Another landscape design conference and unusually I was looking backwards as well as forwards with writer Anne Latreille’s `Garden Voices’ lecture covering important Australian designers both past and present. American landscape architect Ken Smith showed exciting projects (`Sky to Ground’) and US tropical garden designer Raymond Jungles spoke of water and nature in the garden and his admiration for Roberto Berle Marx. I particularly loved – and found relevant (in our climate and with today’s enthusiasm for edible patches) – Canadian-born French-based Professor Louisa Jones’ Mediterranean Gardens and will expand on this anon.
It is exciting to look at Australians for inspiration. Usually it’s a ground-breaking Martha Schwartz (admittedly back in 1989, but wonderfully seared in the memory), or Topher Delaney, or the international images of landscape critic Tim Richardson that blow me away (his Avant Gardeners is my favourite book. Truly). (Ken’s were good to see. And I may have missed some important ones by Mr Jungles when my migraine got too awful on Sunday.)
Anne put up a mirror to Australia and I liked what she revealed; it certainly wasn’t the ridiculous Anglophile picture that Monty Don showed the world in about 80 seconds a while ago. Why didn’t he go to the gardens of Jim Sinatra and Phin Murphy, Talor Cullity Lethlean, Meg Ogden, Craig Burton, or to extend the concept to true landscapes, McGregor Coxall? Or the garden I’d most like to see in our entire land: that of Kate Cullity and her late partner Kevin Taylor in Adelaide. Or even just a boisterous bushy big boys boulder garden as I think of them (and it’s interesting how many women clients come to me and say I don’t want that style of garden at all and I don’t want to be told that’s what you want, love).
Friday’s pre-conference garden tour took us to some wonderful places: Burnley’s modern Green Roofs (did I really study horticulture there 24 years ago?, by HASSELL and MSLE led by Dr Nick Williams, John Rayner), Sorrento’s delightful Karkalla (Fiona Brockhoff) and Offshore (Jane Burke), the 10-acre misnamed (or so it seems to me) Musk Cottage (Rick Eckersley and E-GA); and the Australia Garden at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Cranbourne (Taylor Cullity Lethean with Paul Thompson - plant advice; it contains only Australian plants).
I have lightly touched on the latter before (see post 22/11/12) but will add a little more here; all pictures are from this garden.
I wonder if The Australia Garden, with its journey of water, and deep red soil and lunettes at the centre, was built for Australians (intentionally or not). Just as when I visited Uluru as a schoolgirl, and felt a visceral connection to the heart of our country, our land; so I feel deeply moved and reminded of my connection to country when I begin my journey in this garden; now that is an extraordinary achievement, and it happens every time. Is this spirituality? If so, to what, Mother Earth? Or is it notions of identity and rare connectedness? (It’s not dissimilar to my reaction to seeing Yothu Yindu on television the first time: I was seeing my own country really represented in this medium for the first time and it felt exhilarating, powerful, almost primal; I was shocked by my reaction as a young adult who knew no indigenous people and nothing of their culture. It felt absolutely wonderful.)
I found it fascinating to hear reflections of landscape architects from other countries; that this part is like a Japanese garden in that you cannot enter the centre of this garden but can only observe from the periphery (and that you suddenly observe a large part of it); and another (American), who found the vastness alienating (while it spoke to me of my country, of inclusiveness; the opposite). Again, the latter shows its effectiveness at representing the heart of our country so well.
And I wonder, do you need to experience rain after drought to appreciate my favourite part of the garden, and I think most hidden, little-known piece of genius. Maybe you need to be Australian.
Tell me you are not moved.
Go to the end of the rock pools.
Past the vast rust monument to King’s Canyon.
Wait where the water falls off
(don’t take the flow for granted, mate)
Every half hour the water stops
just for ten minutes
and gradually the flow over the square rock pools
slows to a drip or 2 and then ceases.
Wait. Not long.
Water starts flowing again as a whisper, a trickle
then splashy, it rushes along, becoming ever more exciting, it’s rain!
flood after drought!
Crashing loudly off square rocks,
shouting, gushing and roaring toward you,
you sitting waiting at the end;
water rushes and pours over the bank;
a little miracle,
a crop saved, a farm back from the brink, a wild bird seeking a mate.