ventilation. Rooms provide security, privacy, safety and confinement, places where we are removed and distant from the world at large. Enclosed gardens provide these conditions as well, but where nature is brought in alongside the man-made, climate and ground conditions are utilised, and the ceiling is the sky. The success of captured landscape lies in first, the treatment of the ground – the paving and planting, and second, in the treatment of its boundary walls.

The horizontal plane – the ground In an outdoor room, the ﬂoor connects us directly with the structure of the earth and with nature. It grounds us and is a reminder of the frailty of living things. Although the garden is subject to speciﬁc soil and weather conditions, and needs to be tended, enclosure can reduce potentially harmful

Defining the territory

external influences, and planting can flourish. The floor covering is not necessarily all planting, however. Courtyards around the Mediterranean and the Middle East, where water is scarce, are predominantly paved (Figure 1.13). Planting will be inserted within a covering of paving, or placed in pots (Figure 1.14). Contact with plants, however minimal, is highly valued in areas where the land is parched. Water, the source of life, is a recurring theme, and expressions of its importance are evident through the depth of historical examples and breadth of cultural variation and invention. Flowerbeds in Islamic gardens at the height of the Islamic empire were sometimes sunk below ground so that when the plants had grown, the flowers would be at ground level, giving the appearance of a flat carpet. This had practical as well as aesthetic value as there is considerably less water loss if only the tops of the plants are exposed to direct sunlight.

Figure 1.15 There is adequate space around the pavilion for it not to dominate the enclosure.

Enclosed gardens may also contain rooms within them, perhaps in the form of a pavilion. These are likely to be considerably smaller than their surroundings, and thus will not ﬁght with the integrity of the overall space. Wash-houses in monasteries (Figure 1.16) or kiosks of the large Islamic gardens will be secondary in scale to the spaces themselves, the equivalent of aedicular structures within architectural interiors, or even pieces of furniture.

Figure 1.16 The wash-house of a Cistercian monastery sits within the intimate space of the cloister garden.

Defining the territory

The vertical plane – the boundary wall The wall is the major component that shapes an enclosed garden and gives it much of its character. Although we tend to associate walls with solid materials such as stone or brick, walls can also be created by hedges or a row of trees. A well-managed hedge provides shelter and security, a habitat for wildlife, and provides a more direct relationship with the natural world than inanimate materials. We can cut and shape hedging with precision to give an even, planar surface. Different types of walling can be effectively combined around one space. The garden in Figure 1.17 illustrates four alternative ways of providing enclosure. The building itself provides a solid side of rendered brickwork, with views into the garden from ground and ﬁrst-ﬂoor level. There is a colonnade to one side of it, to walk along. Opposite the building there is a solid hedge cutting off the view beyond, and turning our gaze inward, and on the fourth side the hedge has a series of openings cut in a rhythmical pattern that responds to the colonnade opposite. This open hedge mediates between inside and out.

Figure 1.17 The Machuca Patio in the Alhambra Granada, Spain, illustrates four different ways of bounding space and enclosing garden/courtyard, using both trees/hedge and buildings.

Defining the territory

Hole in the wall Entrances and exits are often played down in enclosed gardens. From outside, a view into the enclosure may well arouse curiosity, and encourage us to search for a hidden entrance. From within, a restricted view can also arouse our curiosity of another place beyond the sheltering wall of the enclosure. A glimpse of bright light through a small opening in the walled garden at Tresco Abbey Gardens, Isles of Scilly, UK, is enough to entice us (Figure 1.18). The outer wall of the garden to Mesquite in Cordoba, Spain, has openings that give us a preview of what we will experience if we enter (Figure 1.19). Where there is a series of connected spaces, openings give clues to the journey’s destination. Within the monastery at Santi Quatro Coronatti in Rome, the rhythm of the changing light quality can be seen as your gaze is drawn through layers of open spaces framed by the architecture, creating an atmosphere of calm as well as a sense of separation from the city. The inner and most private cloister is deep within the plan and has no obvious way in or out, quite separate from any direct link (Figures 1.20, 1.21, 1.22).

Figure 1.18 The bright light and restricted view through the door at the Abbey Gardens, Tresco, UK, gives the suggestion of something to be discovered on the other side . . .

Figure 1.19 The garden courtyard to the Mesquite in Cordoba, Spain, can be seen through a few openings in its boundary wall.

Defining the territory

Figure 1.20 The severe high walls at Santi Quatro Coronatti, Rome, give a sense of enclosure, even imprisonment, but the sunlight falling on them and the alternating pattern of light and dark between building and courtyard is very striking.

Figures 1.21 (below) and 1.22 (below right) Santi Quatro Coronatti, Rome, ground ﬂoor plan indicating processional route to the church and private inner cloister.

Defining the territory

The porous wall The boundaries of enclosed gardens can be designed to have layers of enclosure, habitable porous zones that mediate between interior and exterior conditions. They are the parts of the building, usually at ground level, that we have close physical contact with, where scale, proportion and choice of materials are important. The colonnaded walkway or cloister is widely used, and is a very versatile space, its purpose varying according to the use of the building and the prevailing climatic conditions and it is usually the main circulation area around an enclosed garden. It allows natural light to

Figure 1.23 Section through a colonnaded building.

penetrate deep into a building interior, while preventing the full intrusion of direct sunlight. In many situations it provides shelter where complete exposure to the climate would not always be tolerable. A colonnade acts as a threshold area, preparing us for either the interior or the exterior, to expand or contract into, or just to walk in (Figures 1.24, 1.25). The boundary wall can also be a site for people to make use of. The sides to one of the gardens at the University of Lusiada, in Lisbon, Portugal, are inhabited along its length and take on a life of their own. The façades open up and become animated, encouraging innovative use (Figure 1.26).

Figure 1.24 A perimeter walkway at the Catholic University of Santiago, Chile, connecting enclosure and building.

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Figure 1.25 Westcott House, Cambridge. Colonnaded walkway links all ground ﬂoor buildings.

Figure 1.26 The enclosing walls of a garden at the University of Lusiada open out and there is continuous use of them as study spaces, for conversations, and places to eat.

Containment – the sense of the garden as a whole The enclosure not only establishes a speciﬁc relationship with a speciﬁc place but is the principle by which a human group states its very relationship with nature and the cosmos. In addition, the enclosure is the form of the thing; how it presents itself to the outside world; how it reveals itself!8 Vittorio Gregotti, 1979

The enclosed garden is a tangible space. Through providing us with a sense of containment it responds to both the imaginative and practical sides of Figure 1.27 Containers of events, ideas and plants.

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our natures. It invites us to see it as metaphorical space and project ideas onto it, as well as a place to dwell in or for nurturing plants.

Of people – places to dwell in Enclosed gardens – outdoor rooms – are, by implication, gathering places. In practical terms they enable us to orient ourselves in relation to a building. They also give us access to the natural world in a controlled manner. Within a private house they can be additional living spaces, and within larger institutional buildings, enclosed gardens can absorb many people, providing conditions for circulating in and around the building complex, or be temporarily transformed into social spaces for gatherings and other events. At an urban scale, gardens are often referred to as the green lungs of the city, vitally essential to its health and providing an overspill for city dwellers to escape to. Whether they are domestic, institutional or urban, well-designed enclosed spaces have a scale to ﬁt their purpose and surroundings. They invite participation; the privacy and small scale of the domestic setting, such as the enclosed garden in Figure 1.28, where the house and wall create a sheltered, secure area outside the house, the more formal surroundings of the institution or the company of strangers and private intimacy within a very public space (Figure 1.29).

Figure 1.28 Relaxing in early summer at Manor Farm. The outdoor space is enclosed partly by the house, and partly through an enclosing wall that protects it on a windswept hillside. Architect: Tod Wakeﬁeld Architects.

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Figure 1.29 The Victoria Embankment garden in London comes alive with people on a sunny day in early summer. It is in one of the busiest parts of London and is very popular. Its boundaries are the backs of high-rise buildings of the Strand and Charing Cross Station. A thicket of trees and shrubs protect you from the busy road along the Embankment.

Of ideas – metaphorical space, the representation of beliefs Enclosed gardens provide us with a space to celebrate and contemplate the human condition, and can be an embodiment of a philosophy of life. They can be seen as condensed versions of nature, containing the essence of the world and the relationship of all things.9 At certain historical moments, the art of the garden has achieved the high status of great religious art. This is evidenced in Islamic secular gardens that represent Earthly Paradise (Figure 1.30). The cloisters in Christian monastic communities have reference to the Garden of Eden where they were used as a conduit and aid to prayer and meditation (Figure 1.31). Enclosed gardens can be entirely symbolic, and are expressed through geometry alone. The highly decorated courtyards adjoining Islamic religious buildings, for example, will usually contain water but have no planting at all. Chinese and Japanese gardens originate in Buddhist ideals of spiritual harmony where the nature of reality and existence can be contemplated through observance of mimetic representation of natural forms. In the great Buddhist gardens of China, stones and rocks play a signiﬁcant part in garden design; they can, for instance, be chosen so that their shapes and positioning evoke, in miniature, the misty mountain ranges of the wild landscape. In the dry gardens of Japan, gravel is frequently used to imitate water, suggesting a ‘sea’ between rocks that become ‘islands’ of another imagined place.

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Figure 1.30 Amber Palace Jaipur, India. Planting is kept to a regular geometric pattern of beds. A variation of the Islam paradise garden has been used for its design, with a central pool, four fountains and four paths leading onto a central small podium.

Figure 1.31 The cloister at Aix Cathedral, France.

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Of utility – for the production and observation of plants Enclosed gardens can be very functional places, particularly for horticulture. The enclosure can prolong planting seasons, and allow for the propagation of plants that under other circumstances would be too tender to grow in that location. The boundary wall protects the interior from unwanted predators, so plants can be nurtured without the risk of animals damaging or eating them. They lend themselves not just to horticulture, but also to scientiﬁc experiment and education. The carpet of the outdoor room becomes a surface for close observation.

Response to climate The inclusion of an enclosed garden in a design, whether it is landscape or architectural, increases the possibility of manipulating the existing environment. It acts as a climate control ‘chamber’. Solid walls on all sides give the opportunity to exploit both sun and shade throughout the day. They break the prevailing wind and provide shelter for tender plants, and during daylight hours, particularly if they are built of a heavy, load-bearing material such as brick, stone or concrete, they absorb the warmth of the sun. In turn they will radiate heat back out into the space at night. This can be advantageous for plants whose natural habitat is from a warmer climate. In hot climates an enclosed garden can make living conditions tolerable, and in more temperate climates people will be able to sit outside for considerably Figure 1.32 Environmental control.

longer in the evening before having to retreat indoors, particularly if they are in the lee of a wall that has been soaked by the sun throughout the day. By making an enclosure, a more stable, ambient climate can be achieved within, reducing the extremes of its exterior surroundings. Enclosed gardens evolved in climates with long hot dry seasons, where protection from sun and wind has been a necessity. This has given rise to much inventiveness by harnessing local conditions through simple means, such as orientation, proportioning of the space to provide shade, creating air movement and humidiﬁcation. These are achieved by adjusting the size and type of building components, or plants, or a combination of the two. Enclosed gardens can be tuned to seasonal variation, through the permanent structure of the building, through adjustments to the boundary wall and through planting.

Sun and shade The inclusion of a square enclosed garden oriented towards the four cardinal points can maximise solar gain throughout the day and the season. This is necessary in cooler climates to create warmth, rather than nearer the

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tropics where the aim is to keep the sun out of living areas as much as possible. Some of the clearest examples can be found where the climate is harsh, and living and growing conditions necessitate adaptation and respect for the climate for survival, both for people and for plants. Many innovations have been developed in vernacular housing within the hot and arid zones of the Middle East, North Africa and the Indian subcontinent. By creating small internal open courtyards to buildings, with high walls, much of the space can be shaded throughout the day, keeping off the direct radiant heat from the sun. This type of courtyard has developed widely, with many local variations (Figures 1.33, 1.34).

Figure 1.33 Looking down into a riad in Marrakech from the roof.

Figure 1.34 Section through riad, based on Dar el Qadi, Marrakech, with the access alleyway tunnelled through on the right.

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Figure 1.35 Cordoba, Spain. Canvas sails can be suspended over narrow courtyards. The heat of the sun causes the warmed air to rise to the underside of the sail, creating draughts of cooler air through the galleries and the entrance hallway. These simple methods of climate control can be seen both in Roman and Islamic traditions, and are still very effective today.

Seasonal adaptations have been devised, such as the use of fabric. Canvas sails, curtains across the sky, are often used when the sun is overhead, and can easily be spanned securely between walls of deep courtyards to increase the shade. The small courtyards of southern Spain have given rise to inventive ways of creating shade. Figure 1.35 shows a simple ﬂexible device, using only sail cloth, rope and pulleys, that shields the sun when it is overhead in the summer months. As it is not tightly ﬁtted it has a further advantage of letting the space breathe.

Air movement Enclosure implies a lack of air movement. This can be both a help and a hindrance. Cutting out the prevailing winds on an exposed site can create growing conditions that would be impossible in the open countryside, particularly in temperate climates. In hot climates, creating air movement within enclosed gardens can be essential to make living conditions bearable. Devices have evolved to create air movement in a way that provides locations within a dwelling that can take advantage of a cooling flow of air. In the courtyard houses of the Maghreb,10 after the temperature has dropped at night the warm air rises and is replaced by cooler air. This accumulates and seeps into the surrounding rooms.11 The air remains cool in the morning as the courtyard or garden will be shaded by the building. As the day wears on, the warmest air will not enter the inner space, but eddy around the building, leaving the interior considerably cooler and more pleasant than the outside. The building and surrounding wall also protect the space from any hot, dry winds. This system has been refined over time and an even more efficient method has evolved with the use of a double

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courtyard. Two open spaces are designed into a single dwelling. A semienclosed loggia-type space, a takhtabush, is created between them. It will look into the inner shaded courtyard, and have a screen separating it from the larger garden. The breeze is drawn through from the cooler to the hotter space.12 Figure 1.36 shows an adapted version in a house in Cairo. The takhtabush lies midway between the two courtyards, allowing the air to be pulled through between them, thus providing a pleasantly cool place to sit and socialise.

Figure 1.36 Plan of the As-Suhaymi house at Al-Asfãr, Cairo, showing circulation of air between the two courtyards through the takhtabush.

Water and humidity Enclosed gardens, unless they are designed to be plant-less, cannot survive without water. They depend on its availability, either on site or through the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the garden owners and their capacity to obtain and store water. Scarcity has given water great value and significance, particularly in hot climates. Our appreciation of oases – verdant areas in the desert – thrives on the contrast between heat and dust and the shady planting made possible by the presence of water. In cooler climates it has still been revered, more through its symbolic significance than of necessity. Enclosed gardens can provide natural air conditioning, with several methods of humidifying. Water in the form of a fountain or pool will give off water vapour that, mixed with air, will increase the humidity.13 In hot climates large bowls of water are often to be found in courtyards, where the water is left to evaporate. Plants also play a vital role, by providing water vapour, which expires through their leaves. An enclosure sealed off by walls plays a large part in retaining the moisture levels, preventing humidified air being blown away. A canopy of trees also makes a contribution by slowing down upward evaporation.

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Water, shade and planting As well as looking pleasing, enclosed gardens, through the use of the plants, create more comfortable conditions for human habitation than open courtyards. Water is essential to keep the plants alive and when it is scarce it needs to be looked after with care and used sparingly. This can be seen in many examples in countries around the Mediterranean through integrating building, planting and water. The Court of the Oranges, in front of the Mesquite,14 in Cordoba in southern Spain, now a World Heritage site, owes much to the ingenuity of its original designers and their plans to conserve water. The roof of the mosque provides a very large surface area with the potential to collect rainwater. As there are long periods of drought, and water is a precious commodity, chutes were designed to collect rainwater runoff, and store it underground.15 This reservoir provided water for the two fountains for the necessary ritual ablutions to take place before entering the mosque for prayer, and we can assume that it was also used for irrigation. The courtyard is large and filled with orange, cypress and palm trees that make a canopy over the whole of the area, providing shade for visitors. As they are evergreens, there is continuous shade throughout the year. Today, a series of channels distributes the water that connects to encircling ‘pools’ around each tree (Figure 1.37). These, together with the intricately laid paving, contribute to the decorative pattern and harmony of the surface of this fine and unique open space.16 Although there is no evidence to support the design of the yard as an echo of the interior, if we look at the space through twenty-first century eyes, the regular grid of the trees gives us a sense of continuity of the design between exterior and interior, with the pattern of the trees reciprocating

Figure 1.37 Water is chanelled into the pools around the trees when they are irrigated.

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the continuous gridded pattern of columns and arches.17 The arches in the façade of the building that surrounds the court would originally have been open, making more of a visual connection between interior and exterior. We can also read the court indirectly as representing the forest, a canopy provided by nature, Paradise and the Garden of Eden.18 (See Figures 1.38, 1.39 and 1.40).

Figure 1.38 Rows of columns inside mesquite.

Figure 1.39 Mesquite Court of Oranges, Cordoba, showing the gridded pattern of planting.

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Figure 1.40 Ground ﬂoor plan of the Mesquite Cordoba, showing the grids of both the planting and the columns within the buildings.

Aspect and temperature Capturing and enclosing a patch of land allows for adaptation of existing conditions to take advantage of aspect and temperature variation. In particular, it has played an important part with the establishment of new communities in Europe. The planning of a monastery, for example, took weather conditions into consideration. The cloister was placed on the south side of the church and was much shorter in height, and so it was never in the church’s shadow, guaranteeing the greatest amount of sunlight available to fall onto it. Its total enclosure ensured the lessening of cold winds, and the cloister itself provided a sheltered covered space for carrying out daily duties and rituals. Enclosure has been the starting point of creating specialised spaces – orchards, kitchen gardens and herbariums, providing food for the community and medicines for the sick. The earliest known planning of these specialised spaces is at the monastery of St Gall in Switzerland. It was drawn up in the ninth century and shows us a series of gardens that were needed for the community to survive. Although these plans were never followed completely, they represent a pattern of life for a community that relied on small, enclosed spaces allocated for particular activities. Specialisation has continued, particularly for horticulture. Botanic gardens placed within enclosing walls, for example, ﬂourished from the sixteenth century onwards. The walled kitchen gardens of large country houses in Britain were very popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They were repositories for exotic plants collected from all over the world, later to be displayed or feasted on by the owners and a source of culinary delight.

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Response to site Adaptation of natural landscapes Every site destined for an architectural or garden project is unique. Taking account of existing conditions is a given and will contribute toward its genius

loci, its sense of place. As we can see from St Gall, enclosure can be a starting point for the organisation of spaces. Creating external rooms is a way of working with the landscape. If a building site appears to be an awkward shape, or has a variety of levels within it, a central open space can provide a datum around which the differences of level can be reconciled.

Landscape/architecture/garden One of the most spectacular examples of working closely with the land is the Generalife Gardens to the east of the Alhambra complex in Granada, Spain. Landscape is integrated with gardens and architecture, nature and artiﬁce working together to near perfection (Figure 1.41). The gardens were originated in the fourteenth century as pleasure gardens on an adjacent hillside to the already existing and well-established Nazrid Palaces, and have developed and spread back along the hillside ever since.

Figure 1.41 View of the Generalife from the Alhambra, looking across to the garden, terracing and pavilions.

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The complex comprises three main components: the original pavilions with their patios, the formal ‘New Gardens’ and the Arena. The land has been manipulated through leveling and terracing using a pallet of architecture, walls, hedges, individual trees and planting. Gardens have been created where their layouts have been tailored to ﬁt the natural curve and slope of the hillside, adding drama to the already spectacular promontory.19 The design of the individual spaces is formal and orthogonal throughout, but the experience of it is of three-dimensionally weaving through them as you step around and along the hillside, with a new view at every twist and turn (Figure 1.42).

Figure 1.42 Bird’s eye view of the Generalife indicating the detailed division of spaces and level changes.

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The New Gardens comprise a formal linear sequence of outdoor rooms that sit on wide horizontal terracing built up with a sturdy, stone retaining wall. They are enclosed with high cypress hedges that alternately deny and reveal the view.20 Narrower terraces are cut on the lower sheltered western side that were originally used for growing produce for the Alhambra households. A shift of axis occurs at the end of the gardens to accommodate the pavilions that fit the increased curve of the hill, and command the best view. Even more dramatic is the ensemble of spaces and viewpoints of the original pavilions that have been worked into the hillside. For example, as you enter, you are drawn in through two courtyards. The first is monochromatic, cool and sunless, where nature is denied and the only view out is upwards. You climb a few steps, accommodating a natural level change into the next small patio, the Pole Patio, contained but sunlit, and finished with decorative tiles and planted with orange trees; and then up more steps into the interior of the South Pavilion. Only when you are inside, and turn around, is the Patio Acequia revealed, a set piece of garden theatre, with no clear definition of where architecture stops and garden begins. It is a formal rectilinear space but with each side adjusted to the underlying landscape. To the east the boundary wall has no view out, but to the west there is a colonnaded walkway. A mirador (look-out) punctuates it, for you to pause and look back across to the palaces. There is another mirador at the far end, under the North Pavilion. Only at this point, through an arched opening, can you appreciate the height of the promontory above the town, and admire

Figure 1.43 Looking into the Patio Sultana, a levelled, enclosed terrace surrounded by solid walls on three sides and a porous wall of the North Pavilion, that lets in the breeze, and provides views out.

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a sweeping panorama across Granada to the unpredictable and wilder landscape in the distance. You turn 180 degrees and look back onto the garden through a layered space, deﬁned by two rows of columns, where nature is tamed and controlled. By continuing through the building you emerge into another, more intimate, garden, the Patio del Ciprés de la Sultana (Figure 1.43). The journey continues up into more terraces, giving views down into the patios where the symmetrical organisation of planting, water and architecture can be seen as a whole.

Adaptation of used landscapes It is not unusual to reuse a site of occupation. Each era will take advantage of what has preceded it, and it will be an expression of the values of that period. The palimpsest of Rome exempliﬁes such continuity of use. Since the late twentieth century we have necessarily become preoccupied with the residue of a more recent past. Large industrial sites, originally located outside towns in the nineteenth century, have now been encircled by the suburbs, and rendered unsuitable for their purpose. There is a growing number of these disused industrial landscapes, particularly in Europe, that are being converted to create parks of our time, making use of their history to create radical new designs that include new interpretations of enclosed gardens.

New life for old sites London’s old docklands, where trading thrived in the nineteenth century, are being reclaimed, after long periods of dereliction. Part of the strategy has been to create a new park that reconnects the City to the river. A former petrochemical site was leveled, covered and sealed21 to form the new Thames Barrier Park.22 It has been transformed into a green ‘plateau’ that stretches out beside the Thames, its eastern boundary in line with the shimmering sculptural forms of the Thames Barrier.23 A long strip has been cut out of the middle of the green horizontal plain, a deep channel designed to evoke the memory of the original Royal Docks, almost cutting the park in two. It has been transformed into an enclosed garden, a sheltered space hidden away from the windswept upper level (Figure 1.44). It starts and ends with water. At one end it butts up to the road, car park and station, with a piazza filled with bubbling fountains splashing onto the stone flags. At the other end, it ramps up to a small pavilion overlooking the Thames and the barrier itself, commemorating civilian victims of war from this part of London. The planting forms ‘waves’ of undulating hedges, giving a sense of movement and energy, and perhaps the memory of the water that once filled the dock. It has been described as ‘the Green Dock, a ghost of its predecessor’.24 Two bridges connect each side of the park.

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Figure 1.44 Thames Barrier Park. Looking down into the sunken garden.

Once you are inside the dock the atmosphere changes. The experience is of conﬁnement and close proximity, which can induce a sense of claustrophobia in the faint-hearted. High battered walls covered with box leaf honeysuckle block out the horizon on two sides. The pictorial pattern making seen from above has been lost. You are given no choice but to follow the narrow paths. The planting is dense and you can enjoy the difference between this and the expansiveness of the windswept park. As you move along, the strips, colour, texture, shape and scent constantly change. The rise and fall of the wavy hedges provides changing views across the width of the garden. You could imagine it as a musical score. As you walk you beat out the rhythm of your stride in step with the undulations of the yew hedges and your experience of the garden, with its artful planting and shaping, makes the music.

Reclamation and the ruin Duisburg-Nord Landscape Park has been created in part of an old industrial area within the Ruhr Valley in Germany. It has been skillfully designed by Peter Latz and Partners, starting in 1991, into a complex continuum of spaces that acknowledges the industrial waste, decay and dereliction. It has been transformed into a park with many amenities for the large population that now surrounds it, and the site has been given a new life and a new meaning. The ruins have been kept and can now be appreciated for what they are, and to evoke memories of another era. At Duisburg, we see an updated understanding of the romance of the ruin. The dialogue between

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nature and industrial decay can be seen as a healing process. The hope is that the land, over time, will become unpolluted as nature intervenes. The structures, often monumental in scale, will return to the earth. Peter Latz has had no illusions about designing a park with any residual nineteenth-century ideals of romanticising the countryside or of the ruin only representing a glorious past. He is gravely concerned with reversing the damage done by the industrialists of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries by converting and reclaiming the waste they left behind on the sites of their capital ventures. He has done this by transformation, accepting the past instead of concealing and covering over the cracks by hiding or removing the evidence: ‘the vision for the new landscape should seek its justiﬁcation exactly within the existing forms of demolition and exhaustion’.25 Whereas much of the damage has been sealed up in the Thames Barrier

Figure 1.45 Duisburg-Nord Landscape Park. View of one of the Bunker gardens, with a catwalk behind it, and part of the monumental industrial ruins in the distance.

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Figure 1.46 New doorway cut into the bunker garden.

Park, at Duisburg-Nord Landscape Park we are able to confront and reﬂect on the ruin. The existing structure left by the industrial processing has been exploited to provide a network of high-level walkways, mainly constructed from recycled materials, to complement those on the ground. The height helps visitors orient themselves over the many hectares, enabling them to look down on a series of spaces, many of which have a certain grandeur. Their character comes directly from the surrounding weather worn steel and concrete. Some, however, are discrete and have become intimate spaces within the wilderness of the park. There is a series of bunkers near the blast furnace that have been converted into small, enclosed gardens. They can be looked at from the overhead catwalks, but are barely visible until you are almost on top of them (Figure 1.45). The existing rough concrete bunker walls have been left exposed. New doorways have been cut through to

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provide access. The marks of those who made them are left exposed around the threshold (Figure 1.46). The heaps of ore and coal deposits that used to be housed in them have been cleared and given way to plants. Evergreen strips of box hedge ripple across the enclosure, interspersed with deciduous ﬂowering shrubs that provide seasonal change. Nature has started to interact with the walls since the gardens were ﬁrst planted, and now that these secret gardens have matured they have a magical quality that is only enhanced with the knowledge of their unprepossessing history. The scale of the site is reduced, providing a moment to pause as you cross the park; the bunkers are some of several havens, secret gardens within the vastness of the park that contribute to its success. The enclosed garden can be considered as a particular type of outdoor space, but within that type there can be a wide range of interpretations. Its ambiguity lends itself to interpretation by both the designers and the users, who can exploit its characteristics to suit their needs, both on the ground and surrounding boundaries. Where architecture is involved, an enclosed garden is important in being able to mediate between the interior and exterior. Its walls offer us a sense of enclosure that makes a space feel distinct from any other outside spaces. Its potential for adapting to the weather makes it useful in a wide range of climatic conditions. It lends itself to working with a particular site through the simplicity of its basic structure.

Notes 1

Mottisfont Abbey was originally an Augustinian thirteenth-century priory, and was lived in as a private house until the mid-twentieth century. It is now owned by the National Trust.

Aben, R. & Saskia de Wit (1999). The Enclosed Garden. Rotterdam: 010

Hidcote Manor, Gloucestershire, UK, created by Lawrence Johnston; started

First published 1901.

The Giardino delle Vergini, the garden of a former convent. www.google.com/

Publishers. in 1907.

culturalinstitute/beta/asset/the-last-garden-landscape-of-events-suspendedindeﬁnitely/JAF6W-cHDCBbDA?hl=en. Retrieved 27/07/2016. 6

Victoria Miro video–Sarah Sze–The Last Garden, Venice www.youtube.com/ watch?v=WugFEAzpxsw. Retrieved 27/07/2016.

www.google.com/culturalinstitute/beta/asset/the-last-garden-landscapeof-events-suspended-indeﬁnitely/JAF6W-cHDCBbDA?hl=en. Retrieved 27/07/ 2016.

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Vittorio Gregotti, ‘Editoriale’, Rassegna, 1 Dec. 1979.

Graham, D. (1973). Chinese Gardens. New York: Dodd, Mead & Company.

The region of North Africa that includes Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Libya,

Fathy, Hassan (1986). Natural Energy and Vernacular Architecture. Principles

Mauritania and Western Sahara.

and Examples with Reference to Hot Arid Climates. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. 12 13

Ibid. Brian Edwards et al., (2005). Courtyard Housing: Past, Present and Future. London: Taylor & Francis.

The Mesquite has been adapted for Christian worship since the thirteenth century, but still maintains the essential structure of the mosque, with a continuous regular grid of columns.

Fairchild Ruggles, D. (2008). Islamic Gardens and Landscapes. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press.

It is thought that the garden was originally created for the beneﬁt of the workers who looked after the mosque, as it is very unusual to have a planted garden associated with mosques.

Fairchild Ruggles, D. Islamic Gardens and Landscapes, p. 90.

There has been much debate over the validity and symbolic meaning of the trees, and their appropriateness for a mosque courtyard. See Fairchild Ruggles,

Islamic Gardens and Landscapes. 19

A detailed analysis can be found in Aben and de Wit, The Enclosed Garden.

The New Gardens were planted in the 1930s.

Billington, Jill (2003). London’s Parks and Gardens. Singapore: Tien Wah Press.

The Thames Barrier is a moveable ﬂood barrier, completed 1982.

Billington, Jill, London’s Parks and Gardens.

Kirkwood, Nial (ed.) 2001). Manufactured Sites: Rethinking the Post-Industrial

(Alain Provost).

Landscape. London: Taylor & Francis.

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2 From patio to park The enclosed garden as a generator of architectural and landscape design

The success of enclosed gardens lies in how well they have been embedded in their surroundings; how the principles involved, including garden space, can contribute to the overall design. The methods of carving out or wrapping

around a space in the centre of a building or landscape are simple and spatially economical devices for architectural design. The garden provides a focus and a unifying component for disparate parts of a building complex. It has similar properties to a courtyard, but the garden, by introducing Figure 2.1 Inward looking with central garden.

nature and landscape, adds another dimension. This chapter will investigate the versatility of the plan and how the footprint of an enclosed garden can inﬂuence architectural designs, regardless of their size and dimensions, whether it is at the scale of an individual dwelling, a large building complex or a public garden in a city. Figures 2.1 and 2.2.

Small The idea of ‘garden room’ is clearly illustrated in many domestic scale buildings. If the garden is enclosed on at least three sides, an external Figure 2.2 Circulation.

‘outdoor’ room will have been created through the conﬁguration of the walls. The examples chosen in this section are mainly drawn from twentieth- and twenty-ﬁrst-century buildings where the notion of enclosure has been explored and exploited in the design. In all of them there is a dialogue between the inner and the outer. The quality of the spaces relies on the reciprocity between architecture and garden, creating a physical dialogue between the two, and between the building and its larger context.

Rural settings

Villa in the wild The Lakeside Villa, designed by Office: Kersten Geers David Van Severen in 2007, near Lake Keerbergen, Belgium, unfortunately never built, demonstrates how enclosure can be integral to the design of a single dwelling today (see Figures 2.4 and 2.5). The formal integrity of the villa is maintained by the square geometry of the external wall, its dark polished finish reflecting back the trees of the forest on its surface. The interior spaces are all Figure 2.3 Adaptation of basic plan.

Figure 2.4 Lakeside Villa plan.

From patio to park

Figure 2.5 Images of Lakeside Villa.

contained within a wide, continuous strip of building, covered by a flat roof, leaving a smaller open square in the centre. This is entirely flooded, but at a depth to allow trees to grow through. The pool replaces the conventional garden, and plays on the contrast between the wild, the natural shape of the lake, and the tamed, its rationalised pure geometric form. The reflection of light filtering through the trees would light the interior, and reflect the continuous movement of the branches of the high tree canopy overhead down onto the still water and into the house. The external perimeter wall is punctured only for entry and to provide specific views that connect lake, forest and garden. You enter through an opening that brings you underneath the roof, but open to the garden. Entry into the building itself is through a short glazed corridor that constrains your movements, giving you a view out but denying any other, until you reach a larger space where your movements are no longer restricted. This continuous free space, housing activities such as the living, dining and play area, is punctuated by a series of small separate rooms – office, bedrooms, kitchen. These, each with their own servicing area, look into the central pool/water garden. The columns of the gridded supporting frame are exposed and provide a narrow perimeter walkway, their regular spacing contributing to the

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articulation of the interior façades. From one corner of the garden, steppingstones lead you to a tower. Its staircase takes you to a lookout high in the trees. A south-facing ﬂoating terrace resides in another corner for sitting out and dining. A small pavilion, a cone-shaped sauna room, is placed in a third corner. Despite most of the garden being ﬂooded, it can be inhabited through these small interventions. Lakeside Villa is a re-examination of a fundamental planning principle of enclosure, poetically combining contemporary living with the essential qualities of an enclosed garden. Its strength lies in an understanding of location, in the rigour of the planning and adherence to a geometry, which, once established, allows for variations.

Villa by the sea Lina Bo Bari’s own house, Casa de Vidrio (Glass House) for her and her husband in Sao Paulo, Brazil, designed in 1951 ‘. . . should not be like a closed house that shies away from the storms and the rain’.1 The site they chose was a hillside covered with mature pine trees at the edge of the Mata Atlantica forest. They decided to preserve the land and the vegetation as much as much as possible, working around the trees. She utilised lightweight fabrication techniques that were innovative when it was being constructed. The façade of this lightweight structure is mainly clad in aluminium side panels, as is the underside. The spacious living area with a magnificent view over the bay is glazed all around. Although the bedrooms are placed firmly on the ground, the living room, which is at the same level, projects out into the trees, even wrapping around one of them. The house is held in place by elegant, slender, circular, steel columns (piloti), echoing the forest trees all around, allowing the interior space to run past them (Figure 2.6). Their lightness contributes to the almost weightless quality of the overhang, apparently suspended within the forest. The design makes the house feel not so much an imposition on the landscape, more one of harmony, and maybe even more so today, since the vegetation all around it has grown abundantly. In the strong sunlight the columns start to merge with the forest. The house has been designed around two courtyards. The first – linear in shape – provides access and light to the bedrooms. The second, embedded into the heart of the living space, is located around an old pine tree (Figure 2.7). This spatially connects the house to the ground outside as well as providing natural light deep into the centre of the building. From within the interior the experience of the forest is strongly felt through the generously sized floor-to-ceiling sliding glass windows in the dining room, particularly when they are opened wide.

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Figure 2.6 Approach to Casa de Vidrio.

Figure 2.7 Casa de Vidrio: The central void connecting sky to ground.

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The living space and library are partially divided by a stairwell that takes you directly down to the garden below it (Figure 2.8). Again, it is very lightweight, and springs to the tread of your feet as you slip down and

Figure 2.8 Casa de Vidrio: The lightweight connecting staircase.

around it and touch the earth below, onto a winding footpath into the garden and, metaphorically, back into the rainforest. Although there can be no overall comparison, the downward journey of the stair back to the earth can be compared to the lower stairway at Fallingwater, by Frank Lloyd Wright (completed 1937). There too, a stair from the main living space goes directly down to the bare elements of raw rock and water, bringing out, through the design, the desire for a close, visceral connection with the earth. Casa de Vidrio has survived through a chequered history and is currently receiving grants in recognition of its contribution to architecture. Although Lina Bo Bardi was, without doubt, a modernist, her approach was far from the ‘machine for living in’ that Le Corbusier promoted, and more in tune with Nordic modernism, perhaps through having more extreme climatic conditions. Hers was one where the design has been poetically tuned to nature and is necessarily site-speciﬁc. It has stood up to the changing nature of the location, from forest to suburb. Edwin Heathcote describes it as a house ‘that scoops up the surrounding rainforest and sucks it in’.2 This three-dimensional open space acts as a central open core around which the actions in the house revolve and is ever present as a still centre, the presence of nature rather than the man-made.

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Within a village The music studio, Atelier Bardill, designed by Valerio Olgiati and completed in 2007 for Linard Bardill, is an example of how enclosure has been used as a way of unifying a design at a series of different levels; through addressing the irregularities of the site, its unique location and its response to the speciﬁc brief for a music studio. It sits in the centre of the village of Scharans in Switzerland, a designated conservation area, and replaces an old barn. The studio takes up the equivalent overall volume of the barn, and is in scale with the other village buildings. Olgiati has researched the cultural patterns of the existing village as a reference for the new design, and reinterpretation can be seen throughout. The surface treatment of the pigmented Figure 2.9 Garden surrounded by wall and building (diag).

concrete wall, for example, has been crafted with hand-cut formwork, and the patterning has been worked out through collaboration between architect and builder. The reddish-brown pigmented surface gives off a warm glow, using the colour and a decorative motif traditionally used in the houses in the village (Figures 2.10 and 2.11). The design of the studio has as much to do with the given plot and understanding of site conditions as any

Figure 2.10 Atelier Bardil, Switzerland. Looking up the street showing the patterned surface to the walls.

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Figure 2.11 Atelier Bardil Plan showing the enclosed garden with its wall taken up to the boundary.

imposed geometric rationale. As it is a very simple building that only contains the studio and the necessary services, most of the space is taken up, and monumentalised, by the garden. A large oval appears to be carved out of a ﬂat ceiling set against the walls, which have been raised up to accommodate the pitch of the roof. This pure geometry imposes an ordering and a power to the entire building. The studio entrance is located to the far side of the courtyard to the interior. Coming to the studio is an event, even in this small building. First, you ascend a short ﬂight of stairs up from street level to the front door, and then into an enclosed and powerful space, which is both warm and austere. The canopy provides protection from the elements as you negotiate your way to the doors of the studio. The wall between studio and garden is completely glazed, in contrast to the solid external boundary walls, giving you the illusion of being within the whole space and echoing the volume of the original barn. As well as enjoying the visual connection with the garden, if the sun is shining, you can observe a bright oval of light passing through the overhead opening that projects its shape on the ground. It will slowly move across the ground plane following the sun’s path as the day progresses, with complete disregard to the interior/exterior barrier made by the glass (Figure 2.12). Apart from the entrance, the courtyard space has only one opening, and provides a framed view of the outside world. It acts as a balcony from which you can look down into the village and across to the mountains. The slope of the ceiling and the wrapping of the double thickness wall protect and subtly change the scale. It is an indisputably

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Figure 2.12 Atelier Bardil interior, looking into the garden from the studio, with the pool of light crossing between interior and exterior.

twenty-ﬁrst-century space, subtly referential, containing elements that are embedded within the context of the village. It has been described as intoxicating and dream-like, but also, a place to feel comfortable in. Through a design that Olgiati describes as an ‘indivisible totality’,3 it has the grandeur of a palace, combined with simplicity and introspectiveness.

The urban environment Many developers in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, through expediency, have favoured terraced housing,4 with deep plans and back gardens on long plots. Enclosed gardens have gone out of favour, and been substituted by the back garden. With inventiveness, even quite narrow plots can be exploited to insert enclosed gardens that transform the quality of space.

Terraced House Eduardo Souto de Moura designed a group of nine terraced houses at Matosinhos, Portugal, in 1993, where the houses have long thin plots, and open spaces within them have been designed into the scheme from the start. They ﬁt into the old vegetable garden of a villa, which has been Figure 2.13 Three open spaces within the boundary.

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surrounded by the now expanding town. The design, including individual dwellings, has evolved from a detailed reading of the context of the area.

Despite the change of use from garden to housing, Souto de Moura has maintained the presence of elements of the site that make it unique. It is a very tranquil scheme. The design was driven by his desire to utilise the wall, ‘to build walls, a characteristic feature of the area. The Portuguese house is the continuation of the wall around it, and sometimes the only sign from the road of the presence of the house is a window’.5 The plots are divided with parallel walls, and a wall wraps around the entire plot of nine. They are over-sailed by strips of concrete that make up the roof over all the houses running at right angles to the long plots. An apparent gap between wall and roof prevents any interruption to the integrity of the wall. The enclosing walls are absolute. As soon as you enter the first patio of any of the houses, square in plan, you are immediately cut off and enter a separate world, very quiet and still, stripped down, in stark contrast to the adjacent, busy main road and harbour (Figure 2.14). You enter the building and the layout of the rooms suggests a journey articulated by varying qualities of light. You are drawn through to the living area, which looks onto another patio, this time stretching the entire width of the plot. Several of the houses have swimming pools, and the garden is enclosed at the rear with buildings associated with the pool and garden maintenance. The wall facing the patio is fully glazed, giving maximum visual contact with the garden, while a deep canopy prevents direct sunlight coming inside and overheating the living areas. The large patio doors give direct access to the garden. The more private areas of the house are separated discreetly by a door towards the middle of the house, and the bedrooms all look onto a third patio, hidden and very secluded. The house embodies architectural modernism in its lack of decoration or ornament, its strict geometric articulation of spaces and planar connections between roof, wall and floor. It has a restricted pallet of materials. Load-bearing walls with a rendered finish are used internally and granite,

Figure 2.14 Matosintos, Portugal. Plan of one of the terraced houses indicating the series of courtyard spaces from public to private, carved into a regular rectilinear terrace.

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Figure 2.15 Matosinhos. Courtyard housing making use of vernacular and contemporary materials. The discreet entrance gives nothing away.

reﬂecting the walls of the old garden, is used on the public façades. The scheme refers to the historical precedent of the Moorish occupation of the Middle Ages, turning its back on the street and entering the private world of the dwelling, brought to life through the subtle modulation of light (Figure 2.15).

Adaptation and transformation In the inter-war period in Britain, the semi-detached version of the terrace was much in demand. Despite there being more space around a dwelling, it was not well utilised. Re-examination of this type has led to inventive solutions to the problems, particularly light and access, caused by the long, thin plot. The White House was built in the 1920s and converted by Pierre d’Avoine in 1992. It demonstrates how an enclosed garden can be made even in a tightly packed row of houses, and how the quality of interior Figure 2.16 Two open spaces within the boundary.

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spaces, originally dark, can be enhanced and transformed through adaption of the existing layout. It also demonstrates how small external spaces can

Figure 2.17 The White House, London. Ground ﬂoor plans – before and after showing how left-over spaces at the side have been shaped and become an extension of the living area.

come to life through economy of means and the making of an enclosed external space. The house appears to be like any of the other 1920s semi-detached houses in a quiet, suburban London street but, as you enter, the light quality immediately feels different and you have a sense of having entered the late twentieth century. D’Avoine, through much discussion with his clients and severe space restriction, has given new life to the house by opening up the interior. By extending out across most of the width of the plot at the back, he has created a small courtyard garden out of a neglected back yard at the side (Figure 2.17). Wherever you turn there are views of either the garden or the new courtyard, placed adjacent to the dining area. On warm days, or even when there is a glimmer of sun on cooler days, the sliding doors can be pushed open and you can walk through to a compact but comfortably proportioned outdoor room. Best use has been made of the orientation of the house, which is at the end of the terrace, facing north at the rear.

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The west-facing little courtyard is glazed on two sides, giving the interior access to direct sunlight in the afternoon and early evening. By placing an opening in the south-facing wall to the extended living area, sunlight can fall directly through into what would otherwise be an entirely north-lit room. It also provides a visual connection between courtyard and garden (Figures 2.18 and 2.19). A further connection is made at first-floor level. Two of the rooms now lead directly onto a steel balcony, which takes you to a pivoted stair that leads directly down to the rear garden above the access path. The upper walkway and its encompassing steel-framed structure provide cohesion to the mixture of old and new aspects of the house, and gives the illusion of a canopy overhead when you are at ground floor level, without cutting down the light from above. The two very enclosed outdoor areas are complementary opposites. The courtyard is light and full of potted plants

Figure 2.18 View of courtyard and overhead walkway.

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Figure 2.19 The White House. View through living room back to courtyard.

and creepers, and has been paved to make a detailed warm pattern of concrete, stone and oak. The white painted walls give it an inviting freshness. A simple screen has been placed along the boundary beside the extension, which is now covered in ivy, growing so vigorously that it is in danger of consuming it. As well as providing privacy it makes a connection between this space and the very sheltered enclosed rear garden, which is entirely created by foliage, and makes a transition from a small ordered patch of paradise through to a sultry, verdant arcadia.

Inner city house Ho Chi Min City, more than any other town in Vietnam, has expanded at an exceptional pace. Even here in the tropics where trees grow quickly, forests are being cut down faster than they can regenerate, thus creating an unhappy imbalance between the nature and the built environment. Currently, Ho Chi Min City has a vanishingly small proportion of its land given over to greenery, competing with building development and infrastructure and an increasing number of cars and motorbikes. The disappearance of wild, or even cultivated land, means that there is a noticeable loss of contact with nature in the city. Only as recently as 2013 has there been an initiative for any continuity of green space. Legislation has been put in place to ensure that there is a higher proportion of green space per person within the city in the future than is currently available.6 This lack of both open space

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and greenery has been a challenge for architects. The House for Trees is an attempt to develop land without reducing the existing green footprint. In 2014, Vo Trong Nghia Architects (VTN),7 when asked to build a private house in a left-over garden plot in the Tanbinh area, have raised the garden off the ground and placed it on top of the buildings. House for Trees comprises five small towers, varying in height, which have been described as five large plant pots (Figure 2.20). Within these ‘plant pots’ are five, very small, discreet enclosed gardens. The planting troughs are deep enough to enable substantial trees to grow deep roots and flourish (Figure 2.21). The architects see them as prototypes for spreading a green layer over new developments, maintaining the balance between the natural and the manufactured. The ‘plant pots’ provide a natural way to reduce the temperature through transpiration8 and the depth of the soil has the capacity

Figure 2.20 Looking down onto House for Trees.

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Figure 2.21 House for Trees house plan.

Figure 2.22 House for Trees section.

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to absorb water, sufficient to slow down the run-off of storm water and prevent flooding (Figure 2.22). The towers themselves are simply made from ribbed reinforced concrete with bamboo formwork. There are no corridors. Where necessary, rooms are connected externally across bridges. Communal spaces are located on the ground floor with the more private ones higher up. The circulation between kitchen and dining room takes place across the courtyard, making it the hub of the scheme. The rest of the ground has been left for the owners to cultivate their garden and grow their own vegetables. House for Trees is more than the sum of its parts and the architects are prepared to look beyond their cultural boundaries for successful precedents if they seem appropriate, such as the ingenuity of post-war Japanese urban design where space is scarce. As you approach the towers you see that they are artfully placed to make not only an elegant sculptural composition enclosing a courtyard space in the centre, but they also enclose even smaller spaces between each block. They have the effect of a miniature version of city blocks enclosing a square in European towns such as the configuration in Lucca, Italy.9 The spaces between have the potential to become little gardens or quiet spaces to sit in, hidden away from the bustle of the city. It is an inventive and surprisingly spacious way of maintaining the garden footprint through a new typology of house and garden. VTN are hoping it will be used as a prototype for similar projects, maintaining the greenery/building/space balance, simultaneously connecting back to the heritage of their rural past.

Refuge The Maggie’s Centre at Charing Cross Hospital, London, designed by Rogers Stirk Harbour and Partners, opened in 2008. The design of the building demonstrates how enclosure and the inclusion of several enclosed gardens has played a signiﬁcant part in developing the character of building, which is domestic in scale, despite its connection with a large hospital. The garden spaces are important in creating the atmosphere of a healing environment, and the building provides a safe haven for patients within the hospital Figure 2.23 Three open spaces within a boundary.

grounds. The Centre sits on the corner of a large site in the middle of London. Despite its difﬁcult location, sandwiched between busy roads and the vast hospital building complex, it is a haven of calm. The Maggie’s Centre initiative, championed by Charles Jencks, was set up after his wife, Maggie Keswick, died of cancer in 1993. This, and a growing number of other Maggie’s Centres, have been built to provide a place of refuge for cancer patients. They are designed speciﬁcally to be non-institutional, and different from the high-tech sterile environment of the hospitals they are

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Figure 2.24 Approach to the Maggie’s Centre, showing the enclosing wall and over sailing roof.

Figure 2.25 Ground ﬂoor plan of Maggie’s Centre, London, showing the integration of external and internal spaces within the envelope of the building. The building has a protecting line of birch trees on the street side and the domestic scale garden on the entrance side. The garden reappears internally as integral to the functioning of the building.

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attached to, where efficiency and hygiene have been drivers of often very de-humanised environments. Emphasis has been put on the ‘feel’ of the place as well as its functionality. It is a modestly scaled building, but being coloured bright red it is unmissable, and stands out against the monotones of the hospital buildings and the urban grain of the street (Figure 2.24). As you approach it through a tranquil and domestic-scale garden, a projecting wall draws you in, past a plain façade with a single opening in it. As you get closer, you see that the space behind it is a garden. You are welcomed into a series of interlinked, domestically scaled, spaces. Nothing is overbearing. Most noticeably, the gardens have been brought inside. The largest one sits entirely within the envelope of the building, directly adjacent to the dining and kitchen area (Figure 2.25). You are aware of it from much of the ground floor and can even look down on it from the roof terrace garden on the first floor. The centrally placed table and benches seem to send an invitation to go out and sit on them (Figure 2.26).

Figure 2.26 Maggie’s Centre. Looking through to the main courtyard.

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In all, there are four small gardens, tightly packed within the confines of a rectilinear envelope. The inclusion of the gardens, together with warm colours and timber finishes of the interior and the informality of the interior spaces themselves create a unique atmosphere. The building has an over-sailing roof that appears to hover over the greater part of it, with triangular cut-outs in place, bringing light directly down to the interior. Its separation from the external walls provides adequate light for plants to grow healthily in the smaller spaces, as well as letting light in at first-floor level. It acts as a canopy and gives unity to this small building. As Jenks and Heathcote10 discuss in their book celebrating Maggie’s Centres, the design is undeniably modernist in its approach. It has also overcome some of the pitfalls of modernism where visual considerations have dominated designs. Despite the rectilinear shape of the overall plan, the inclusion of garden areas has provided a dialogue with nature throughout, even within relatively small spaces, and has taken the building beyond the simple box.

Medium A still centre The placing of a garden within a medium-sized building complex with multiple rooms has proved to be a useful strategy. The garden provides a ﬁxed point around which the building can be designed, providing access and a natural light source in a deep plan. If the weather is warm enough it can be used as another habitable space. It also contributes to its character, a still centre that brings us in close contact with the natural world and the changing seasons. Clare Hall, designed by Ralph Erskine, completed in 1969, is a graduate college at the University of Cambridge (Figure 2.29). The architect has acknowledged and respected the evolution of the development of university buildings in Cambridge, but has designed the college to be appropriate to the needs of staff and students of the twentieth century. Students with families are accommodated, and parking has been provided for a limited number of cars underneath the building. The main block is a

Figure 2.27 Single central open space.

deep plan (Figure 2.28) comprising a split-level open area for students, and smaller cellular rooms for staff. Shortly after you have entered the building, and turned to your right, you encounter a completely internalised garden (Figure 2.29). Although it is now over 40 years old, the encircling corridor is very modern and light. The garden wall is glazed on three sides, and slender, pale, laminated timber columns hold up the roof, tapering at the top and bottom. It also has the air of being constantly inhabited. People gather and talk, and it is a regular venue for exhibitions (Figure 2.30). When

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Figure 2.28 Clare Hall, Cambridge, UK. Ground ﬂoor plan.

Figure 2.29 Internal Garden in the heart of Clare Hall.

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Figure 2.30 Clare Hall. Corridor surrounding the garden.

the weather permits the doors are opened, providing access to the garden for staff and students. There is a small fountain that can just be heard from inside, enticing you to seek it out. A rain collector is made into a sculptural feature that naturally replenishes the pond. The garden combines an active space (interior), with one of calm (garden), which is central to the atmosphere of the college. As staff and students carry out their daily activities, this small encounter with nature helps provide an awareness of not just the changing quality of light throughout the seasons but also of the atmosphere that only planting can provide.

As an additive process

As a closed system The device used at Clare Hall can be traced back to the cloister garden of a monastery. The layout of the simple enclosed garden – once established as a strategy for designing – can be repeated, generating large building complexes. The Carthusian monastery at Pavia in Italy shows such an

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Figure 2.31 Plan of the Certosa, Pavia, showing the uninterrupted rectilinear planning on series of cloistered gardens that range from the very formal public cloister behind the church to the gardens of the individual monk’s dwellings. Circulation is through the use of covered cloister walkways.

ever-expanding plan. It is situated on a relatively flat site in open countryside where unimpeded expansion can take place. The planning developed orthogonally, providing orderly, regulated spaces that reflect the aspirations of monastic life. Using the same principles of expansion and enclosure, a range of similar types of enclosed gardens have been made. There is a grand cloister garden to the south of the main church, and then a series of other cloister gardens proliferate beyond it, surrounded by rooms that are required to support the whole community (Figure 2.31). The monastery was entirely self-sufficient, and all aspects of living needed to be catered for: cooking and eating, prayer, work, tending the sick. Each garden was the centre of the activities around it. They ranged from the scale of the private individual dwelling where each monk had his own dwelling and garden, designed for what today we would call minimal living, to the more functional spaces such as the herbarium, where plants were grown for cooking and remedies, or the communal ceremonial space of the main cloister. The monastery, with its covered walkways, is the result of a straightforward design principle that relies on both building and garden. The rectilinear circulation connects spaces and rooms through a repeating pattern, part of a continuous method of space and place-making that together provide continuity and a sense of unity of the whole (Figure 2.32).

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Figure 2.32 Sketch of monks’ houses and enclosed gardens that together wrap around the large cloister garden. Within the Carthusian Order each monk has his own quarters to live in, with an external loggia that looks into his individual enclosed garden, for him to tend and as a place for private contemplation.

As an evolving system As education spread in Western Europe during the Middle Ages, the monastic plan was deemed suitable for educational institutions. It was easily adapted to have a greater emphasis on study rather than prayer, but still maintained an austerity matching the seriousness of academic life. There are many examples of the continuous use of this pattern, up to and including the present day, despite changing attitudes toward education, building design and the changing pace of student life. To walk into the courts of St John’s College, Cambridge, UK, is like architectural time travelling, passing through a series of stage sets. You pass through a wicket gate set in the main doors away from the bustling street into the oldest part of the college, First Court, which was started in the sixteenth century (Figure 2.33). You are in a grand open room, with a carpeting of immaculately maintained lawns. The atmosphere is calm. The noise from the street has diminished, and the space, bounded by the exterior walls of the buildings, has no distractions, no fountains, bushes or herbaceous borders. You continue through a patchwork of successive courts,11 which have been added as the college has expanded. The architecture changes, expressing each century’s ideas and preoccupations, but the basic layout has been maintained, providing consistency through the planning and type of the spaces. A pattern of movement develops, of being squeezed into a conﬁned space as you pass through the buildings, such as

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Figure 2.33 St John’s College, Cambridge. First Court, planted only with lawns.

Figure 2.34 Cripp’s Building, St John’s College. Walkway and access at ground level.

the space between the Great Hall and the kitchens, and then of release as you move into the next court and along cloistered walkways. By the time you reach New Court you have arrived at the twentieth century (Figure 2.34). You look onto the façade of the Cripps Building, designed by architects Powell and Moya, 1963–67. Although the space is open at one end, the building wraps around the space, joining up with the Fischer Building, completing the enclosure. By adhering to the established planning principles, the design has maintained a coherence and spatial continuity already established throughout the complex (Figure 2.35). Student rooms look onto the central court, and access to them is along a covered passage, a modernist interpretation of the cloister, faced with Portland stone and with reinforced concrete and steel stairs as access to the rooms (Figure 2.36).

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Figure 2.35 Aerial view of St John’s College indicating the progression from the street into First Court, through to New Court and the Cripps Building.

Figure 2.36 Cripp’s Building\walkway, access to stairways to students’ bedrooms.

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Vertical planning Enclosed gardens do not necessarily need to be at ground level. An increasing number of gardens are appearing on the ﬂat roofs of buildings, particularly where land at ground level is scarce, and will be discussed more fully in Chapter 7. In temperate climates green roofs are considered not only to be good for the environment, but can also be used by the occupants of the building. An elevated ‘meadow’ has been included in the design of the School of Music at the Polytechnic Institute in Lisbon, designed by João Luis Figure 2.37 Circulation around the outside perimeter.

Carrilho da Graça, 1998–2008. The architects’ main reference is the cloister at Pavia, surrounded by the monks’ individual dwellings (Figure 2.38). The building makes an uncompromising bold statement in an area of suburban Lisbon, adjacent to a major arterial road where planning and integrity of urban space is hard to ﬁnd. On a limited site it has exploited the idea of enclosure, both vertically as well as horizontally. The building, on three ﬂoors, is strictly rectilinear in plan and sits on a sloping site. The mid level is centered round

Figure 2.38 School of Music, Polytechnic Institute, Lisbon. Plans of central and upper level. Individual practice rooms all look onto the enclosed garden.

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Figure 2.39 School of Music, Lisbon. Central level.

Figure 2.40 School of Music, Lisbon. The ‘meadow’.

a large and stark courtyard that connects both to the outside entrance area, and the top floor via an external stair (Figure 2.39). The steps lead you directly onto the ‘meadow’, which fills the centre of the upper level of the building. It is richly planted, but kept at a low level, and can be read as a plane of greenery, a deep-pile carpet, patterned with flowers, offset by the neutral background of the white rendered building and considerably more exuberant than the controlled lawns of Cambridge (Figure 2.40). The individual music practice rooms all look onto this central space. The scale is comparable to that of the monks’ cloister in Pavia. It sits on top of the main concert hall. Circulation has been placed around the perimeter walls, reversing the monastic model in this case. The original plan

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was for the building to be surrounded by a ring of planting, nature wrapping around the building, a transitional zone between building and suburb, buffering the sounds from the busy roads and streets, as we have seen at Maggie’s Centre, but unfortunately that has not been executed to date.

Threshold on the diagonal Enclosed gardens mediate between public and private areas within a city by creating an intermediate zone between the street and the interior of a building. This is clearly demonstrated at the Louis-Jeantet Research Institute in Geneva, designed by Agence TER. A sunken enclosed garden is used as a foyer space for a new lecture theatre12 (Figures 2.41 and 2.42). It lies between the busy street and the hidden interior world of an auditorium. The garden of the adjacent building has been dug out, but retains a plinth at the upper garden level. A ramp invites you down from the street into the lowered garden through a hole in the boundary wall. As you descend and the city noises recede, you hear water splashing down steps from channels let into the surrounding walls. You are directed to the main entrance, a cavelike opening along the adjacent wall. In their book The Enclosed Garden, Aben and de Wit13 discuss how ‘the garden does duty as a decompression chamber, filtering the sounds of the city, and its welter of imagery’ (Figure 2.43). The ramp slows you down, and the space itself, with its sparse planting, acts as a filter and prepares you for a further reduction of sensual deprivation within the auditorium. The subtlety of this scheme lies largely in the juxtaposition of two grids.14 One is derived from the boundary wall of the garden that respects the existing boundaries of the houses along the street and the morphology of the city. The other intersecting grid is a reflection of how people use and travel through the space and provides a path to the auditorium entrance.

Figure 2.41 Louis-Jeantet Institute, Geneva. Plan of lower garden court showing the ramp descending from the street and angled to accommodate a change in direction into the auditorium.

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Figure 2.42 Louis-Jeantet Institute, Geneva. Section showing sunken garden in relation to the street, existing house and entrance to new auditorium.

Figure 2.43 Louis-Jeantet Institute, Geneva. View of sunken garden.

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Threshold on the street You might well miss the entrance to the National Museum of Contemporary Art in the historic Chiado area of Lisbon, renovated in 1994 by Jean Michel Wilmotte. There is a high wall running against the side of a narrow pavement with a modest entrance door within it. You enter and rise up a ﬂight of steps to ﬁnd yourself within a courtyard surrounded by contemporary buildings. They are new wings added to the original Convent of Sao Francisco. The courtyard garden, well above street level, provides some breathing space for visitors to orient themselves after the noisy and somewhat chasm-like streets of the city. It acts as a place to pause, in preparation for either visiting the art gallery or returning back to the city. A café invites you to linger a little longer. The modern patio garden of lawn and paving is a very sympathetic setting for the display of art works. There are no bushes or trees to distract from the art (Figures 2.44 and 2.45). A rill cut into the paving indicates direction and runs along a processional route to the main entrance, and the thick boundary wall cuts out the noise and pollution from the city. It is regularly pierced with large cone-shaped openings that you can look down back at the street and across to the rest of the city.

Figure 2.44 Museum of Contemporary Art, Chiado, Lisbon. Looking toward the entrance. A rill leading from a small pool set in the paving leads to the main entrance.

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Figure 2.45 Museum of Contemporary Art, Chiado, Lisbon. A reminder of the city. A series of portholes gives glimpses of the city, as if through the lens of a camera.

Large Urban greenery – breathing spaces in the city Public gardens in the city are enjoyed for their contrast to the urban environment and contribute to the quality of our urban lives. We often talk of them as the city’s ‘green lungs’. Blocks of buildings provide the boundaries of these breathing spaces. They are often called city rooms, whether they are squares or gardens. The survival of city gardens, some of which date back several centuries, such as Lincoln’s Inn Fields in London, is testimony to the importance of the need and desire for contact with nature in the city. Enclosed public city gardens give a range of opportunities for bringing calm out of chaos. Their spatial coherence favours stasis rather than movement, and can slow down our pace. They can also be landmarks, seen from a distance in contrast to their built-up surroundings. They can be events in their own right, or markers on a journey, spaces to expand into. They can be gathering places or somewhere for us to pause before continuing to our next destination. This will be discussed at length in Chapter 7.

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Planned city gardens

Palais Royal The interior spaces of city blocks are often inaccessible. In many European cities pedestrians are occasionally given a view through an archway into a private courtyard, often full of plants, with a very different quality of light to the street. They look very enticing, and even if we cannot gain access, these spaces add to our imaginative appreciation of the city (Figures 2.46 and 2.47). However, public access is not always denied. At the end of the eighteenth century the Palais Royal in Paris was converted from a ducal palace to a public garden. It is situated within an entire urban block and is not revealed from the street. It is a very formally planned, rectilinear garden, large enough to contain avenues of trees, and a large central park full of formal gardens and fountains. Despite much scepticism it was an instant success. A great variety of entertainments ﬂourished both in the garden and in the buildings. At ground-ﬂoor level there was a variety of commercial enterprises, and rooms for the more risqué activities, gambling houses and brothels, were more discreetly located upstairs. It included a theatre at each end. From the start, people from all walks of life have walked through it for the pleasure of the garden itself. It was in constant demand: money was made, and people were entertained as they still are today. It is a place to be inhabited as part of the urban experience, with much of its success relying on the concentration of activities that the space itself inspires.

Figure 2.46 Palais Royal Paris. Aerial view indicating its scale within the city, and its complete enclosure within a city block, its entrances at both ends connecting north and south and the lining of avenues of trees within the space, along its west and east sides.

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Figure 2.47 The gardens of the Palais Royal have an infamous history as a meeting place in the heart of Paris, a rendezvous for shoppers, concert goers, performances in the gardens, for drinking and assignations on the upper ﬂoors. Even on this chilly morning of a November day, when this photograph was taken, it was full of people.

It is very grand, and owes much of its success to its spatial coherence and layered boundaries. Nowadays it is also an important pedestrian link within the heart of the city. The outer boundary consists of arcaded galleries at ground level, containing shops, restaurants and a theatre, but now with offices and residential units above. The configuration of open arcades makes the façade a spatially interactive plane rather than an impenetrable solid wall. The consistency of the architecture, its regularity and proportion in relation to the open space, gives it orderliness and cohesion. Rows of trees provide it with an inner lining. The longer north/south sides are each flanked by two avenues of lime trees that provide shady paths to promenade along, away from the bustling street. Although they are lower in height than the architecture, they make a bold formal statement, clipped with precision. They become a continuous overhead canopy, the columns of orderly tree trunks below mediating between building and nature. The central space is divided into a series of different gardens, shaped by shrubs and fountains. The scale is small enough for us to be conscious of the formal components surrounding them, and enjoy the intimacy of the smaller scale. The entire garden invites you to participate and join in the action, and despite the grandeur of the whole, you are never intimidated.

Bedford Square Enclosed gardens were designed in the original planning of much of the new residential areas of eighteenth-century London. Bloomsbury, for example, is characterised by its regular blocks of terraced houses that ﬁt into an orderly pattern of streets, squares and gardens. Their growth and popularity arose from an increasing pressure for residential development from prosperous landowners who wished to come to London from the

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Figure 2.48 Bedford Square, London, with enclosed garden to the left.

country for ‘the season’, a period every year when society parties and dinners took place.15 Property developers divided up lots that included open squares acting as centerpieces, magnets16 for the wealthy purchaser, after which the lesser streets were constructed. Some squares contained gardens, enclosed with railings, and accessible only to residents. As all the houses looked onto the garden there was a sense of joint ownership. The inhabitants of the square had the advantage of being seen publicly as soon as they walked out of their front door, with an elegant architectural statement of their residence behind them. They also enjoyed the exclusive use of the garden that took up the greater part of the square, a reminder of the countryside they had left behind. Gardens and architecture contributed to the theatre of the city (Figure 2.48). The uniformity of the terraces, with their ﬂat façades and straight horizontal parapets read as single planes, make clearly deﬁned boundaries to the spaces. Despite the gardens’ substantial size, with some very mature trees within them now, the background of the terraces is always present. Neither garden nor building dominates. The natural forms of the planting offset the regular pattern and proportions of the architecture. All the main rooms of the houses, raised several steps up from ground level, look out to a view of a contrived natural landscape. In Bedford Square, because the garden is designed as an oval placed within a rectangle, there is plenty of room between the façades of the buildings and the garden itself to observe the garden as a whole. The success of these spaces can also be measured by the current real estate value of the houses, and very few people can now afford to use them as homes. The houses have proved to be adaptable for a range of uses, and are mainly occupied by successful commercial businesses. Although there is a sense of privilege and ownership for the people working there, the gardens make a large contribution to the

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openness and accessibility of the city and many of the squares are open now to the public.

Evolved spaces in the city

Inns of Court Areas that have evolved over time through the changing pattern of city life often have as strong a character as those that have been planned. In many cases it is the interweaving of the spaces between the buildings that provides coherence. The Inns of Court, traditionally the legal centre of London, and much celebrated in many of Charles Dickens’s novels, are no exception. They stretch from the Thames Embankment northward to Gray’s Inn in an unbroken pedestrian promenade of gardens and courtyards in one of the densest parts of the city. Instead of the rigid pattern of a single institution, or the formal planning of Bloomsbury, spaces connect discreetly with building and garden appearing to mould around each other. Although the area has had many face-lifts much of the layout has been unaffected by time. Despite the variety of conﬁguration of architectural style and proportion, the area as a whole maintains its own particular atmosphere, characterised by the gardens. Each garden, different from, but linked to its

Figure 2.49 Inns of Court. The gardens are used as much by people working in the ofﬁces as for people travelling through.

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Figure 2.50 Inns of Court, London. Plan showing a continuous passage of accessible gardens in the heart of the city.

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neighbour, is immaculately maintained, and responds to the architecture immediately surrounding it. Building materials such as stone, brick, slate and timber have weathered well. Although the spaces are privately owned, pedestrians have free access. These beautiful gardens cannot fail to be appreciated by anyone who is walking through. They provide a less frenetic world to the street, where you can have a conversation without having to raise your voice, and even hear a bird sing. The journey, like the university route, creates a pattern of open and constrained movement as you travel through a garden, through a passage in a building, under an archway, across a courtyard or squeeze past two adjacent buildings. The authenticity of the Inns of Court, so steeped in the past, might well be questioned. There is no doubt that there is a preciousness to it, but its consistent and continuing use as a working environment has helped keep it alive. When you pass through you do not feel so much like a tourist looking into a museum, but more a ﬂaneur,17 let into a scene of the interior life of the city (Figures 2.49 and 2.50).

The Begijnhof, Amsterdam A city, by deﬁnition, is a busy place, full of action night and day. For many of us, respite is as necessary as engagement. One of the secrets of many old towns is the hidden spaces contained within them. You feel privileged to enter the garden of the Begijnhof, located in the centre of Amsterdam. Seven centuries ago it was inhabited by a sisterhood who worked in the community without taking any monastic vows. They returned to this sanctuary after their labours for the sick and needy

Figure 2.51 Inward looking, central space.

were finished at the end of each day. It has been inhabited ever since. Discrete narrow passages lead off from the main thoroughfares into the sanctuary. You walk into a surprisingly large, irregularly shaped open space, containing a well-tended garden and a small church, completely enclosed by tall and narrow houses, typical of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. After treading on the muted greys of the city floor, you move into an outdoor room covered with a soft green carpet of lawns. It feels very private and there is an implication of ownership by the inhabitants of the encircling houses that face into it (Figure 2.52). Although their heights vary from between three and five storeys, and each is different to the next and individually designed, there is overall consistency. This is achieved mainly through the use of a limited palette of colour and materials, the uniform fenestration, the rhythm of the gable ends, the alignment of façades and the irregular convex curve of the whole space through the positioning of each block (Figures 2.53 and 2.54).

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Figure 2.52 Begijnjof, Amsterdam. Entrance. The door is locked at night.

Figure 2.53 Begijnhof, Amsterdam. All the houses face into the garden.

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Figure 2.54 Begijnjof, Amsterdam. The garden is completely hidden from the streets.

269 Leigham Court Road, London 269 Leigham Court Road is as different as it could be from the Begijnhof but serves a similar purpose, providing accommodation for a vulnerable community. It is a council-owned, low-rise, low density sheltered housing scheme for the elderly in south London, designed by Kate Mackintosh. It was built in the early 1970s comprising 45 residential units for a maximum of 50 people. Its entrance is set back from the road adjacent to a small shop. You pass through the common facilities and into a garden. A staggered walk way (Figure 2.56) takes you through the centre, connecting courtyards that alternate from side to side between ‘cluster blocks’ of eight ﬂats on two

Figure 2.55 Gardens to the side of central access.

levels. The ﬂats have been described as ‘Bauhaus’18 villas, modernist, cubelike stacks, constructed with lightweight concrete blocks and ﬂat roofs. Although the palette of materials and architectural form can be said to be

brutalist there is no sense of this being a tough or alien environment (Figure 2.57). The scale of architecture and garden feels comfortable and welcoming. This is no accident. Mackintosh has sensitively placed the buildings to create a range of intimate spaces, leaving as many mature trees as possible to provide the foundation for the landscaping. Each flat looks onto a courtyard, placed far enough away from each other to provide privacy, even at ground level. When the weather permits you have the choice of sitting on a bench under a tree in one of the courtyards, drawing up a deckchair in a dedicated space outside your living room, or sitting out on your balcony on the first floor. Or you can take a stroll around the perimeter path. Despite there being no outward similarity of appearance the layout can be seen to equate with more ancient typologies for sheltered communities. Mackintosh has been able to achieve a similar pattern of community living to a monastic plan, but reversing the circulation (see

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Figure 2.56 Leigham Court Road. Staggered walkway, access to ﬂats.

Chapter 4). Common facilities – common room, visitor’s suite, laundry, as well as the shop, are accessible from the street, with a warden’s flat on the first floor. These are all placed along the roadside, mediating between public and private, sheltering the more vulnerable areas behind them. The staggered central spine route connects the flats instead of a circular cloister. (This technique was employed by Le Corbusier in his design for the monastery at La Tourette).19 There are currently no lifts, but with 50 per cent of the flats accessible at ground level, the residents are given a degree of choice of location. It is much loved by its occupants and is an exemplar for this type of housing. It is much more than a housing block that provides all the necessary access requirements for the aging population, and despite the usual problems of underfunding, it is a very humane place to dwell in. Mackintosh has found a satisfactory level between the public and private realm, of public safety and private occupancy through clear, but fluid thresholds between flat/ garden/walkway/street. Where the Begijnhof looks inward to a central

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Figure 2.57 Leigham Court Road. ‘Brutalist’ materials used for housing cluster.

garden, 269 Leigham Court Road spreads out from a central spine, but both are similar in scale, providing for a need to be housed in their own cultural environments. The case studies provide a small window into the wealth of designs derived from the basic principle of enclosure. Many of them are relatively recent, but rely on historical precedent – variations on a theme where garden and architecture complement each other, one providing the context for the other, whether it is at the scale of an individual dwelling, an institution or the city. In all cases, the garden and its relationship with the architecture is pivotal to the scheme being a success.

Notes 1

L.B.B. on Habitat Magazine, 1953. www.socks-studio.com/2014/01/23/livingaround-trees-glass-houses-by-lina-bo-bardi-and-lacaton-vassal. Retrieved 14/10/ 2016.

Edwin Heathcote, the poetic architecture of Louis Baragan and Lina Bo Bardi,

Financial Times (2014) www.ft.com/content/3b25e156-a532-11e3-8988-00144 feab7de.

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Breitschmid, Markus (2008).The Signiﬁcance of the Idea in the Architecture

of Valerio Olgiati. Zurich, Switzerland: Verlag Niggli AG, Sulgen. 4 5

Terraced housing is used widely in Britain as terminology for row housing. Quoted from Postiglione, Gennaro (ed.) (2008). One Hundred Houses for One

Hundred European Architects of the Twentieth Century, Cologne, Germany: Taschen. 6

Austin Williams Architectural Review, 25 June 2014.

VTN – Vo Trong Nghia Architects – House for Trees, www.votrongnghia.com/

Ibid.

Floornature Architecture and Surfaces, www.ﬂoornature.com/projectshousing/

projects/house-for-trees/. Retrieved 11/11/2016.

project-house-for-trees-by-vo-trong-nghia-architects-in-ho-chi-minh-city-9988/. Retrieved 11/11/2016. 10

Jencks, Charles & Edwin Heathcote (2010). The Architecture of Hope. Maggie’s

Cancer Caring Centres. London: Frances Lincoln. 11

Open spaces in Cambridge University colleges are traditionally described as

TER Landscape Architects, 1993.

Aben, Rob & Saskia de Wit (1999). The Enclosed Garden. Rotterdam,

courts, and in Oxford as quadrangles.

Netherlands: 010 Publishers. 14

Ibid.

Girouard, Mark (1985). Cities and People. New Haven, CT: Yale University

Summerson, John (1969). The Architecture of the Eighteenth Century. London:

Flaneur, much celebrated by Baudelaire in nineteenth-century Paris, literally a

Press, pp. 224–225. Thames and Hudson, p. 163.

stroller in the city, one who enjoys the experience of it for its own sake. 18

Oliver Wainwright, The Guardian, 18 April 2014.

Sainte Marie de la Tourette monastery at Eveux, France, was designed by Le Corbusier, designed in the late 1950s.

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3 Taming nature – and the way to Paradise

Oasis We had travelled for several hours along dirt roads laid over expanses of sand and rock, on our way to a small oasis village, Toconao, embedded in the middle of the Atacama Desert in northern Chile. It is one of the driest places on earth, a high and virtually rainless plateau, stretching 600 miles from north to south, and spanning between the Andes and the Pacific coast. There had been virtually no vegetation visible during the entire journey from San Pedro, the town where we were based. The only signs of life were flocks of brilliant pink flamingos that have adapted themselves to take sustenance from the crustaceans that live in an expansive salt lake, one of the major geographical features of this strange landscape that reminded us more of images of the moon than of South America. There was nothing exceptional about the village, with its whitewashed church and adobe houses, but before we left, we were encouraged to walk down a path that appeared to take us straight back into a cleft in the desert. We started to notice more undergrowth, and then came across larger bushes lining the path that provided some shade, a great relief for us from the burning heat of the sun and dryness of the atmosphere. We were walking into a deep and narrow valley, carved out by a stream flowing from the High Andes down to a plateau that lay behind the village (Figure 3.1). The valley’s steep sides sheltered its floor despite the high angle of the sun, and by now there was a rich variety of luxuriant trees and shrubs. It was a shock to us after the desert. We walked along the stream for about 20 minutes and then sat down on its banks where they broadened out. There we were, sitting in dappled light under the trees, with quince blossom above

Figure 3.1 Quebrada. The sheltering sides of the cleft make a natural enclosure, enabling trees and bushes to grow.

Figure 3.2 The steep sides of the quebrada shelter the interior, making a natural enclosed garden. The ﬂoor of the valley is fertile enough for plants to be cultivated.

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us, listening to the sound of running water from the stream accompanied by sweet birdsong, with the breeze passing through the branches overhead making a slight rustle, and cooling us from the searing heat of the day; and yet we were in the middle of a vast desert. Scarlet pomegranates lay scattered in the undergrowth. Again, we felt we had stumbled into Paradise (Figure 3.2). I later learnt that the technical term for it is a quebrada, a geographical feature of the desert that produces oasis conditions. After a picnic lunch we wandered further into the valley and discovered that most of it was cultivated and had an internal organisational structure of its own. Areas were fenced off into gardens and orchards and a variety of crops were being grown. We stepped over a complex system of sluiced irrigation channels surrounding the plots, and the gentle music of the stream or the gushing of the channelled water pouring down the terraces was always present (Figure 3.3). As we peered through the latticework gates of each plot we could see that many of them had tables and chairs, ready for

Figure 3.3 Quebrada Gate into one of the allotments on the valley ﬂoor. Vegetation is used to make a part-living threshold.

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processing and preparing and eating food. The pathway led us to an opening beside the stream containing benches and a large stone hearth that had the air of long-established regular use. We stayed for a while, reﬂecting on the delicious sensuous experience and taste of Paradise, before returning to the heat and dust of the village. Far from it being an excursion for tourists, the quebrada was an orderly area of used land, marked out and made fertile through the use of a regulated irrigation system and making a series of individual enclosed gardens; allotments where fruits, ﬂowers and vegetables can be grown. It was also an important part of the community, a place to come to and, through nurturing the vegetation, enjoy a contrasting environment to the village. It

Figure 3.4 Diagrammatic section through a quebrada.

was a natural enclosed garden for people to meet and feast in. The quebrada is an enclosed garden that has been designed by nature. (Figure 3.4).

A developing idea This chapter will look at the development of enclosed gardens in the West and Middle East, starting from early enclosures and, by tracing their lineage through Persian, Roman and Islamic origins, will discuss their growing metaphorical signiﬁcance, particularly through their association with Paradise.

Eden and Paradise The fertile oasis is one of the most important constituents of life in the desert, a place to escape the relentless heat. It is the one place that provides shape and form within an endless, formless landscape.1 It is a reminder of a much wider phenomenon – of secure areas where plants grow that provide sustenance, and can be enjoyed in the midst of wilder, inhospitable zones. As such places are essential for survival, it is not surprising that we attribute great significance to them and that we have constructed our own equivalent oases elsewhere. The sacred notion of Paradise, a place where we can transcend our human frailty, has been central to many cultures for many centuries. In Judaism, Christianity and Islam the very first garden was the Garden of Eden, a place, somewhere on earth, where our ancestors were in direct contact with God, before they were forced out into the wilderness. There was a desire to get back to this place of perfection, where we want for nothing, where there is plenty, where it is perpetual springtime and life is eternal. There was also a widely held belief that having been thrown out of the Garden of Eden, we may seek redemption and aim to find an alternative solution. ‘God, while ejecting Adam from the Garden of Eden, had, in his

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Figure 3.5 Detail of a copy of the ﬁfteenth-century Frau Mauro Map of the world showing the Garden of Eden placed outside the known world.

mercy, been preparing for an even better home, or Paradise’.2 It was also believed in medieval Europe that the Garden of Eden existed as a tangible place on earth, and that it would eventually be found. Its location was indicated on maps such as the Mappa Mundi in Hereford Cathedral, UK, in a location toward the East. The ﬁfteenth-century Fra Mauro Map of the world has a perspectival representation of the Garden of Eden inset within the whole picture, but outside the central circular section, which is devoted to a two-dimensional map of the world (Figure 3.5). Eden is shown to be within a high enclosing wall. A stream ﬂows out from within, to a less idealised place; a depiction of the known world. The stream divides into four; the four rivers that divide up the four continents. The Garden of Eden, in both maps, is shown as contained within the pure geometry of a cylindrical wall.

Paradise evolving ‘I want to tell you about a garden, the great hunting park of an Assyrian king’, Jean whispered later, in the darkness of Lucjan’s kitchen. ‘Fragrant groves of cedar and box, oak and fruit trees, bowers of jasmine and illuru, iris and anemone, camomile and daisy, crocus, poppy and the lily both wild and cultivated, on the banks of the Tigris. Blossoms swaying in a hot sunlight of scent, great hazy banks of shimmering perfume, a moving wall of scent’. Anne Michaels, The Winter Vault3

The word paradise is the transliteration of the Old Persian word, Pairidaeza,4 literally meaning a place surrounded by walls, that was used long before the biblical accounts. It appears in some of the ﬁrst texts ever to be written

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down, in the Sumerian period in Mesopotamia. A Pairidaeza was either an enclosed hunting ground, or a designated area where land in the middle of the desert was made fertile enough to support human habitation, through the distribution of water from the Tigris and the Euphrates and their tributaries. This created many possibilities. If shade and shelter can be provided, and if water can be utilised effectively and efﬁciently, if invaders can be kept out, we are left with a secure area for animals to graze, or for crops to grow. The earliest recorded Persian garden dates back to 546

BCE;

a geo-

metrically designed plot, which complemented and united the ofﬁcial and residential buildings of Cyrus the Great. The Greek essayist and historian Xenophon, in his Socratic discourse Oeconomicus5 tells us that the Persian king is not only brilliant at the art of war, but also at the art of cultivation. There is archaeological evidence of an orderly park, an enclosure that contained rows of trees, which enclose an irrigated garden.6 By the third century BCE the Babylonians describe Divine Paradise as a garden. Cultivation had risen to the status of art, expressing the values of that society. Just as architecture is a means of expression beyond the necessities of shelter, so gardens started to be seen as a means for expressing ideas of the sacred and of human aspiration toward perfection – to be appreciated by owners and occupiers – for needs other than those met by the production of food. This understanding of the garden as more than a place of utility is the point of departure for a wealth of designs where architecture and garden enclosure enjoy an intimate relationship, and one that has withstood and transcended considerable cultural and geographical difference.

Roman foundations The peristyle garden There is much archaeological evidence that suggests a desire to be close to nature in our everyday lives. The enclosed garden was an integral part of the Roman domestic house. The peristyle house, with its interior garden, was a very popular and versatile dwelling type. The building envelope of town houses was usually taken up to the plot boundary, and this meant that access to daylight could only be from above. Two types of top-lit spaces evolved: the atrium at the front of the house, and the peristyle garden at the rear. The axial location of these spaces made it possible to see right through from the street, creating spatial continuity right to the back of the plot (Figure 3.6). People could walk past one of these homes and not only see the garden, but see a framed view of the family. This organisation of rooms and open spaces within the house made a theatre of the lives of others, a perfect setting for displaying wealth and even a fashion statement

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Figure 3.6 Pompeii. Looking directly through from the entrance vestibule, across the atrium to the peristyle garden.

Figure 3.7 Roman town house. Typical layout.

Key: Typical Roman Villa 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Street entrance Vestibule Atrium Impluvium Tablinum Peristyle Garden

(Figures 3.7 and 3.8). The view was seen through a series of spaces: the vestibule, atrium and tablinum and ﬁnally the garden. The garden itself would have been lined with a colonnade, the peristyle. It was planted with shrubs and trees, either in the ground, or in pots. Vitruvius in his treatise on architecture commented on the virtues of greenery.7 He also discussed gardens as having a certain status: ‘The open-air spaces between the colonnades should be embellished with greenery because walks out of doors are very healthy, for the air from greenery is rareﬁed’8 (Figure 3.9). Figure 3.8 Visual link between spaces.

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Colonnades gave the Romans protection from the excesses of the weather and provided an area where women could carry out certain types

Figure 3.9 House in Pompeii, now used as a café, showing the deep recess of the colonnade, providing a covered area that would be shaded for much of the day.

of work that were deemed suitable to their status. The garden could be stocked with plants for display, food or medicinal herbs, and the pond might contain ﬁsh for the dinner table.9 It was also the perfect venue for a party. Water was used as an ornamental device in the form of a fountain, and as a pool lined with mosaic, and adorned with statuary. Running water would break the stillness of the courtyard, which in much of the Roman empire would have been hot and sultry in summer. Bushes were often clipped and shaped. Nature, having been shaped and controlled by the owners of the garden, was transformed (Figure 3.10). Murals were often painted on a wall to create an illusion of more space, and compensate for cramped conditions. They introduced another theatrical layer to the space, where occupants could suspend disbelief and enter an imaginary world beyond their material surroundings. The murals might depict popular mythological scenes that were felt to be an appropriate narrative for the family, even an imaginary hunting park, a reference to

pairidaeza. It is clear that many gardens, even the most humble, aimed to be beautiful as well as utilitarian, and there is widespread evidence of designs that would stimulate and satisfy a desire to be close to nature, of aspirations to establish rus in urbe, an illusion of countryside in the town that transcended class and wealth. The garden was so integrated into the Roman way of life that the designs of house and garden could not be separated. The resulting type of dwelling was versatile enough to adapt to many different locations (Figure 3.11). It is a legacy of the Roman empire that other civilisations have adopted versions of the peristyle house with its enclosed garden.

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Figure 3.10 Pompeii. Plan of the House of Faun showing the sequence of spaces. There is visual connection from the street to the rear garden.

Figure 3.11 Aerial view of the town of Pavia, showing much of the original Roman layout.

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Enclosed gardens in the Christian world Hortus conclusus and the expression of a belief system With the fading of the Roman Empire, pragmatism in the layout of gardens and architecture gave way to new models. There was an increasing emphasis on the religious signiﬁcance of the garden. It came to be seen as representing a closed world that required spatial separateness. It gave rise to the hortus

conclusus10 in the Christian world and the garden as expressions of Earthly Paradise in Islam.

A garden enclosed is my sister, my spouse; a spring shut up. A fountain sealed. Thy plants are an orchard, of pomegranates, with pleasant fruits; camphire, with spikenard, Spikenard and saffron; calamus and cinnamon, with all trees of frankincense; myrrh and aloes, with all the chief spices: A fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and streams from Lebanon. Awake O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices thereof may ﬂow out. Let my beloved come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits.11 Song of Solomon, 4: 12–16 (AV)

The hortus conclusus is associated with the Virgin Mary and refers to this passage from the Song of Solomon in the Old Testament of the Bible. The closed garden, empty of people, represents the womb of her virginal state, as yet un-entered. Paintings of the late medieval period show that although she may be alone, she is surrounded by ﬂowering plants, all of which have symbolic signiﬁcance for the onlooker. For example, the white lily is a symbol of purity, red roses represent the blood of martyrs and violets are for the Virgin’s humility12 (Figure 3.12). The Virgin Mary herself was often described as a Paradise. Christ, the tree of life, lay at her centre within her womb. Paintings of the annunciation often depict her in a colonnaded space, located between the house and garden. The colonnade mediates between the two spaces, giving equal importance to both. They protect and contain her, and provide a safe location for her encounter with the Angel Gabriel, and an appropriate background for a moment of intimacy, which is often depicted in a very moving manner (Figure 3.13).

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Figure 3.12 The Little Garden of Paradise. Upper Rheinish Master c.1410. The painting depicts Mary seated on a turf bench, reading and listening to music. The trees of life and knowledge border the garden.

Figure 3.13 The Annunciation by Domenico Veneziana 1442–48. The Angel Gabriel is located in a space open to the sky, whereas Mary is protected by the colonnade. The fertile garden behind provides another layer of protection and is symbolic of the virgin birth.

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The medieval garden The countryside and city were not relaxing places in medieval Western Europe. Much of the countryside was uncultivated, wild and unsafe. Cities were overcrowded and had no sanitation, their streets smelly, unpaved, noisy and chaotic. Enclosed gardens provided safe havens, calm and quiet breathing spaces. Very few of them survive, and consequently they have had less direct impact on subsequent garden design than those of their Islamic counterparts.13 Most of our knowledge comes from contemporary records, writings, paintings and engravings. Secular gardens can be seen within an enclosing building, wall or fence, described by John Harvey14 as ‘the horticultural chamber music of the time’.

Figure 3.14 Lutenist and singers in garden. Illustration of the Roman de la Rose. Lady Idleness shows the Lover the door to the garden. Inside, there is an idyllic scene of a musician entertaining ﬁnely dressed women with his lute playing, and another man standing by to one side. Lutenist and singers in a garden.

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Religious allegory thrived in the medieval period as a means of interpreting ideas of good and evil, heaven and hell. These were portrayed throughout the arts, and through architectural and garden design, particularly in religious houses. Despite their religious underpinning, many secular gardens were designed purely for pleasure. There is evidence to suggest that gardens would often contain a central fountain, with paths leading from it. The wall was essential, not only to keep out unwanted flora and fauna, but also to keep any pagan gods at bay that might still be lingering in the wilds of the countryside. We know that the designs were much influenced by the Roman occupation, and also by contact with the Middle East through pilgrimages, trading, the Crusades and the Moorish occupation of Spain. During the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries a secular variant of the hortus conclusus became known through the tradition of courtly love. It is particularly well illustrated in the long poem, Le Roman de la Rose,15 which has inspired many illustrations. The poem describes the hero’s quest for a rose as the quest for his lady’s love, and, in the first part of the poem, it takes place within a walled garden, where he is tutored in the art of courtship16 (Figure 3.14). The hortus delicarium17 depicted in the poem became the secular version of the hortus conclusus. Such poems inspired the designs of gardens for enjoyment, and escape, particularly for women of means. The components – enclosing wall, water, a fountain and perhaps a turf bench – are typical of many gardens of the period. They became known as Love Gardens, and were the refuges of writers, poets or for philosophical thought as much as for courting couples and lovers. They were places where direct experience of the flowers and plants could be enjoyed, chosen for their scent, colour, foliage, textural quality as well as for their many appropriate symbolic references.

Islamic foundations Metaphorical space and the Chahar Bagh Although there is speculation over the designs of Roman and medieval European gardens, this is not the case in Islam. The hot dry conditions of their locations have helped preserve Islamic gardens. The Qur’an refers explicitly to Paradise as a garden, secluded and physically separate; a tangible place that corresponds to our own interior world. For artists and designers of the time, the representation of paradise required an imaginative transformation of ideas into reality. This was fuelled by the banning of all ﬁgurative imagery. The transformation took place by abstracting nature through mathematics and geometry. For mosques and seminaries it was not thought appropriate even to have a planted garden, as it could lead to

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the distraction of peoples’ thoughts. As a consequence, much energy went into the design of the façades of the enclosing buildings, and the ground. Buildings were elaborately decorated with relief work, geometric patterning and calligraphy. Colour was added to the fabric of the buildings, particularly through the use of ceramic tiles. Paving and water were exploited over the ground surface, through decorative tiles, reﬂective pools, fountains and channels (Figures 3.15 and 3.16).

Figure 3.15 Medersa Ben Youssef Theological College, Marrakech. Fourteenth-century reconstructed in the sixteenth century. The sides to the courtyard are elaborately decorated with calligraphy, coloured-patterned glazed tiles and relief work based on geometry, carved into cedar, marble and stucco. There is no representation of plants and no planting in the courtyard.

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Figure 3.16 The Alhambra. Detail of threshold to one of the courts.

Secular gardens flourished throughout the golden age of Islam from the Indian subcontinent across North Africa to the Iberian peninsular. The sacred and visionary, and the secular and hedonistic influenced each other and proved to be very creative.18 The combination of the underlying mathematical layout, and an acceptance of the garden responding to the sensuous side of our natures, did not conflict with any religious and spiritual teachings as it did in Christianity. If Mohamed promoted the idea of Paradise as a reward for life of the faithful, it was fitting that gardens should reflect the idea of Earthly Paradise19 (Figure 3.17). The template for the garden as Earthly Paradise lies within the pure geometry of a square, and its division into four. There is a central fountain, usually flowing into a pool, and the water overflows into four channels that divide it into four equally sized smaller squares. The fountain, reaching up to heaven, represents God on Earth, and the streams represent the four

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Figure 3.17 Prince (Babur) presented with a jungle-fowl, in a garden divided into four with a central fountain and pool.

Figure 3.18 Plan of the basic layout of the Chahar Bagh, with a central fountain, pool and four channels ﬂowing from them that divide the garden into four.

rivers of the world that divide up the four continents. This division also represents the four cardinal points, the four elements and the four seasons. It is best demonstrated in the Chahar Bagh,20 which has come to be known as one of the blueprints of Islamic Paradise Gardens. It also serves as a basis for a repeating pattern that can be spread over larger areas. It can be scaled up and down with ease, and is easily divisible, creating smaller versions of the orthogonal pattern, using paths and water. This symbolic shape, representative of, and distilled from descriptions within the Qur’an, became a metaphor for the organisation and domestication of the land-

Figure 3.19 Paradise Garden.

scape21 (Figures 3.18 and 3.19). The Chahar Bagh layout refers to the ﬂat plane of the garden, but if the space is enclosed, it is likely that the architecture will also respond to

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the patterns, through the articulation of a façade and colonnade. Columns also provide a framework for us to look into the garden, themselves a representation of trees.

Earthly Paradise and the Alhambra And by the garden channels were does, hollow, pouring water, sprinkling the plants in the garden beds . . . and everything fragrant as spices, everything seemed perfumed with myrrh. Birds were singing in the boughs, peering through the fronds of palm, and there were fresh and lovely blossomsroses, saffron, narcissusand each was boasting that he was best (though we thought everyone was beautiful). The narcissi said, ‘We are so white We rule the sun and moon and stars!’22 This fragment of a Hebrew poem by ibn Gabirol was written in medieval Spain, in a period of religious tolerance and cultural richness, at the time of Al Andalus, under Moorish occupation. It describes the Generalife Gardens that accompany the Nazrid Palaces of the Alhambra complex, strategically placed above the town of Granada in Spain, dominating the town and its hinterland (Figure 3.20). Together they are considered to be some of the ﬁnest examples of a fusion of landscape, architecture, courtyard and garden,

Figure 3.20 Alhambra complex. Site plan showing the Nazrid palaces, and the Generalife gardens to the east.

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Figure 3.21 Plan of the Nazrid palaces.

Key: Nazrid Palaces at the Alhambra 1 Patio de Machuca 2 Patio de Mexuar 3 Patio de los Arrayanes (Courtyard of the Myrtles) 4 Patio de Los Leones (Courtyard of the Lions) 5 Patio de los Cypeses 6 Patio de Lindaraja

where the notion of Earthly Paradise has been imaginatively embodied and continuously interpreted over many generations since the twelfth century. It was started when the boundaries between art and science, and the different disciplines of the arts we have today, did not exist (Figures 3.21 and 3.22). There are three main interconnected palaces, each with their own patios. Although they have been adapted to suit a Christian culture after the Moors had left, the basic layout has not been altered, and the patios are intact. Each is integral with the surrounding architecture and is deeply embedded within the complex. No attempt is made to create linear visual

Figure 3.22 Simpliﬁed plan showing proportions and juxtaposition of internal and external space.

links between each other or the outside world. As you walk through it today, it is easy to feel disoriented by an apparent maze of staggered junctions, through layers of space that make up a complex choreographed sequence.23 Planting in the patios is sparse. Water is plentiful, much of which runs from pools to rills, and in some cases penetrates far into the interior spaces. Each patio exhibits an extraordinary wealth of architectural virtuosity, where interior, exterior, sculpture, decoration, art and science all intertwine. The simplicity of the overall space of each patio is implicit through its pure cuboid geometry that holds all the other architectural moves together. Each has a unique character but is entirely integrated within the whole scheme.

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Figure 3.23 View across the Mexuar Patio toward the façade of the Comares Palace.

The proportions of Mexuar Patio are relatively small and convincingly room-like. It has no plants at all, and only a single centrally-placed pool. As you approach it, the main façade of the Comares Palace shimmers in front of you, framed by the arches of a double-layered colonnaded anteroom. The highly decorated but smooth surface gives the appearance of an internal wall of a room, complementing the other two uninterrupted, adjacent sides, which are now bare. A glimmer of light can be seen through two layers of façade and wall, the only indication of where to go next (Figure 3.23). The Court of the Myrtles, Patio de los Arrayanes, is a grand space, dominated by the Comares Tower and a long, still, centrally placed rectangular pool, proportioned to perfectly reﬂect the façades of the buildings (Figure 3.24). There is a small circular pool at both ends, each with a central fountain that represents birth and life. There is a long axial view, but access is around the edges. The smaller scale of the windows and doors along the ﬂanking walls, and the planting provide a sense of human

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Figure 3.24 View of the court of Myrtles, looking toward the Comares Tower. The low myrtle hedges line the two long sides of the pool. It is possible to see a perfect mirror image of the palace reﬂected in the water.

proportion within this awe-inspiring space. Nature is represented by two long clipped myrtle hedges that add an intermediary layer between building and water. The Court of the Lions, Patio de los Leones, is intensely inward looking and the most elaborate, containing a clear pattern of the Chahar Bagh, with its central fountain and rills that divide the ﬂoor into four. A complicated mathematical game is being played. You look through and across to a forest of slender columns that protrude into the space on all four sides to make little pavilions (Figure 3.25). Twelve carved stone

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Figure 3.25 The inward looking Court of Lions is highly decorated, and always seen through a forest of slender columns.

lions surround the central fountain. Water ﬂows from their mouths into a collecting pool and then into four channels that penetrate into the building, and end in small circular pools each containing another fountain that gurgles pleasantly as you pass. The channels of water in the patio represent agricultural control over the land as well as to the Qur’an references.24 The natural world is restricted to four shaped citrus bushes in each corner. The gardens to the north and east were built long after the Moors had left. The further away from the main palaces, the more planting has a presence. The Patio de Lindaraja sits on the edge of the complex, a late

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addition, built to compensate for the lost view over Granada from the Lindaraja Mirador as the palace was extended and the view obscured. It submits to the landscape and is not rectilinear. Although the mathematical purity is lost, it manipulates the space and the level change without losing a sense of enclosure. The four square plan is maintained, but with much more planting. Box trees outline the geometric pattern; cypress and orange trees provide shade, colour and scent. The Partal Gardens are situated beside the complex, which together with the Partal Palace, have been created over the ruins of the palace of the Count of Tendrilla, and designed to be in the spirit of the original. They comprise a series of continuous garden rooms, many variations on the theme of the Chahar Bagh. Water runs through them, taking advantage of gravity on the sloping site, and the basic patterns are repeated and reinvented. The paths are shaded with pomegranate trees, the granadas. The Alhambra palace complex is an example of the possibilities open to the rich and powerful, and of where artistry has been valued. Each space has its own integrity, and complements the interiors that surround it, through proportion and attention to detail. The gardens range from being ﬁlled with an abundance of plants, to their complete absence. Contrast and continuity without visual connection between spaces make this an exceptional place.

The Islamic house The same magic floated among the infinite heights of the heavens and the small hollow of this perfect garden, the only reality visible on earth. The silence that filled it, made more poignant by the unique sound of water in the marble basin in the centre of the garden, seemed to descend from the celestial heights. There was an element of eternity from above that flowed into the perishable things here on earth.25 André Chevrillon

The inclusion of the courtyard garden was not restricted to grand palaces,

Figure 3.26 Views from within, only up to the sky.

and they can be found in almost all traditional Islamic houses even today. Although the main drivers of the design of houses are responses to climate and social structure, the evocation of Earthly Paradise has also been important. The layout of the traditional Arab courtyard town house of the Maghreb region of North Africa is introverted and concentric, and turns it back to the street. The domestic life of its inhabitants revolves around the courtyard. It is the women’s domain, and it is their main contact with the natural world. Its spatial conﬁguration has to resolve the conﬂicts of Islamic

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Figure 3.27 No direct view into the interior from the street.

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Figure 3.28 Dar Bouhellal in the Medina, Fez. The ground ﬂoor plan demonstrates a typical layout of an urban house, set in an irregularly shaped plot, with a rectangular courtyard that cannot be seen from the entrance.

social boundaries, where the territories of men and women are clearly defined. Entry to the house is along a staggered route, avoiding any direct visual contact from the street to the courtyard. The courtyard usually has an imposed square geometry. It reconciles irregularities of the plot and provides a central focus for all domestic activities. The high walls provide shade in the heat of the day and the colonnade that surrounds it also provides shaded access to the rooms behind it. A central fountain is often present for its symbolic significance as much as for pleasure. A particular type of courtyard house, the riad, has developed in Morocco. Riad literally means a house that has been planned around a garden26 (Figures 3.28 and 3.29). Riads in towns, such as the Medina area in Marrakech, are amassed and appear to be almost mounded together to form a tightknit city network with little leftover space for gardens (Figure 3.30). The most striking aspect of this town house is the contrast with its immediate surroundings. From the confined spaces of the souk,27 with its covered streets that teem with people, donkeys, mopeds and cats; that are overloaded with merchandise ranging from carpets to hard boiled eggs; layered with colours and patterns; punctuated with strips of sunlight, filtered

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Figure 3.29 Riad (courtyard garden) in Marrakech.

Figure 3.30 Aerial view of Marrakech showing the organic shape of the town, its density and the regularity of square-shaped courtyard gardens in the middle of each plot.

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Figure 3.31 Marrakech. A street leading away from the souk.

Figure 3.32 Marrakech. Streets turn into tunnels, with occasional light shafts. Doors to riads are set into the side walls.

light, shade, smoke; thick with perfume, exhaust fumes, cooking smells and drains; filled with a cacophony of noise emitted from all the activities, the lanes spread out to the residential areas. A warren of bare narrow streets tunnel their way through the town. Their walls often have a rough mud render finish with few openings, and doors are set discreetly within them. You go from chaos to calm as you enter and step into a blind corridor, walk towards the light and finally move into an orderly, light, tranquil, open space, a haven after the bustle of the souk (Figures 3.31 and 3.32). Separate sounds can be distinguished: the trickle of water from a pool, or a person’s footsteps in the background. Walls are often painted white, setting off the shape of a flowering bush, or the detailed pattern of some ceramic tiles (Figures 3.33 and 3.34).

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Figure 3.33 Marrakech. Inside the riad the orderly space is based on a square geometry. (Dar el Qadi).

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Figure 3.34 The plain white background of the building brings out the colour and texture of the planting.

Only if you climb the stairs to the rooftops can you observe the city, a series of broad flat rooftop terraces punctuated with a proliferation of satellite dishes and with square-shaped wells in the middle. Light-hungry greenery overflows out of them from the gardens below. It is here that we find openness, and unbounded views that stretch across to the High Atlas Mountains (Figure 3.35).

Adaptability The courtyard house, the casa patio, in Cordoba, Southern Spain, has survived through hundreds of years of occupancy, from the Romans, to the Moors, through to Christian occupation, and is thriving today in a secularised society. During the Moorish occupancy, the urban landscape had virtually no civic structure and ceased to adhere to the orthogonal Roman planning

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Figure 3.35 Marrakech. The city opens up at roof level. Plants and trees can be seen emerging from the courtyard gardens below.

that had been based on a municipal organisational regime. Neighbourhoods developed into a fragmented but close-knit pattern, squeezed within the city walls and on top of the Roman foundations. Many of its narrow streets were accessible only on foot. As it converted to Christianity in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the city opened up again and created more public spaces, many of which are still in place today. Like Marrakech, the streets and external walls of the terraced houses are relatively plain, with the exception of the threshold to each house, which is celebrated with a decorated surround. The solid timber front doors are often open or kept ajar. It is possible to get a glimpse of first a passageway lined with decorative tiles that reflect light into the interior, and then deep into the middle of the house to the patio, a garden brilliantly lit and full of colour that lies beyond an open-grilled door. There is likely to be a mixture of trees and shrubs planted directly into the ground, together with an abundance of potted plants. On larger plots it is common to have two patios. The one nearest the street is on display, whereas the second is more private, but not completely hidden (Figure 3.36). The stair often comes directly off the patio, leading to a gallery on the upper level. In most aspects the

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Figure 3.36 Cordoba. The ﬁrst, more public courtyard leads through to a more private one. The reja (grille) in the foreground will ensure security, but still allow the view through.

colonnaded courtyard garden adheres to the Islamic urban house type. It is adopted as the central living space, and is a thoroughfare to most rooms within the dwelling, both at ground level and above. The roofs will frequently be pitched inwards, to collect the rainwater, a reminder of the Roman impluvium. The visual connection to the patio from the street also derives from Roman origins. The reja, the open-grilled gate, is an interesting development of the two cultures. It is usually closed and locked, but as it is made of open decorative ironwork, it allows a view from the street while maintaining security.

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Adaptation for the twenty-first century The casa patio continues to be used as a house type and has been adapted to twenty-first-century needs. The layout can extend beyond the single dwelling and used for apartments. There is a long history of the courtyard serving as a central space for multiple occupancy of a building. A derivation of the Roman insula, the first known block of flats, can be seen in Cordoba. Originally, large plots were often divided internally, either for members of an extended family or for small apartments, a housing type that Cordoba has continued to make use of. There are many infill sites within the old city structure where this type of house is used. The building is taken up to the Figure 3.37 Space for cars has been made underground, with the communal patio garden on top, which can be seen from the street and made secure through the use of a traditional reja.

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boundary of the street, and access to the apartments is through a passage off the pavement, through a reja that is kept locked, and then into a shared patio (Figure 3.37). In both Marrakech and Cordoba, houses based around a courtyard garden, one type hidden and the other on display, are actively used today. Their histories are varied, and they have survived periods of both high and low status. Today their design has been reassessed, and their popularity is testament to their adaptability to contemporary life. The typology reﬂects responsiveness to climate conditions with the potential for very low energy consumption. It is anchored by the enclosed garden. Through tracing the development of the enclosed garden in different periods in history, certain features have remained consistent, and have adapted to a range of climatic and cultural differences. The bounded open space of the courtyard garden has provided the focus for domestic activity or as a site for action. Its longevity lies both in utility and in its metaphorical signiﬁcance, from which the owners take pride and an aesthetic dimension has emerged.

Notes 1

MacDougall, Elisabeth B. & Richard Ettinghausen (eds) (1976). The Islamic

Garden. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. 2

Prest, John (1981). The Garden of Eden, the Botanic Garden and the Re-

creation of Paradise. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, p. 18. 3

Michaels, Anne (2009). The Winter Vault. London: Bloomsbury.

Clark, Emma (2004). The Art of the Islamic Garden. Marlborough, UK: Crowood Press.

Moynihan, Elizabeth (1979). Paradise as a Garden. London: Scholar Press.

Ibid.

Vitruvius, ﬁrst century

BCE

is best known for his Ten Books on Architecture

and for stating that good architecture should exhibit ﬁrmitas, utilitas, venustas, ﬁrmness, commodity and delight. 8

A. R. Littlewood, ‘Ancient literary evidence for the pleasure gardens of Roman country villas’. In Elisabeth B. MacDougall and Wilhelmina F. Jashemski (eds).

Ancient Roman Villa Gardens (1987). Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. 9 10

Farrar, Linda (1998). Ancient Roman Gardens. Stroud, UK: Budding Books.

Hortus conclusus comes from the Latin; literally translated as ‘enclosed garden’, and much used metaphorically, associated with the Virgin Mary in medieval and early Renaissance art and poetry.

The King James 1st Bible, Song of Solomon, 4: 12–16 (AV).

Jennings, Anne (2004). Medieval Gardens. London: English Heritage, pp. 51–52.

Harvey, John (1990). Medieval Gardens. London: B. T. Batsford.

Ibid. p. 60.

Le Roman de la Rose started off by Guillaume de Lorris, in the late 1230s, was completed 40 years later by Jean de Meun.

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British Library online gallery, www.bl.uk/onlinegallery/onlineex/remarkmanu/

Hortus delicarium – the garden of delights.

MacDougall, Elisabeth B. and Richard Ettinghausen, The Islamic Garden.

Prest, John. The Garden of Eden.

Chahar Bagh comes from the Persian: chãr, meaning four, and bãgh meaning

Fairchild Ruggles, D. Islamic Gardens and Landscapes. Philadelphia, PA:

Translated by Raymond P. Scheindlin, Masoret (1995). 5(1): 3. From Roald

roman/

garden. University of Pennsylvania Press. Hoffmann and Shira Leibowitz Schmidt, Old Wines New Flasks: Reﬂections

on Science and the Jewish Tradition, New York: W. H. Freeman. 23

Described in depth in Aben Rob & Saskia de Wit (1999). The Enclosed Garden. Rotterdam, Netherlands: 010 Publishers.

24 25

Ibid. Chevrillon, André (1913). Marrakech dans les Palmes. p. 239. In Quentin Wilbaux and Kirk McElhearn, Marrakesh: The Secret of Courtyard Houses, (2000), Paris, France: ACR Edition.

Magda Sibley, in Edwards et al. (2005). Courtyard Housing: Past, Present and

Souk – term for a commercial zone, market area.

Future. London: Taylor & Francis.

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4 Ritual and emptiness – and the rigour of developing an idea

Encounter I first encountered the cloister of the Cistercian Monastery of Le Thoronet when I was studying architecture. It was one of our destinations on a field trip to the South of France. We had the good fortune to be shown around by the architectural historian François Cali.1 He not only gave us a very detailed analysis of the monastery and description of the daily life of the inhabitants in the twelfth century but, more profoundly, he conveyed the emotional impact of this extraordinary building, and brought it to life as it might have been for the monks. I revisited it in the summer of 2009, finding it much altered since 1973 when it was all but derelict. It still had the same power, despite the touristification and much-needed renovation. This time we descended from the car park through the woods to a gatehouse, and were ushered in through the ubiquitous shop and ticket office. From there we were led through a landscape of grassy slopes and ruined walls towards the first of the abbey buildings, the Lay Brothers’ quarters. We passed through an opening to the side of it into a courtyard. Ahead was the door to the cloister. We passed abruptly from light to dark, to light and to very dark. After a moment or two our eyes adjusted and we could see a cloister, the space so deep and walls so thick it felt completely internal and removed. As we walked around the simple, barrel-vaulted space, it felt cave-like and gave the impression that it could have been carved out of one solid block. The stone glowed with a mixture of rich, warm greys and yellow ochres. The rhythm of the arched openings into the garden seemed in tune with our footsteps, their proportions felt through our bodies as much as our minds (Figures 4.1 and 4.2).

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Figure 4.1 (above) Le Thoronet. Looking across to the external wall of the cloister with the stone brilliantly lit by the Provençal sunlight.

Figure 4.2 Le Thoronet. Looking at the external wall from within the cloister walkway. The sun coming through the openings creates pools of bright light.

The building, standing up to the ferocity of the sun, seemed to gently enfold and wrap itself around us as we moved through it and started our ascent to the church. Although the cloister garden was bare and the grass dried out, the space came alive through the architecture. The thoughts and feelings of the masons still seemed to be present. Even now, with the experience of an empty, uninhabited building rather than that of a religious order, it is not difﬁcult to imagine the time when it was inhabited. The simplicity of form, the fall of light and the unique shape of the cloister have given it a timeless quality. The use of one material, stone, so precisely cut, the clear, unornamented openings and the proportioning that is both adjusting to the land and to the purpose of the cloister, give it an aweinspiring power that makes Le Thoronet stand out as an exceptional building.

Metaphorical space This chapter will look at the enclosed garden as an imagined place as well as a material space, a representation of ideas, a place for us to negotiate around, and contemplate, as much through absence as presence. It will look at the reciprocal relationship between the encircling architectural elements – wall or building – and the space itself. It will consider the garden as a condensation of nature, a distillation of ideas, where the design and the fabric of the surrounding building make a signiﬁcant contribution to its presence. I will start by analysing two designs from the past that rely on an all-encompassing system of beliefs about life, conduct and the cosmos: Cistercian architecture and the enclosed Zen dry gardens of Japan. In both, the gardens are to be looked at, not inhabited, and lived in only in the mind. What can we gain from looking at them today in a secular society where conditions are very different? By analysing a twentieth-century building alongside them, I will discuss key features of the chosen examples that are not only expressions of a particular period, but, through attention to site, location, context and the way materials are put together, transcend their particular beliefs and can still be valuable references for designers today.

Cistercian architecture and the importance of the cloister Monastic background In the late Middle Ages, with the growth of Christianity, there was an expansion of monasteries throughout Europe and the Mediterranean, and new ground was being broken in architectural design. There were clear guidelines to be followed for expressing the practice and beliefs of the

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religion. As we have seen in the monastery at Pavia, a layout developed that was generated from the two main spaces: church and cloister. One was for the act of worship, the church, and the other, the cloister garden – a representation of the Garden of Eden or Paradise – for the contemplation of spiritual matters and God.2 A self-contained community needed many other rooms; somewhere to prepare food, eat communally, sleep, to heal the sick and to meet and discuss matters of the community. These were placed around the cloister garden, and connected by the cloister walk. Variation in local conditions could be accommodated, as could the architectural expression of a particular monastic order, such as Benedictine, Cistercian or Carthusian. The monastic day was arranged around a balance between work and prayer. Hard work and self-denial were part of the way to Paradise, the reward for enduring our time on earth. Heaven had to be sought, as Hell was unthinkable: ‘Paradise was an ever present and almost palpable cultural concept’.3 Despite the emphasis of Paradise being an imagined abstract space, we should not lose sight of the cloister as a material site. We have evidence, in many cases, of a garden divided into four segments with a fountain at the centre, representing a tangible connection with God, life giving and life everlasting, and has some similarities to the Chahar Bagh. Planting ﬂowers and shrubs was not considered necessary unless they were there as symbolic reminders, such as the cypress tree, rising up to heaven, and its association with death. The layout set the pattern for the outlying cloister gardens. Many, however, were often simply grassed.4 Washing, both as an act of ritual cleansing, as well as keeping clean, took place here too, often in a small aedicular shelter, the lavabo, the one physical intrusion into the space.

Figure 4.3 One side of the cloister at Le Thoronet Abbey in Provence, France, has a bench, which would originally have been used by monks for study and instruction and the ceremonial washing of feet. Nowadays it is a convenient place to instruct the tourists.

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The power of the cloister lies in its centrality. It would absorb the rhythms of the day. It was designed to be wide enough for monks to assemble, and to process together into the church for prayer. Instruction could also take place here, as well as more solitary activities such as reading of the scriptures (Figure 4.3). Through meditation and ritualised walking the space was transformed. Even now the cloister comes to life as we move around it. Its material presence is felt through the rhythm of footsteps complemented by the human scale of the open cloister wall that lets in a pattern of sunlight and shadows throughout the day, connecting, but not giving direct access to the garden.

The programme for Cistercian architecture By the twelfth century many monasteries had become very rich, and their buildings elaborately decorated and adorned. The rigour of a monk’s life had vanished and had transformed into an existence of wealth, comfort and decadence. This made St Bernard, founder of the Cistercian Order, reexamine the Rule of St Benedict, the sixth-century founder of medieval monasticism, and reintroduce a very strict code of humility, obedience and poverty. A life was to be based on a balance between work and prayer. In his teaching and writing St Bernard talks of the ﬁrst desert monks in Egypt, hermits in the wilderness. From his description, a generic plan was drawn up and a new architecture emerged, virtually stripped bare of decoration. Its success can be measured by this arrangement lasting for four centuries (Figures 4.4 and 4.5). Certain remote areas across Europe, then considered to be a wilderness, were thought suitable locations for monks to escape

Figure 4.4 St Benoit sur Loire. Drawing showing the expansion of gardens that have grown around the central cloister.

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Figure 4.5 Standard layout for a Cistercian monastery.

Key: Ideal Cistercian Layout 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Cloister Church Chapter house Monks’ common room Room for novices Warming room Refectory Kitchen Lay brothers’ refectory Cellar/store

from urban life and to collectively become hermits. Buildings had to be strictly functional and address the primary needs of the community. They had to be instruments for agricultural production, and accommodate rigorous religious rituals. The task of the master masons was to create buildings and spaces that harmoniously reﬂected the Rule. There was to be no adornment, and no bright colours. The aesthetic would come out of the purity of the forms through the spaces created and the play of light. The carving of the stone was intended to bring out its intrinsic qualities. This could almost be a manifesto for the mid-twentieth century. The harmony of the building itself contributed to the internalising and strengthening of the monks’ faith. As Wolfgang Braunfels shrewdly points out, with the denial of all ﬁgurative work and colour, all the artistry seems to have been poured directly into the architecture and thereby reached astonishing heights.5 From strict adherence to the Rule, the most subtle and moving architectural sequences have

Figure 4.6 Central enclosed space.

been designed, using one material, stone, to manipulate light, sound and landscape.

Le Thoronet Father Couturier, the instigator of one of Le Corbusier’s most celebrated projects, La Tourette,6 urged the architect to visit Le Thoronet before designing the new monastery. To Couturier it had the essence of what a monastery should be, ‘dedicated to monastic silence, meditation and devotion’.7 An almost mystical quality has been achieved in Le Thoronet not

Figure 4.7 Circulation around main space.

only through material form and space, but through material form and action.

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The quality of the building can only be fully appreciated by us moving through the spaces. It was originally also dependent on ritual and silence, and the interpretation of the rules imposed by the Cistercians, to consider the problems of the individual maintaining his solitude within the community.

Working with the land The site for the new building at Le Thoronet in the South of France was chosen to be in the forest, but near to a stream and a spring, and where the land was known to be fertile (Figures 4.8 and 4.9). It slopes gently, and the masons responded with small adjustments to the generic plan. The impression one gets as a visitor is that the monastery has yielded to the landscape, and buildings appear to grow out of it. The ﬁrst act of transgression was to invert the layout of the plan, placing the cloister and its related rooms to the north of the church. It gave easy access to the stream and placed the church at the highest point.

Figure 4.8 Le Thoronet. The monastery is still surrounded by dense forest.

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Figure 4.9 Bird’s eye view of Le Thoronet as it is today.

Then, unlike most other monasteries, the cloister was made to be irregular in plan. A possible explanation is that the ﬁrst building on site was the cellier,8 which responded to the lie of the land, and despite these utilitarian considerations, by the time the church was built it was aligned exactly on the east–west axis, just 6.5° away from being at right angles to the cellier. This sets up two rectilinear grids, and the differences between the two geometries have been resolved within the cloister (Figures 4.10, 4.11 and 4.12).

Figure 4.10 Le Thoronet. General arrangement of buildings.

Key: Le Thoronet 1 2 3 4 5 6

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Church Cloister Chapter house Lavabo Cellar Lay brothers’ building

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Figure 4.11 Le Thoronet cloister.

Figure 4.12 Le Thoronet. Diagram of geometry of the cloister. There is much speculation about why the cloister is not an exact golden rectangle. It has a discrepancy of 6.5º on two sides.

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Figure 4.13 Le Thoronet. Steps leading up to the entrance to the church.

Figure 4.14 Section through the cloister showing the difference in level between the lower and upper cloisters.

The cloister accommodates the natural slope of the site by mediating between all the rooms that have been necessarily located at different levels. With a level change of approximately three metres between the north and the south cloisters, the master masons resolved the difference by creating a ramped ﬂoor to the east and west cloister combined with steps near the approach to the church (Figures 4.13 and 4.14). The steps not only serve their purpose of taking you up the slope, but also of altering your pace, and, in effect, adding to the drama of entry to the church, the most sacred space. The garden and cloister include lumps of raw rock left consciously bare that provide symbolic reference to the earth’s crust. Rock is one of the rude elements of nature that provided caves for the ﬁrst monks in the desert (Figure 4.15). In French, rock is pierre; and is a reference to St Peter, the rock, founder of the Christian Church. The repeating arches of the cloister, providing an underlying visual framework, as well as a structural system, is regulated with the consistency

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of horizontal levels of the vaulted ceilings, the lower plinths and the cills of the openings into the cloister garden. Human scale, intensely felt throughout the whole monastery, is exempliﬁed by the cloister. As you walk through you are conscious of the consistency of stark, undecorated, solid walls to one side and the rhythmical pattern of the uncommonly thick, arcaded walls that separate walkway from garden. The density of the walls is probably derived from the need to support the weight of an upper level cloister adjacent to the dormitory, but this cannot be the whole story. It is the welljudged proportion of what must be deliberately oversized masonry that gives it its magic. Figure 4.15 Raw, uncut rock appears both inside the chapter house and within the cloister.

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Stone and sunlight Stone was used in preference to wood as it is suggestive of permanence. Truth to materials was of great importance. The stone’s essential qualities can be seen through the way sunlight falls on the different layering of the cloister wall and by the shadows it casts. It glows in the Provençal light, and radiates warmth (Figure 4.16). Today there is little evidence of the original cloister garden. All we have left is the rock, and the lavabo, and articulation of the cloister wall, a place that still captivates us. The openings are uniquely proportioned,9 both in relation to the garden as a whole and to the vaulted walkway (Figure 4.17). Their depth gives them the appearance of small alcoves rather than window openings in a wall (approx. 1200 mm). Their lack of ornamentation also gives a sculptural quality. Sunlight passing through them not only emphasises the colouring of the stone, but also changes the feel of each walkway throughout the day. The stone stays warm long into the evening after the sun has set. Where the ﬂoor is ramped, the level cills of the openings apparently vary in height as the ﬂoor level rises or diminishes, and they suggest a range of places to sit, to lean against, or place a book.

Figure 4.16 The warmth of the precisely cut limestone used throughout Le Thoronet is brought out by the sunlight.

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Figure 4.17 The openings in the cloister wall are exceptionally deep compared with the size and proportion of the rest of the cloister, to the extent that they become spaces in themselves.

Figure 4.18 (below) The pools of light start to cross the cloister ﬂoor as the day progresses.

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In the morning there is a strong alternating pattern of sunlight that stretches through the openings on the west side. As the day progresses they diminish and reappear on the east until the sun goes down in the west (Figure 4.18). This would have acted as a marker of time for the monks as they carried out their ritualised activities, always referring to the cloister, from early-morning prayer through to the evening, when they would be reunited after their labours and process up to the church for prayer.

The dry gardens of Japan Not clouded mountains around the sea in which I see the moon the islands, become holes in the ice Saygio10

Background The enclosed Zen dry gardens of Japan express a very different relationship with nature, based on reduction and distillation. Like the Cistercians, Zen monks had no respect for representational images as a means of artistic expression, but the art of the garden was acknowledged as being a fundamental expression of their beliefs. One of the signiﬁcant ways to attain enlightenment, their ultimate goal, is through ‘the mediation of natural phenomena’.11 If we can reduce nature to its basic elements we can ﬁnd a way to reach its essence, distilling it to its simplest expression, and hence regain our own original nature. By stripping the garden down to its barest elements, even draining it of water, we are left with the rock, and a quality of timelessness that takes us beyond our own temporal world. The context of Japanese Zen gardens starts with the myths that have built up around the unique landscape of Japan, where the entire natural world is animate, mountains and sea as well as trees and bushes. It is believed that contemplation of nature and natural phenomena is necessary to attain enlightenment. No distinction is made between the animate and inanimate, hence, in many cases rocks constitute a major part of the garden designs.

The Garden of Ryoan-ji The small space adjacent to the Ryoan-ji Temple in Kyoto, dating back to the ﬁfteenth century, is considered to be one of the ﬁnest examples of a Zen dry garden. The Ryoan-ji garden relies on suggestion, using nothing

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more than a few stones, a little moss and a gravel floor. It is enclosed by two wings of the temple complex and two freestanding low walls (Figures 4.20 and 4.21). The garden itself is composed of 15 small rocks, arranged in five groups, surrounded by islands of moss within a sheet of meticulously raked, light grey, luminous quartzite. These highly symbolic rocks are positioned so that one rock remains hidden from view wherever you are placed on the veranda. A thin rectilinear frame of cut stone borders the garden and keeps the gravel in place, giving it a precise edge. The garden is set within a band of pebbles on the temple side, reflective, darker and contrasting with the cut stone. The band of pebbles acts as a trough to collect any excess water runFigure 4.19 Enclosed space in corner.

off from the garden, and reduces the risk of flooding. It contributes to the appearance of elevating the horizontal plane of the garden, setting it apart and celebrating it. The edge beside the freestanding walls is raised slightly, and finished with more roughly cut stone that also forms a narrow path that runs along the length of the wall. The wall itself is rendered in mud that had originally been boiled in oil. Over time the oil has leached out giving a richly textured patina of grey and black on top of the faded orange/yellow glow of the mud. It has a protective capping of shingles that also covers the path (Figure 4.22). On the temple side the transition from garden to interior is layered. Beyond the pebbles is a tiled walkway, and the floor of a timber veranda floats over it and mediates between interior and exterior. The veranda is meticulously articulated, crafted and positioned so that the garden can be observed directly from it. The overhang provides physical protection from the rain and sun, and its underside provides an upper frame to the view, dark against the daylight outside, leaving a sliver of sky, and emphasising the view downwards and across. The enclosing wall makes a clear visual separation between the garden and the external world, but does not attempt to conceal the view above it as much as it would in a cloister. The view of the landscape and trees that lie beyond the wall completes the composition, and the contrast between the external world and this abstract internalised one is extreme and provocative. The walls and the framing set the garden apart and draw us in at the same time. There is nothing special about any one part, but the composition of the whole, of balance and asymmetry, of the juxtaposition of the weathered rocks and moss, set against the ephemeral perfection of the gravel, has not been surpassed. The result is enigmatic because we can see it as a microcosm of nature, as ranges of mountains rising from forested islands, surrounded by the sea, and we can also see it for what it is, or what is not there. No one enters a Zen garden, with the one exception of the priest whose task is to rake the gravel. The raking into meticulous patterns has an aesthetic function, but is also an act of contemplation for the monk.

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Figure 4.20 Ryoan-ji, Kyoto, Japan. Diagrammatic analysis indicating four major components.

There is no record of the designers’ original intention and there is no single interpretation. François Berthier surmises: ‘It is precisely because the signiﬁcance of this garden remains vague that it is so rich in meaning’.12 One of the attractions of places such as Ryoan-ji must be the way the designers have distilled the gardens, making large spaces unnecessary, suggesting that a whole landscape can be reduced to this small contained area. Ryoan-ji is about the size of a tennis court, and contains the universe.13

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Figure 4.21 Ryoan-ji, view across the dry garden.

Figure 4.22 Ryoan-ji. Detail of boundary wall in spring.

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Layers of nature The temple at Shoden-ji was first established in the thirteenth century (Figure 4.23). Its dry garden comprises a composition of large, rounded, very severely trimmed azalea bushes, grouped in clusters of three, five and seven. The trimming of them is so extreme that it has altered the pattern of their natural growth to the extent that the species is unrecognisable. These are living bushes, but they have also been transformed into abstractions of nature. They could be clouds or mountains. They sit on top of a sea of gravel that has been precisely raked into straight lines. The garden is surrounded on three sides by a plain white rendered, rectilinear boundary wall, neatly capped with tiles, which, like the gravel, offsets the dark curved shapes within it. The garden, however, is in effect only the foreground of the full picture. The land directly behind it adds another important dimension. Your eye is taken up over the low wall and across a landscape full of mature trees such as cryptomerias and acers that form an approximate v-shape. This middle ground leads your eye through the cleft to a distant view of the sacred mountain, Mount Hiei-zan, in the background. This little garden captures an entire landscape. A technique has been used to capture a landscape ‘alive’ that is said to have its origins in the observation of the ink and wash drawings of landscape of the Chinese Sung Dynasty. The drawings often contained very small figures and buildings in the foreground, with a middle ground, often deliberately vague and full of suggestion that connected them to the grandeur of the mountain scenery in the distance.

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Figure 4.23 Shoden -ji, showing foreground, middleground and background that make up the whole composition.

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Framing the view In the late fifteenth century there was a proliferation of small Zen temples in Japan. A new architecture developed, that included a shoin, a reading room or salon, where works of art could be displayed and literature discussed. The temples were often small, built as a private residence for a Zen priest, and on restricted plots of land that limited the size of the garden. One of the walls of the shoin would slide open to reveal a view of the garden. This can be seen at Nanzen-ji Temple,14 Kyoto. Sliding shoji 15 screens open out to provide a framed view on to the dry garden (called Toranokowatashi – young tigers crossing the water). The garden is the foreground of a wider view of a landscape of trees, hillside and mountains. Whereas the view from the veranda is framed horizontally, the sliding shoji screens provide a vertical frame to the view from the shoin to the garden to complete the picture (Figures 4.24, 4.25 and 4.26). The translucent patterned screens also enable muted light to come through into the interior, even when they are closed. The continuous reflective, polished timber floor leads your eye to the outside across the veranda to the garden. Veranda, corridor and screens give a complex layering Figure 4.24 Nanzen-ji. Looking out to the garden from the Salon.

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of space between the interior and exterior, subtly connecting building, garden and landscape.

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Figure 4.25 Nanzen-ji. Detail of sliding screens.

Figure 4.26 Nanzenji. Detail of rock and raked sand.

Adaptation of an idea How can the disciplines of European Catholicism and Japanese Zen, of such different cultures, possibly be compared, apart from the physical enclosure of the land? Although they appear to have no direct resemblance to Cistercian monastery gardens and, indeed, look very different, there are parallels that can be drawn. In both building types we are not invited and physically excluded from entering into the garden. Neither contain any decorative planting. The cloister and veranda are both transitional zones that spatially negotiate between the interior and the garden, and are wide enough to be inhabited and enable ritualised activities. Although the conﬁguration of Le Thoronet and Ryoan-ji is different, the gardens are equally signiﬁcant and important. We can walk around them, or sit beside them, but the experience is through the mind, through the act of looking and contemplating. Both of them have been built with a profound understanding of the materials used, whether it is the stone at Le Thoronet, or

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the slightly larger pallet of stones, moss and timber at Ryoan-ji. The edge condition of each is clearly deﬁned, through the cloister wall, the veranda or the framing of the garden. Both are clearly structured, and representative of a greater dimension of time than the annual changing of the seasons. The following four case studies demonstrate how these clear principles have been absorbed and adapted over time. We start in sixteenthcentury Wales, then cross continents and go to twentieth-century United States and ﬁnally to Europe where Western and Eastern ideas are instilled within the design.

Beyond the monastery Aberglasney Llangathen, Wales See below, the pleasant dome, The poet’s pride, the poet’s home . . . See her woods where Echo talks Her gardens trim, her terrace walks, Her wilderness, fragrant brakes, Her gloomy bowers and shining lakes, Keep, ye gods, this humble seat, For ever pleasant, private neat . . . . . . And now begin to light their fires, Which send up smoke in curling spires: While with light heart all homeward tend, To Aberglasney I descend. John Dyer 1700?–1758 The Country Walk The estate of Aberglasney in West Wales contains one of the very few remaining raised-cloister gardens in the UK and has survived against the odds, given its chequered history. Its design and arrangement in the landscape provides a link between the rigorous organisation of monastic cloister garden, exemplified by Le Thoronet, and the more commonly seen parterres and walled gardens of sixteenth century England. It was most likely the centrepiece of what has been described as nine green gardens by the poet/bard Lewis Glyn Cothi16 at the end of the fifteenth century,17 but specific records start from the late sixteenth century. Bishop Rudd, of St David’s Cathedral, purchased it in 1594. He lived there with his wife and family. He re-built the house with his son Sir Rice Rudd, and re-configured the grounds that included the cloister garden that we still see today. Their vision caused them to overspend and they were forced to mortgage the whole estate. Since then the house has been owned by several families and there is a long history of fortune, misfortune and debt.

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Figure 4.27 Aberglasney. Looking across the parterre toward the cloister wall that connects it to other gardens at different levels.

During the Second World War, it was used initially as a mobile laundry and later it became a holding station for US troops. It never fully recovered after the war. Once again it was economically unviable and the estate split up. By the end of the 1990s the house was empty and the garden had been neglected for nearly half a century. It would have collapsed back to the earth were it not for a rescue package by the Aberglasney Restoration Trust in 1995, backed by an American benefactor Frank Cabot.18 The cloister garden had virtually disappeared and was so dilapidated that it had become more of an archaeological site than a garden. It was painstakingly dug out. Archaeologists were brought in to provide evidence of its former glory and the garden was re-constructed. With so few records, one can only speculate over how the cloister was used. It is well documented that if the weather was bad, women living in country houses would use long galleries for exercise. It seems possible that the upper walkway to the cloister may have provided another opportunity for gentle exercise. Bishop Rudd himself, with his ecclesiastical background, was no stranger to the idea of cloisters. The garden portico of the house leads you onto a terrace. The ground immediately beyond it is sunk down lower than the house and leveled to respond to the natural fall of the land (Figure 4.27). A ﬂight of steps at each end takes you up to the wide walkway. It sits directly above the cloister walk below. Rather than the cloister being the heart of a monastery it is at the heart of the garden, reinforcing a sense of ownership. From the upper level you can circumnavigate a formal parterre19 on the lower level or survey the view of the rest of the gardens and the countryside beyond. The same ﬂights of steps take you down to the lower level (Figure 4.28). You can wander through the garden or choose to walk within the barrel-vaulted cloister. Arched openings provide tantalising views through the double wall and entice you to explore three more walled gardens to the south and west.

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Figure 4.28 Aberglasney. Steps take you to the upper walkway level over the cloister.

Although there are written records of other cloistered gardens and raised terraces that date back to the sixteenth century,20 Aberglasney is unique. The width of the walls and the overhead walkway, inviting you to Figure 4.29 Looking back through one of the archways to the parterre from the lower garden.

participate in discovering the garden gives it an architectural quality quite

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different to gardens contained by a single wall of brickwork (Figure 4.29). The idea, combining ways of engaging with level changes on a sloping site is inspiring for re-interpretation today.

Internalising the garden The Japan Society Cultural Centre in New York was designed by Junzo Yoshimura21 and George Shimamoto in the late 1960s. It is an elegant, early modernist building, originally three storeys and now extended to five in the 1990s.22,23 At first glance it appears to be an unexceptional, well-designed building of its time, but, as you approach it and start to cross the threshold you are aware of subtle shifts from public to private, from hard to soft, from light to dark and to light again. Your eye is inevitably drawn to the pool of light and greenery in the centre of the building. On closer inspection of the façade, it is very distinct. The vertical steel rails that line the ground floor façade are an interpretation of traditional Japanese amado, storm windows, developed for withstanding typhoons. The slanted fence,

komayose, directly in front of them, is derived from the practice of guarding a house from dogs and horses, and at the same time giving a degree of privacy to the living area through the set-back, the traditional distance being one metre24 (Figure 4.30). This is a public building and yet it has a sense of intimacy, which is immediately apparent when you arrive. You step from the street, past large river rocks, through a wide threshold where the ceiling feels low and the light dimmed. Your sensibilities are reﬁned from the experience of the dull grey exterior concrete pavement to the deep reﬂective, articulated grey

Figure 4.30 Japan Society Cultural Centre. An austere external façade.

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Figure 4.31 Japan Cultural Institute. Lightwell and central garden.

slate of the ground floor. The ceiling is covered with slatted aromatic hinoki (Japanese cypress). Cypress was used here to release its woody scent when the lighting, set between the slats, warms them up. Sadly, the timber has now been covered with fire retardant and the scent has been lost.25 The light airiness in the centre of the building and the sound of running water, carried across through the resonant slates, fill the foreground and entice you in. Light pours down from a glazed roof through three floors, catching the movement of a waterfall and reflectiveness of a large pool that sits directly below the opening26 (Figure 4.31). You are confronted with a choice – to move around it to the rear, or to ascend the staircase that lightly

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Figure 4.32 A lightweight staircase invites you to the gallery ﬂoor.

rises from the ground floor, across the pool and up to an open gallery that lines the space on two sides (Figure 4.32). If you choose this option you will notice a slight but distinct tension as you move up, between your own upward movement and the opposing downward movement of the gentle waterfall to your right. The gallery runs past a bamboo garden that fills much of the central space on the first floor. The ‘shoji’ treatment to the timber walls and openings on the upper levels provide a calm and well-proportioned, warm background to the garden. Slender shoots rise up past the second floor to the clearstory window above. A stream winds its way through green foliage and pours gently down to the pool below. From here you look straight down to see circular islands of foliage, iles flottantes, perfectly placed in the water (Figure 4.33).

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Figure 4.33 Looking down from gallery level.

The garden acts as a pivot as well as a focus. You walk through or around it to access most of the rooms on the public levels, an effective and efficient way of providing circulation. The exhibition space on the first floor wraps around it, always providing you with a fixed point of reference. Water is important, connecting the two levels. Its movement provides a slight shimmering of reflected light throughout the atrium that keeps it alive, just as the sound does from the waterfall. It has not been without its problems. On occasions the pool has been so still and so similar in colour to the floor, that people have been known to walk straight into it. This has now been rectified with a discrete rail. Yoshimura has interpreted ideas embedded in traditional Japanese architecture, particularly from the Edo period, within this twentieth-century building. He has placed a garden at its heart – a re-interpretation rather than a copy of any particular period of Japanese garden, acknowledging the importance of the close relationship between built form and nature in Japanese architecture. Although both building and garden have been subject to changes and upgrades, it has not lost the subtle interpretation of Japanese culture that includes the harmonious relationship between architecture and the garden. This building is distinct and unassuming, resisting the external pressures of the city and it has earned its new listed status.

East meets West The Zen garden or karesansu 27 in Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, is a garden enclosed within a garden within a garden. It came into existence in 1953 after a re-planning of the well established tea garden in which it resides. It has a relatively short history, far removed from Japan and the

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culture in which Zen gardens evolved. There is no monastery and no monks to provide authenticity, but just as Zen gardens have been adapted for domestic settings in Japan, the garden here has been designed with great sensitivity to ﬁt into the Californian landscape without losing the essential elements of a Zen garden (Figures 4.34 and 4.35). It also has its own

Figure 4.34 Zen Garden. Looking across to the garden from the stone bench.

Figure 4.35 Zen Garden. Detail of rock and ﬂowering azaleas.

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resonance that connects it as much with modern history as with the past. The garden was originally designed by the Japanese landscape architect, Nagao Sukurai, one of the ﬁrst students to graduate from the Imperial University of Japan. He subsequently became the Chief Gardener at the Imperial Palace in Tokyo for 20 years.28 He was selected to design the Japanese gardens exhibit at the 1939–40 Golden Gate International Exposition. He later emigrated to the US in the 1950s. The original tea garden has a longer history. It was built in 1894 by Makoto Hagiwara, a wealthy immigrant, for an earlier exposition, the Californian World’s Fair.29 The idea behind the garden design was to introduce Japanese culture to the West coast of the US through showcasing an authentic Japanese tea garden. It was kept as a permanent feature of the Golden Gate Park through the inﬂuence and dedication of Hagiwara. He and his family looked after it and were caretakers up to 1925 and they went on living there until 1942.30 Months after the attack on Pearl Harbour, when the Americans joined the Second World War, the family was interned. The garden went into decline, some artefacts were hidden, many were looted. It was re-named the Oriental Tea Garden.31 After the war, when the peace treaty between the two countries had been signed and the relationship between the US and Japan started to thaw, the garden’s original name – the Japanese Tea Garden – was restored. Stones and dwarf trees and lanterns belonging to the family that had been stored for safekeeping were returned. Nagao Sukurai was commissioned in 1953 to design a Zen Garden, karesansui, within the tea garden as a symbol of peace. Despite its short history and adaptation for the Californian climate and topography it cannot be described as a simulacrum and has no sense of

Figure 4.36 Zen Garden. Water basin and little temple catching the evening light.

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being a fake. The beautifully kept garden lies in a slight hollow. It contains the essence of a dry Zen garden with its miniaturised landscape suggesting mountains, forest, water and islands through an arrangement of asymmetrically arranged rocks, moss, trimmed azalea bushes and dwarf pines. In the middle of the garden freshly raked gravel representing water surrounds small outcrops, islands of rock and moss. A gently undulating moss landscape surrounds it, interspersed with more rocks and neatly clipped bushes. Two larger rocks, representing mountains or even a dry waterfall, stand to the eastern side, giving height to the composition. Stepping stones take your eye to a water basin and lantern in the foreground (Figure 4.36). A stone bench is set back on the wayside for people to quietly sit and contemplate the little garden. The bench is set into a grove of mature maples, its ﬂoor carpeted with moss. You can sit here and contemplate the garden as the afternoon sun ﬁlters through the trees and slowly creeps across to stone and sand, past the azalea bushes, water basin and lantern, leaving you to interpret your own landscape conjured up by the garden. As this is a major tourist attraction, your thoughts are often broken by the stream of people hurrying on their way around the prescribed routes, so you have to choose your moment.

West meets East The renovation of the Fondazione Querini Stampalia in 1961–6332 in Venice by Carlo Scarpa embodies certain similar aspirations to Le Thoronet and Ryoan-ji. It can be seen in the thoroughness and integrity of Scarpa’s design, of his way of manipulating materials, structure and space, and the emphasis he has placed on the garden. He has acknowledged patterns of the past, and transformed them into a twentieth-century context. The Foundation is an old Venetian palace. Scarpa was commissioned to renovate and convert it into an art gallery and library (Figure 4.38). As part of the renovation Scarpa transformed the neglected courtyard into a garden, and integrated it with the internal exhibition spaces in such a way that we experience it as another room. Scarpa sets up a dialogue between city and garden, through the play of light on surfaces, water and directed views into

Figure 4.37 Views to a corner.

the garden.33 The result is a reinterpretation of a traditional Venetian garden as well as an interpretation of Venice itself. Ideas and memories have been distilled into a garden in the heart of Venice, with the old and the new comfortably coexisting. The garden is enclosed by two of the external walls of the museum building and two high, freestanding boundary walls that back onto narrow streets. The height of the walls relative to the length and breadth of the ﬂoor give the impression of a room-like space. They give a sense of

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Figure 4.38 Querini Stampalia Foundation, Venice. Looking down to the garden from the ﬁrst ﬂoor, with Venice in the background.

Figure 4.39 Querin Stampalia Foundation. Plan.

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enclosure, and the restricted view is inward looking, or upwards and across the Venetian skyline. Glimpses of the garden can be seen as you walk around and up through the exhibition, and hence it becomes a reference point (Figure 4.39). As you walk from the exhibition space towards the garden, the separation of interior and exterior is mediated by the continuity of the ﬂoor material together with the use of large panels of glass. When you walk out into the garden you are faced with a lawn raised above ground level (Figures 4.40 and 4.41). Its height seems to elevate its status, and accentuates it as

Figure 4.40 Querini Stampalia Foundation. Approach to the garden.

Figure 4.41 Querini Stampalia Foundation. Looking towards the screen.

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a horizontal plane. It is part of a continuous sequence of planes contained within the building that have been negotiated as you progress from street, over water and across interior surfaces. As the lawn is raised it prevents you from walking directly onto it. A low concrete wall containing a linear complex of water rills and sculptural pools runs along its length, reinforcing the framing and separation of the lawn. Together they provide a clear horizontal datum level, a constant around which your movements are choreographed. The sounds of Venice are present in the background but you are more aware of the sound of water coming from the garden.

Figure 4.42 Querini Stampalia Foundation. Looking back to the entrance from the shallow, reﬂecting pools.

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Figure 4.43 Querini Stampalia Foundation. The screen.

Your gaze is drawn diagonally across to the left towards a screen wall. It replaces an earlier nineteenth-century colonnade, and was originally designed by Scarpa to hide parts of the servicing areas of the Foundation. The grey concrete, with a rough shuttered finish, contrasts with the warm Venetian colours of old brick and stuccowork of the palazzo. There is a short run of bright and richly coloured Murano glass tiles inlaid within the rough concrete that shine out like jewellery, a reminder of the richness of materials used all over Venice.34 You are invited to walk towards the screen, enticed by the stepped stone paving to the left, and then around to a water lily pool, itself surrounded by a shallow water tray, where the journey terminates (Figures 4.42 and 4.43). If you turn right as you come out of the building, you climb some steep steps, past an old well, now dry, walk alongside one of the freestanding walls, and you reach the level of the lawn. The journey continues across stepping-stones laid in the grass up to the screen (Figure 4.44). Only at this point can you pass through the screen to the smaller part of the garden, which is now an outdoor extension to the café. When you first step out into the garden the screen appears to be a flat wall. When you come closer, you realise that not only does it have openings, it is three dimensional. It creates width and space through the bending of a single plane, making a three-dimensionally staggered zone that both connects and disconnects the two garden spaces. From above, an implied circular route can be seen along all four sides of the main garden. The planting, although sparse, is now well established, filling much of the space and in danger of interrupting the calm of the lawn that anchors it. Water is embraced throughout the scheme. Richard Murphy35 observes that the Venetians are as obsessed by water as the

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Figure 4.44 Querini Stampalia Foundation. The path around the garden is completed with stepping stones inserted into the grass.

Figure 4.45 Querini Stampalia Foundation. Water spout from the far end of the water chapel.

British are with weather. Water is placed along a whole side of the lawn, and crafted into a series of miniature rills, waterfalls and pools, representing Venice and its waterways. The pools by the screen wall comprise a ‘watery world ﬂoating in a shallow sea’36 (Figure 4.45). This can be interpreted as Venice sitting precariously within the shallows of the Adriatic. There is a small sculptural maze of water at one end of the water sequence, reminiscent of both Venice, and of the Querini Stampalia itself.

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Many aspects of the design are resolved within this small area. Scarpa provides us with a mixture of old and new, rough and smooth, dull and sparkling, still and moving. As Anne-Catrin Schultz says: ‘The intentional treatment of materials, the deliberate use of the effects of light, and shadow, the poeticising of and symbolic functioning of spaces and elements are commonalties that have to do primarily with an attitude of mind’.37 Scarpa will have known Frank Lloyd Wright’s work and the influence Japanese architecture had on him after it was opened up to the West. Scarpa too was directly influenced by Japan, its architecture and its traditional garden design. This, and his historical knowledge of Venice, together with individual memories and experiences, are woven together and reinterpreted into his designs.38 The Foundation is secular and does not project any of the beliefs comparable to the earlier architecture discussed in this chapter. Nevertheless, there are aspects that draw from the traditions represented by Le Thoronet and Ryoan-ji that equally apply to the Querini Stampalia. All three rely on a central flat plane that acts as a datum to hold together the built elements surrounding them. The datum is a point of stasis, a place to fix our gaze. They all express a condensation of ideas, expressed directly through both the architecture and the garden, whether, for example, it is by the simplicity of the cloister, the sea of gravel or the folding wall. They are all designed to make use of the inherent qualities of the materials used, whether they are cut stone, rock or concrete. All of the schemes have considered the users, and how they negotiate in and around the spaces, not just at a functional level, but as an experience. The stepping stones are a direct reference to Japanese gardens. Water, or the representation of water, is a consideration in all the latter three. Scarpa, through the meticulous refining of his design and his understanding of the spirit of the place, has managed to create an environment that transcends the ephemeral and reaches some of the timeless qualities embedded in the older buildings and gardens.

Notes 1

François Cali, author of L’Ordre Cistercien (2005), Paris, France: Fernand Hazan.

Megan Cassidy-Welch suggests that the cloister represents earthly paradise through the architecture (Jerusalem), and heavenly paradise, equated with the garden (the Garden of Eden) in her Monastic Spaces and their Meanings:

Thirteenth-Century English Cistercian Monasteries (2001), Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols. 3

Ibid.

Sylvia Landsberg talks of the importance of the greensward. Not only is it symbolic of rebirth and everlasting life, but it also has an important

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psychological role. She quotes Hugh of Fouilloy ‘the green turf which is in the middle of the material cloister refreshes the encloistered eyes and their (the nuns’) desire to study returns’. (In her The Medieval Garden, (1996), London: British Museum Press.) 5

Braunfels, Wolfgang (1973). Monasteries of Western Europe: The Architecture

of the Orders. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. 6

The Dominican monastery of La Tourette, at Evreux, France, was designed by Le Corbusier, 1957–60.

Henze, Anton (1966). La Tourette: The Corbusier Monastery. London: Lund

Store room or cellar.

Le Thoronet and its sister abbeys, Sénanque and Silvacane, were constructed

Humphries.

around the same period, and are thought to have been designed by the same team of masons. 10

Haiku by Saigyo, twelfth century, in Nitschke, Gunter (2007). Japanese

Berthier, François (2000). Reading Zen in the Rocks: The Japanese Dry

Gardens. Cologne, Germany: Taschen, p. 14. Landscape Garden. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, p. 5. 12

Ibid., p. 41.

Charles Moore et al., (1993) The Poetics of Gardens. Cambridge, MA: MIT

Nanzen-ji originates from the thirteenth century and has undergone many

A shoji screen, often a room divider, is rice paper stretched over a timber frame,

Press. changes since. It was completely rebuilt in the sixteenth century. and the screen is divided into small panels. 16

http://yba.llgc.org.uk/en/s-LEWI-GLY-1447.html; http://aberglasney.org/aboutaberglasney/history/

Welsh Historic Gardens Trust www.whgt.org.uk/index.php?option=com_ content&view=article&id=55&Itemid=64&lang=en. Retrieved 29/06/2016.

Aberglasney. www.aberglasney.org/about-aberglasney/history/. Retrieved 16/

Parterre – a formal garden arranged with beds, traditionally laid out in a strict

06/2016. geometric pattern, often designed to be seen from above. 20

Aberglasney – A garden being re-discovered. www.patientgardener.wordpress. com/2011/05/08/aberglasney-a-garden-being-rediscovered/. Retrieved 16/06/ 2016.

With Gruzen and partners.

Beyer Blinder Belle Architects & Planners expanded the building to incorporate the waterfall 1992–96. www.nyc.gov/html/lpc/downloads/pdf/reports/2420.pdf ?epi-content=GENERIC. Retrieved 22/11/2016.

Recently named New York City’s youngest landmark building.

Japan House: An American Made, Distinctly Japanese Landmark www.japan societyny.blogspot.com/2012/05/japan-house-american-made-distinctly.html. Retrieved 22/11/2016.

Ritual and emptiness

Ibid.

Added in 1995.

153

Meaning dry landscape.

Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park www.goldengatepark.com/ Japanese-tea-garden.html

Also know as Californian Midwinter International Exposition www.goldengate

Travel Dreamscapes California: San Fransisco (Golden Gate Park/Japanese Tea

Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park www.goldengatepark.com/

Fondazione Querini Stampalia, Venice, Italy, renovated by Carlo Scarpa,

Schultz, Anne-Catrin (2007). Carlo Scarpa Layers. London: Edition Axel Menges.

park.com/japanese-tea-garden.html.Retrieved 15/02/2017. Garden) https://goldengatepark.com/japanese-tea-garden.html japanese-tea-garden.html 1961–63. 34

Murphy, Richard (1993). Querini Stampalia Foundation. London: Phaidon Press.

Ibid.

Schultz, Anne-Catrin. ‘Carlo Scarpa: Built Memories’. In Jan Birksted (ed.),

Landscapes of Memory and Experience. (2001), London: Taylor & Francis, p. 54. 38

154

Ibid.

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5 Sensory seclusion The affective garden as a scene for living

In search of the sensuous My travelling companion and I were touring southern Portugal in the height of the tourist season. We were struggling to find a place to stay for the night that was affordable and away from the heart of the tourist strip. It was hot, we were tired, thirsty, and had been in the car for too long. Bewildered and lost, we stumbled across a small sign on the roadside advertising a hotel. We turned down the driveway to be faced with a magnificent sixteenth-century Quinta (country house). They had rooms for just that night. At last we were in luck. We were ushered into a courtyard and afternoon tea arrived on an elegant tray with some fine biscuits. We felt like royalty, or at least important diplomats. We sat in the shade, taking ownership of this beautiful, quiet place. We sipped our tea to the musical sounds of the fountain in front of us and a cool breeze brushed across our overheated brows. Tea had never tasted so delicious. We were on our way to visit the Quinta da Bacalhoa, near Setubal in southern Portugal, famous for its garden. We arrived the next day to find a flurry of gardeners, rotavators and large notices telling us that it was not open to the public. Several years passed before I was able to return. I was at a conference in Lisbon and had a few hours to spare. Although there was scant information on the website, I had to try again to visit the garden, taking a long bus ride out to the Azeitão district south of Lisbon, but it was like being in the film Groundhog Day.1 The property was closed for renovation. This time I was bolder, and entered the garden through a rear entrance. A very polite head gardener told me to come back in a month’s time. This short visit just gave me enough time to see that the estate and garden

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were indeed very fine. House, pavilions, garden and vineyard all had a very harmonious relationship with the underlying natural landscape. My desire to visit the Quinta da Bacalhoa had been fuelled by the very colourful descriptions I had previously read about2 (Figure 5.1). The estate was conceived in the sixteenth century by Braz da Albuquerque, the son of Alfonso, the better known mariner and Viceroy of India. Braz was a much-travelled man, and had been particularly influenced by his trips to Italy and India, which can be seen reflected in the garden and the architecture. With its open-air loggias, walkways and seats, the garden was conceived as a place to enjoy both by looking at it, and through experiencing it. A stone perimeter wall encloses both the garden and a vineyard. Small pavilions are strategically placed along the wall that mediates between the level changes across the site. The estate, like a Palladian villa in the Veneto,

Figure 5.1 View of Quinta da Bacalhoa, Portugal, showing characteristic lotus roof of the tower.

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Figure 5.2 Quinta da Bacalhoa plan of gardens.

Figure 5.3 Diagrammatic section through a pavilion negotiates three changes of level on the site.

integrates the family home with the farm. A square geometry is exploited throughout the design (Figures 5.2 and 5.3). The L-shaped building makes up two sides of a square, and is placed to be in command of the whole site. A loggia looks directly onto a small square parterre, and then across a sunken citrus grove towards a square-shaped pool at the far end of the property. The view to the right looks across to the rest of the enclosure, which is ﬁlled with vines. At ﬁrst glance the parterre, with a sparkling fountain at its centre, appears to be wholly Italianate with its intertwined arabesques (Figure 5.4). Records suggest however that there was also a wall separating it from the tangerine grove that would have cut off the view. This discontinuity of space would appear to be more Moorish than Italian.3 As you walk down the path beside the hedge heading away from the parterre, the tank4 comes into view, gleaming in the distance, and, according to the description, stimulates all your senses. It has now been replanted and will hopefully be returned to its former glory. The colours and the scent

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Figure 5.4 Quinta da Bacaihoa. Looking over the parterre to the loggia.

Figure 5.5 Quinta da Bacihoe. Looking towards the pavillions in front of the pool with the vineyards to the left.

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of the original planting would have been spectacular in contrast to the consistent green of the parterre. The heavy scent of tangerine blossom would be taken on the wind up onto the path, or you’d gaze at the bright orange of the fruits, contrasting with the glossy green leaves. The ground beneath was planted with silvery-blue leaved kale and artichokes, set against the dark red soil. The anticipation of the pleasure of eating the artichokes, peeling the leaves off slowly and eating the succulent flesh at the end of each leaf would complete the saturation of our senses. The path widens alongside the grove, suggesting a slower pace. This part of the promenade was designed specifically for discussion and philosophical debate, where Braz and his friends and family could converse and consider matters of state (and the condition of the grapes). The tank at the end of the walk is lined with three small pavilions. Each is square in plan, and lined with fine decorative tiles, azulejos. The pavilions have deliberately been designed with small doors to exaggerate the size and grandeur of the ensemble (Figure 5.5). They provide shaded enclosures for people to sit in, enjoy the shimmering reflection of the water on the tiles or contemplate a little boat ride across the water. Although the tank is decorative, it serves as a reservoir for irrigating the farm. The path continues around much of the perimeter of the estate at a constant high level, while the land drops away, punctuated by the small pavilions.

Sensory experience This chapter will focus on our sensory participation in the enclosed garden. The sensory garden exists for pleasure and participation, and for appreciation through corporeal engagement, whether it has been designed for enjoyment, therapy or spiritual well-being. An enclosed garden, through its inward-looking nature and adaptability in a range of climatic conditions, can have the effect of intensifying the atmosphere and indulging our senses. In the book Questions of Perception5, Steven Holl discusses how we are now very attuned to cinematic awareness, and ﬁlm’s power to convey atmosphere, through sound and the camera’s eye. Even so we cannot smell a place shown on the screen, as equally we cannot feel the eddying wind, feel the texture of a weathered wall or smell the intense odour of a newly mown lawn. Enclosure enhances our sensibilities by eliminating other distractions and literally captures the atmosphere. The lack of visual freedom created by boundary walls heightens perception through our other senses, liberating us from overemphasis on sight. Such controlled conditions can intensify our sensual responses and deﬁne its sense of place, its genius loci.

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The senses

Listening, touching, smelling The conﬁguration of space created by an enclosing wall affects its microclimate so that, for instance, a blustering wind can be replaced by stillness and encourage a sense of calm. The solid mass of enclosing walls can Figure 5.6 The Alhambra, Spain. Reﬂecting pool in the Partal Gardens.

Figure 5.7 Querini Stampalla Garden. Cool water on a hot day.

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selectively eliminate much of the soundscape of the outside world, thus creating a space to ﬁll with sounds, such as the particular ring and rhythm that footsteps make in a stone-paved colonnade as the sound bounces off the wall. Enclosure enables conversations to be held without having to raise voices, or for us to listen to the song of a blackbird, the trickle of water or the sound of silence (Figure 5.6). As one is never very far away from the surroundings in an enclosed space, whether they are parts of the building or the plants, their textural quality affects us. Their closeness provokes us to touch and feel. Juhani Pallasmaa, talking of the importance of touch, suggests that touch can be said to have a shape, because through touch and texture we understand weight, density and temperature6 (Figure 5.7). We are aware of the materiality of an enclosed garden through its accessibility. Contact with smoothness of a well-worn oak bench, the texture of a weathered wall, a stone seat warmed by the sun or the softness of a lawn are appreciated through touch (Figure 5.8). But touch goes beyond immediate body contact with our environment. Temperature as well as texture is felt through our skin and the outer layers of our bodies. In temperate climates, dampness causes a sensation that we feel through Figure 5.8 Wall made from recycled materials in Cambridge.

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our skin. If a lot of shade is created, damp corners can persist and have a negative effect on us. Similarly, dryness can be difficult to tolerate in hotter climates if there is little humidity. Pallasmaa also talks of the ‘space of scent’.7 Enclosure can be an olfactory container of smells, an olfactory chamber. This is a good thing if the smells are pleasing, but more of a problem if the dead leaves from the autumn have not been cleared away and started to rot. Dampness can be detected through smell as well as being felt through the skin, and the heat of the sun warming a space promotes the release of scents from plants. The memory of the scent of a flower can last long after the flower has withered. The memory of a particular past experience can be triggered by rediscovering that same smell many years after the event. Although this phenomenon works equally with both good and bad smells, there can be a thrill of walking out of a door into an enclosed garden not only to be greeted by the heat and brightness of the sun, but to be saturated in the heavy scent of honeysuckle that provokes a memory of a past event.

Looking and seeing For most of us, hearing, smelling and touching are perceived within the context of what we see. The design of enclosed gardens inevitably relies on what can be seen and how it can be viewed. An enclosed garden can be seen as a stage where the users are both audience and actors, with the garden providing the changing scenery. Its inward-looking views invite participation. A clearly shaped opening into the space can be equated with a proscenium arch, and a colonnade the gallery – providing a notional separation between observer and observed. People look onto a space of ﬁxed dimensions, but in this case, without the need for the suspension of disbelief. The wall has been discussed as a barrier that restricts the view, preventing visual continuity to the horizon. The wall can be seen as a picture

plane, distancing the observer from the external world. Openings allow us a glimpse of what might lie beyond the wall, framing what we see in a horizontal direction. If there are no openings, the upward view increases in signiﬁcance, as we have seen in the traditional Islamic house, and the effect of the light coming directly downward also plays an important role in the design. These effects have been the subject of investigation in the twentieth century by artists such as James Turrell in many of his Skyspace projects.8 He has created outdoor rooms with very large openings in their ceilings (Figure 5.9). Turrell is interested in the depth of space and how we perceive it in relation to the external light quality. He is interested in the

Figure 5.9 Section through Turrell’s Skyspace room.

junction of ceiling and sky, where the space of the sky meets the space of

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Figure 5.10 Viana Palace. Patterned tiles above a sink in one of the gardens.

Figure 5.11 Tiles around an entrance in the Alhambra, Spain.

the interior. For example, at twilight, the view up into the sky appears to be an opaquely painted surface, with no depth. Enclosed gardens, particularly if they are deep, are similarly affected. The inward-looking enclosed garden can be a scene for observing the juxtaposition of natural and artiﬁcial components. The natural curves of trees and bushes of a well-planted garden can be offset by the sharper and more regular geometries of the architecture. Within a small space, the details become very important. Pattern is used within smaller scale architectural components, such as the decorative tiles particularly used in countries around the Mediterranean. Tiles are used equally as components of building and garden. As they are small units, each can be seen in itself, or they can be used as component parts of a larger pattern, such as we see in many Islamic designs (Figures 5.10 and 5.11).

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Five gardens Each of the following case studies has been chosen for the way they invite our sensual engagement with the garden, and how this is achieved through integrating garden and architectural design.

Ritual and the everyday

An enclosed community The first example is a design that relies just on one garden, which is central to the surrounding buildings, and where site has been of critical importance. The Benedictine Monasterio de Las Condes9 (Figure 5.13), built in the 1960s, lies just below the crest of a hill above Santiago, Chile. The siting of the cloister garden in relation to its surroundings is significant. The building surrounds the garden on three sides, thus providing shelter in this exposed location, and the fourth side is opened up to the view. It looks over a valley filled with smog that hovers over the city, and across to the Andes. The garden refers to the magnitude of nature, and incidentally provides the space for us to reflect on how we have treated it (Figure 5.14).

Figure 5.12 Central garden looking out.

The complex maintains the essential qualities of medieval monasteries, as well as being modernist in its conception and design. The enclosing walls read as solid planes punctuated with large areas of glass, framed in steel (Figure 5.15). The garden has been levelled from a steep north/south slope of the site and is laid out in a basic quadripartite plan,

Figure 5.13 Las Condes Monastery, Santiago, Chile.

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with a pool at the crossover of the dividing paths (Figure 5.16). The edge condition has been considered separately, and particular attention has been given to the north and south sides. There is an open cloister to the south, more like a room than an external corridor. It provides enough shaded space for the monks to carry out a range of activities and be able to enjoy the view of the garden. A vine is trained across the openings in the cloister wall

Figure 5.14 Las Condes site layout.

Figure 5.15 Las Condes cloister. Looking through to the garden from the enclosed cloister.

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to provide additional shade in summer (Figure 5.17). The boundary to the north is no more than a low wall, the capping to a retaining wall beneath it. A wide path helps deﬁne the edge. A sense of enclosure has been achieved by the planting. Regularly placed potted plants line the path, and cypress trees have been planted on the hillside immediately below. Their natural thin columnar shapes frame and regulate the view to the gentle slopes of the farmed land and across to the snow-capped mountains.

Figure 5.16 Las Condes cloister garden, looking toward the pool.

Figure 5.17 Las Condes cloister garden. A vine grows against the columns whose leaves provide shade from the sun during hot summer months, and allow light into the space throughout the winter when the leaves have fallen.

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Figure 5.18 Las Condes. A ﬁg tree in the middle of the garden has been trained to make a shady canopy.

The planting within the cloister is abundant. Even in winter it is exuberant and colourful. The warm colours of the paving, where a mixture of materials has been used, predominantly brick ceramic tiles with stone and concrete, are offset by the white walls of the building. Rills with simple sluices are positioned to regulate the water. A fig tree has been trained to form a canopy that provides shade for those who wish to sit in the garden in the long summer months. It attracts the birds, which is a good thing, but they eat all the figs, which is a little sad for the monks (Figure 5.18). No restraint in planting has been shown, which is perhaps due to its particular inheritance of the original Spanish Catholics, with their Moorish influence, adapting to their new location with the rich soil and climate of the subtropics of South America. Unlike some of their counterparts in North Western Europe, the monks enjoy a close relationship with the land at many levels, through their agricultural work and their pleasure and enjoyment of a garden, so clearly evidenced by its well-tended beauty.

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Figure 5.19 Bury Court, UK. Looking across the garden toward the barn.

Ritual and event

Transformation of the everyday The second garden also comprises a single central space, where the conversion of the surrounding buildings has been considered alongside the design of the garden. The old farmyard at Bury Court, Surrey, UK, has been transformed into a spectacular garden through the designs of Piet Oudolf10 (Figure 5.19). It is set deep in the rolling countryside of the south of England, and must be one of the most photographed places in Britain, through its capacity to hold events that make deep impressions on people’s lives. For much of the year it is hired out for weddings and special occasions, to be endlessly revisited in photo albums. The buildings house all the necessary

Figure 5.20 Route and focus.

functions, but the garden, with some adaptations from the original design, sets the scene for making a public occasion into a memorable event. The house, barn and outbuildings that surround the garden have accumulated Figure 5.21 Bury Court. View from veranda, which separates it from directly opening onto the garden.

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Figure 5.22 Bury Court. Site layout.

Figure 5.23 Bury Court. Schematic plan. Ordering lines shown in red.

over many generations and have been arranged through close observation and understanding of their purpose, but have never been conceived as a planned assemblage. The barn, housing the main function area, constitutes one of the sides. This is adjacent to a collection of outbuildings that have been converted into the business wing that make up the second side.

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The third comprises the family house, and the fourth side is deﬁned by an old, freestanding wall. The layout has similarities to the monastic plan. The garden is the focus of all the buildings and opens directly from the reception area, and access between buildings is via a long corridor, equivalent to the covered cloister. Unlike a monastery though, the space has no higher spiritual purpose and is completely given over to being inhabited and enjoyed. There are spaces to accommodate large groups of people in some areas, and the intertwined paths around the perimeter provide a diversion for those who wish to go for a stroll or get away from the milling crowds. The scale of the plants and buildings bridges both public and private, so that when there are no events, it becomes the rear garden to the house (Figure 5.21). The garden accommodates and links the buildings in various ways through the positioning of its constituent parts such as ﬂowerbeds, water and pavilion. The use of vistas and paths as ordering lines create visual links that provide an underlying structure to the design (Figures 5.22 and 5.23). Balance takes precedence over symmetry in the overall composition, which works at many levels: shape, texture, colour and seasonal variation. There are three complementary freestanding sculptural elements within the garden that give it an underlying geometry and tie it back to the building.

Figure 5.24 Bury Court. Looking toward the box bush.

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Figure 5.25 Bury Court. Looking across one of the main ﬂower beds.

Each provides a different focus as one walks around. Their overall plans have similar dimensions to that of the oast house, the most striking feature of the architectural backdrop (seen in outline on the plan) and may well be a reference to the design of the garden at Sissinghurst Castle.11 One of these is a small, steel-framed, pavilion-like structure, fleshed out to give it density with a fine, silvery texture by pyrus salicifolia. It invites you in and from there you can orient yourself for a journey into the garden and have a choice of several paths to follow. The major route leads directly toward a perfectly trimmed low box bush (Figure 5.24). The bush is not only a marker and focus, but acts as a pivot to swing you round to another path on a different axis that leads to the pond beside the house, or across the lawn to the third marker outside the barn. In many places, plants have been placed directly against the buildings, giving a textural richness to the architecture, much of which is made of a warm red brick, local to this part of the country. The planting in the flowerbeds overlaps the paths, softening their edges. Wherever you go, a rich composition of colour, texture and form gives the qualities of a threedimensional painting. The main flowerbed rustles and sways as a whole in the breeze (Figure 5.25). There is a small gap between the wall and the house. Like Mottisfont, it provides a discrete view of the outside world, a serene and pastoral countryside for the wedding guests that cosily bolsters our ephemeral brush with Paradise.

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Rooms in the town

Following a pattern of place making The third example invites a discussion about gardens and architecture that connect through a weave of buildings and open spaces. It demonstrates how a design can evolve and expand over time using the same underlying principles of repeating the courtyard garden, but more as an organic process that relates to the restricting boundaries of the land in a town rather than the regularity of Pavia. The Palacio de Viana sits in what is now the quiet suburb of Ajequía, Cordoba, Spain. It can be seen as a microcosm of the town. It originated in the fourteenth century, was privately owned until the twentieth century, and is now a museum. The continuing expansion of its patios was a way

Figure 5.26 Patchwork of open spaces.

of not only creating favourable ambient climatic conditions in an area that has long hot summers, but also of providing living spaces outside the building envelope that are arguably as important as the internal ones adjacent to them. Each outdoor space has its own character, varying from public to private, formal to informal. In the corner of a small square, bustling with people and trafﬁc, there is a diagonally placed entrance portico that leads into a corner of a grand courtyard (Figure 5.27). This, including the colonnaded sides, is similar in dimensions to the square itself, but here the sounds of the city fade, and are replaced by the trickling fountain in the main courtyard, overlaid with Birdsong (Figure 5.28). The bright light experienced outside the building is now muted and ﬁltered by the tall palm tree that dominates the centre of the space. There are no direct spatial indicators of a route. A door at the

Figure 5.27 Viana Palace, Cordoba, Spain. Entrance from square.

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Figure 5.28 Viana Palace. The reception courtyard.

end of one of the colonnades is the only visual cue to ﬁnding the next space, internal or external. The footprint of the Palace reveals that there are as many open outdoor spaces as there are internal ones (Figures 5.29 and 5.30). The patios and gardens work with the geometry of the building by absorbing its contrasting grids and irregular site boundaries. All the spaces feel very inhabitable. They each have different, but complementary, qualities, varying in scale and proportion. There are those that are completely enclosed by buildings and walls and those that lead directly through to other spaces, those that have directed routes and those where you are left to wander freely, those that are purely functional and those that are purely pleasurable. A pallet of components has been used – wells, fountains, seats, box hedging, trees, paving – that combine to give a rich variety of colourful planting. There is attention to detail, even in the most modest of spaces, such as the gardeners’ courtyard. Despite its interior nature, the Palace looks out to the city. The Grille courtyard visually connects through to the Calle de las Rejas de Don Gome, creating a formal set piece looking onto a little square, and the Gate Patio looks onto the Plaza de Don Gome, through a colonnaded wall, which similarly brings together the villa and the city (Figure 5.31). A very dense design has been reﬁned over time through a consistent and continuous method of place making. The architectural ideas of each

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Figure 5.30 (above) Viana Palace. Simpliﬁed version indicating proportion and juxtapositions of internal and external spaces.

Key: Viana Palace 1 2 3 4 5

Reception patio Archive patio Chapel patio Gate patio Gardener’s patio

6 7 8 9 10

Well patio Pool patio The garden Madame patio Column patio

11 Grille patio 12 Orange tree patio 13 Plaza de Don Gome

Figure 5.29 Viana Palace ground ﬂoor plan.

period have been absorbed, and do not distract from the unity of the whole. The scale is never overbearing. It embodies aspects of Romano/Islamic planning seen in smaller houses in Cordoba, together with the spatial connections of the urban fabric and formal garden layouts of the Renaissance. More open and orthogonal twentieth-century spaces have been added but unfortunately they lack the atmosphere of the older ones, despite the continuity with the other gardens. Pastiche has been relied on rather than trusting a modernist sensibility.

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Figure 5.31 The Grille courtyard, overﬂowing with potted plants on view from the street unless the shutters are closed.

Rooms in the country

Folly Farm If one was to compare Folly Farm with the Viana Palace, it is as if the rooms around the courtyards have been thinned down to the thickness of a wall or hedge. Being climatically much further north, more time is spent indoors by the occupants of Folly Farm. Views out from within are more desirous as a reminder of the great outdoors throughout the year, as the weather is frequently inclement. The views into the garden whet our appetite for entering it and exploring the many journeys that we have been promised. The architectural ensemble of Folly Farm in Berkshire, UK, breaks many of the usual rules of continuity. It is a mix of three contrasting approaches: the original vernacular, formal William and Mary ‘Dutch style’,12 applying good proportions through symmetry and ‘arts and crafts’ where the proportions are derived more from the vernacular, balance being more important than symmetry. The two extensions to the original farmhouse, admittedly, are by the same architect, but it is the garden that plays a major role in unifying the composition, skillfully achieved through the collaborative design by architect Edwin Lutyens, gardener Gertrude Jekyll and, more recently, by garden designer Dan Pearson. There is no grand entrance to the house. You go round the back to get to the front – the result of an ever-evolving development of a compact site. The original entrance, where the ﬁrst courtyards were made, became uncomfortably close to the road as soon as cars used it on a regular basis. The entrance was repositioned to the North Court where the farmhouse and new ‘Dutch’ extension meet. Recently the entrance gate has moved

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to a safer location further down the road. The driveway now sweeps around the garden providing a view of farmland and the informal outer garden with occasional glimpses of the older enclosed gardens, thus turning the entry itself into an event. Edwin Lutyens was commissioned to extend the original Georgian farmhouse in 1906.13 He used the footprint of its old barn as the basis for the ground ﬂoor of a symmetrical ‘Dutch’ style addition containing a grand double height hall with wings either side for a sitting room and library, with bedrooms above. The presence of this wing, together with the original buildings to the north, created courtyards, the ﬁrst exterior ‘rooms’, enclosed Figure 5.32 Folly Farm, UK. Views through arches in the garden walls by the old entrance that connect through to the end of the lime walk.

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Figure 5.33 Folly Farm View from sunken pool garden showing a long vista beside the house. Use of varying heights of hedge in relation to the topography of the site to create false perspective.

by the buildings (Figure 5.32). By 1912 Lutyens had started to extend the house again. The new wing was accessed via a corridor to the west. Externally he ﬁtted in a pool, which as Jane Brown says ‘is probably Lutyens

piece de resistance’14 and built in a radically different style, similar to his earlier ‘arts and crafts’ buildings. In collaboration with Gertrude Jekyll, he set up clear guiding lines and geometries that connect the house to the garden, making maximum use of the topography through subtle changes of level and dividing the spaces with vertical elements – walls and hedges – that create a range of connected but contrasting ‘outdoor rooms’. Much is made of the way they are connected, through the inventive use of steps, water and paving patterns,15 set against a complex planting scheme. The kitchen garden is incorporated as part of the patchwork rather than being pushed beyond the pleasure garden as it would have done in previous generations. Each separate room has a carefully chosen palette of hard and soft materials, making much of the transition from one space to the next (Figures 5.33, 5.34 and 5.35). The Grade I listed16 house has been meticulously renovated and restored by the current owners, keeping the very ﬁne Lutyens design intact. The original, innovative Jekyll design for the garden has not faired well and

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Figure 5.34 Folly Farm Dutch canal. Axial view as seen from the main interior room. The path leading you around and off axis.

Figure 5.35 Folly Farm. Tank Cloister. One of the original pools is surrounded by the solid over-structured cloister immediately behind the connecting corridor. It wraps around the water on three sides to create an intimate and private space, hugging the pond.

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Figure 5.36 Folly Farm. Wind garden. An ordered transitional area connecting the countryside with the enclosed garden.

much has been lost. Dan Pearson has brought it back to life with great respect to the original layout. As well as transforming leftover spaces from previous generations (Figure 5.36) he has integrated the 1912 garden with the surrounding countryside through open views, walks across a stream to a new pond and continuing on to the undulating ﬁelds and the woods beyond. The pond not only helps with the standing water problem, but has encouraged more wildlife. The run-off stream has been deftly introduced through the garden, bridged at appropriate intervals. The designers of the carpet illustrated in the introduction used enclosed gardens with their openings and enclosures, their geometry and colour and the use of water for their inspiration. The Lutyens/Jekyll design, too, has an underlying structure for the ‘garden carpet’ that is rolled out from the house. Hedges, paths and vistas hold it together, promising more in the distance, but not revealing what is to come until you have taken the journey through. And you are constantly being thrown off course. Water appears in different guises throughout the garden. Lutyens and Jekyll have taken advantage of the level changes that naturally occur on the site with stepped entries into the spaces so characteristic of Lutyens. The detail of each garden room is every bit as important as the ﬂoors, the carpets, the walls and the furniture of the interior, but with the sky as the ceiling (Figures 5.37 and 5.38).

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Figure 5.37 Folly Farm. Rendered plan showing main paths, walls, hedges and planting.

Key: Folly Farm 1 Entrance and Barn courts 2 Holm Oak and Lime Walk 3 Dutch Canal 4 Tank Cloister 5 Flower Parterre 6 Sunken Pool Garden 7 Kitchen Garden 8 Wind Garden

Figure 5.38 Folly Farm. Diagrammatic plan of garden showing key vistas and ordering lines.

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Sissinghurst By the beginning of the twentieth century much domestic architecture in England had become stiﬂed by rules and codes of behaviour demanding that each room should have a particular function. It indicated a way of life bound by the empty formality and routine of the established patriarchal family. Even modestly sized houses had a proliferation of rooms that were organised by gender, class and function.17 The conversion of Sissinghurst Castle and its grounds was conceived to challenge these rigid ideas. It was bought by Vita Sackville-West and her husband Harold Nicolson in 1930 Figure 5.39 Route and focus.

when it was no more than a series of ruined buildings. It became a project that gradually brought the site to life over the next five years, and is now one of the most influential gardens of the twentieth century. Sissinghurst questions how we use domestic private space, showing that rooms can be reinvented as the setting for experimentation and self-expression. It challenges conventions of class, social hierarchy, gender and sexuality.18 The entire plot at Sissinghurst was conceived as a series of rooms with designated activities. Vita had her writing room in the tower, the sitting room and library were combined within the Big Room in the North Wing. Breakfast would take place in the South Cottage where Harold had his workroom and where he and Vita had their bedrooms. Eating took place outdoors whenever possible. Dinner would be amid the scent of the roses in the White Garden at the end of the day and through the dusk when the white flowers were at their best, their whiteness standing out against the fading light.19 The pattern of the day necessitated walking outside to get from one activity to another through an orderly layout of outdoor rooms, each with their own distinct character.20 It was achieved through both the structuring of the spaces and the planting, to elicit moods through colour, texture, scent and seasonal variation, all appealing directly to the emotions. This was a radical step in garden design. Although it was a private garden, the Nicolsons opened it to the public in the late 1930s, a garden art gallery, and it has been visited ever since. The footprint of the old sixteenth-century Tudor manor house has been used for locations for walls and hedges that now make up the site and divide it into separate areas. A disproportionately tall tower, all that is left of the manor house, which now stands apart from any other buildings, dominates the entire site. The long ascent up the tower is rewarded by a view of the entire garden, clearly showing its sculptural shaping (Figure 5.40). Not only is it a landmark, its central archway is the threshold to most of the garden. Once through, if you walk halfway across the Tower Lawn you are confronted with a choice. Small openings in the surrounding walls and hedges allow glimpses and arouse anticipation of three very contrasting journeys.

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Figure 5.40 Sissinghurst, UK. View from the tower.

The gap in the hedge directly ahead of you leads across to the informally planted orchard along a grassy path towards a statue of Dionysos (axis no. 1). If you turn to the left (axis no. 2), there is a framed view through an archway in a wall indicating an abundance of plants on the other side, enough to anticipate the much-celebrated White Garden. If you turn to the right, the view is similarly framed, but looks towards a much plainer area. If you follow this path, you come to the Rondel (Figure 5.43), drained of all colour apart from green, covered with only a lawn and surrounded by a high circular wall of yew hedge.21 The views out from here are restricted to four openings at right angles to each other. The axial route continues to the start of the Lime Walk in the Spring Garden. A statue acts as a pivot that rotates the axis of the path to be in line with the edge of the plot and the foundations of the original buildings (axis no. 3). The walk continues down to the side of the Nuttery, in line with the old moat wall, to the herb garden. Its centrally placed urn completes the long axis, and provides a destination in a similar manner to the central arbor of the White Garden that lies on the north boundary (Figures 5.44 and 5.45). Although I have described these walks as being along strict axial alignments, the reality of the journey could not be more varied. The gardens are discrete and self-contained, rooms with their own character, with the equivalent to wall finishes, furniture and floor covering. You walk around the lawns, or along a path where the grid has been subdivided into smaller areas within the whole, variations of the themes of the Paradise garden with a fountain or urn in the middle and four paths leading away from it. Such is the yew-walled White Garden, with its limited palette of green and white, and beds within orderly box hedges but overflowing with an abundance of shape, texture and scent that changes throughout the year. The arbour,

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Figure 5.41 Sissinghurst site layout.

Key: Sissinghurst 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Tower lawn White Garden Rondel Rose Garden Lime Walk Nuttery Herb garden Meadow South cottage Tower North wing

Figure 5.42 Schematic analysis indicating main axes and ordering lines.

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Figure 5.43 Sissinghurst. The Rondel, monochromatic. The tower can be seen in the background.

Figure 5.44 Sissinghurst. Lime Walk.

covered with rosa mulliganii, makes a pavilion that unites the two parts of the garden. The Rondel, inside the Rose Garden, is as austere as the Rose Garden is full of colour and fragrance. Its proportions are closer to that of a building than a conventional garden space. You are invited to walk around it, instead of just walking straight through, to change your pace and enjoy its circularity. With its restricted views it hides the roses almost completely. There is just a hint of them from each opening, and the suggestion that comes airborne in the breeze. The Lime Walk is regular and rhythmical; the well-behaved pleached trees form columns that structure this long corridor, and the hedges behind

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Figure 5.45 Sissinghurst. White Garden.

them form conﬁning walls. As you walk down through the middle, the pattern of the shadows of the tree trunks evokes the shadows of a colonnade. Sissinghurst is made memorable by a constant challenge to our senses, either by extremes of sensation or by denial. There are areas where colour dominates, or where the area is laden with scent, while in other areas colour is reduced down, and purity of form dominates. There is always a play between hard edges of wall and hedge and the sensuous shapes of the plants where they are left to grow into their natural forms. These gardens demonstrate how designs that focus on sensory stimulation, achieved through a combination of architecture that encloses external spaces and well-chosen planting within them can become memorable places, borne out by their continuous use and popularity. Sound, texture and smell and movement are as important as sight in the enclosed garden, where the architecture and hard landscaping are as important as the planting. Such examples are increasingly important as showcases for the possibilities for creating garden spaces today when external open space has to be fought for.

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Notes 1 2

Groundhog Day, dir. Harold Ramis, 1993. Original description by Patrick Bowe (1989). Gardens of Portugal. Lisbon, Portugal: Quetzal Editores, p. 71.

Atlee, Helen (2008). The Gardens of Portugal. London: Frances Lincoln.

Pools are more often referred to as tanks in Portugal.

Steven Holl et al. (1994). Questions of Perception: Phenomenology of

Architecture. Tokyo, Japan: A+U. 6

Pallasmaa, Juhani (2005). The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses. London: John Wiley.

Ibid.

Didi-Huberman, Georges (1999). ‘Skyspaces’. In Peter Noever (ed.) James

The Benedictine Monastery of the Holy Trinity at Las Condes, Santiago, was

Turrell: The Other Horizon. Vienna, Austria: MAK. ﬁrst designed in 1954 by Arturo Baeza, Alberto Cruz and Jose Vial, and the second design by Gabriel Guarda, Martin Correa and Patricio Gross (collaborator). 10

Piet Oudolf, Landscape Designer, and pioneer of the new perennial movement

An oast house is a traditional farm building in the south of England designed

The English Country House Garden: Traditional Retreats to Contemporary

in planting and landscape design. John Coke, Plantsman. speciﬁcally for the drying of hops for the brewing process.

Masterpieces, George Plumptre and Frances Lincoln (4 Sept. 2014). 13

Lutyens started work on Folly Farm just before Lawrence Johnston was developing similar ideas at Hidcote (see Chapter 1). Hidcote Manor Garden, Anna Pavord, The National Trust, ﬁrst published1993.

Brown, Jane (1982). Gardens of a Golden Afternoon. London: Penguin Books.

Tania Compton ed. Private Gardens of England, Chapter on Folly Farm, Mrs

The most strict UK conservation order.

Jonathan Oppenheimer: Constable (15 Oct. 2015). 17

Rosner, Victoria (2005). Modernism and the Architecture of Private Life. New York: Columbia University Press.

It was a topic much discussed by the Bloomsbury Group, writers, artists and intellectuals, in the early twentieth century. Members of the group such as Vanessa Bell and Virginia Woolf both experimented through painting and literature, challenging the restrictions of their childhood. E. M. Forster’s novel

Howards End (1910) focuses around the house. 19

Brown, Jane (1994). Sissinghurst: Portrait of a Garden. London: Orion

Ibid. This was, in part, born out of necessity with the small amount of habitable

Its name and proportions derive from the interior of the vernacular Kent oast

Publishing. space available. house, seen also at Bury Court.

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6 Detachment The separation of the garden from the building

Duchess’s delight

It is late summer, and the Lazio countryside above Rome is dried out and bleached. The days are still hot and the air is heavy. We have had a disappointing search for a garden close by in Soriano that has become completely hidden under the rubble of an ongoing restoration project. We come back to the small town of Bagnaia where we are staying for a few days, and walk into the town. The square is lively and not at all overrun by tourists, which is surprising because it is attached, quite literally, to one of the most astonishingly beautiful gardens of the Renaissance, the Villa Lante.1 Three splayed streets lead up the hill from the square, and two of them have very fine entrances at the end of them, promising garden and woodland beyond (Figure 6.1). We choose the central street and climb up to the grandest gate. As we get closer we discover it is situated in another much smaller square, full of parked cars and an essential part of the tortuous through-traffic system. The gate is closed and we are directed to the other gate to our right, and enter the garden. We are taken to another world, just through the thickness of a wall, into the gardens of the Villa Lante.2 The harsh sounds reflecting off the cobbled streets have gone. We can only hear the wind in the trees, the sound of running water and our footsteps as we walk over the gravel path towards the formal gardens. The dry, dusty browns and greys of the town have been replaced with shades of green of the trees and bushes all around us. The first part of the garden we encounter is a very large and complex parterre, a virtuoso design, based around a central, circular fountain within

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Figure 6.1 Bagnaia, Italy. Looking up to the entrance of the Villa Lante from the square.

a square pool divided into four sections. The pools are surrounded by an intricate pattern of flowerbeds, framed with low box hedges.3 As we walk in and around the parterre we see how it is lined up symmetrically with the main gate looking back to the town. If the gates were open, the parterre would visually connect through the little square and back down even further to the main square. We look up and see it is also the end point of a complex of waterfalls that stretch down from as far as the eye can see. A continuous axis from the top of the hill is defined by this continuous flow of rushing water that finally slows down and settles in the still pool of the parterre (Figures 6.2 and 6.3). Our walk up the hill becomes a series of watery encounters, an elaborate dance around fountains, pools and cascades where the most inventive and amazing water games are played. Whenever we arrive at one of these events, we can’t necessarily see where to go, but the sound of distant water beckons us on, up steps and along terraces. The journey is enriched by dappled sunlight that penetrates through mature trees high over our heads and falls on the ground and the shimmering water. The stone steps and balustrades provide hot and cold corners, depending on the sun’s position, and comfortable ledges to rest against. We climb to the top, eager to get to the end of our ascent and find the water source, the Grotto of the

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Figure 6.2 Villa Lante, Bangnia. Looking onto the parterre and beyond it to the town.

Figure 6.3 Villa Lante. Water cascades down to the hill, with paths either side.

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Figure 6.4 Villa Lante. The casino has two openings inside the little portico that look onto the raised garden. It has window seats, but no direct access.

Figure 6.5 Villa Lante. Alcove to the garden at the back of the casino.

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Deluge. It is sandwiched between two small and apparently identical casini4 (Figure 6.4). The area to our left is raised up at least a metre from ground level, and not apparently accessible (Figure 6.5). On closer inspection we see that the casino adjacent to the higher level is a different shape to the other one and is considerably longer. We also discover that it has a hidden room, with a window looking onto the garden. At the far end there is an alcove housing a table, ready for feasting in complete seclusion. We notice one other opening, through the back wall and into the woods beyond. This tucked-away area has been called the Duchess’s garden. Could this be a place for secret assignations, for those not wanting to announce their arrival, and where a hasty getaway could be arranged unnoticed? This small, now somewhat neglected garden, the giardino segreto, is separated from the programme of the main garden (Figure 6.6). Although

Figure 6.6 Overview of the Villa Lante, showing the giardino segreto to one side at the top.

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it still conforms to an orthogonal plan, it breaks the rules of bi-symmetry that have been set up for the rest of the garden. Walls on two sides, and open colonnades on the other two, provide it with a sense of enclosure. There is a central pool and fountain, unfortunately now dry, and paths between four box-edged beds containing some neglected rose bushes. This simple garden is a counterpoint to the elaborate parterre on the lower terrace. At this point the designers have abandoned observance to the axial symmetry of the rest of the formal garden, stripped this garden down to its essential form, maintaining the simplicity of the Islamic Chahar Bagh.

Detached gardens The boundaries to enclosed gardens are not necessarily defined by the external walls of a building. This chapter will consider freestanding enclosed gardens, where, through their architectural components, they stand out as a statement in the landscape, or, paradoxically, are completely hidden within it. Their separateness often requires us to take a journey to get there, and this experience will have an affect on how we perceive them. The detached garden fulfils a range of needs and desires, and can broadly be split into two categories: gardens that can give access for our feelings – for matters of the heart, for privacy, thought and reflection – and those for the specialised production of plants, such as the botanic garden and the kitchen garden.

Giardino segreto By the late Renaissance, design strategies for gardens were devised to incorporate urban life and link it back to the natural world. The experience of the Renaissance garden could also be appreciated as a theatrical event. Narratives were superimposed onto a landscape that would unfold and express contemporary philosophical ideas through both layout and iconography. This would be revealed as you walked from one space to another. Many gardens were developed as a series of linked outdoor rooms, such as the terraces at the Villa Lante, or the gardens of the Villa Farnese. Both refer back to antiquity and applied new theories of beauty based on mathematical proportion, perspective and harmony. As we have seen in Chapter 5, axes, imagined straight lines, were set up as ways of linking a series of these rooms and were the means of connecting across large tracts of land. Water often played an important role in indicating this connection. Axes were treated as continuous linear elements of the design rather than the centri-focal locations of the fountains of the closed Islamic garden. The architects and hydraulic engineers of that period excelled themselves with inventive displays.5

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With the larger, grander programme, also came a desire for more separate, hidden, quiet spaces that did not need to strictly conform to the geometrical rules. The giardino segreto, the hidden garden, evolved where the formal rules could be broken and an element of surprise could be introduced.

The hidden garden And then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if any one was coming. No one was coming. No one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed the door which opened slowly – slowly. Then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her, and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight. She was standing inside the secret garden.6

Frances Hodgson Burnett immortalised the secret garden in her novel of the same name at the beginning of the twentieth century, and it has captured children’s imaginations ever since. The idea of the secret garden lives in our adult imaginations as much as within the real landscape, as I have discovered for myself. For many years the botanic gardens of the university here where I live had been abandoned, overgrown and forgotten by all but a few. It was a pleasure to open the stiff, iron gate, pass along a narrow path by the dilapidated greenhouses with remnants of experiments still in evidence, and wander into an accidentally created wilderness where nature was reasserting itself, cut off from the landscaping of the rest of the university. Stumbling across a hidden place arouses our curiosity and, as we have seen at the Villa Lante, the giardino segreto can be a very desirable place. The hidden garden displays certain characteristics: first, it is out of our expected field of vision, whether we are in the city or the country, and away from the main routes and thoroughfares. It is essentially private. Second, it has to be ‘discovered’, indicating the necessity of the journey to get there that might provoke an emotional response, of anticipation or even mystery.7 There will be an indication of something to find and discover that may contradict the layout of the rest of the location. Third, it is a place where visitors can feel safe enough to access their emotions. These characteristics are frequently found in children’s stories, the memories of which remain with us. Separateness gives it a particular quality of being special, and enclosure gives it a sense of interior that equates with our interior emotional

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landscapes. A separate space has always seemed fitting for personal memories, a place where we can concentrate and reflect on our lives, the human condition and the cosmos. Gardens hidden in towns can be striking through the contrast to their urban context. There is the pleasure of discovery for a visitor. There is also the enjoyment of a detailed knowledge of the fine grain of a city, where hidden areas can be returned to and be absorbed into the patterns of daily life. The Phoenix Garden in central London, for example, is hidden within the fabric of the city with a townscape of skyscrapers towering over it; it will only be discovered by the intrepid, who enjoy walking through the inner arteries of the city. The garden is a refuge created by the local community, but open to the public during the daytime in a place where open space, let alone planting, is hard to find (Figure 6.7). These gardens that grow from within the city will be looked at in more detail in Chapter 7. Publicly accessible outdoor spaces are rarely designed into new-build architectural schemes. An exception to this lies in the middle of the historic town of Winchester, UK. The town has been inhabited since the Roman Occupation and has old and new buildings juxtaposed throughout the town, creating many incidental spaces and alleyways. When part of the County Offices8 was re-planned in the 1980s, the design had to accommodate a listed tree and a public right of way. The decision was made to take advantage of this rather than treat it as a hindrance. A garden, containing the tree, can now be seen through a wide opening in the building from the street (Figure 6.8). The view is framed by the opening, inviting pedestrians into a small, enclosed garden. Once you are inside the garden it feels quite private. The surrounding tall buildings seem to protect you, and the view back to the street keeps you in touch with the city. At the back of the garden, the right of way continues as part of Winchester’s footpaths that are woven into the fabric of the town. The excitement of finding a hidden garden is often due to its unexpectedness. When I was photographing the Dean Garnier Garden behind Winchester Cathedral, I overheard a mother say to her young daughter ‘Come and have a look at the secret garden’. The large heavy wooden door, greying with age and set within a windowless wall gives little away. On closer observation there are three very small openings carved out beside the latch giving the merest hint of what lies on the other side. It creaks open, and a stone retaining wall straight ahead blocks the view, but there is a small flight of steps to the right that invite you up. At the top, an upper-level garden is revealed, a raised enclosed terrace sitting on the site of the monks’ dormitory. It is removed from the ground plane, and looks across to the cathedral. It is laid out somewhat literally to reflect the interior

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Figure 6.7 Phoenix Gardens, London.

Figure 6.8 Winchester, UK. Incidental garden space.

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Figure 6.9 Dean Garnier. Garden plan.

Figure 6.10 Winchester, UK. Entrance to Dean Garnier garden, with three small spy holes.

Figure 6.11 Dean Garnier garden. View across the garden.

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spaces of the cathedral. A rose covered pergola divides the nave and choir areas. The third section, the Lady Chapel garden, is hidden from sight, private and secluded, and can only be discovered when you have reached the far end of the garden (Figures 6.9, 6.10 and 6.11).

Reﬂection Private memory Enclosed gardens are often used to remember people and events. The garden provides a place of safety, a setting for accessing difﬁcult memories and emotions, allowing the visitor to experience and confront their fears

Figure 6.12 Little St Mary’s, Cambridge. Path leading to the hidden garden.

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and senses of loss. Such a place is the very quiet Little St Mary’s churchyard, in the heart of Cambridge, UK. Church and churchyard take up a plot just off one of the main streets, adjacent to a narrow lane that leads toward the river. As you approach the churchyard it appears to be overgrown, but as soon as you walk around, it becomes apparent that you are in a carefully tended wild garden. At one point you can see a narrow curving path that disappears round a corner of the church (Figure 6.12). The light is inviting and intriguing, although it seems to be leading to an even more overgrown and forgotten corner. The path leads to a very small space, enclosed by buildings rising high above it, and the atmosphere is very calm. You cross a chamomile lawn. Its fragrance rises as you walk over it to a bench. There is a plaque above the bench, placed there in memory of a loved one who died young. The words, hand-carved into smooth grey slate, contribute to the mood. Most visitors will not know who this young woman was but the memorial acts as a reminder of our own mortality. Through the selective planting and organising of a leftover space, instead of being neglected, it has become a very special place. It is also a garden of remembrance – there are many more names set in the grass at one end of the garden.

Public memory Enclosed gardens are often used to commemorate public events. There are many memorial gardens commemorating those who lost their lives in wartime. The Garden of Exile and Emigration at the Jewish Museum in Berlin, designed by Daniel Libeskind, is a place for collective memory and reflection.9 Its message, and hence our experience, is very different to that of any pleasure garden. It attempts ‘to completely disorientate the visitor. It represents a shipwreck of history’10 (Figure 6.13). The walk starts at the end of a dramatic journey through the museum where many preconceptions of architecture have already been challenged. You emerge from the museum through an underground link into an open space unlike any other, and undergo a sensory experience of extremes, through disorientation and the unexpected. Instead of the reassurance of a garden surrounded by plants and flowerbeds, you are in a maze of tilted columns. They rise from a twicetilted ground plane making it hard to balance on, as if you were at sea (Figure 6.14). This is exaggerated by the pebbled ground surface, which is set considerably below the natural ground level. It is so disorienting that people have been known to come out feeling nauseated. The lack of sunlight gives a damp and clammy feel to the air. The columns comprise an orderly grid of seven rows of seven concrete shafts, seven metres high. They are at right angles to the floor plate, and so you don’t read them as being tilted

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Figure 6.13 Jewish Museum Berlin. Garden of Exiles, location.

when you move around. Forty-eight of the columns are ﬁlled with earth from Berlin, and the central forty-ninth column is ﬁlled with earth from Jerusalem. The thickness of the columns in relation to the spaces between them limits the perception of spatial continuity, which increases your unease. Only by looking up do you see the vegetation. Despite being lower than ground level, you are below the trees, and even their roots. All the columns are planted with willow oak trees at the top of them that will withstand the Berlin microclimate. They represent olive trees, traditional Jewish symbols of peace and hope (Figure 6.15). The view from outside is very different. The garden appears as a sculptural whole, set in the context of the museum and the city of Berlin, emerging from the lowered ground level. In summer the trees cap the garden to make a complete canopy, and together with the columns create a single, regulated, geometric form. The columns can be translated as the oversized tree trunks of a single stand of a plantation and provide a clear comprehensible shape within the city. Their closeness to each other makes the overall volume distinct. The garden, like the museum, is layered with metaphor, and creates an overwhelming atmosphere open to personal interpretations as much as a response to the more obvious symbolism. We cannot help but be moved by it.

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Figure 6.14 Jewish Museum Berlin. Garden of Exiles. Inside the garden.

Figure 6.15 Jewish Museum Berlin. Looking toward the Garden of Exiles.

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Neutralising border territory Enclosed gardens can make a contribution to resolving a wide range of social problems, and in ways that are not necessarily apparent. In 2005, Ofﬁce architects11 won a competition for the design of a border control point between Mexico and the United States. The solution to the problem of deﬁning the nature of this potentially tense zone was to create a garden. It was, both literally and metaphorically, an oasis in the desert (Figures 6.16 and 6.17). The hope was to defuse tension instead of enforcing control. The garden, a gridded canopy of palm trees, stands out in contrast to prevailing

Figure 6.16 Plan for the border between Mexico and the US.

Figure 6.17 Border between Mexico and the US. Image of the border as an oasis.

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desert conditions, a place to slow down and take stock. The rectilinear border garden has high adobe walls with one opening cut each side of the border. The control points and administrative offices comprise two cool pavilions within the garden, nestling under a canopy of trees. It is a very non-aggressive solution to the problem of border conflicts and tensions. Although the scale and function is very different to the courtyard of the Mesquite in Cordoba, it has aspects in common. It provides a transitional space with a ceiling of trees, in this case the crowns of palm trees, to provide a cooler shaded area underneath that takes you calmly from one place to the other, in preparation for entering a different country with different cultural values. The architects’ direct pragmatic approach challenged ‘architectural’ solutions to the questions posed, defying any conventional architectural rhetoric. If it had been built, it could perhaps have eased the tension of border control in a passive way. Instead of the conventional utilitarian or even hostile outposts, there would be a garden, indicating unity rather than intolerance, calm instead of violence. The scheme is all the more poignant now than in 2005 when it was first proposed.

The productive garden Science and horticulture Botanic and kitchen gardens are designed with the speciﬁc aim of optimising growing conditions for plants. Location in relation to topography and climate take precedence over visual considerations. Botanic gardens developed in Europe during the sixteenth century concurrent with advances being made in the sciences. Walled kitchen gardens ﬂourished from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries. Landowners demanded to be well fed, and there was also a taste for the exotic. In Britain, with the developing empire and the popularity of the Grand Tour, people would bring back plants as trophies from all over the world. Shiploads of plant species started to be relocated in new habitats. This necessitated making suitable environmental conditions to keep them alive.

The wall The wall is the controlling element of the early botanic gardens, kitchen gardens and even the giardini segreti, where we may often ﬁnd it substituted by a hedge. It is the wall that provides spatial deﬁnition and a sense of enclosure and will protect the interior from unwanted external conditions. It is the wall that has thermal mass, with the capacity to absorb heat during the day and radiate it out as the external temperature cools. It provides support for plants that can be trained to allow them maximum exposure

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to the sun. The wall also provides support for glass houses, and buildings for the gardeners, where plants can be stored and prepared, and where tools can be kept and maintained. Making an opening in it creates an entrance. The gap in the wall is a threshold that indicates at a symbolic level that we are about to enter or exit somewhere that is different. The wall continues to be a deﬁning element.

Outdoor room as laboratory – the botanic garden In Jane Smiley’s novel Duplicate Keys, Henry, a botanist at the New York Botanic Garden, shows Alice the gardens for the first time: They stepped down from the formal promenade into, and among, the more spacious spreading of grass and lilac bushes covered with white lavender, and magenta blossoms. Alice gasped, both at the sight and the sweet fragrance. ‘The Botanic Garden,’ he went on, ‘is actually a fairly thriving ecosystem.’ ‘It’s like heaven.’ ‘Yes,’ Henry said, ‘it is . . .’12 Alice’s response to the garden and this exchange between the two friends encapsulates how many of us feel about botanic gardens. Although there is no direct aesthetic agenda, the layout of plants by classification often gives much satisfaction to visitors. They stand out in urban surroundings as earthly paradises, as well as fulfilling their functions as places of scientific research and educational resources. Since they were established, the layouts have undergone many changes. With shifts of scientific discovery, plants have constantly had to submit to new positions and have overflowed beyond the original garden boundaries as more species have been found and added to existing collections.

History and development Botanic gardens were born out of a desire for a rational connection between nature and ourselves, through the observation of plants. They were openair laboratories, created so that we might be able to comprehend the orders of the natural world through scientiﬁc enquiry. They were established for ‘glorifying God’s creation and studying what wonders he had wrought in the plant world’.13 The walled enclosure with its own microclimate creates ideal environmental conditions for such investigation to take place. There is evidence of botanic gardens as early as the Moorish palaces of Seville and Toledo in Spain, where scientiﬁc plant collections were recorded in the eleventh and twelfth centuries.14 The hortus botanicus emerged in the

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sixteenth century in several European cities, attached to universities such as Leiden, Padua, Pisa and Oxford. They evolved from the earlier physic or medicinal gardens. As scientific advances of the Middle East influenced European botanists, it was considered appropriate to use the layout of the wellestablished Islamic garden as a model, where pure geometry underpinned the design. This concurred with the emphasis laid on the importance of regular geometries, phyllotaxis,15 found in plants. There was also a connection with the cloister garden of the Christian church, hortus conclusus, and its reference to the Garden of Eden. By collecting plants from all corners of the earth the natural world could be observed under controlled conditions, with the hope of shedding light on the lost Eden. In botanic gardens the streams of the Islamic garden were transformed into footpaths providing access to the flowerbeds. They became living encyclopedias.16 This arrangement, where the conflict between the demands of geometry and classification were resolved, has contributed to the uniqueness of the typology of these early botanic gardens. Organising plants by genus took priority over composition based on shape, form or colour. Some were very successful and had a commercial value as well as a scientific one, particularly when horticulture became more fashionable. Research has been continuous, although much of it now takes place in the laboratory. The modern global need for food and renewable resources, coupled with climate change, has necessitated more experimentation and this need has put botanical gardens back at the forefront, with new establishments being set up, such as the extension to Kew Botanic Gardens at Wakehurst Place, UK.17 As well as housing one of the largest seed banks in the world, it has laboratories and educational outdoor classrooms laid out with a view to the future, to the possibilities of growing crops with higher yields and for developing materials that can be used in the building industry, cosmetics and medicine. The early gardens, however, are also in need of re-evaluation, to understand their economic use of space, the importance of aspect and their use of lowenergy technological methods used for propagation and yield.

Orto Botanico Padua The Orto Botanico at Padua, established in 1545, has survived intact. It was placed in a sheltered area of Padua, close to existing streams that would guarantee a continuous water supply (Figure 6.18). The enclosing wall is circular, which in turn encloses a perfect square layout of planting beds. The square is divided up into a quadripartite plan with paths between the beds. There are four entrances, one at each cardinal point (Figures 6.19 and 6.20). It also followed patterns of the parterres fashionable at the time, though the detailed arrangement was based on accommodating the ordering

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Figure 6.18 Padua Botanic Garden. Engraving of the original layout.

Figure 6.19 Padua Botanic Garden. Engraving showing the garden in winter.

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Figure 6.20 Padua Botanic Garden. Pages from a notebook for students: L’horto de I semplici di Padovaa, 1591, indicating layout of the beds.

and classiﬁcation systems of the plants. Girolamo Porro, an artist who was commissioned to draw a plan of the plant beds and publish a guide to the gardens for students of botany in the form of a notebook (L’orto de

i semplici di Padova, 1591), talks of the desire to contain ‘the world in a chamber’. The garden’s status was reﬂected in the design of its enclosure. There is a substantial enclosing brick wall, over four metres high, capped elegantly with stone, with imposing entrances. Although the city has now encroached on all sides, it would originally have stood out on its own, rivalled only by the churches nearby.

Oxford Botanic Garden Botanic gardens are some of the few places where the demands of science and education are shared with desire to escape and to be close to nature. The University of Oxford Botanic Garden lies on the outskirts of the town and is as well known for being a place to escape from the bustle of the streets, packed with students, tourists and trafﬁc, as it is for its research. The garden has many benches, wide walkways and lawns to walk and sit on. Like Padua it was one of the ﬁrst botanic gardens to be established in Europe.18 The design of the original area was a pure square divided into the quadripartite plan, with a central fountain, but with a series of rectilinear planting beds (Figure 6.21). Larger than Padua, it has been able to adapt its

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contents within its boundaries over several hundred years. The beds have undergone a new change of layout as the classification of plant families is now based on evolutionary relationships discovered through the use of molecular biology. The resultant display underpinned by contemporary scientific theory brings with it a new shape to the composition of the beds. The stone gateway at the entrance is even grander than that of Padua,19 indicative of its original stature. It is more of an elaborate sculpture than a gateway. It gives the garden a public face that in the seventeenth century overtly celebrated its importance. As our attitudes have changed and the botanic garden is open to the public every day, we now slip through a small opening in the wall beside the old entrance, and go through a new ticket office more appropriate for the twenty-first century (Figure 6.22). The walls

Figure 6.21 Oxford Botanic Garden. Beds are laid out in a clear order.

Figure 6.22 Oxford Botanic Garden. View of entrances, old and new.

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are always present in the background, protecting us, so we can roam freely in a garden that celebrates science rather than the importance or wealth of an individual.

Chelsea Physic Garden There is a curiously long brick wall along one of the busy fashionable streets of Chelsea, London with no doorway to be seen. Only if you turn down a side street to the east, will you see a small entrance almost hidden by the abundant foliage that falls over the wall from within. This is the understated entrance to the famous Chelsea Physic Garden. Since the mid seventeenth century when a large ﬁeld was acquired by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries in the countryside, London has crept up and surrounded it. The garden was set up by the Worshipful Society of Apothecaries. Theirs was a commercial enterprise – to cultivate medicinal herbs that could be processed and sold for medical purposes. Identifying the correct plants was an important part of an apothecary’s training and so students needed to be able to observe them in detail. Gardens such as Chelsea were planted and maintained as a plant source and as a living laboratory, much like botanic gardens (Figure 6.23). Their ultimate aim though was for proﬁt rather than

Figure 6.23 Chelsea Physic Garden. Gardeners working on the medicinal plants.

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education or the pursuit of ‘truth’. Working in the field was an essential part of the apprentices’ training. Plant identification and classification was in its infancy, but grew rapidly, particularly with the flood of plants coming to England from abroad. Hans Sloane,20 one of it’s early and important benefactors, stated its purpose very clearly: ‘Apothecaries and others may better distinguish good and useful plants from those that bear resemblance to them and yet are harmful’.21 His head gardener Philip Miller rose to fame by producing his own Gardeners’ Dictionary, which reached a wide audience and started to make the garden much more than a place to identify plants. He also encouraged botanical art through publishing illustrations of selected plants from the dictionary, ‘plants curious in themselves, (which) may be useful in Trades, Medicine etc’.22 By the nineteenth and early twentieth century though, the garden provided material primarily for medical students, then to students of botany, materia medica and chemistry. Identification of botanical specimens was an integral part of the training of each discipline.23 The plot faces south and slopes gently down towards the river. The enclosed nature of the garden provides a particularly favourable microclimate. To begin with there was no boundary wall. Once the value of the plants had been recognised, and after a considerable amount of looting, the wall was constructed. The gardens location is significant, set alongside the river Thames with direct access to river transport, the most reliable transport system at the time (Figure 6.24). Transportation was to become increasingly important for distributing plants from all over the world. Apothecaries themselves gathered specimens locally and went across the globe on botanising expeditions. With the rapid advance of botanical science the garden’s original purpose lasted a relatively short time, but the spirit of its dedication to plants, their possibilities, their wonders and potential they have to offer has survived. It has been on the point of collapse many times, only to be pulled back from the brink. Today its purpose is mainly educational, telling its own story as well as providing information about the plants contained within. As there are good records the layout is truthful to the past, although the detail and content have changed. The rockery (Figure 6.25), the oldest in Europe, is intact, whereas the ‘wilderness’, so popular in the nineteenth century, has been replaced and organised to reflect current classification with ordered rectangular beds. In the nineteenth century the Society of Apothecaries were more open to women than the medical profession. The first registered woman doctor in England, Elizabeth Garrett Anderson,24 was refused entry into the medical profession in 1864. She applied to the Apothecaries Society the following year and passed her exams. This new status finally allowed her to have a license and her name was added to the medical register.25

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Figure 6.24 John Haynes’ survey of the Apothecaries’ Physic Garden at Chelsea - 1751.

With its history of commercial practice behind it, the garden, much loved, is open to the public for a fee, and is a popular place to be hired out for events. And so it lives on. Today it has many functions. It is mainly educational, particularly for the role it has had to play with its collection of rare medicinal plants. It has expanded to incorporate more diverse categories such as the garden of ‘useful’ plants – historical examples of plants used in the making of many products, from building material, detoxing the land and musical instruments. It is a tourist attraction and a popular venue for events such as weddings and a refuge for the neighbourhood. Its historical connection with botanical art continues with artists in residence. ‘Curse or cure’ is an installation by Nici Ruggiero exibited in 201526 (Figure 6.26). Nici Roggeiero’s striking display of pots brings together early practices of folkloric medicine and witchcraft. The glaze and shape of the jars reﬂect those used by early

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Figure 6.25 The Chelsea Physic Garden, London. The Pond Rockery, completed 1773, reputedly the oldest surviving planted rockery in Europe.

alchemists and herbalists, many of which are displayed in the Victor Hoffbrand collection in the Royal College of Physicians. Written on them are recipes for remedies drawn from Culpepper’s Complete Herbal ﬁrst published in the seventeenth century and Martha Bradey’s The British

Housewife in the eighteenth century. The Chelsea Physic garden provides continuity of the development of medicinal plants from the seventeenth century, even if its purpose now is more for pleasure and education than being at the cutting edge of medical science. It is unique and, like the botanical gardens, has its own beauty born out of scientiﬁc beginnings as well as trade.

Figure 6.26 The Chelsea Physic Garden. ‘Curse or cure’. Installation by Nici Rugg.

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Nourishment – the kitchen garden The kitchen garden was to be next admired, and he led the way to it across a small portion of the park. The number of acres contained in this garden was such as Catherine could not listen to without dismay, being more than double the extent of all Mr Allen’s, as well her father’s, including the churchyard and orchard. The walls seemed countless in number, endless in length; a village of hothouses seemed to arise among them, and a whole parish to be at work within the enclosure. The general was ﬂattered by her looks of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to tell him in words, that she had never seen any garden at all equal to them before; . . . He loved a garden. Though careless enough in most matters of eating, he loved good fruit – or if he did not, his friends and children did. There were great vexations, however, attending such a garden as his. The utmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pinery27 had yielded only one hundred in the last year. Mr Allen, he supposed, must feel these inconveniences as well as himself. Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey, ﬁrst published 1818

Kitchen gardens are close relatives to botanic gardens, but they date back much further, to the very ﬁrst walled enclosures of the Middle East, the

Pairidaeza of ancient Persia. Botanic gardens are few, but kitchen gardens, based on the same principle of the enclosing wall, are plentiful. In Britain, they ﬂourished in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when it was fashionable for wealthy landowners to grow exotic plants as well as providing food for the large number of people who worked on the estate. These estates were, in effect, self-sufﬁcient. Some of the more innovative gardens could produce fruit and vegetables such as melons on ‘hot beds’, fermenting boxes of manure and straw. Heated walls were invented for frost protection in winter. Until the end of the seventeenth century, kitchen gardens in Britain were close to the house and integrated with the overall garden design. By the end of the eighteenth century, with the advent of the English Landscape Garden and the Picturesque, formal planning was abandoned and a rectilinear walled garden was thought to be discordant with the ‘naturalistic’ views of the estate. The kitchen garden was removed, and positioned so that it was out of sight. This banishment had several advantages. It could be chosen for its aspect, fertility or closeness to water. Walls grew in height, and intricate and inventive uses of glass abounded. The beds were laid out in an orderly manner, often maintaining an overall quadripartite plan, and their width was determined by the length of a gardener’s reach. The sheltered interior of the kitchen garden sped up production and prolonged the growing season (Figure 6.27). Aspect was important. Any planting against

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Figure 6.27 Trengwainton kitchen garden, Cornwall, UK (1814). Beds in the kitchen garden are tilted toward the angle of the sun to maximum solar gain.

Figure 6.28 Espaliered plum and pear trees. Branches are only one layer thick, so that all fruit can beneﬁt from full sunlight.

a south-facing wall had an increased yield. The art of espaliered trees developed, training fruit trees two-dimensionally against a wall, so that all the fruit could receive as much sunlight as possible (Figure 6.28). Many walls were glazed, and turned into glasshouses. These could be heated in winter and extend the range of possibilities for rare foods and ﬂowers for the dining room table.

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Figure 6.29 Val Joanis potager, France. Equal emphasis made on display and production.

Figure 6.30 Val Joanis potager. Covered walkway.

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The garden’s removal from the main vistas necessitated a walk to get there, and the journey itself was an experience of anticipation. Nothing would be revealed until you had entered the garden through a modest gate set in the wall. As kitchen gardens were conceived as functional spaces, the entrance was not celebrated as it was in botanic gardens. By the nineteenth century it became fashionable for kitchen gardens to become decorative as well as useful. Such gardens are often referred to as potagers,28 combining horticultural expertise and virtuosity (Figure 6.29). They were poetic in spirit, and in some cases even referred back to classical Roman texts.29 Inside, the garden walkways were often constructed with colonnades trained with vines or pleached fruit trees. These had a dual purpose: to provide shade for those enjoying a stroll and to give as much surface area to the trees for the fruit to have access to sunlight for ripening (Figure 6.30). There might be benches and small gazebos30 to sit in, or a fountain in the middle. The fountain still provided a pleasing effect, even though by now it had lost its religious symbolism. Vegetables were juxtaposed with ﬂowers, taking into account their colour, shape and form. These gardens were very labour intensive and relied on low wages. After the First World War when there were not enough men to tend the gardens, and the cost of labour rose, they could not be maintained and were all but lost. Since the latter part of the twentieth century, with increased public and corporate ownership, some of the great kitchen gardens have been revived, and have again become popular places to visit. Like botanic gardens, they have a new life through their use in horticultural experimentation as well as a widely held belief in the therapeutic aspect of gardening.

Revival and reinvention The kitchen garden at Audley End, UK,31 has undergone a major transformation, from dense, wild undergrowth to a working garden. Its location is set back from the main house and completely hidden from view by a clump of carefully planted trees (Figure 6.31). Its sharp edges contrast with the soft eighteenth-century landscaping in which the house sits. After years of neglect it is now being revived and reinvented. It is very much a working garden with no place for sentiment (Figure 6.32). There are contraptions to keep the birds out rather than bring them in. The raucous sound of crows is transmitted electronically, rather than any attempt to encourage the sweet song of the thrush. It has a roughness that is a relief from the immaculate trimming and tidying of pleasure gardens. Its charm to the visitor comes out of utility based on an understanding of the local conditions of land and climate.

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Figure 6.31 Audley End, UK. Aerial view showing the kitchen garden out of sight from the house.

Figure 6.32 Audley End. Kitchen garden has turned into an efﬁcient working garden again.

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Figure 6.33 Audley End. Vines planted outside, but trained into the greenhouses to protect them over winter and maximise grape production.

Figure 6.34 Audley End. Counterweights for large sliding sashes.

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The main kitchen garden is a large enclosure, surrounded by a wall that is rarely lower than 2.4m high. It is trapezoidal rather than rectilinear, with the wider side at the south end. The original idea was to funnel warmed air down toward the south end, and maximise the heating of this part of the garden. The west wall was originally constructed to house a series of fires placed at intervals along its length that would circulate warm smoke along internal air passages, and prevent new growth on the espalier trees being frosted. The glasshouses are still full of exotic plants, such as grapes, figs, oranges, peaches and tomatoes, all of which need protection in the UK (Figure 6.33). They are positioned along the south-facing boundary wall, maximising solar gain through the glass. Heat is stored within the thermal mass of the brick wall. A ventilation scheme has been devised to prevent overheating, comprising large sliding sashes of panels of glass controlled very simply with a counterweight system (Figure 6.34). On the outer side of the same wall there is a series of buildings that house all the activities that need to be under cover, such as the potting and nurturing of delicate plants, storage, the boiler room and the head gardener’s office. This is the human side, and although it is the garden headquarters, it is interesting to reflect that it was located on the other side of the wall, outside of paradise. Audley End, as a kitchen garden in the twenty-first century, goes beyond heritage and is being transformed into a viable working area, part of a growing movement that is encouraging local, sustainable food production.32 It is an inspiration for a pairidaeza for the twenty-first century. All these gardens owe their existence to reasons that go beyond desire, pleasure and enjoyment, and fulfill a particular needed role within their own contexts. Many are hidden and revealed through a process of discovery. The secret garden is often camouflaged in order not to attract attention. The botanic garden, in contrast, advertises itself and celebrates its status. Kitchen gardens have been firmly placed in the landscape, but in most cases, such as at Audley End, they were often disguised and took second place to the layout of the perfected, naturalistic landscape of the main garden. Only now are they being reassessed and gaining a new status as our values shift.

Notes 1

The design of Villa Lante, started in the mid-sixteenth century, is attributed to

The town was reshaped in the 1560s with a new ‘trident’ formation of streets,

Giacomo Barozzi da Vignola. reinforcing the importance and inﬂuence of the Cardinal Gambara, who had chosen to create his summer residence here on the old hunting ground. The design makes a connection between City and Nature, Architecture and

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Landscape, and is attributed to Vignola, although it was worked on over subsequent periods, depending on the changing fortunes of the owners. See Van der Ree et al. (1992). Italian Villas and Gardens. Munich: Prestel. 3

Parterre – literally meaning on the ground (French ﬁfteenth century), a level garden, often square or rectilinear, comprising ornamental geometric patterns through the arrangement of the planting, and edged with stone, gravel or clipped hedges such as box.

4 5

Casino – a small summerhouse. Barlow Rogers, Elizabeth (2001). Landscape Design: A Cultural and

Architectural History. New York: Harry N. Abrams. 6

Hodgson Burnett, Frances (1911). The Secret Garden. London: Pufﬁn Classics.

Potter, Jennifer (1998). Secret Gardens. London: Conran Octopus.

Mottisfont House, designed by Hampshire County Architects Department,

The Garden of Exile and Emigration at the Jewish Museum was designed by

Liebeskind, Daniel (2011). Jewish Museum Berlin (Museum Building).

Ofﬁce architects Kersten Geers and David van Severen, Belgium.

Winchester, led by Sir Colin Stansﬁeld-Smith. Daniel Libeskind, 1998, opened in 2001. Barcelona, Spain: Poligrafa. 12

Jane Smiley, Duplicate Keys, 1996, London: Flamingo.

Soderstrom, Mary (2001). Recreating Eden: A Natural History of Botanical

Harvey, John (1990). Medieval Gardens. London: B. T. Batsford.

The geometric patterning such as bi-symmetry and the spiral, found in the

Prest, John (1981). The Garden of Eden, the Botanic Garden and the Re-

Wakehurst Place in West Sussex, UK, a branch of Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew,

Gardens. Montreal, Canada: Véhicule Press.

formation and development of plants.

creation of Paradise. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, p. 6. is a plant conservation project, housing one of the largest seed banks in the world. 18

Founded by Sir Henry Danvers in 1621, who gave the university £5,000 for a physic garden ‘whereby learning might be improved’. Turnbull, Alison (2005).

The Family Beds. London: The Linnean Society, Foreward by Louise Allen. 19

Hans Sloane, a traveller from an early age, made a great deal of money through bringing back the recipe for drinking chocolate from Jamaica where it was used to ease colic, as well as selling quinine.

Sue Minter The Apothecaries’ Garden: A History of the Chelsea Physic Garden, p. 11 Sutton Publishing, 2000, reprinted by The History Press, 2014.

Ibid. p. 21.

Ibid. p. 39.

Elizabeth Garrett Anderson was political campaigner and the ﬁrst woman doctor in England, co-founder of the ﬁrst hospital to be run by women.

Women Science and Myth: Gender Beliefs from Antiquity to the Present, p. 69. Narin Hassan Sue and V. Rosser Editor ABC CLIO Santa Barbara, CA, Denver, CO, Oxford, England, 2008.

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Nici Ruggiero Curse or Cure www.nakedpots.com/four.php. Retrieved 4/08/

Pinery – beds for growing pineapples.

2016 28

An affectation of the French potager, meaning kitchen garden.

Such as Virgil’s Georgics and works by Pliny the Younger.

Gazebo – a shelter or kiosk in a garden for sitting in.

Owned by English Heritage.

It is currently run by Garden Organic, the working name for the Henry Doubleday Research Association, a national charity for organic growing. It is being developed by a team of gardeners, and is now an exemplar for gardening techniques and production today.

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7 Green city The persistence of urban gardens

It was a hot, muggy August afternoon. As I emerged from the subway there was little to help me orientate myself, apart from an overhead bridge, traffic lights, a large crossroads and a very busy, long road. I took my chances, turned left and embarked along a dusty and neglected sidewalk, pitted with potholes. To my right many lanes of traffic, trucks and cars roared past. To my left were a series of small businesses showing little sign of prosperity; abandoned forecourts and the ubiquitous used car lots. I looked up at the buildings ahead and found no sign of the roof-top farm my New York guidebook had promised I would find. Exhausted after 20 minutes of shadeless walking, I asked a woman waiting at a bus stop where it might be. After some thought she suggested I try the café. Suspending disbelief, I found it close by, inserted into the ground floor of an old, but very substantial, industrial building, seven storeys high. I went in and asked. The man behind the counter directed me to the back of the café. From there I was to turn left, pass the cloakrooms and continue until I reached a set of lift doors in the lobby of a different company. I followed the instructions, went along a dark winding corridor, which eventually ended up at the back of a very smart entrance lobby, found the lift, entered and pressed the button for floor eight. Eight floors later the doors opened and I was instantly expelled into brilliant sunlight. As soon as my eyes had adjusted I realised I was standing in the middle of Brooklyn Grange Farm. It stretched the length of the roof, full of colourful rows of fruit and vegetables, tended by a team of gardeners. Coupled with this was the most spectacular view across to Manhattan, lying beyond the parapet wall that hides all traces of the farm from below.

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There is indisputable evidence that the more we become urbanised, the more we crave not just open spaces, but places where we can access, respect and nurture the natural world. Gardens in the city inevitably have a sense of enclosure, provided by the buildings that surround them. Pressure to build on the land has reduced the possibilities for creating spacious gardens, but surprisingly this has had the effect of causing much inventiveness in creating new types of garden spaces. Many examples in this book have emphasised space, form and the aesthetic quality of enclosed gardens. In the twenty-ﬁrst century new criteria are emerging. With an acceptance of a very high percentage of people living in urban conditions, our attitude to nature is fragile and is being questioned. The growing understanding and acceptance of the broader issues of sustainability – encouraging as much biodiversity as possible, reducing pollution, accommodating climate change – is ﬁltering through to architects and landscape architects, driving many new garden designs in a different direction to the purely decorative or symbolic approach. Gardens appear in unlikely places: on roofs, along walls, left-over spaces, even in the pavement. On a grand scale, the concept of ‘landscape as urbanism’,1 where landscape design is not seen as a secondary add-on, is being applied to many cities. Redundant sites of industry and infrastructure are being re-purposed. Decline in one area provides possibilities for a new life; ‘. . . prompting a variety of opportunities for naturalism’.2 Possibilities arise to create environments where re-integration with the natural world can be absorbed into the daily life of the city. The popularity of these spaces is undeniable. The well-established and popular Parc Citroën in Paris lies on the old Citroën factory site. The Highline in New York, a remarkable and amazing linear park3 created out of a disused railway line, has become the victim of its own success and is now one of New York’s main tourist attractions. It is so popular that your experience is tempered by the groups of people in front and behind you as you promenade (Figure 7.1). The Brutalist architecture of the mid-twentieth century has been softened through incorporating enclosed gardens. The roof of public buildings, like the Queen Elizabeth Hall on London’s Southbank, is brimming over with a garden started and run by volunteers (Figure 7.2). Biophilic4 design, respecting our innate biological connection with nature and the natural world, has become increasingly important in architectural and landscape design.5 It complements the need to address climate change and to achieve more sustainable city growth, which is slowly being acknowledged in many countries. Tree planting and greenery is known to substantially offset rising temperatures in heat waves and reduce the heat-related stress to humans.6

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Figure 7.1 The Highline, New York, is busy throughout the year.

Figure 7.2 Looking across the Thames from the roof of the Queen Elizabeth Hall, London.

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Exploiting the ground As the restless city expands, space on the ground is scarce. There are occasional opportunities to plan gardens on an urban scale, such as the enclosed garden at Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, but many evolve from left-over spaces, pockets of land where a building collapsed, or there has been a change of land ownership, or the building is no longer fit for purpose. Neglected, left-over spaces can be converted to magical gardens, some hidden and some squeezed between buildings on the street. Finding an unexpected, quiet garden between the hard surfaces and cacophony of city sounds is always special. Sometimes the spaces are so difficult to develop commercially they become the reserve of communities where the residents with no gardens of their own are prepared to make the effort to create beautiful, well caredfor, even productive, gardens (Figure 7. 3). Guerrilla gardening, although not always wisely considered, is a sure sign of people’s desire for ‘greening’ our towns and cities and can be a catalyst for creating garden areas. In developing countries, such as Cuba, food is grown anywhere there is space available. Havanna has exploited every inch of the city to produce food in order to survive and inventive colourful gardens have developed out of necessity. When the Brunswick Centre7 in London, a mixed use and housing scheme, was designed in the early 1960s, it had a ruthlessly rectangular geometry that fitted into a non-rectangular plot. The left-over space was

Figure 7.3 Pavement garden, New York, cared for by residents of the street.

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Figure 7.4 Cut through, converted into a garden space, London.

neglected for at least 40 years until the residents rebelled and took control. It is now a much-used garden and has opened up to become a pedestrian short cut through the city (Figure 7.4).

Urban forest The Forest Garden within the Bibliothèque Nationale de France in Paris8 was completed in 1995 as part of a large scale redevelopment on the rive

gauche. It lies at the heart of the building complex, six floors below the entrylevel plinth, from where the four main book-stack towers rise at each corner. The bulk of the library has been buried underground, with four towers marking the extent of the subterranean building. The space for the garden has been excavated approximately three metres down into the ground rock, backfilled with earth and finished with an undulating surface to resemble the forest floor. The model for the scheme was the forest at Fontainebleau, just outside Paris.9 The dominant species is Scots Pine. Some mature trees were imported from Normandy and they have been interspersed with a wide variety of other species, such as silver birch, oak and sorbus. To mimic the forest floor, ferns, anemones, hyacinths, heather, geraniums and wild strawberries have been introduced.

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When you arrive from the west you pass a few caged bushes and some planting alongside the street that try to soften the edge of the site. You come to a vast, windswept, hardwood-covered plinth set at ground level. To the east the land falls away towards the Seine. A wide flight of steps has been constructed to accommodate the level change and provides an ‘urban auditorium’, a place to pause and sit on a step and look across the Seine to the ever changing profile of the Parisian landscape. If you approach the library from the west the experience is very different. Austerlitz, W. G. Sebald’s protagonist in the novel of the same name, arrives from below.10 . . . you find yourself at the foot of a flight of steps which, made out of countless grooved boards and measuring three hundred by a hundred and fifty metres, surrounds the entire complex on two sides facing the streets like the lower storey of a ziggurat. Once you have climbed the steps, at least four dozen in number and closely set as they are steep, a venture not entirely without its dangers even for younger visitors, said Austerlitz, you are standing on an esplanade which positively overwhelms the eye, built of the same grooved wood as the

Figure 7.5 Paris, surrounded by the hardwood deck and towers.

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Figure 7.6 Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris. Forest-Garden, seen from the viewing platform.

steps and extending over an area about the size of nine football pitches between the four corner towers of the library which thrust their way through twenty four ﬂoors up into the air. You might think, especially on days when the wind drives rain over this totally exposed platform, as it quite often does, said Austerlitz, that by some mistake you have found your way to the deck of the Berengaria or one of the other ocean-going giants, and you would not in the least be surprised if, to the sound of a wailing foghorn, the horizon of the city of Paris suddenly began rising and falling against the gauge of the towers as the great steamer pounded onwards . . . Entry into the building is a bewildering experience for the ﬁrst-time visitor. The tops of the trees can be seen, paradoxically, at eye level. Once you have found the entrance and start the descent into the depths below, Figure 7.7 Diagrammatic section through the Bibliothèque Nationale, showing change of ground level down to the Seine.

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the only views out from this section of the library are across into the ‘forest’. The external world is blocked out and even the sky is hard to see. The lower levels are for researchers only, understandable for the scholars but frustrating for the visitor of a major public building, who is denied a view of the forest ﬂoor (Figures 7.5, 7.6 and 7.7).

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The absence of human presence is deliberate, to encourage flora and fauna to survive without interruption in this sunken environment. Scholars see the garden through the reading room windows.11 Visitors, however, are restricted to looking at the garden through the windows of the exhibition space at entry level and one small balcony. Your experience has to be enhanced by ‘multi sensory’ interfaces,12 provided as part of the garden exhibition at the entrance level, where you can touch and feel a range of objects in order to grasp what it might be like inside the forest garden. The play of artificiality and naturalness has been described by Mateusz Salwa as ‘uncanny’.13 Behind this striking scheme lies the poetic idea of bringing the forest – ‘Raw Nature’ – into the city, preserved and wrapped by books and learning; the ‘sacred wood within the temple of knowledge’.14 The symbolism is played out at many levels. We can read it as the protected oasis in the desert of urban landscape, a reflection on the old Islamic seats of learning such as the Medersa Ben Youssef (see Chapter 3) or as the cloister garden of a monastery for monks to contemplate as they ponder the scriptures. The idea of a managed ‘re-wilding’ of the city15 in this way is both attractive and problematic. It was decided from the start that the ‘forest’ should be ecologically managed, letting nature run its course as far as possible, with no pesticides or herbicides. This has proved to require finetuning. Now, after 20 years, a diverse habitat has built up, with many more species than were originally planted, together with insects, butterflies and birds. But it has not been without complications. After some years, it became a popular roosting spot for starlings. Rather than netting the whole area, nesting boxes for hawks were introduced. Peregrine falcons have dispersed the starlings and are still breeding in one of the towers. The experiment was so ‘successful’ that birds would, from time to time, crash into the windows at high speed, scaring the meditative scholars, as well as wounding themselves. Anti-collision silhouettes have now been placed on the glazing, which has reduced the problem. The garden has also been susceptible to invasive plant species such as brambles and ivy. The problem that faces the custodians of this special ‘forest within the city’ is how much, and when, to intervene with nature within such a confined space. Despite the teething problems it is a remarkable achievement to realise such an ambition. In a situation where any organised planting is a construct of an idea, the trees have grown gracefully up through to the light from the subterranean ‘valley’ to form an elegant and delicate canopy for this reminder of wild landscape, although the tallest trees still need to be restrained. It has, however, been at the expense of the visitor and a great shame that the more visceral, direct experience of the forest can only be appreciated from the viewing balcony.

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Filling in the gap: Paley Park Paley Park, designed by landscape architects Zion and Breen in the mid1960s, is a well-established jewel set in the midst of one of the busiest parts of New York. Its strength lies in its simplicity – a narrow regular slot between the towering skyscrapers of mid-town Manhattan (Figures 7.8 and 7.9). The garden design is subtly layered from the entry back to an avalanche of water: A cluster of trees on the street invites you in, you cross the threshold of a few wide, but shallow, steps and leave the city, felt ﬁrst through your feet. You pass groups of planters and through into another simply laid out ‘forest’. The city sounds recede only to be replaced by the tumultuous crashing of a waterfall that stretches the width of the back wall. It is white noise of the purist kind, creating an unexpected calm. The waterfall is so powerful and elemental you feel it has the capacity to wash

Figure 7.8 Skyscrapers around Paley Park.

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away all the sorrows of the city. The energy can be felt through your entire body. Zion and Breen had a radically new vision for this park. They had already worked out an idea for a new type of park when they prepared details for an exhibition,16 before the site was acquired and commissioned by Samuel Paley. It would be small and its purpose was just for a resting place for adults. Park benches were to be replaced by light transportable chairs. It was to be a ‘room’ with walls – the walls being those of the adjacent buildings, planted with vines, with a ﬂoor that would be richly patterned and textured. It was to have a ‘ceiling’ canopy of trees planted

Figure 7.9 Paley Park, plan of slot between hi-rise buildings.

in such a way as to provide shade and allow ﬁltered light through to the ground. Kiosks or vending machines would be provided for light refreshments. Water would be a major constituent.

The raised, granite-set ﬂoor separates you from pavement level without the need of a visual barrier (Figure 7.10). The sense of separateness is reinforced by the small, built-in kiosks each side of the opening. Planters are positioned adjacent to them, the only location where colour is permitted.

Figure 7.10 Looking into Paley Park from the street.

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Figure 7.11 Lunchtime at Paley Park.

The well-maintained, lightweight metal chairs and tables allow for flexible seating arrangements (Figure 7.11). The, now very tall, desciduous honey locust trees filter out the burning sun of the long New York summer and let light in through the winter months. They form a delicate patterned ceiling with its own light show, with the constantly changing effects of the clouds above and the movement of leaves caught in the breeze. The sound level of the six-metre high waterfall allows people to talk and not to be overheard. Despite its loudness it does not drown out conversations. The thick layers of ivy on each of the side walls not only provide greenery throughout the year, but also act as a sound baffle, taking the edge off the sound of the pounding water. When interviewed, people said that they liked it as they could be comfortably ‘alone’.18 Paley Park provides a place of intimacy in the most public of places in a hectic city by its clear use of proportions and

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contradictory qualities that make it both public and private. As well as fulﬁlling the above list of essentials laid down by Zion and Breen, Paley Park is far more than the sum of its parts. Its success lies in having a few wellchosen elements that match the given proportions of the plot. As you enter the park, for example, the dark twisted shapes of the trees elegantly silhouetted against the whiteness of water seem to dance in front of your eyes. Its simplicity and compactness makes it stand out from others.

Les restes: Pocket Parks in Paris Paris is a world meant to be seen by the walker alone, for only the pace of strolling can take in all the rich (if muted) detail. The loiterer, the ﬂâneur, has a long and distinguished pedigree in France.19 Edmund White, The Flaneur, 2001

The following two parks in the heart of Paris can only be found if you are travelling through them on foot. They don’t trumpet their presence – just the reverse, unlike the grand gestures of the Tuilleries or Luxembourg. Rather than the grand gesture of having a geometry imposed on a particular location, they have made use of the histories of their locations and what traces have been left.

Jardin Anne Frank It’s easy to miss the Jardin Anne Frank,20 even though it is in the heart of the now-fashionable Marais area and lies a mere block away from the Pompidou Centre. The pathway from the street looks like any other

passage21 in the city. The route is curved, blocking any visual clue to a destination at the other end – just more buildings with nothing to arouse your curiosity. Only if you decide to walk along the passage and follow it round the corner can you see the entrance (Figure 7.12). You open the gate into an odd-shaped plot, a transitional space bounded by walls and buildings, the ﬁrst of three leftover parcels of land. A wide footpath paved with granite setts in a contemporary layout, which includes planting either side, dominates it. You are ushered along a pathway past a chestnut tree. Anne Frank was able to spy this very tree as a sapling from her attic window in Berlin and she notes that the tree gave her hope. As you turn your view is dominated by an archway in an unprepossessing wall, beckoning you to walk through and ﬁnd out what lies ahead. As you look more carefully you see that it takes you to a garden, and at the back of that, two archways in the boundary wall lead you to yet another garden beyond (Figure 7.13).

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Figure 7.12 Jardin Anne Frank, Paris, plan showing its hidden location.

Figure 7.13 Jardin Anne Frank, looking through to the third garden.

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A sense of French formality is unmistakable as you enter the second garden. Only when you cross the threshold and walk through can you appreciate its underlying geometries. With homage to Versailles, the designers have installed a semi-circular latticework tunnel, a ‘cabinet de treillage’, that comes into view to the left as you walk in. Roses, honeysuckle, jasmine and clematis are intertwined and threaded through the open trelliswork. It is a delicious place to stroll through in spring and summer, with the dappled sunlight intermittently falling on your body as you walk. Benches are placed opposite its openings inviting you to sit down, absorb the atmosphere and drink in the view of the garden. This central area is part of the old garden of the seventeenth-century Hotel Saint-Aignan (now the Museum of Art and History of Judaism) and is responsible for holding the three lots together. The design refers back to the garden devised by Le Notre.22 The central opening of the trellis tunnel opens up and faces the museum, on axis, through a grand archway. Parts of the old formal garden have been traced on the ground. The outline of the old pool, for example, is made visible through the paving layout. This section of the gardens is bounded on each side by high walls positioned along the old boundary walls of the city. There are two entrances to the third garden, the Jardin Lecompte. Most of the garden is reminiscent of an orchard, designed as a safe, shady place for young children, with enough lawn to kick a ball about. If you keep walking to the right, you will ﬁnd another small garden, a ‘potager’ for local residents, called the ‘jardin de vie’

(Figure 7.14). As well as vegetable

and fruit crops, the little potager has plants to encourage birds and butterﬂies.

Figure 7.14 Jardin Anne Frank. springtime in the third garden.

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Figure 7.15 Jardin Anne Frank. The Pompidou Centre can be seen as you leave the garden.

Although each area has a character of its own, but the connection is felt through the act of seeing and walking through the archways. Wherever you are you always see another garden beyond. The historical symmetry imposed on the centre garden uniﬁes the asymmetry and irregularities of the left-over plots. The high walls, not beautiful in themselves, provide both the connection and the spatial separation between the three gardens. The design has evolved through an understanding of the cityscape, which has largely dictated the rationale behind the scheme. Its history has been acknowledged and what’s left has been enhanced to create the new enclosed gardens (Figure 7.15).

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Square Roger Stéphane . . . A dark corridor connected two little rooms; I maintained that this hallway was lit by a gentle light. The bedroom was furnished with a bookcase, a harp, a piano, a portrait of Madame de Staël, and a view of Coppet by moonlight. On the window sills were pots of flowers. When, breathless after climbing three flights of stairs, I entered this little cell as dusk was falling, I was entranced. The windows looked out over the Abbaye garden, around the green enclosure of which the nuns made circuits, and in which the schoolgirls ran about. The summit of an acacia tree reached to eye-level and the hills of Sèvres could be seen on the horizon. The setting sun gilded the picture and entered through the open windows. François-René de Chateaubriand, book 29, chapter 1: ‘Madame Récamier’, section 4. Translated by A. S. Kline24 Beneath the surface of this garden lies a long history. Created in 1933 and named after the writer Roger Stéphane, it sits over a section of the remains of the Abbaye-aux-Bois, which had been a teaching monastery run by nuns. In the nineteenth century part of it had been converted into apartments, one of which was inhabited by the celebrated Madame Juliette Récamier, well known for her ‘salons’,25 where she entertained her close friend, the writer Chateaubriand, on many occasions. By 1904, the abbey’s fate was sealed when education became separated from religious institutions in France. By 1907 the abbey was pulled down to make way for the expansion of the Rue de Sèvres on which it was located. A new street, rue Récamier, was created on the grounds and houses were built on either side. The street is now pedestrianised and leads directly to the garden that sits on a section of the old abbey and its cloister. Despite the straight approach to the garden, it is hidden from the main street. There are obstacles all along the way: tables, chairs and awnings of the restaurants that flag each side of a pleasant, but unremarkable, sidestreet, together with large, centrally-placed planters overflowing with mature shrubs. Only when you are nearly at the end does the entrance gate appear and a sunken garden is revealed. By the time you have descended a flight of steps, the hard surfaces of the city can no longer be seen and you are surrounded by greenery. A fig tree and a weeping beech filter the sun as soon as you arrive. You are confronted with several possibilities as you discover paths leading off in different directions and levels. Curved steps entice you to discover what lies around the corner. A series of small, intimate spaces is revealed. The designers have made use of the varied

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Figure 7.16 Jardin Roger-Stéphane. The visitor is confronted with a choice of small paths.

Figure 7.17 Jardin Roger-Stéphane. Looking up to an almost hidden kiosk.

levels left from the old building site by creating abundantly planted terraces. Small pools connect with miniature waterfalls. The sound of trickling water and birdsong provide the background music for romantic trysts even today (Figures 7.16 and 7.17). It is very inward looking. The backs of the buildings that surround it seem to melt into the background. The overhead canopies of mature trees provide a ceiling for these interconnected outdoor rooms. Many people have described it as a small, intimate hide-away, possibly inﬂuenced by the knowledge of Chateaubriand’s trips to visit Madame Récamier. It could also be described as being ‘busy’, with a new landscape trick around every corner and little attempt at cohesion. However, it is very successful in squeezing in a great richness and variety within a very small space. The two gardens, hidden away from the crowded streets, are expressions of the cultural history of Paris. The Jardin Anne Frank, by the Pompidou Centre, acknowledges the contemporary city. The central garden has reference both to Versailles and the original seventeenth century axial planning of the garden the Hotel Saint-Aignan Museum of Art and the grand designs of Parisian hotels. Square Roger Stéphane with its complicated levels and secretive nature articulates the complexity of its own history.

Nothing wasted: community gardens If you take a walk around the East Village in New York you will find it full of surprises. There is no getting away from the blocks and relentless grid of the city, nor the relative poverty of the neighbourhood, but your spirits will be lifted as you come across small pockets of open spaces, usually sandwiched between two flank walls of a row of houses that have been converted into gardens. Your first indication will most likely be a stretch of vine-covered chain-link fence at the back of the pavement. If you stop and look through, you will spy a garden full of trees, bushes and flowering plants with shady seats, maybe a pond or a sculpture and a winding path inviting you to push open the gate, cross the threshold and wander in. Each is influenced by the diverse immigrant background of the neighbourhood, its unique history and what the space itself has to offer. Most have benches scattered throughout, small clearings where a group of people can gather and enjoy a meal ‘al fresco’. Some have built-in barbeques, others have raised beds for growing a few food crops and others still are rich in artworks. A common theme is that your experience of them is defiantly different to walking along the rigid grid of the streets. Curving paths with intricate patterning flow around very restricted ground areas. They are true escapes from the city, each a small paradise. The feeling of them being ‘rooms’ is brought out by there rarely being any sky to see, and no depth to

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the view as you look upward. They survive against the odds through the work of dedicated volunteers. Most gardens cross the boundaries between public and private to a lesser or greater degree, being speciﬁc to the neighbourhood, but having their gates open at certain times during the week. They all have their stories.

Albert’s Garden Albert’s Garden sits quietly within a city block, enclosed by high walls on two sides. A canopy of tall trees provides shade throughout the summer. Small pockets of sunlight provide light for the plants below and for sitting out in the sunshine on cooler days. As you enter, you have a choice of winding paths to follow. They take you on a journey past individual benches slightly set back from the route, a pond and on to a more sociable opening with seating for a small group of people (Figure 7.18). The garden has had a chequered history. It came into existence when two houses burnt down in the 1960s and the owners abandoned them. The site was back-ﬁlled with the rubble, paved and used by a couple of artists for many years, later to be joined by Albert O. Eisenlau Jr. who helped transform it into a garden. The district, in those days, was described by one of the current gardeners, a long-term resident, as ‘rolling hell’. The punk band, the Ramones, brought publicity to it when they used one of the garden walls for the backdrop of their 1976 album. By the late 1990s, with many other vacant lots in New York, the garden went up for auction. Trusts were set up to purchase some of this public land in different neighbourhoods with the sole purpose of preserving them as gardens.

Figure 7.18 Albert’s Garden. Deep shade on a hot day. People gathering at the weekend.

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Apart from the continuing budget problems there have been social issues too, periods when Albert’s Garden unwittingly provided homes for the homeless. This was so incompatible with its purpose as a garden the residents raised enough money to build a set of elegant railings so that the garden could be locked and kept safe at night. The garden survives with 10–12 regular volunteers who resourcefully keep it in excellent condition on a very low budget. Albert’s Garden, like the others, is an anchor for the community. Although rooms are now provided in many of the surrounding apartment blocks for events, the gardens have proved to be more popular venues, especially in the summer months. It enjoyed its ﬁrst wedding in 2015.26 The garden has presence, not because it wins prizes for its beauty, but stands as a ‘lieu de mémoire’, 27 a place resonant with memories that lie deep within this small haven of human resilience.

Le Petit Versailles Le Petit Versailles is a narrow slot of a garden that straddles between two streets, further to the east of Manhattan. It has a bias towards the visual and performing arts. As the name implies, there is more of a formal layout

Figure 7.19 Petit Versailles. The ‘arbor’ that doubles up as a props store.

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of beds than some of the other gardens. A collection of ‘found’ mirrors that lines the outside walls is a tongue-in-cheek reminder of the somewhat grander house and garden in France. The original building on this plot succumbed to abandonment in similar circumstances to Albert’s Garden. In the mid-1990s, its upkeep was also taken over by two artists who had moved in next door. Jack Waters and Peter Cramer, together with a team of dedicated gardeners, were prime movers in transforming an empty lot into an open public garden and arts venue, which has thrived ever since. It too is an anchor of the community through its twin function of being both garden and cultural space. It has developed as a venue for visual artists, ﬁlm makers, musicians and performers from across the city, housing a wide range of events. The formality of the layout suits its dual purpose. Unlike most gardens, it has two entrances, one each side of the block. The gates are rarely closed. If you approach it from one side you pass through an arbour (Figure 7.19). It also doubles up to provide sheltered seating and storage. You walk toward the centre and take one of the symmetrically curving paths to the left or right that circumnavigate an octagonal stage (Figure 7.20). A winding path, off axis, takes you past an oven and food preparation area to the entrance on the other street. Your journey will be slowed down

Figure 7.20 Petit Versailles. Looking towards the stage.

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Figure 7.21 Petit Versailles. Artwork in the garden.

by a changing exhibition of artworks as well as the enjoyment of a rich variety of plants (Figure 7.21). There is enough room in the garden around the stage to have performances in the round, or for the audience to be facing one direction. Economy of means is much in evidence for the ambitions of this small space. For example, a continuous line of thin wooden boards raised 900 mm from the ground is placed to one side of the paths through the planting between the stage and boundary walls. The boards act as handrails, they deter people from walking into the ﬂower beds and act as a support for the audience to lean against during performances.

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Where Albert’s Garden provides an ‘oasis’ or retreat, Le Petit Versailles opens up to the community at large. These, and the many other gardens, have contributed to the transformation of a deprived neighbourhood. They are proof that through the power of community action, something life enhancing can come from a patch of rubble. These interludes in the rigid street pattern, deﬁned and shaped by their surrounding walls, are, again, demonstrations of our strong desire and inner need to be in touch with the natural world.

Vertical gardens In 2003 some hoarding was required along the perimeter of the site for a large development in Tokyo, designed by Tadao Ando.28 It needed to be very substantial to last for the duration of the project – three years. Taking the idea from the name of the developer, Mori (meaning forest in Japanese), the architects, Klein Dytham, designed a framework that could accommodate planting instead of the usual ﬂimsy plywood ﬁnish, the Green, Green Screen. A steel frame was constructed to hold together three layers of felt, full of pockets to contain earth for planting. To keep the plants watered, a hosepipe ran along the top and a hidden gutter lay at pavement level to collect any Figure 7.22 The wall takes over the ground.

excess. The planting was interspersed with panels of coloured pattern designs29 to blend with the foliage as well as provide information about retail outlets nearby. The project proved to be so successful that it paid for itself and allowed for a constant turnover of ﬂowering plants to complement the evergreens. The wall was a pleasure to look at and people were observed running their hands along it to feel the softness of the planting and smell the fragrance. Others would steal herbs for their cooking. Although it no longer exists, the Tokyo hoarding is an excellent example of the success of a ‘living wall’ or vertical garden. Not only does it work as a barrier for an enclosure, but provides a positive contribution to the quality of the lives of pedestrians walking in one of the most polluted cities in the world. We talk about green walls, living walls and vertical gardens as interchangeable, but each conjures up a very different image. Green wall is so generic it is almost meaningless, living wall infers biology and new technology, but a vertical garden conjures up a place, a place that has something to offer. Vertical gardens demand to be looked at as if they are murals, extended to be absorbed through our senses, smell and touch in particular, as well as the moisture and oxygen they give off being good for our wellbeing. Technological innovation has contributed to their viability over the last few decades. A wide range of small plants can survive in these locations, although ground conditions have to be re-imagined and replicated

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Figure 7.23 Oasis d’Aboukir, Paris. The greenery is beginning to consume the architecture.

for a vertical location. As we have seen with the Tokyo screen, vertical gardens need sunlight, water, a suitable environment for their roots and nutrients to make them prosper. They have proliferated, not just where there is little ground space for a garden, but in their own right, on external walls and in interiors. There have been some outstanding results. Biologist and artist Patrick Blanc has been a pioneer in vertical garden design and has done much to promote them for many years. His designs have transcended into artworks (Figure 7.23). Vertical gardens have brought a new dimension into the design of small, restricted spaces, particularly within enclosures where there is no room for a conventional garden. Their success often relies on a hi-tech proprietary framework for ﬁxing to a wall, combined with a bespoke system for housing the plants, feeding and watering them. They need continuous maintenance to avoid holes appearing in the tapestry where plants have not survived. As all the plants are on the vertical plane, any ﬂaws in the design are instantly visible, but as the technology advances for their maintenance and our desire for greening the city grows, they are becoming more viable.

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Greening the gallery The living wall in the new extension to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, designed by David Brenner, is one of the building’s prominent features. Snøhetta architects were commissioned to design a substantial extension to the 1988 post-modern gallery designed by Mario Botta. The building was opened in 2016 and sits beside the original. By slightly pulling back part of the east façade of the new design from the adjacent building, the architects were able to create a gap that not only provided more light for that elevation, but enough room to create a very tall outdoor slot, sufficiently wide enough to create a sculpture court. The newly exposed wall of the adjacent building, over three storeys high, provided the opportunity for a substantial vertical garden to be constructed. At 400 square metres it was the largest in the United States.30 If you go into the building from the original entrance, you make a visual connection to the foyer of the new wing. You walk through a spatially confined entrance into the original atrium. A stairway angles you up to the next level, single storey in height and then along into the main double height foyer that now serves the entire gallery. As you climb, you are aware of clerestory light pouring down into the space ahead of you, into what is, in effect, the heart of the building. The vertical garden is immediately visible through this glazed wall. It is striking to look at, vivid green against the stark whiteness of the gallery (Figures 7.24 and 7.25). This newly created courtyard not only offers more of an opportunity to show off new sculptures, but also provides a visual link with three levels of the extension and can be seen from a further three floors, making it

Figure 7.24 SFMOMA living wall seen from the new foyer.

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Figure 7.25 SFMOMA sculpture court with living wall.

a key reference point for people to orient themselves throughout their visit to the gallery. A stairway leads you directly up to it from the new foyer. The vertical garden is as much a respite for the visitor as a café. Its visceral quality invites you to touch and to smell it as well as observe the movement of the foliage that intermittently ripples in the breeze. Its patterning has been designed in great detail. The beautifully crafted installation provides a relief for the eyes after long observation of the exhibits in the white gallery spaces. As the plants grow and the seasons change, so does this living artwork, predominantly green, well known for its calming effects. Brenner has tried to capture the essential qualities of the Californian woodland: ‘the essence of an understory plant community in a California woodland, so amorphous planting swathes reflect the composition of a regional forest floor. Filled with many different textures, it is lush, diverse and monochromatic’.31 Many of the plants can be found in the Californian National Parks and Brenner hopes that they may evoke memories for some people. The changing sunlight exposure on the walls creates four different microclimates and the positioning of plants has been chosen accordingly. Some plants are specific to the canyons naturally occurring in the West Coast landscape, and indeed Brenner sees this location as an urban canyon.

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This can be seen as a twentieth century interpretation of an enclosed garden and serves a similar purpose to those on the ground in many ways. It sits within the bounds of the building, but with the pressure on urban space, a garden that could have taken up 400 square metres of land has been up-ended and placed on its side beside a horizontal ﬂoor area that is probably less than a quarter of the surface area of the wall. Creating this courtyard has resolved several design issues in one go. There is space for some outdoor sculpture to be displayed, natural light can penetrate down to the new foyer and the vertical garden provides a point of orientation for the visitor within such a large complex. It is restful to the eye, introduces the natural world into the otherwise white spaces of the gallery and is a living work of art in its own right.

Respite in the city The David Rubenstein Atrium in New York is a hybrid – privately owned, but designed and designated as public space.32 It is no more than a ribbon of land, no wider than a passageway that cuts through a block between two streets, just across the road from the Lincoln Centre, New York’s cultural hub. It opens its doors to the public all through the year. This leftover space that used to house a café and climbing wall was originally conceived by the owners as a ‘lively gathering space’33 for residents, tourists and athletes, but it had been neglected and fallen into disrepair. It became a (much needed) gathering space for homeless people and only a few athletes and was in need an overhaul.34 In 2009, architects Todd Williams and Billie Tsein were commissioned to renovate it with Plant Wall Design35 and textile artist Claudy Jongstra. They transformed it into the lively gathering space that was first envisaged, changing its name from the Harmony Atrium to David Rubenstein Atrium. This tall, narrow space provides for many activities throughout the day and evening and there is a constant flow of people coming through. The designers wished to include a representation of the natural world as an important contribution to the atmosphere. As there is no room on the floor, they have made best use of the walls through large-scale artwork sympathetic to organic patterning,36 together with two vertical gardens at each end. Wide canopies at each street entrance cantilever out to alert you (Figure 7.26). You are greeted immediately with a large panel of planting. Once inside it is easy to find your way around. Free Wi-Fi attracts many daytime visitors, but there are other aspects of this interior that entice people in. There are only two fixed functional areas – a theatre ticket collection point and a drinks bar, providing enough left-over space for other activities. There

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Figure 7.26 David Rubenstein Atrium. Street entrance showing slot between buildings.

Figure 7.27 David Rubenstein Atrium. Sitting by wall.

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Figure 7.28 David Rubenstein Atrium. Section through the building showing natural lighting from above.

is some fixed seating – green marble benches that line the wall at one end. Elsewhere there are moveable tables and chairs. The flexible seating arrangement provides adequate space for people stopping for a drink individually and in small groups, or for being placed more formally for performances (Figure 7.27). A pool with short bubbling fountains creates a calming background noise and the reflection of the water in motion contributes to the lively atmosphere. The lighting is directional. Pools of natural light fall into the interior from cones piercing through the warm, gold-painted ceiling. The glazed walls to the façades bring light in at each end. It enjoys air conditioning in the summer and heating in winter, entirely powered by renewable energy sources (Figure 7.28). In the centre, the walls are covered with bold textile murals created out of felt. Not only are the murals very arresting to look at, their textured surface absorbs much of the reflected everyday noise that is generated from everyone who uses the atrium. A large media screen sits in the middle of the mural providing information about the Lincoln Centre and is a resource for video screening and performances. The warm colours of the murals and ceiling seem to glow, and are complemented by the rich green of the surrounding vertical gardens. The nine-metre high living walls of ferns, bromeliads, moss and flowering vines are more than adequate substitutes for a more conventional garden space. Their surfaces are even more textured. They animate the wall, provide a riotous, richly coloured display as well as absorbing carbon dioxide and giving out oxygen to improve the air quality in a space that can be very crowded at certain times of the day and night. The gardens benefit from natural light passing through the overhead cones and glazed facades at each end, with the shade from the external canopies preventing most direct sunlight. As you sit and enjoy a coffee you are enclosed within two green ‘garden’ walls at either end. The view to each exit is past an abundance of richlypatterned greenery. In terms of garden design this popular venue is pure

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artiﬁce, successfully reinventing what a garden can achieve for our wellbeing, but indoors. With its open ends there is never a sense of being trapped or cut off from the world outside. This transitional space is a place for the contemporary ‘ﬂaneur’ to wander into, a place to pause in the endless encounters of the city. 37 Since it was opened it has become a magnet for people who live and work in the area, as well as for the continual stream of tourists who wish to pause and have a cup of coffee or glass of wine. The combination of the pool, textiles and greenery play a large part in creating an atmosphere where people of all ages can have a conversation without having to shout and at other times turn into a venue for arts performances. But it is the vertical gardens that hold it in place. Williams and Tsien quote William H. Whyte who wrote, ‘I end then in praise of small spaces’. This is a much-loved space, in constant use and one of the few truly public interiors that opens up our city spaces in the face of privatisation. The vertical gardens play a vital role: you appreciate one of them through being able to walk very close to it; the other is the backdrop to a very popular seating area where you can almost be lost in the greenery. Unlike many well-intentioned green walls, they thrive throughout the year where others have failed. Well chosen indoor vertical gardens, providing there is enough light, are often more easily regulated and maintained than equivalent outdoor ones that have greater climatic challenges.38

Office Green At the busiest road junctions of New York City the architects COOKFOX have designed an office complex, 300 La Fayette, a modest five-storey block that respects the architecture and the underlying grid of its location. They have given the idea of the vertical garden depth by proposing a ‘garden façade’. The inspiration and rationale for the design starts with a detailed analysis of the character of much of the architecture of the neighbourhood. The structural framework of the buildings from the cast-iron era provided the opportunity for large glazed openings on the façades. These were overlaid with richly decorated organic motifs, integral to the design that give these buildings their character within the cityscape (Figure 7.29). COOKFOX

have taken the organic motifs a stage further through

translating them into small gardens that sit between each section of the structural grid. From the second floor upward each office space will have a small garden set in a deep reveal, a transitional zone between the working environment and the street. A new frontage will emerge that both links and separates the office users and the city, bridging between the interior and exterior. Large glazed openings with minimal frames have been designed for a picturesque, twenty-first century sight of the city. Plants will provide

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Figure 7.29 Detail of the street façade of the Singer Building, New York, designed by Ernest Flagg, 1908.

Figure 7.30 300 Lafayette. Proposed new ofﬁces designed by COOKFOX.

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a natural filter, softening the glare from the sun and offering a view of the city through a garden where the planting changes throughout the year, keeping office workers in touch with the natural world. This will be followed through to the design of the interior through acknowledging biomimetic39 patterns, their proportion and decoration being the starting point for their design (Figure 7.30). The creation of these gardens allows more floor space to be given over to planting than the original footprint of the building. The argument for this – that by generating a biomimetic environment that will enhance people’s health, well-being and ultimately their productivity – has been so strong that the developer has warmly endorsed the idea. The addition of garden spaces is also encouraged through the possibility of tax breaks if the design complies with green standards such as those laid down by the LEED40 in the United States. This has been so successful that garden spaces included in building design have become fashionable extras and rents of properties with garden facilities are let at a premium. A roof garden is also proposed to cover the whole of 300 La Fayette. This will, in effect, become the sixth floor, providing ‘. . . a fifth façade of restorative green space rarely available in workplace environments’.41 An open framework of timber and steel will provide structure for the garden and provide a sense of enclosure. It will provide an extra amenity for the people who use the building, as well as the possibility for growing food. This design, in line with many other proposed projects concerned with our environmental conditions, is taking urban green issues seriously. The vertically stacked gardens and a planted roof terrace go a long way to redress the balance between the ‘natural’ and the ‘manufactured’ in this part of the city. As long as the gardens are loved and maintained, this innovative use of space could set a precedent for future sustainable urban living. The research that

COOKFOX

and their partners in this ﬁeld are carry-

ing out is aimed particularly at designers of our urban environment. By creating biophilic designs that bring us back in touch with the natural world, they are adding an important ingredient to sustainability issues, where the science behind the biophilic hypothesis can be applied creatively in our daily lives.

Roof gardens Rooftop gardens are not enclosed gardens in the purest sense. They are, however, deﬁned by the buildings on which they sit, and, in many cases, replace enclosed gardens on the ground that has been built over. There are many, very persuasive, arguments for designing and constructing rooftop gardens or ‘green’ roofs. As rooftop gardens are not on the ground, they

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Figure 7.31 Up on the roof.

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have less shelter from the weather so they need to be managed differently. Parapet walls, for example, play an important role both for protecting plants (and people) against adverse weather conditions, as well as giving a sense of enclosure when you are several storeys high. Pergolas provide shade from overhead sun. Access may not always be easy in existing buildings, but with newbuilds, this can be designed into a scheme. From the ‘ﬁfth façade’42 of a building you often have spectacular views. The city enfolds and encloses Figure 7.32 New York. Panoramic view of the growing use of ﬂat roofs for gardens.

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you, but unlike enclosed gardens on the ground, where the view is likely to be framed through an opening, it is panoramic, giving a new dimension to the city (Figure 7.32).

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Rooftop locations have many benefits. Roofs planted as meadows, especially those that are inaccessible, attract a range of wildlife, they provide safe habitats for re-colonising flora and fauna long since departed from our towns and cities. Studies have also shown that there is an increase of migratory birds passing through New York, for example, to feast on the insect population that now inhabit planted roofs, attracted to the flowers.43 There is also a range of bird species recorded that are unique to the rooftops.44 Colonies of honeybees have been successfully introduced to rooftops. Well-constructed green roofs rank high on the sustainability agenda. They are favoured for creating sustainable urban drainage systems (SuDS). A planted roof can absorb a significant amount of water in heavy rain, slowing down the speed of run-off and greatly reducing the risk of flash flooding. A green roof has the potential for energy saving through its insulation value, keeping the internal environment more stable, reducing heating and cooling requirements. A thick earth layer is relatively stable compared with many building materials that will age and crack quickly in extreme weather conditions. The solar energy beaming down on a green roof is absorbed by the plants, converting it into sugars (energy). The moisture they emit can have a cooling effect on the building below. As green roofs are likely to be heavy and water retentive, the design has to be considered carefully. Like green walls, there have been many failures. The strength of the roof will determine the type of garden that can be created. Sedums require little depth of earth, but mature trees will require up to a metre. The building structures on which they sit have to be adequate to carry the additional load. Waterproofing is essential.

Rooftop research Where ground space is at a premium, the pressure to exploit every scrap is immense, and New York has a reputation for converting it directly into proﬁt. How this is achieved, still maintaining the integrity of design and for the greater good, is the question facing any architect today. As we have seen in the section on vertical gardens,

COOKFOX

believe that this can be

done through acknowledging the importance of our enduring connection with the natural world and maintaining those ties through the inclusion of landscape and proportions derived from the natural world within their architectural design. Their ofﬁce is on top of an eight-storey building in the centre of New York, in the high-ceilinged dining rooms of an old department store, but it does not take up the whole area. The extra space has been ﬁlled with an expansive rooftop garden. The parapet wall at the edge has

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Figure 7.33 ofﬁce has a panoramic view.

COOKFOX

been extended with railings high enough to provide a sense of security when you walk outside and low enough for you to enjoy the view when sitting at a desk or table indoors. Foreground and background are provided for us to participate in the theatre of the city. The firm sees their office and rooftop garden as evolving from their belief in biophilic45 design principles, enhancing our ‘innate biological connection with nature’. The office’s high ceilings, for example, together with full height glazing, provide plenty of natural light. The constantly changing luminosity is less tiring than artificial light. Natural ventilation provides fresh air and a slight breeze. Everyone has a view of the garden, allowing for a change in focal length of their gaze, which again is beneficial, contributing to effective working habits (Figure 7.33). The garden is designed around the load-bearing capacity of the roof. After a structural survey it was established that only a certain weight of soil could be laid. This, in turn, determined and gave constraints to the planting scheme. Another constraint was its non-rectangular shape. A small nylon system of soil sacks was used to provide sufficient flexibility of layout. Eight types of drought-tolerant sedum with talinum have been planted interspersed with grasses such as Schizachyrium scoparium, all chosen for their changing in colour and height throughout the seasons as well as their durability. An area to the side of the roof is given over to the staff to grow their own vegetables. These are mainly salad crops for lunches. The ‘Three Sisters’ symbiotic46 farming techniques have been employed to ensure sustainable continuity and a balance of nutrients in the soil. They keep bees and have trained members of staff to attend to them and gather the honey (Figure 7.34).

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Figure 7.34 ofﬁce. Employees gathering honey.

COOKFOX

The garden fulfils three functions: first, it adds a pleasure garden for all who work there; second, it is a display for potential clients and contractors; third, it is a ‘laboratory’ for testing ideas. There is a continuous reassessment of the planting, which provides the firm with information for new planting schemes. In collaboration with the Gaia Institute,47 they monitor soil content of the sacks and the growth rates and water retention capacity of the plants with a view to the reduction of storm water run-off and the cooling effect of a green roof on top of the building. Data is being collected for the promotion of more rooftop schemes. The system of soil sacks is versatile and can be moved to other locations. When the office moves they will be able to pack up their garden as well as the furniture and install it on another roof.

Regaining a sense of place Visiting Crossrail Place Garden, in the middle of London’s financial district, is a very twenty-first century experience. It appears to be floating in a dock like a futuristic cruise-ship, covered by a huge canopy, waiting to disembark. It is located on one of the old docks that would have been teeming with imports and exports in the nineteenth century and sits on top of a seven-storey building designed by Foster and Partners, completed in 2015.48 Most of the building is submerged and reaches down through a band of floors devoted to retail, connecting down to the new underground station below. Although the access bridges are visible, it is not always easy to find their points of entry (Figure 7.35). Once inside the building, you are quickly

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Figure 7.35 Crossrail rooftop garden as seen from the street.

taken up escalators, through darkened spaces lined with glistening marble, to the top level. At last you are thrown into the light. The city sounds are soft and mufﬂed and surprisingly, there is birdsong, loud and clear. The plants look intensely green after the monochrome of the high-rise city you have just left. You are enticed to walk around the garden along sensuously curving paths that promise more than you can see. Benches are placed along the paths at intervals that allow a degree of privacy for conversation, or just Figure 7.36 Cross rail rooftop garden. Open panels to part of the roof intentionally let the weather in.

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for sitting on (Figures 7.36 and 7.37). The garden is partly glazed over and partly open. The roof structure, a timber latticework construction, forms a 30-metre arch over the whole of the garden. The framework at each end is ﬁlled with a covering of highly

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Figure 7.37 Cross rail rooftop garden. Detail of bench design. Source: Author.

insulating ETFE49 transparent cushion panels. This covering contributes towards creating a microclimate where species from warmer climates can survive, protecting them from turbulence from adjacent high-rise buildings, which are visible through the roof, towering up to 40 storeys above. Many panels in the centre have been left out providing a zone where the garden is open to the sky. The garden here survives under more ‘normal’ conditions, with full exposure to natural light, is watered naturally through rainfall and provides a habitat for birds and insects. The landscape and planting, designed by Gillespies, with specialist consultant Growth Industry, has an interesting story behind it. The geographical location of the site happens to sit almost on top of the Prime Meridian that divides the Western and Eastern hemispheres of the globe. This generated an idea for the initial positioning of the plants – from the East, on one side and from the West, on the other.50, 51 The more detailed palette of planting was inspired by the discoveries of the plant collectors, Joseph Hooker and David Douglas, in the nineteenth century when the docks were thriving. A further layer of the design strategy was to choose plants or their produce and products that had been speciﬁcally imported into the docks themselves. On a more pragmatic level, species selection was also limited by plants that can tolerate the depth of the substrata and will not exceed the height of the over-arching roof canopy. The plants give an exotic feel in this haven set in the hard-edged ﬁnancial heart of London. The experience is much like walking through

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a well-established glasshouse, bamboo from India and China, maple from Japan, tree ferns from New Zealand and Antarctica, Sweet Gum from Mexico, the scarlet-fruited strawberry tree from Europe. As you walk through and linger, you may be able to catch the songs of blackbirds, robins and finches. The scent of the flowering plants rests heavily in the air under the canopy where the air is more humid. It is a designated public space with access until 9.00 pm, or sun down in the summer, and has already been used as a venue for community events. The performance space in the centre has become a popular venue. With the use of historical precedent, this is an imaginative way of looking at site specificity in a location where the cityscape is all new and often has little context, depth of meaning or grace in its overall design, where moneymaking is the only driving force.

Feeding the city

Brooklyn Grange Rooftop Farms I have already introduced Brooklyn Grange at the start of the chapter. Brooklyn Grange Farms are well established on two sites in New York. The

Figure 7.38 Brooklyn Bridge Farm overview.

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original farm is on top of the old Standard Motor Products Building, covering the equivalent space of two city blocks. The building was constructed in 1919 with a concrete frame capable of withstanding very heavy loads (Figure 7.38). In 2009 the company sold up. The new owners were looking for new companies to rent the space. A group of dedicated, young ‘urban farmers’ approached them with a plan to rent out their roof, and for it to be converted into a commercial farm. This would involve bringing in many tons of soil, which the building, because of its original purpose, was capable of withstanding. In effect, this venture could provide the owners with an extra floor level of rentable space. It was agreed that the deal could be beneficial for both parties. ‘Little did we realise, these guys were probably pinching themselves, too: we were offering a small amount of capital in rent but the cultural capital we brought to the table was our real value’52 (Figure 7.39). The roof was checked for waterproofing and the existing lift extended for pedestrian access. Earth was brought to the site in sacks and laboriously craned up seven storeys over a period of six days. It was then raked in rows suitable for maintaining a wide range of vegetables and fruit. This was a complicated process involving the circumnavigation of a range of outlets and air-conditioning plants connected to the floors below that had to be kept in place (Figure 7.40). The project has been so successful that the roof of

Figure 7.39 Brooklyn Grange Farm. Gathering kale.

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Figure 7.40 Brooklyn Bridge Farm. The farm negotiates all the vents and tanks from the ﬂoors below.

another nearby site – one of the buildings in the old Navy Yard in Brooklyn – has been converted in a similar way. With the two farms running successfully, the co-operative has been able to expand to include egg-laying hens and a commercial apiary with beehives located on rooftops all over New York for their honey enterprise. None of this could have been accomplished without the belief and passion held by all the co-founders that cities, New York in particular, should be more sustainable. Their contribution is not only to promote high quality, fresh organic food, but to promote the need for composting of food waste, promote producing food close to home, reduce the time taken from gathering to table and to cut out refrigeration during delivery that avoids fuel emission and transport costs. Their mission is, ‘to create a fiscally sustainable model for urban agriculture and to produce healthy, delicious vegetables for our local community . . .’53 Through massive acreage, 2.5 acres in total (0.8 hectares) the roofs absorb storm water that eases the run-off after a downpour, greatly reducing the risk of flash flooding. This has been recognised and grants have been procured for the initial financing of the Navy Yard rooftop. They have a full events calendar that stretches beyond agriculture: education days are regularly organised; yoga classes take place in the summer months. The collective has started a design service based on the experience of creating a rooftop farm. The views are spectacular and the farms have become popular venues for weddings and music events. They are even in guide books and on the tourist trail. A measure of their success is that they have to limit times for visitors and are continually reassessing their aims to ensure they maintain the high standards they have achieved.

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Small scale success Many buildings do not have the capability to retroﬁt a garden on their roof. This was the case when the owner of a restaurant in the basement of an apartment block in New York had a dream of harvesting fresh vegetables throughout the year and producing seasonal vegetables on the table every day for his customers. The roof, eight storeys above the restaurant, enclosed with a short parapet wall, provided the perfect location, high enough to have plenty of sun all year and sheltered enough for plants to germinate and ﬂourish. The foundations were never built to carry an extra load of earth and greenery on top of them. Even if alterations could have been made, all parties who lived in the block would have had to have been prepared to invest in the upgrade. There was a further problem – no elevator access. The restaurateur, John Mooney, worked out an ingenious plan to overcome these problems; he chose a proprietary system for growing fruit and vegetables using the technique of aeroponics, a hydroponic method of farming that requires only water and nutrients, with no growing medium. Although this method of farming is increasingly used commercially within large-scale agriculture, it is not so often attempted on a small scale in the city. Lightweight growing towers occupy the roof, weighing a fraction of

Figure 7.41 The futuristic garden of the restaurant Bell Book and Candle, New York.

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Figure 7.42 Bell Book and Candle. Low tech solution for transporting vegetables to the kitchen.

the equivalent growing capacity of earth. The farming is very intense with over 30 different vegetable crops grown throughout the year, cropped, and then consumed in the restaurant below. Water is gravity fed into purpose-made towers and pumped through them with energy provided by solar power. This allows the added nutrients to continuously trickle down past pockets where the plants grow freely, with long roots trailing in the trickling water (Figure 7.41). As Mooney says ‘Just like the city it (the garden) grows vertically’. He has been able to cut down all travel costs and any associated preservatives required for keeping food ‘fresh’ over time. He is able to have a higher yield than conventional vegetable growing as plants tend to grow faster hydroponically. Disease is reduced and it is claimed that there is no difference to the ﬂavour through using this method. The problem of access was solved through some cunning lateral thinking, resulting in a very low-tech proposition: to create an external lift.

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In the corner of the roof garden there is a pulley and rope with a large bucket tied to it (Figure 7.42). The bucket is ﬁlled with plants for the evening’s meal and lowered, by hand, down to the chef in the backyard. It does require there to be someone on the roof, but climbing up the eight storeys is considered good exercise for Mooney and his employees. The method he has adopted takes up less ground space than a conventional garden layout. It has the potential for small-scale cultivation in the city with very little outlay and is an inspiration for those who cannot afford farmers market prices. This very functional layout has the side effect of producing an extraordinary, aesthetically engaging, futuristic garden, no less enjoyable to walk around than other roof gardens. You wander through a vertical garden that seems so appropriate to the ever-rising vertical city. It has perhaps the same lure that other gardens have whose shape is also driven by its functionality (Figure 7.43).

Figure 7.43 Bell Book and Candle. Detail of aquaponic/ hydroponic system.

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Living and learning

Rooftop co-op When the landlord of a handsome 1920s apartment block in New York54decided to sell up, the residents bought it as a co-operative. One of the changes they made was to create a small garden on part of the roof. About 20 years later, when the roof was in need of repair, there were sufﬁcient funds for both the repair and an extension to the garden. Landscape architects RKLA had the challenge of redesigning it. As you arrive on the roof, from either of the two access points, the paths invite you along a sequence of varied spaces. You come across a series of ‘rooms’ as you wander through, each with their own character. You can decide whether to sit down and have lunch in a quiet shady corner beside a rambling rose, lie on a lounger and catch the sun, or walk along and up a few steps to a raised deck framed with a pergola covered with Figure 7.44 Roof protection.

wisteria. If you happen to be there in the evening and look at the view as the sun falls behind the skyline of the city and the scent from the wisteria is slowly released, you feel that you own the whole of Manhattan. This small space, exceptional in itself, alludes to the timeless quality of Italian renaissance arbors set in the hills above Florence or Rome, where their

Figure 7.45 Co-op rooftop pergola.

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location is tuned to the broader geographical location as well as the garden (Figure 7.45). The garden caters for occupancy during the day and into the

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night. As the sun goes down it is transformed into another world. Robin Kay and her team have designed subtle lighting that gracefully illuminates the plants and indicates the way to places where you can catch the coolness of the evening and gaze out across to the glittering city and the night sky. Only a lightweight steel ﬂoor structure could be laid over the old roof, limiting the load that could be added on top without endangering the integrity of the structure of the original building. This provided a limitation on the possibilities for the garden. Paving stones were chosen as a lighter option to several layers of earth. Containers of varying depths and proportions have been used for the plants. The larger ones have been placed where the structure can best accommodate the load. This has led to the arrangement of connected outdoor rooms. Plants have been chosen for their hardiness and an automated watering system has been installed to reduce maintenance. Most of the existing plants were able to be re-used as a starting point to the new design, which has given it a sense of maturity. The larger trees give height and provide accents to the scheme between the smaller shrubs and herbaceous plants. They also help break up the spaces for shade and privacy. The mix of deciduous and evergreens provide change throughout the seasons. Each end of the garden is punctuated with a more structured ‘room’ than the intermediate spaces. Elegant steel and timber structures have been constructed to provide degrees of shade and privacy. Slats of timber line the ‘ceiling’ and a canvas sail can be brought out in the heat of the day. There is a sparrow’s nest in one of the trees at head-height along the walk that is easy to peer into (Figure 7.46). What you see is a thoroughly urban creation, more colourful than most, woven together not only with

Figure 7.46 Co-op rooftop. A sparrow’s nest made from urban constituents.

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twigs and grasses, but scraps of blue, grey and white thread and tape all scavenged from the detritus of the city. This rooftop garden reveals the possibilities for retroﬁtting buildings with gardens in urban areas where there is little private garden space to be found. Although the garden is shared by all the residents there is adequate space for several individual groups of people to use it at the same time.

St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s Many of the children who attend St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s elementary school in New York, spend their lives in a vertical world of apartment blocks. The school has had a long-term vision and commitment over the last decade to provide the children with a learning environment where they have as much first-hand access to the natural world as possible, and through this promote an understanding of its importance for their own health and spiritual wellbeing. This mission has not been an easy task to carry out in a 1960s ‘brutalist’, purpose-built building. There is no outdoor space left for a garden at ground level, but the roof, seven storeys above, has plenty of space to exploit in many imaginative ways. The process started with the construction of a greenhouse on a flat roof, designed as a learning environment. By 2012, with landscape Architects RKLA and Murphy Burnham & Buttrick Architects, a plan was developed to convert much of the rest of the lower flat roofs into ‘green’ play-spaces. They comprise an area furnished with permanent play equipment, a large ball game deck and a small teaching and chill-out space beyond it. Each is an enclosed garden and each has a particular programme. The greenhouse, a light and airy, glazed indoor/outdoor room is full of plants that the children handle, getting involved with the messy process of gardening as well as learning about plants, watching them grow and eating the produce if salad crops have been planted (Figure 7.47). In another part of the building a door opens out from the classrooms into another spacious roofscape. You first encounter a long and narrow area with fixed play equipment. It is surrounded by foliage as if it were a clearing in a park. A row of silver birch screens it from a capacious ball-game area for team games and letting off steam. Its high sides have necessarily been covered with chain-link fencing. Laid over the fence are large shade screens, scrims of canvas printed with images of trees and sky (Figures 7.48 and 7.49). They hide the dull urban background of the backs of apartment blocks. It not only keeps track of highflying balls, but gives a feeling of enclosure and even provides a sense of theatre, an illusory backdrop of trees and the open sky on a grand scale. Beyond the big playdeck lies another outdoor room, hidden this time with an open slatted fence. This is a small teaching area and a place for children to ‘zone out’ away from the bustle of school life. It is enclosed at

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Figure 7.47 St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s greenhouse.

one end by a living wall, located to attract their gaze and planted low enough for the children to touch and smell it. The theme of greenery and the importance of plants and ecology are taken through to the classrooms as well. Each one has its own terrarium that the children help maintain and watch the plants grow. St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s commitment to a ‘green’ environment is admirable. It is prepared to have a proportionally high budget set aside for their gardens. The very successful innovation of the large canvas shade screens that are exposed to high winds and hard winters for example, have a short life and are

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Figure 7.48 St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s run-about space. Large canvas sails uplift a dull cityscape.

Figure 7.49 St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s detail of canvas screen.

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replaced every few years, each time with a new design. The amount ofgreen space they have been able to squeeze out of a built-over plot is exemplary. Through listening to the client and having a thorough understanding of the site, the designers have been able to imaginatively expand the children’s outdoor experience very positively.

As we have seen in the case studies, there is an irrepressible desire for gardens, justified by a genuine need for our well-being. If ground space is in short supply, walls, roofs and any other left-over abandoned places come into play. Urban gardens are enclosed by default, woven into its fabric. The size and location of the architecture imposes constraints on garden design and this will influence the sense of enclosure whether it is planned or has evolved over time. The overlaying of building materials and the pollution we produce to keep living in cities provide huge challenges. With growing awareness of climate change, we need to manage and nurture our garden spaces, being attentive to the detail – aspect and particular climatic conditions of each location – in order to get the best out of them to make a positive contribution to the sustainable city. As we have seen in the case studies there is more space than one might think that can be used to increase our green footprint. More than that, gardens such as the rooftop farms help the floors below keep a stable temperature and are capable of absorbing a large volume of water, preventing flash-flooding after sudden storms. Specific planting helps break down polluted, post-industrial residue. The research carried out on biophilic design, with the hypothesis that we have an innate biological desire to connect with nature, with a resultant sense of well-being, is overwhelmingly borne out by the popularity of architectural schemes that include gardens within them, places to rest one’s gaze, to dwell in, where our senses are sharpened away from the exposed bluntness of city life. Our agrarian past might seem far away in the middle of London or New York, but bringing back farms close to where we live, providing fresh food, is a reminder of it, re-invented for city life. Rising temperatures and shade from surrounding buildings at ground level in cities are issues to be taken seriously, both for what planting can survive these conditions and for the particular purpose the garden has been designed for, such as Paley Park. The developing city also provides opportunities for reconsidering what we mean by an urban garden. The Forest Garden of the Bibliothèque Nationale has taken an old theme of bringing the ‘natural landscape’ into the city but has re-invented it in a relatively small space instead of a park. Left-over spaces can offer the surprise and delight of discovering a hidden and secret garden, such as

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the Jardin Anne Frank. Gardens require long-term maintenance and their success will often depend on people who have a vested interest in their upkeep, which we see in the community gardens in New York. With cities becoming increasingly three-dimensional one cannot rely on the ground to provide the only gardens. This has prompted much ingenuity in inventing alternatives as ground space disappears. The vertical garden located on a wall is one of the alternatives that has become more viable with technological breakthroughs. With the manufacture of proprietary brands of planters with new methods for supplying water and nutrients they are developing with their own aesthetic. Given that for most plants a wall is not a natural habitat, their microclimatic conditions need to be acknowledged. Maintenance is a necessity in these artiﬁcial conditions, and access too if a wall is high. With more understanding of the technical requirements for vertical gardens they offer a range of alternatives and challenges to our idea of enclosed gardens, such as the wall in SFMOMA or the internal one at David Rubenstein Atrium. Roof tops have no shortage of light, but are more exposed to other climatic conditions – continuous sunlight, wind and extreme temperature change. Their enclosing parapet walls are often integral to their success. As we have seen, the opportunities are there and are slowly being taken up, for pleasure (Upper West side), education (St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s) and sustainability and food production (Brooklyn Grange Farm). With growing consciousness of the need for cities to be sustainable, it is essential that gardens are incorporated into new developments. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the great landscape garden designers of the West provided places for us to be both actor and audience as we walked through the grounds of a large estate, where we could appreciate a constructed ‘natural world’. In a democratised, twentyﬁrst-century city, architecture provides the backdrop for the theatre of our outdoor living, but buildings on their own are not enough. Gardens not only keep the memory of the natural world and our agrarian past alive, but are vital for our ecological survival, health and welfare.

Notes 1

A term discussed and deﬁned by Charles Waldheim in Landscape as Urbanism (2016). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press.

Nikil Saval, New York Times, 13/11/2016.

Designed by James Corner Field Operations with Diller Scoﬁdio + Renfro and planting designer Piet Oudolf, opened in 2009.

Biophilia is a term originating from Eric Fromm and popularised by Edward Wilson (Biophila, 1984).

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14 Patterns of Biophilic Design: Improving Health and Well-being in the Built Environment, William Browning, Catherine Ryan, Joseph Clancy & Terrapin Bright Green (2014). www.terrapinbrightgreen.com/report/14-patterns/ Retrieved 10/10/2016.

Air Temperature Regulation by urban tree and green infrastructure www. forestry.gov.uk/PDF/FCRN012.pdf/$FILE/FCRN012.pdf. Retrieved 30/05/2017.

The forest garden of François-Mitterrand Library, www.bnf.fr/en/bnf/anx_site_

W. G. Sebald, Austelitz Penguin Group, 2002. Description of library pages

The forest garden of François-Mitterrand Library, www.bnf.fr/en/bnf/anx_site_

Bibliothèque Francois-Mitterrand Forest Garden in Paris, www.eutouring.com/

fm_eng/a.forest_garden.html. Rretrieved 25/01/2017. 386–393. fm_eng/a.forest_garden.html. Retrieved 13/11/2016. bibliotheque_francois-mitterrand_forest_garden.html. Retrieved 01/02/2017. 13

Salwa, Mateusz (2015). The Uncanny Garden. Jardin-forêt at Bibliothèque National de France, Aesthetic Investigations, 1(1): 113–119. Retrieved 24/03/ 2017.

Floriane de Rivaz Bibliothéques et jardins: quelles alliances possibles? www. enssib.fr/bibliotheque-numerique/documents/65107-bibliotheques-et-jardinsquelles-alliances-possibles.pdf. Retrieved 18/03/2017.

Promoted by George Mombiot, various articles and Feral, Rewilding the Land,

Exhibition for the Architectural League of New York and the Park Association

Stanley Abercrombie, Article Architecture magazine, December 1985.

Project for Public Spaces: Paley Park, www.placemaking.pps.org/great_public_

White, Edmund (2001). The Flâneur. New York: Bloomsbury.

Opened in 2007 to celebrate the re-opening of the Hôtel de Saint-Aignan.

the Sea and Human Life (2014). Penguin Group. of New York Inc. 1963 ‘New Parks for New York’.

spaces/one?public_place_id=69. Retrieved 04/10/2016.

A passage, as the name suggests, is a narrow pedestrian way that cuts through the large Parisian city blocks.

The landscape designer Le Notre, responsible for the design of the gardens

Jardin Anne-Frank. Les Parcs et Jardins, www.equipement.paris.fr/jardin-anne-

at Versailles. frank-2737. Retrieved 08/06/2016. 24

www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Chateaubriand/ChateaubriandMemoirs

Abbaye-aux bois, www.en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abbaye-aux-Bois. Retrieved 07/

BookXXIX.htm. 06/2016. 26

Historical information provided by volunteers, Connie Barrett and John Sutcliffe.

Pierre Nora popularised this phrase in his book of the same name, Les Lieux

Sarah Gaventa, New Public Spaces. Mitchell Beazley: London, March 2006.

de mémoire in 1989.

272

Green city

SFMOMA, www.sfmoma.org/watch/the-living-wall/A Breath of Fresh Air.

San Francisco Museum of Modern Art – Habitat Horticulture, www.habitat

It is a designated Privately Owned Public Space (POPS) (2007) initiative to

Retrieved 09/02/2017. horticulture.com/projects/sfmoma. Retrieved 09/02/2017. create incentives to provide more publically accessible space, www1.nyc. gov/assets/planning/download/pdf/plans/pops-inventory/pops-inventory. pdf. Retrieved 17/12/2016. 33

About the Atrium, David Rubenstein. Atrium at the Lincoln Centre, www. atrium.lincolncenter.org/index.php/about-the-atrium. Retrieved 17/12/2016.

Lincoln Center to transform Harmony Atrium into vibrant, Twenty-ﬁrst-century public space for the arts,. www.businesswire.com/news/home/20060607006 096/en/Lincoln-Center-Transform-Harmony-Atrium-Vibrant-21st.

Plant Wall Design is a company that specialises in creating and designing

See biophilic design

customised live vertical gardens using a patented hydroponic technology. COOKFOX,

p. 14 Patterns of Biophilic Design Improving

Health and Wellbeing in the Built Environment, www.terrapinbrightgreen. com/reports/14-patterns/. 37

The stroller in the city. The term was ﬁrst used by Walter Benjamin when

Information from the following sources, www.atrium.lincolncenter.org/index.

discussing the poetry of Charles Baudelaire. php/about-the-atrium. Retrieved 17/12/2016; www.twbta.com/work/davidrubenstein-atrium-at-lincoln-center; www.arcspace.com/features/tod-williamsbillie-tsien/visitor-center-at-lincoln-center/. 39

Biomimetic design – creating sustainable designs through an understanding of natural forms, rather than replicating them.

LEED – Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design. The US Green Building Council has set up a green building rating system for sustainable design.

Richard Cook and Jared Gilbert, The Fifth Façade: Designing Nature into the

City, CTBUH research paper 2015 ctbuh.org/papers. www.global.ctbuh. org/resources/papers/download/2472-the-ﬁfth-facade-designing-nature-into-thecity.pdf. 42

www.global.ctbuh.org/resources/papers/download/2472-the-ﬁfth-facadedesigning-nature-into-the-city.pdf. CTBUH Research Paper ctbuh.org/papers 2015. As discussed by Cook and Gilbert , the term 5th façade, commonly used in the mid-twentieth century with the design of ﬂat roofs has now been re-purposed by landscape architect Diane Balmori to describe the potential of landscaping on roofscapes.

Dustin Partridge garnered notice in the Jan. 27 issue of National Wildlife.

Research carried out at Fordham University by Dustin Partridge, 2014. Fordham Notes, www.fordhamnotes.blogspot.com/2014/02/partriges-study-of-migratingbirds-on.html. Retrieved 17/10/2106.

The term biophilia was ﬁrst used by psychologist Erich Fromm to describe the attraction of humans to other living things. Biologist E. O. Wilson, author of

The Biophilia Hypothesis, popularised the term describing the innate human afﬁnity for nature and natural processes.

Green city

273

A farming method derived from the story of the Three Sisters, as related by Sheila Wilson from the Native American Sappony tribe, a system for growing three very different types of crop together that have a beneﬁcial effect on each other and ensure the continuous fertility of the soil. NCpedia, www.ncpedia. org/legends-three-sisters. Retrieved 25/10/2016.

The Gaia Institute is a non-proﬁt research corporation specialising in ‘ecological engineering and restoration with the integration of human communities in natural systems’. www.thegaiainstitute.org/. Retrieved 13/12/2016.

Foster + Partners, www.fosterandpartners.com/projects/crossrail-place-canarywharf/. Retrieved 10/06/2016.

ETFE Ethylene tetraﬂuoroethylene, a ﬂuoride-based plastic.

LAA Landscape Architects Associates. Crossrail Place, London by Gillespies. www.landscapearchitecture.org.uk/crossrail-place-roof-garden-londongillespies/. Retrieved 24/01/2017.

Gillespies, www.gillespies.co.uk/#/showcase/transportation/crossrail-stationcanary-wharf/. Retrieved 10/06/2016.

Cole Plakas; (2016). The Farm on the Roof: What Brookly Grange Taught Us.

Brooklyn Grange, www.brooklyngrangefarm.com/mission/. Retrieved 20/10/

New York: Avery press . 2016.

274

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Selected bibliography

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History. New York: Harry N. Abrams. Bathrick, David, Brad Prager & Michael David Richardson (2008). Visualizing the

Holocaust: Documents, Aesthetics, Memory. London: Camden House. Benvolo, Leonardo (1980). The History of the City. London: Scolar Press. Berthier, François (2000). Reading Zen in the Rocks: The Japanese Dry Landscape

Garden. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Bibliotheque Francois-Mitterrand Forest Garden in Paris, www.eutouring.com/ bibliotheque_francois-mitterrand_forest_garden.html retrieved 01/02/2017. Billington, Jill (2003). London’s Parks and Gardens. Singapore: Tien Wah Press. Birkstead, Jan (ed.) (2001). Landscapes of Memory and Experience. London: Taylor & Francis. Bowe, Patrick (1989). Gardens of Portugal. Lisbon, Portugal: Quetzal Editores. Bradley-Hole, Christopher (2007). Making the Modern Garden. London: Mitchell Beazley. Braunfels, Wolfgang (1973). Monasteries of Western Europe: The Architecture of the

Orders. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Breitschmid, Markus (2008). The Signiﬁcance of the Idea in the Architecture of Valerio

Olgiati. Zurich, Switzerland: Verlag Niggli AG, Sulgen. Brown, Jane (1982). Gardens of a Golden Afternoon. The Story of a Partnership: Edwin

Lutyens and Gertrude Jeckyll. London: Penguin Books. Brown, Jane (1994). Sissinghurst: Portrait of a Garden. London: Orion Publishing.

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Browning, William, Catherine Ryan, Terrapin Bright Green & Joseph Clancy (2014). Pegasus Planning Group Ltd, www.terrapinbrightgreen.com/reports/14patterns/ Bruno, Francisco, Maria Daroca, Yllescas Ortiz & Felipe de la Fente Darder (2003).

Córdoba: An Architectural Guide. Córdoba, Spain: Colegio Oﬁcal de Arquitectos de Cordoba. Cali, François (2005). L’Ordre Cistercien. Paris, France: Fernand Hazan. Caldwell, Ellen (2001) ‘An architectural of the self: New metaphors for monastic enclosure’, Essays in Medieval Studies 15-24. Carita, Helder & Homen Cardoso (1991). Portuguese Gardens. Woodbridge, UK: Antique Collectors’ Club. Carroll, Maureen (2003). Earthly Paradises. London: British Museum Press. Cassidy-Welch, Megan (2001). Monastic Spaces and their Meanings: Thirteenth-

Century English Cistercian Monasteries. Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols. Chevrillon, André (1913). Marrakech dans les Palmes. In Quentin Wilbaux and Kirk McElhearn, Marrakesh: The Secret of Courtyard Houses (2000), Paris, France: ACR Edition. Clark, Emma (2004). The Art of the Islamic Garden. Marlborough, UK: Crowood Press. Cofﬁn, David R. (1971). The Study and History of the Italian Garden. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. Cole Plakias, Anastasia (2006). The Farm on the Roof: What Brooklyn Grange Taught

Us. New York: Avery Press. David, Penny (1999). A Lost Garden in Time: Mystery of the Ancient Gardens of

Aberglasney. London: Seven Dials. D’Avoine, Pierre & Clare Melhuish (2005). Housey Housey: A Pattern Book of Ideal

Homes. London: Black Dog Press. Didi-Hubermann, Georges (1999). ‘Skyspaces’. In Peter Noever (ed.), James Turrell:

The Other Horizon, Vienna, Austria: MAK. Edwards, Brian, Magda Sibley, Mohamad Hakmi & Peter Land (2005). Courtyard

Housing: Past, Present and Future. London: Taylor & Francis. EI-Shorbagy, Abdel-moniem (2010). ‘Traditional Islamic-Arab House: Vocabulary and Syntax’. International Journal of Civil and Environmental Engineering (IJCEEIJENS), 10(4): www.waset.org/journals/ijcee/ retrieved 02/05/2011. Erlande-Branenburg, Alain & Nicholas Buant (2008). Senanque, Silvacane, Le Thoronet:

Trois Soeurs Cisterciennes en Provence. Paris, France: Editions Huitiemejour. Esposito, Antonio & Giovani Leoni (2003). Eduardo Souto De Moura. Milan, Italy: Electa. Esquieu, Yves (2006). Le Thoronet, Une Abbaye Cistercienne. Arles/Paris, France: Cite de L’Architecture et Patrimoine Artisteas/Actes Sud. Fairchild Ruggles, D. (2008). Islamic Gardens and Landscapes. Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press. Farrar, Linda (1998). Ancient Roman Gardens. Stroud, UK: Budding Books. Fathy, Hassan (1986). Natural Energy and Vernacular Architecture: Principles and

Examples with Reference to Hot Arid Climates. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Girouard, Mark (1985). Cities and People. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press.

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Graham, Dorothy (1938). Chinese Gardens. Gardens of the Contemporary Scene: An

Account of their Design and Symbolism. New York: Dodd, Mead & Company. Gregotti, Vittorio (direttoree responsblie) (1979). ‘Passenga 1’, Rassegna, 1 Dec. Hanson, Beth & Sarah Schidt (eds) (2012). Green Roofs and Rooftop Gardens. New York: Brooklyn Botanic Garden. Harvey, John (1990). Medieval Gardens. London: B. T. Batsford. Hayakawa, Masao (1973). The Garden Art of Japan. Chicago, IL: Art Media Resources. Henze, Anton (1966). La Tourette: The Corbusier Monastery. London: Lund Humphries. Hobhouse, Penelope (2002). The Story of Gardening. London: Dorling Kindersley. Hodgson Burnett, Frances (1911). The Secret Garden. London: Pufﬁn Classics. Holl, Steven, Juhani Pallasmaa & Alberto Pérez Gómez (1994). Questions of

Perception. Phenomenology of Architecture. Tokyo, Japan: A+U. Jashemski, Wilhelmina F. (1981). ‘The Campanian Peristyle Garden’. In Elizabeth MacDougall & Wilhelmina F. Jashemski (eds) Ancient Roman Gardens. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. Jekyll, Gertrude (2005). Wall and Water Gardens. London: Kessinger Publishing. Jenks, Charles & Edwin Heathcote (2010). The Architecture of Hope: Maggie’s Cancer

Caring Centres. London: Frances Lincoln. Jennings, Anne (2004). Medieval Gardens. London: English Heritage. Jones, Edward & Christopher Woodward (1983). A Guide to the Architecture of

London. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Keswick, Maggie (1978). The Chinese Garden. London: Academy Editions. Kirkwood, Niall (ed.) (2001). Manufactured Sites: Rethinking the Post-Industrial

Landscape. London: Taylor & Francis. Kuitert, Wybe (2002). Themes in the History of Japanese Garden Art. Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press. Landsberg, Sylvia (1996). The Medieval Garden. London: British Museum Press. Lehman, Jonas (1980). Earthly Paradise Garden and Courtyard in Islam. London: Thames and Hudson. Leroux-Dhuys, Jean-François (1998). Cistercian Abbeys: History and Architecture. Cologne, Germany: Konemann. Liedtke, Peter (2004). ‘Sintering Bunker Garden’. In Peter Reed (ed.) Groundswell:

Constructing the Contemporary Landscape. New York: The Museum of Modern Art. Los, Sergio (1993). Carlo Scarpa. Cologne, Germany: Benedkt Taschen. Lyndon, Donlyn & Charles W. Moore (1994). Chambers for a Memory Palace. Cambridge, MA: Massachusetts Institute of Technology. MacDougall, Elisabeth B. & Richard Ettinghausen (eds) (1976). The Islamic Garden. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks. Mann, William A. (1981). Space and Time in Landscape Architectural History. New York: Landscape Architecture. Masson, Georgina (2010). Italian Gardens. London: Garden Art Press. Michaels, Anne (2009). The Winter Vault. London: Bloomsbury. Moore, Charles, William J. Mitchell & William Turnbull, Jr. (1993). The Poetics of

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Moynihan, Elizabeth B. (1979). Paradise as a Garden. London: Scolar Press. Murphy, Richard (1993). Querini Stampalia Foundation. London: Phaidon Press. Nitschke, Gunter (2007). Japanese Gardens. Cologne, Germany: Tascher. Pallasmaa, Juhani (2005). The Eyes of the Skin: Architecture and the Senses. London: John Wiley. Perez de Arce, Rodrigo & Fernando Perez Oyarzun (2003). Valparaiso School Open

City Group. Basel, Switzerland: Birkhauser Verlag. Pfeifer Gunter & Per Brauneck (2008). Courtyard Houses A Housing Typology. Basel, Switzerland: Birkhauser. Pomeroy, Jason (2015). The Skycourt and Skygarden: Greening the Urban Habitat. Oxford, UK/New York: Routledge. Postiglione, Gennaro (ed.) (2008). One Hundred Houses for One Hundred European

Architects of the Twentieth Century. Cologne, Germany: Taschen. Potter, Jennifer (1998). Secret Gardens. London: Conran Octopus. Prest, John (1981). The Garden of Eden, the Botanic Garden and the Re-creation of

Paradise. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Reynolds, John S. (2002). Courtyards: Aesthetic, Social, and Thermal Delight. New York: John Wiley. Rosner, Victoria (2005). Modernism and the Architecture of Modern Life. New York: Columbia University Press. Salwa, Mateusz (2017). ‘The Uncanny Garden’. Jardin-forêt at Bibliotèque national de

France, Aesthetic Investigations, 1(1), 113–119. Retrieved 24/03/2017. Scheindlin, Raymond P., tr., Masoret (1995). 5(1): 3. From Roald Hoffmann and Shira Leibowitz Schmidt, Old Wines New Flasks: Reﬂections on Science and the

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Countries, 1200–1565. Philadelphia, PA: University of Philadelphia Press. Soderstrom, Mary (2001). Recreating Eden: A Natural History of Botanical Gardens. Montreal, Canada: Véhicule Press. Sullivan, Chip (2002). Garden and Climate. New York: McGraw-Hill. Summerson, John (1969). The Architecture of the Eighteenth Century. London: Thames and Hudson. Tate, Alan (2001). Great City Parks. London: Taylor & Francis. Teasdale, W. (1993). ‘A Glimpse of Paradise: Monastic Space and Inner Transformation’. Parabola, 18. 59–62. Turnbull, Alison (2005). The Family Beds. London: The Linnean Society. Van der Ree, Paul, Gerit Smienk & Clemens Steenbergen (1992). Italian Villas and

Gardens. Munich, Germany: Prestel. Waldheim, Charles (2016). Landscape as Urbanism. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wharton, Edith (1904). Italian Villas and their Gardens. New York: The Century. White, Edmund (2001). The Flaneur. New York: Bloomsbury Zelizer, Barbie (2000). Visual Culture and the Holocaust. London: Athlone Press.

278

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Illustration credits All illustrations not credited below are courtesy of Kate Baker

Introduction 0.1

Persian Carpet 1670–1750 Courtesy of the Victoria and Albert Museum, UK

1 Deﬁning the territory: the ambiguous nature of an enclosed garden 1.1

Fisherman’s allotment, Wimmenummer Duinen Egmond aan Zee, North Holland Courtesy of Walter Herfst

1.6

Hidcote Manor, UK Courtesy of The National Trust

1.8

Stages of discovery, the Last Garden: the hammock Courtesy of Sarah Sze, Sze Studio

1.9

Stages of discovery, the Last Garden: crack in the wall Courtesy of Sarah Sze, Sze Studio

1.10

Stages of discovery, the Last Garden: mirror image Courtesy of Sarah Sze, Sze Studio

1.11

Stages of discovery, the Last Garden: inside the drum Courtesy of Sarah Sze, Sze Studio

1.17

The Machuca Patio, Alhambra, Granada, Spain Courtesy of Belinda Mitchell

1.18

Abbey Gardens, Tresco, UK Courtesy of Martin Andrews

1.20

Santi Quatro Coronatti, Rome Courtesy of Sam Johnson

1.21 and 1.22 Santi Quatro Coronatti, Rome, ground ﬂoor plan Drawn by Mark West

Illustration credits

279

1.30

Amber Palace Jaipur, India Courtesy of Karl Gemertsfelde

1.37

Mesquite, Court of Oranges, Cordoba Courtesy of Nick Timms

1.38

Rows of columns inside mesquite Courtesy of Katie Blott

1.40

Mesquite, Cordoba, ground ﬂoor plan Drawn by Mark West/author

1.42

Birds eye view of the Generalife Courtesy of Moore, Mitchelll amd Turnbull, The Poetics of

Gardens, 1993 1.43

Patio del Cipres de la Sultana Courtesy of Belinda Mitchell

1.45 and 1.46 Duisburg-Nord Landscape Park Courtesy of Vinesh Pomal

2 From patio to park: the enclosed garden as a generator of architectural and landscape design 2.4

Lakeside Villa plan Courtesy of Ofﬁce KGDVS

2.5

Images of Lakeside Villa Courtesy of Ofﬁce KGDVS

2.6

Approach to Casa Vidrio Courtesy of Nelson Kon

2.7

Casa Vidrio: The central void connecting sky to ground Courtesy of Nelson Kon

2.8

Casa Vidrio: The lightweight connecting staircase Courtesy of Nelson Kon

2.10

Atelier Bardil, Switzerland Courtesy of Archive Ogliati

2.11

Atelier Bardll, plan Drawn by Mark West

2.12

Atelier Bardll, interior Courtesy of Archive Ogliati

2.14

Matosintos, Portugal, plan Drawn by Mark West/Author

2.15

Matosinhos Courtesy of Luís Ferreira Alves

2.17

The White House, London Drawn by Mark West/Author

280

llustration credits

2.20

Looking down onto House for Trees Vo Trong Nghia Architects. Photographs: Hiroyuki Oki

2.21

House for Trees House Plan Vo Trong Nghia Architects. Photographs: Hiroyuki Oki

2.22

House for Trees Section Vo Trong Nghia Architects. Photographs: Hiroyuki Oki

2.26

Maggies Centre Courtesy of Rogers Harbour Stirk and partners

2.28

Clare Hall, Cambridge, UK Ground ﬂoor plan Drawn by Mark West

2.31

Plan of the Certosa Pavia Drawn by Khalid Saleh

2.35

2.38

School of Music, Polytcehnic Institute, Lisbon Drawn from archinews 10 2008 Mark West/Author

2.42

Louis- Jeantet Institute, Geneva, plan Drawn by Mark West

2.43

Louis- Jeantet Institute, Geneva Courtesy of Jean-Michel Landency

2.44

Museum of Contemporary Art, Chiado, Lisbon Courtesy of Miguel Seabra

2.45

Museum of Contemporary Art, Chiado, Lisbon Courtesy of Miguel Seabra

2.46

2.52

Begijnhof, Amsterdam, entrance Courtesy of Bryony Whitmarsh

2.53

Begijnhof, Amsterdam Courtesy of Bryony Whitmarsh

2.54

3 Taming nature – and the way to Paradise 3.5

Detail of a copy of the 15th century Frau Mauro Map of the world Courtesy of the British Library

Illustration credits

281

3.7

Roman town house, typical layout Drawn by Mark West

3.10

Pompeii. Plan of the House of Faun Drawn by Mark West

3.11

3.12

The Little Garden of Paradise Courtesy of Städel Museum, Frankfurt

3.13

The Annunciation by Domenico Veneziana, 1442-1448 wikicommonsFile:Annunciation (predella 3), ﬁtzwilliam museum, Cambridge.jpg

3.14

Lutenist and singers in garden Courtesy of the British Library

3.17

Prince (Babur) in a garden presented with a jungle-fowl Courtesy of the British Museum (BM ref AN105740001)

3.18

Plan of the basic layout of the Chahar Bagh Drawn by Khalid Saleh

3.21 and 3.22 Plans of the Nazrid palaces Drawn by Khalid Saleh 3.30

Aerial view of Marrakech Courtesy of D. Jenkins Photography Limited

3.31

Marrakech Courtesy of Nick Timms

4 Ritual and emptiness – and the rigour of developing an idea 4.4

St Benoit sur Loire wikicommonsFile: Abbaye de Saint-Benoit sur Loire Monasticon Gallicanum.jpeg

4.8

4.10

Le Thoronet. General arrangement of buildings Drawn by Mark West

4.11

Le Thoronet cloister Drawn by Mark West/Author

4.12

Le Thoronet. Diagram of geometry of the cloister Drawn by Mark West

4.20

Ryoan-ji, Kyoto, Japan. Diagramatic analysis indicating 4 major components From Moore, Mitchell and Turnbull, The Poetics of Gardens, 1993

282

llustration credits

4.21

Ryoan-ji. View across the dry garden Courtesy of Alan Matlock

4.22

Ryoan-ji. Detail of boundary wall in Spring Courtesy of Alan Matlock

4.23

Shoden-ji Courtesy of Kiguma

4.24

Nanzen-ji. Looking out to the garden Courtesy of Alan Matlock

4.25

Nanzen-ji. Detail of Sliding screens Courtesy of John Hill

4.26

Nanzenji. Detail of rock and raked sand Courtesy of Alan Matlock

4.38

Querini Stampalia Foundation Courtesy of Belinda Mitchell

4.39

Querini Stampalia Foundation. Plan Drawn by Mark West

4.40

Querini Stampalia Foundation. Approach to the garden Courtesy of Mary Ann Steane

4.41

Querini Stampalia Foundation. Looking toward the screen Courtesy of Belinda Mitchell

4.42

Querini Stampalia Foundation. Looking back to the entrance Courtesy of Anna Cady

4.43

Querini Stampalia Foundation. The screen Courtesy of Anna Cady

4.44

Querini Stampalia Foundation. The path around the garden Courtesy of Belinda Mitchell

4.45

Querini Stampalia Foundation. Water spout Courtesy of Belinda Mitchell

5 Sensory seclusion: the affective garden as a scene for living

5.2

Quinta da Bacalhoa, plan of gardens Courtesy of Gaelle Goregues

5.7

Querini Stampalia garden Courtesy of Anna Cady

5.9

Section through Turrell’s Skyspace room Drawn from George Didi-Huberman ‘Skyspaces’. James Turrell The Other Horizon Ed.

5.14

Las Condes site layout After Valparaiso School Open City Group

Illustration credits

283

5.25

Bury Court Courtesy of Anna Cady

5.32

Folly Farm, UK Courtesy of Jason Ingram

5.33

Folly Farm. View from sunken pool garden Courtesy of Jason Ingram

5.34

Folly Farm. Dutch canal Courtesy of Jason Ingram

5.35

Folly Farm. Tank Cloister Courtesy of Jason Ingram

5.36

Folly Farm. Wind garden Courtesy of Jason Ingram

5.38

Folly Farm. Diagrammatic Plan of garden Drawn by Mark West

5.44

Sissinghurst. Lime Walk Courtesy of Peter Middleton

5.45

Sissinghurst. White Garden Courtesy of Pillager

6 Detachment: the separation of the garden from the building 6.6

Overview of the Villa Lante From Moore, Mitchell and Turnbull, The Poetics of Gardens, 1993

6.13

6.14

Jewish Museum Berlin. Garden of Exiles Courtesy of George Middleton-Baker

6.15

Jewish Museum Berlin. Looking toward the Garden of Exiles Courtesy of George Middleton-Baker

6.16

Plan of the Border between Mexico and the US Courtesy of Ofﬁce KGDVS

6.17

Border between Mexico and the US Courtesy of Ofﬁce KGDVS

6.18, 6.19 and 6.20 Padua Botanic Garden Courtesy of Horto Botanico Padua 6.24

John Haynes’ survey of the Apothecaries’ Physic Garden at Chelsea – 1751 Courtesy of The Royal Society

284

llustration credits

6.27

Trengwainton kitchen garden Courtesy of Jennifer Andrews

6.31

7 Green city: the persistence of urban gardens 7.5

Paris Courtesy of Georges Fessy

7.6

Bibioteque Nationale, Paris Courtesy of Éric Sempé

7.9

Paley Park, plan of slot between high-rise buildings Drawn by Mark West

7.12

Jardin Anne Frank, Paris, plan showing its hidden location Drawn by Mark West

7.24

SFMOMA Living wall seen from the new foyer Courtesy David Brenner

7.25

SFMOMA sculpture court with Living wall Courtesy David Brenner

7.26

7.28

David Rubenstein Atrium Tod Williams Billie Tsien Architects

7.30

300 Lafayette Proposed new ofﬁces designed by Courtesy of

7.33

COOKFOX

ofﬁce

Courtesy of 7.34

COOKFOX

ofﬁce employees gathering honey

Courtesy of 7.38

COOKFOX

Brooklyn Bridge Farm overview Courtesy of Brooklyn Grange Farm

Illustration credits

285

Index

Page numbers in italics refer to illustrations on pages other than the related text.

Abbey Gardens, Tresco 18 Aberglasney, West Wales 137–139 aeroponics 262–263, 264 Agence TER 69 air movement 27–28 Aix Cathedral France 24 Albert’s Garden, New York 239–240 Alhambra 14, 99, 101–106, 163 ; Court of the Lions 104; Court of the Myrtles 103–104; Generalife Gardens 32–34; Machuca Patio 17 ; Mexuar Patio 102; Partal Gardens 106; Patio de Lindaraja 105–106 Amber Palace Jaipur, India 24 apartments 114–115 art works 11–14, 71, 92, 210–211, 245, 246 aspect and temperature 31, 52–53, 212–213 As-Suhaymi house, Al-Asfãr, Cairo 28 Atelier Bardill, Scharans, Switzerland 47–49 Audley End, Essex 215–218 axes 90, 178, 182, 183, 192 Babylonians 90 Bagnaia, Italy 187, 188 Bedford Square, London 74–75 Begijnjof, Amsterdam 76–78, 79, 80 Bell Book and Candle, New York 262–264 Berthier, François 132 Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Paris 225–228, 270 biomimetics 252

Index

biophilic design 222, 255 Blanc, Patrick 244 Bloomsbury, London 74 border control point, USA 201–202 botanic gardens 202, 203–211; Chelsea Physic Garden 208–211; Oxford 206–208; Padua 204–206 boundary walls 17–20; hole in the wall 19; porous wall 20; role of the wall 8–9, 162, 202–203 Braz da Albuquerque 156 Brenner, David 245 Brooklyn Grange Rooftop Farms 259–261 Brown, Jan 177 brownﬁeld sites 35–36, 224 Brunswick Centre, London 224–225 Buddhism 23 bunkers 37, 38–39 Burnett, Frances Hodgson 193 Bury Court, Surrey 168–171 Cairo: As-Suhaymi house 28 Cali, François 117 Cambridge: Clare Hall 60–62; Little St Mary’s 197–198; St John’s College 64–65, 66; Westcott House 21 Carrilho da Graça, João Luis 67–69 Carthusian order 62–63, 64 Casa de Vidrio, Sao Paulo, Brazil 44–46 casa patio 111, 114 Catholic University, Santiago, Chile 20 Chahar Bagh 100–101, 104, 106, 120, 192 Chelsea Physic Garden 208–211

287

Chinese gardens 23 Christian gardens 23, 94; see also cloisters Cistercian cloisters 119–122; compared with Zen gardens 136–137; Le Thoronet 117–119, 120, 122–130 city gardens 72–76; see also roof gardens Clare Hall, Cambridge 60–62 climate control 25–31; air movement 27–28; aspect and temperature 27, 31, 52–53, 212–213; humidity 28, 162; sun and shade 19, 25–27, 53, 118, 128, 129, 130; water conservation 29, 256 cloisters 120–121; Aberglasney, West Wales 137–139; Aix Cathedral, France 24 ; Benedictine Monasterio de Las Condes, Santiago, Chile 164–167; compared to Zen gardens 136–137; Le Thoronet 117–119, 120, 122–130; siting of washhouses 16; see also Las Condes Monastery, Santiago; Le Thoronet monastery colleges: Clare Hall, Cambridge 60–62; St John’s, Cambridge 64–65 colonnades 20, 21, 34 ; Cordoba 113; kitchen gardens 215; Maghreb 107; Marrakech 26 ; in paintings of the Annunciation 94, 95 ; Roman peristyle 91–92; Villa Lante, Bagnaia, Italy 190 ; Westcott House, Cambridge 21 community gardens 238–243 connected spaces 18 containment 21–25 COOKFOX (architects) 250, 254–256 cooling 27, 87, 254 Cordoba 111–113; apartments 114–115; canvas sails over courtyard 27 ; casa patio 111, 114; enclosed garden 11 ; Mesquite 18; Mesquite, Court of the Oranges 29–30, 31 ; see also Viana Palace Cothi, Lewis Glyn 137 Crossrail Place Garden, Canary Wharf 256–259 Cyrus the Great 90 Dar Bouhellal, Medina, Fez 107 David Rubenstein Atrium, New York 247–250 d’Avoine, Pierre 51, 52 Dean Garnier Garden, Winchester 194, 196, 197 detached gardens 187–220; hidden gardens 193–197; memorials and remembrance 197–199; neutralising

288

territory 201–202; see also botanic gardens; kitchen gardens double courtyard 27–28 Duisburg-Nord Landscape Park, Germany 36–38 Dytham, Klein 243 Earthly Paradise 23, 94, 99, 102, 106 Eisenlau Jr., Albert O. 239 Embankment gardens, London 23 emotions 193, 197–198 English houses 181 environmental control see climate control Erskine, Ralph 60 espaliered trees 213, 218 expansion and enclosure 63 experiential approaches 3; see also sensory experience Fez, Dar Bouhellal 107 ﬂaneur 78 Folly Farm, Berkshire 175–179, 180 Fondazione Querini Stampalia, Venice 146–152 fountains: Alhambra 105; Clare Hall, Cambridge 62; cloisters 120; Islamic gardens 94–95; Maghreb 107; medieval gardens 97; Mesquite, Cordoba 29; Roman gardens 92 Fra Mauro Map of the world 89 Garden of Eden 88–89, 204 Garden of Exile, Jewish Museum, Berlin 198–199, 200 garden squares 72–76 Generalife Gardens 32, 33, 101 generic plan 121, 123 Geneva, Louis-Jeantet Research Institute 69, 70 genius loci 32, 159 geometric patterns 24 giardino segreto 192–193 Gillespies (landscape design) 258 Granada see Alhambra green roofs 254; see also roof gardens green walls 243–247, 271 greenhouses 217, 267, 268 Gregotti, Vittorio 21 Growth Industry 258 guerrilla gardening 224 habitat 228 Hagiwara, Makoto 145 heat storage 25 hedges 10, 17 herbariums 31 Hidcote Manor 10

Index

hidden gardens (giardinos segretos) 192–198; Mottisfont Abbey, Hampshire 7–8; in towns 194–197; Villa Lante, Bagnaia, Italy 187–192 Highline, New York 223 hole in the wall 18 Holl, Steven 159 horizontal plane 15–16 horticulture 25; see also botanic gardens; kitchen gardens; urban agriculture hortus botanicus 203–204 hortus conclusus 94, 204 house design: characteristics of rooms 15; conventions challenged by Sissinghurst 181; Islamic 106–111; Roman 90; semi-detached 51–54; terraced 49–51 House for Trees, Ho Chi Min City 54–57 humidity 28, 162 hydroponics 262–263, 264 Inns of Court, London 76–78 irrigation 29, 88, 159 Islamic carpet design 3–4, 179 Islamic gardens 16, 23, 24, 94, 97–113; Mesquite, Cordoba 18, 29–30, 31, 202; pairidaeza 89–90, 92, 212; see also Alhambra; Generalife Gardens; Marrakech Islamic house 106–111 Jaipur, Amber Palace 24 Japan: Zen temples 135; see also Zen gardens Japan Society Cultural Centre, New York 140–143 Jardin Anne Frank, Paris 232–235 Jekyll, Gertrude 11, 177, 179 Jongstra, Claudy 247 Kay, Robin 265 Kersten Geers David Van Severen (architects) 42 Kew Botanic Gardens 204 kiosks 16, 237 kitchen gardens 31, 177, 202, 212–215; Audley End 215–218; Trengwainton, Cornwall 213 ; Val Joanis potager France 214 ; see also urban agriculture Kyoto: Nanzen-ji Temple 135, 136 ; Ryoan-ji Temple 130–132, 133 Lakeside Villa, Belgium 42–44 landscape 32–38 Las Condes Monastery, Santiago, Chile 164–167

Index

Latz, Peter 36–37 Le Corbusier 46, 81, 122 Leigham Court Road, London 80–82 Les Alpilles, France 9 Le Thoronet monastery 117–119, 120, 122–130 Libeskind, Daniel 198 Lincoln’s Inn Fields 72 Lisbon: National Museum of Contemporary Art 71, 72; Polytechnic Institute School of Music 67–69; University of Lusiada 20, 21 Little St Mary’s, Cambridge 197–198 living walls 243–247, 271 London: evolved spaces 76–78; garden squares 72–76; Phoenix Garden 194, 195 ; The White House 51–54 London docklands 35 Louis-Jeantet Research Institute, Geneva 69, 70 Lutyens, Edwin 176–177, 179 Mackintosh, Kate 80 Maggie’s Centre, Charing Cross Hospital, London 57–60 Maghreb 27, 106–107 Mappa Mundi, Hereford 89 Marrakech 108, 112 ; Medersa Ben Youssef Theological College 98 ; riad courtyards 15, 26, 107–111, 112, 115; souk 109 Matosinhos, Portugal 49–51 meadow: roof garden 67–68 Medersa Ben Youssef Theological College, Marrakech 98 medieval gardens 96–97 memorials and remembrance 197–199 Mesopotamia 90 Mesquite, Cordoba 18, 29–30, 31, 202 metaphorical space 23, 46, 119; Chahar Bagh 97–101 Mexican Borden 201–202 microclimate 160, 203, 209, 246, 258; see also climate control Miller, Philip 209 monasteries: Benedictine Monasterio de Las Condes, Santiago, Chile 164–167; Le Thoronet 117, 117–119, 120, 122–130; Pavia, Italy 62–63, 64 ; washhouses in 16 Mooney, John 262, 263 Morocco 107–111 mosques 97; Mesquite, Cordoba 18, 29–30, 31, 202 Mottisfont Abbey, Hampshire 7–8 murals 92 Murphy, Richard 150–151

289

music school 67–69 music studio 47–49 Nanzen-ji Temple, Kyoto 135, 136 National Museum of Contemporary Art, Chiado, Lisbon 71, 72 Nazrid Palaces see Alhambra Netherlands: ﬁsherman’s allotment 8, 9 neutralising territory 201–202 New York Botanic Garden 203 Nicolson, Harold 181 oases 85–88; border control point, USA 201–202 Oasis d’Aboukir, Paris 244 Ofﬁce Green – 300 La Fayette, New York 250–252 Olgiati, Valerio 47 orientation see aspect and temperature Orto Botanico Padua 204–206 Oudolf, Piet 168 outdoor rooms 9–10, 15; Folly Farm 177; rooftop co-op, New York 265; Sissinghurst 181; Skyspace 162–163 Oxford Botanic Garden 206–208

pairidaeza 89–90, 92, 212 Palacio de Viana, Cordoba, Spain 172–174, 175 Palais Royal, Paris 73–74 Paley Park, New York 229–232 Pallasmaa, Juhani 161 paradise 8, 85, 88–90, 94, 95, 97, 99, 100–101, 120, 182 parterres: Quinta da Bacalhoa, Portugal 157, 158, 159; Villa Lante, Bagnaia, Italy 189 patio 10, 11, 50; see also Alhambra; Generalife Gardens pattern 36, 47, 163; Islamic 3–4, 14, 24, 30, 98, 100 ; Zen gardens 131; see also parterres pavement garden, New York 224 Pavia, Italy: Carthusian monastery 62–63, 64 pavilions 16; Bury Court, Surrey 171; Court of the Lions, Alhambra 105 ; Quinta da Bacalhoa, Portugal 159 paving 16, 71, 167; Islamic design 14, 29 Pearson, Dan 175, 179 peristyle gardens 90–92 Persian gardens 90 Persian rug and carpet design 3–4 Le Petit Versailles, New York 240–243 Phoenix Garden, London 194, 195 Plant Wall Design 247 planting 25

290

planting schemes 171, 246, 258–259 Pompeii 91, 92, 93 pools 28; Alhambra 102–103, 104, 105, 160; Folly Farm 177, 178, 179; Fondazione Querini Stampalia, Venice 149 ; Islamic gardens 98 ; Japan Society Cultural Centre, New York 142 ; Lakeside Villa 43 ; Roman gardens 92 Porro, Girolamo 206 Portugal: Quinta da Bacalhoa 155–159; terraced houses at Matosinhos 49–51 potagers 215 Powell and Moya (architects) 65 public gardens in cities: evolved spaces 76–78; garden squares 72–76; Palais Royal, Paris 73–74; sanctuaries 194–198 quebrada 85–88 Queen Elizabeth Hall, London 223 Querini Stampalia Foundation, Venice 3 Quinta da Bacalhoa, Portugal 155–159 Qur’an 97, 100, 105 reclamed sites 35–38 refuges 57, 194 reja 113 religion and gardens 23, 88–89, 94, 97 Renaissance gardens 192; see also Villa Lante, Bagnaia riad courtyards 15, 26, 107–111 Riad el Qadi, Marrakech 15 rills 71, 104, 105, 149 RKLA (landscape architects) 265, 267 Rogers Stirk Harbour and Partners 57 Le Roman de la Rose 97 Roman houses and gardens 90–92; Cordoba 111–112, 113 Rome: Santi Quatro Coronatti 19–20 roof gardens 252–277; Bell Book and Candle, New York 262–264; Brooklyn Grange Rooftop Farms 259–261; COOKFOX ofﬁce, West 57th Street, New York 254–256; Crossrail Place Garden, Canary Wharf 256–259; Queen Elizabeth Hall, London 223 ; rooftop co-op, New York 265–267; St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s, New York 267–270 Ruggiero, Nici 210–211 ruins, industrial 36–38 rus in urbe 92 Ryoan-ji Temple, Kyoto 130–132, 133 Sackville-West, Vita 181 Salwa, Mateusz 228

Index

sanctuary 78 San Francisco Museum of Modern Art 245–247 Santiago, Chile: Catholic University 20; Las Condes Monastery 164–167 Santi Quatro Coronatti, Rome 19–20 Scarpa, Carlo 146, 150, 152 scent 8, 157, 162, 265; scents 7 School of Music, Polytechnic Institute, Lisbon 67–69 Schultz, Anne-Catrin 152 secret gardens 193–194 sense of place 32, 159 sensory experience 159–163 shade 26–27, 29, 85, 92, 162; Islamic house 107; Las Condes Monastery 165–166, 167 Shimamoto, George 140 Shoden-ji Temple 134 Sissinghurst Castle 171, 181–185 Skyspace 162–163 Sloane, Hans 209 Smiley, Jane 203 social spaces 22 solar gain 25–27 souk 109 sounds 161, 231 Souto de Moura, Eduardo 49, 50 spriritual aspect 23 Square Roger Stéphane 236–238 St Benoit sur Loire 121 St Gall monastery, Switzerland 31 St Hilda’s and St Hugh’s, New York 267–270 St John’s College, Cambridge 64–65, 66 stone, qualities of 23, 122, 128, 131 Sukurai, Nagao 145 sun and shade 19, 25–27, 53, 118, 128, 129, 130 Sung Dynasty, landscape drawings 134 sunken gardens 36, 69–71 Switzerland: Atelier Bardill, Scharans 47–49; St Gall monastery 31 symbolism 95, 100, 107, 126, 228; plants 94, 120, 199; Zen gardens 131 Sze, Sarah 11–14

Toconao, Chile 85–88 touch 161–162 trees 28, 29, 213 Trengwainton kitchen garden, Cornwall 213 Tresco Abbey Gardens 19 Turrell, James 162 University of Lusiada, Lisbon 20, 21 urban agriculture 259–264 urban gardens see public gardens in cities utility 25 Val Joanis potager, France 214 Venice Bienale, 2015 11–12 Venice: Querini Stampalia Foundation 3 vertical gardens 243–247, 271 vertical plane 17 Viana Palace 172–174, 175 ; use of tiles 163 Villa Lante, Bagnaia, Italy 187–192 Vitruvius 91 Vo Trong Nghia Architects (VTN) 55 Wakehurst Place 204 wall, role of the 8–9, 162, 202–203; see also boundary walls water 28, 29; conservation 29, 256; Fondazione Querini Stampalia, Venice 149, 150–151; and humidity 28; Islamic gardens 99–100, 105; Japanese gardens 142, 143; Querini Stampalla Garden 160 ; Roman gardens 92; Villa Lante, Bagnaia, Italy 188, 189; see also fountains; pools Westcott House, Cambridge 21 The White House, London 51–54 Wilmotte, Jean Michel 71 Winchester: Dean Garnier Garden 194, 196, 197 wind protection 25, 27, 32 Worshipful Society of Apothecaries 208 Yoshimura, Junzo 140, 143

temperature 27, 31; and aspect 31, 52–53, 212–213 texture 161 Thames Barrier Park, London 35–36 threshold gardens 69–71 tiles 98, 110, 159, 163; for colour 134, 150, 167

Index

Zen gardens 130–135; compared with Cistercian cloisters 136–137; Golden Gate Park, San Francisco 143–146; Nanzen-ji 135, 136 ; Ryoan-ji, Kyoto 130–132, 133 ; Shoden-ji 134 Zion and Breen (architects) 229, 230

291

Captured Landscape Architecture and the Enclosed Garden, 2nd Edition

Articles inside

2 From patio to park: the enclosed garden as a generator of architectural and landscape design

7 Green city: the persistence of urban gardens

Illustration credits

Selected bibliography

Index

Introduction