Paula Panich

Medieval Meets Modern: Tofukuji Temple, Kyoto

 

The art of the arborist outside the Abbot's Hall, Tofukuji, Kyoto

The art of the arborist outside the Abbot's Hall, Tofukuji, Kyoto

Insistence on individualism in the West is never so strident as in shaping thought about art. In garden design, as in landscape architecture, personalities and signatures are writ large, literally and figuratively — think of Le Notre in France; William Kent in England; Fletcher Steele or Frederick Law Olmsted in the United States.
The truth is that all art is collaborative. One person, as the landscape architect and writer Marc Keane has suggested, can’t be the representative of all cultural influences of an era, let alone the sole repository of talent in a generation.
On a trip to Kyoto, Japan in January 2002, never was I more aware of bringing individualist notions about art to another culture — an overlay best discarded if one is to understand what is before one’s eyes.

 

Zen temple gardens, built during the Kamakura (1185-1333) and Muromachi (1333-1568) period of Japanese history, are well known for their rock-and-gravel compositons, called kare-san-sui (dry-mountain-water). Yet the cultural influences behind what we see as raked sand representing water are complex, embracing the philosophical and spiritual ideas of their time

Among them is the concept that the very small and abstract is, in fact, the idea of the very great. It may well be that it is the very nature of this “small” that may strain a Western, especially an American, sensibility. Accustomed to seemingly limitless space, where individuals spread out and mark the landscape as they please, a Westerner needs to grasp the geographic reality of this small island nation. Seventy-five per cent of Japan is composed of mountains, 15 per cent slope, and what is left contains the bulk of 127 million people on mountain valleys and coastal plains.

The constrictive nature of the landscape was a primary force in shaping the development of Japanese culture in general, writes Marc Keane in his excellent and useful book, Japanese Garden Design (Charles Tuttle, 1996. Make sure to read his first chapter on the history of the development of the Japanese garden in general.) Zen Buddhist temple gardens are highly symbolic, highly constructed works of art intended to be looked at in a painterly way. Many are based on the rage for all things Chinese among the elite in 13th-century Japan, especially for the new Zen Buddhist religion.

Kare-san-sui Garden

Kare-san-sui Garden

The idea of the “Japanese garden” — a phrase so easily rolled off the tongue of a Western visitor — is really a 1,500 year tradition broadly influenced, as any cultural force, by geographic, economic, political, religious, and artistic realities along the continuum of history.
The shift of political power from the aristocracy to the warrior class and the accompanying rise of the Shogunate marked the Kamakura period. According to Keane, gardens were built in the narrow confines of warrior residences and urban Zen temples. But it was in the next era, the Muromachi, that the shoguns and the Zen temples supported the arts — the Noh theatre, poetry, as well as the art of the garden — during a great burst of economic activity in Kyoto.

Kare-san-sui Garden

Kare-san-sui Garden

The kare-san-sui garden compositions of gravel, dark rock, white sand, and deep green plants developed into a classic form of small courtyards dedicated solely to sculptural gardens in the late Muromachi. The ideal of this form of garden design was to reach beyond anything superficial or ornamental to the greater truths within; the gardens were stripped down to the essential. Keane writes, The rather sudden creation of contemplation gardens in the kare-san-sui style is one of the great creative leaps in Japanese gardening history.

The use of large rocks in gardens, however, was already a highly developed art in Japan, codified in the eleventh-century Sakuteiki — essentially, a book of rules as to the disposition of stones and other elements in the art of garden-making. Likely written by Tachibana no Toshitsuna, who died in 1094, the advice in the Sakuteiki went beyond the aesthetic. Water must flow east, then south, and to the west, for example; otherwise bad luck would befall the household. Beside the study of water, the treatise was quite specific as to the use of stones.

*****

Make sure that all the stones, right down to the front of the arrangement, are placed with their best sides showing. If a stone has an ugly-looking top you should place it so as to give prominence to its side. Even if this means it has to lean at a considerable angle, no one will notice.

There should always be more horizontal than vertical stones.
If there are ‘running away’ stones there must be ‘chasing’ stones.
If there are ‘leaning’ stones, there must be ‘supporting’ stones . . .

(From Infinite Spaces: The Art and Wisdom of the Japanese Garden,
Joe Earle, editor. Galileo Multimedia, Ltd., 2000)

*****

Square granite slabs in a sea of moss suggest paddy fields but are here a formal design element. This garden . . . appeals to modern tastes without representing a complete break from the past. The spacing between stones is deliberately irregular, and at the border of the plot where there are larger plantings, thins out as a means of linking the two zones.

(Teiji Itoh, The Gardens of Japan, Kodansha, 1998)

*****

Priests who built gardens in the Kamakura period were known as ishi-tate-so, “rock-setting priests.” By the Muromachi period, the term was used mostly in reference to Zen priests, who labored to make gardens for the elite warrior class to provide financial support for their own temples.

Tokukuji in the eastern section of Kyoto was founded in 1235. Like all narrow gardens surrounding Zen Buddhist temples (Tofukuji, one of the five great Zen temples of Kyoto, belongs to the Rinzai sect), the garden around the Abbot’s Hall (Garden of the Hojo) are to be explored by sight and mind, not by body.
The southern garden — the “most contrived” according to the Japanese garden scholar Teiji Itoh — is composed of four rock compositions symbolizing the Elysian islands placed on sand, which makes up the garden floor. The sand is raked symbolically to represent eight rough seas. In the right corner are five moss-covered stones, “sacred mountains.”

In the eastern garden (that is, like all the “gardens” is really a border on one side of the Hojo) are seven cylindrical stones arranged on a moss field to represent the Great Bear of Heaven. (These stones were once used in foundations elsewhere in the temple.)
To the west of the Hojo, azalea shrubs are trimmed in a checkered pattern in imitation of “Seiden,” a Chinese way of dividing the land. Azalea bushes are elemental in kare-san-sui gardens, and are most often carefully trimmed close and rounded as to appear as eternal and immutable as stone. The Japanese use other evergreen shrubs and trees for similar reasons — almost unending beauty. Flowering trees and their fickle show are kept separate. (We saw some at the entrance to temples, for example.)
These austere gardens may seem monochromatic to the Western eye more accustomed to the rioting of flowers. But the green, gray, and silvery notes of these gardens are rich, deep, and surprisingly complex.

In 1939, the famed garden designer Shigemori Mirei added a section to the northern garden at Tofukuji, a composition of square-cut stones and moss. Celebrated and photographed to the point of exhaustion, the actual garden, nonetheless, is a fresh and interesting delight. Mr. Itoh has written:

***

In Mr. Shigemori’s garden corner at Tofukuji, the play of geometry is reminiscent of the liveliness of the paintings of Paul Klee. It’s as if moss and granite on the ground are simply more elemental than the crushed minerals of paint on canvas. But this is softened geometry, with the swelling of the emerald moss as an organic foil to the hard-edged granite. I felt as astonished when we turned the sharp right corner at the Hojo as if we had discovered a miniature room designed by Le Corbusier. Mr. Shigemori has choreographed a square dance of sleek emerald and coarse stone, an unending pleasure.

1939 composition of square-cut granite and moss

1939 composition of square-cut granite and moss by garden designer Shigemori Mirei at Tofukuji in Kyoto

japan tofukuji fall

Photo Courtesy of Yoshie Nagao ©1990

As famous as Mr. Shigemori’s tiny jeweled composition is among garden lovers, Tofukuji is likely even more famous for its autumnal display of every nuance of red. This is when thousands of visitors crowd on the Tsutenkyo Bridge (elsewhere in the temple complex); a January visit may lack the great show of maples, but we shared the gardens of the Hojo with no more than two other enthusiasts.

An annual event on November 23 at Tofukuji is Fude-kayo, a memorial service for writing brushes. It’s important here, too, to shed one’s Western ideas about inanimate objects. Words have spirit, according to traditional Japanese culture. Why not the instrument sweeping these small gods from the mind onto paper?

~ Paula Panich

Tofukuji Temple
Hommachi
Higashiyama-ka,
Kyoto, Japan
Open 9:00 a.m. until 4:30 p.m.
Ten-minute walk from Japan Rail’s Tofukuji Station

Recommended Reading:

Japanese Garden Design: A part of Japanese culture from its earliest history, by Mark P. Keane,
Tuttle Publishing, 1996

Infinite Spaces: The Art and Wisdom of the Japanese Garden,
Joe Earle, editor, Galileo Multimedia, Ltd., 2000

Sakuteiki: Visions of the Japanese Garden
Translation by Jiro Takei, Marc P. Keane, Tuttle Publishing, 2001

The Gardens of Japan, Teiji Itoh, Kodansha,1998

Heart Full of Sun

yard full of sunA Book Review by Paula Panich

Yard Full of Sun:
The Story of a Gardener’s Obsession
That Got a Little Out of Hand
by Scott Calhoun
Rio Nuevo Publishers, 2005 (www.rionuevo.com)
Lavishly illustrated with gorgeous photographs
$22.95

 

Buy this book. Read this book. Read it even if you live in USDA Zone 3, 4, or 5 and have never seen a Chihuahuan orchid shrub (Bauhinia lunaroides) or a Texas violet sage (Salvia farinacea) and your summer yard has only a thimbleful of sun.
Why should you read this book? Here are five reasons:

1. Because John Muir said you should.
2. Because Scott Calhoun is full of passion, good will, and knowledge.
3. Because his voice on the page is a river of bright water.
4. See number two.
5. See number three.

So what does John Muir (d. 1914) have to do with a young horticulturist building a 21st-century home and garden on the far east side of Tucson? It’s because John Muir points out:

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find in hitched to everything else in the universe.”

I will admit to some exasperation with gardeners who seem closed to the idea of reading or learning about plants outside their own cultivation zones. If the garden clog fits, get over it. This passionate plantsman and gardener has everything to do with you and the arisaemas pushing up in your barely unthawed shady Spring garden.

You’ve got to love Scott Calhoun’s passion, first of all. He gives us the whole story. He gardened in Utah, but yearned to return to his native Arizona with his young family. They read about a new residential development in the desert, Civano, which is rooted in desert and water conservation principles. They moved to a Tucson apartment in 1999, and planned their new adobe house and desert garden. The family’s three big ideas:

1. Celebrate native plants
2. Save water
3. Live outside

Calhoun’s story stays true to these three principles and to the many smaller ones that “orbited [around these] like moons around planets.”

He tells us about his influences (even Derek Jarman’s Dungeness garden), his search for plants and trees; the adventures and misadventures of construction; his hilarious tale of middle-of-the-night javalina repelling (his fly was open); how he used his collection of Mexican soda bottles as garden décor; how the family collects and recycles rain water; and how he, quite improbably to proper Yankees, rigged up an outdoor movie theater.

This gardener is in love with his world. Readers can’t help but to fall in love with it too. Calhoun is an engaging writer. He is very very good at the one or two line character sketch. It’s part of what makes this book irresistible. The “green” general contractor on the Calhoun house, David, drives a Chevy truck with “Zen” vanity plates. He listens to Jethro Tull, which is, he reminds Calhoun, “a band, not a guy.” Clouds cloud the Arizona skies, though, when another contractor and David have a falling out. David is “a one-eyed dog chasing a pork chop on a fishing pole,” the guy says to Calhoun. Nonetheless, peace is brokered; the secondary contractor becomes part of the team, and consequently, “quarts of Dewar’s became a kind of currency.”

Although the house is integral to the Calhoun saga — and wife Diedre and daughter Zoe are much loved continuing characters in the narrative — the plants and the yard full of sun really have center stage here. Calhoun writing about the trees, shrubs, and wildflowers he loves is a pleasure. He writes of the sweet acacia tree (Acacia farnesiana) and its “mysterious, dry sweet smell,” and that Jefferson grew it in a Monticello greenhouse to “enjoy its perfume.” He writes that “falling for a pink flower” was unusual for him, but now he is a certifiable penstemon nut. (You will be too, when you see the luscious photographs of Parry’s penstemon.) Oh he goes on, to the reader’s delight and desert plant education.

What makes all of this work — exquisite photographs, plant lists, charts, recipes, the reckoning of the volume of water dripping from the roof, nursery lists, gardens to visit, books to read — is that fresh, convincing, enthusiastic voice of an engaged human being, full of good will.

It’s not easy putting that fluid voice on the page. But Calhoun is no novice writer, or reader. The skillful text offers up the observations of many of the West’s finest writers — Edward Abbey, Terry Tempest Williams, Rick Bass, Charles Bowden, and Larry McMurtry, who calls the early morning light in Tucson “a river of bright air.” (Note to Mr. McMurtry: Sorry for the theft.) And Calhoun is conversant with gardeners and writers Rick Darke and Beth Chatto and others, who garden far away from the Sonoran Desert.

The Sonoran adobe “bungalow” the Calhouns built, by the way, is no multi-million dollar extravaganza. It’s a 1,580 square-foot house. Their budget was $110,000, excluding their patch of desert. Their garden is a joyous place of stunning plants, delight, and whimsy — and they accomplished what they set out to do. Day by day, they realize their three big ideas. They celebrate native plants, save water, and live outside, and I think you may want to hitch yourself to the spirit of this particular universe.

 

For Fletcher Steele Garden Lovers

bluestepsFor many lovers of American gardens, the landscape architect Fletcher Steele is their Gershwin and the famous Blue Steps at Naumkeag are his rhapsody.

Happily, the landscape historian Robin Karson’s 1989 fascinating and out-of-print book, Fletcher Steele, Landscape Architect: An Account of the Gardenmaker’s Life, 1885-1971, is available in a revised and handsome paperbound edition (LALH/University of Massachusetts Press, 2003, $34.95). The new book has 50 additional images of Steele’s work at Naumkeag and other estates, many in color.

Karson first learned of Steele after a visit to Naumkeag in Stockbridge, Mass., in 1983; Steele had worked on Naumkeag from the 1930s until 1958, when his wealthy patron, Mabel Choate, died. Miss Choate left the house and gardens to the Trustees of Reservations, which opens the estate to the public annually from Memorial Day weekend to Columbus Day. Karson’s book will hold you over until spring.

(The Blue Steps are on the cover of the book; you can see them for yourself for an $8 fee from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m. daily in season. 5 Prospect Hill Road, Stockbridge, Mass., 413.298.3239; www.thetrustees.org .)

Fletcher Steele, Landscape Architect: An Account of the Gardenmaker’s Life, 1885 – 1971
by Robin Karson
(LALH/University of Massachusetts Press, 2003)
$34.95

Festucas: Slightly Fussy but Draught Tolerant

by Paula Panich

After five years in the Northeast, I’m still on the lookout for plants that will remind me of the desert, where I lived for many years. I first saw several low, tufted blue fescue grasses in a friend’s garden on a hillside near Cummington, Massachusetts a couple of years ago; I’m afraid my thinking didn’t go beyond: It’s blue! It’s a grass! It might appear desert-like in my garden!
For a few months, wherever I went, I thought I was espying ” blue fescue” grass — on a mesa in southern Utah; near a pre-Pueblan cave site near Los Alamos, New Mexico; even in Scottsdale, Arizona. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This was unexamined enthusiasm for a host of far bigger, native desert bluish grasses, related only, perhaps, by family to blue fescues.

Photo Courtesy of Two Rainy Side Gardeners. Photographed by Debra Teachout-Teashon ©1998

Festuca glauca is native to Europe; it’s found in the Alps, in southern France, and sweeps through Central Europe into the Caucasus, according to nurseryman Kurt Bluemel, who credits F. glauca with sparking his fifty-year love affair with grasses. In the late 1950s, Bluemel was a young apprentice working in a nursery outside Zurich. He recalls the day “a little piece of Festuca glauca broke off a plant,” and being young and ambitious, he gave it a try in the ground himself. “It was easy to grow, ” he says, and this small plant division was the beginning of his life’s work with ornamental grasses.
At the Zurich nursery, he met a young American, Richard Simon. After a year in Zurich, Simon returned to Bluemount Nursery, in Monkton, Maryland, the wholesale nursery his father had started in 1926. Kurt Bluemel came to the United States to work at Bluemount in 1960, and together, they began, in a small way, to import about 30 varieties of ornamental grasses from Switzerland.
“Coming to the United States was a cultural and horticultural shock,” says Bluemel. There were virtually no grasses and few perennials in gardens. By the mid-60s, ornamental grasses were just being introduced into the gardening palette, such as festuca and miscanthus. There were some grasses in the U.S. before that, but they were gathering dust on old estates and in botanical gardens.”

Festucas belong to the grass family, with about 300 species. “Fescues are often important, fine-textured constituents of lawns; however, most ornamental garden species are tufted clump-formers valued for various shades of blue-green or glaucous-blue foliage,” according to writer and horticulture consultant Rick Darke in his 1999 book, The Color Encyclopedia of Ornamental Grasses, (Timber Press). In the past, according to Darke, there has been a great deal of confusion as to which species the common blue fescue cultivars should represent. In Darke’s book, they are assigned to F. glauca, and other horticulturists interviewed for this article defer to Darke’s research.

Appearance

Most of the F. glauca cultivars are short, compact, and are blue, silvery blue, blue-green, and green. Although small, the blue fescues still deliver the playfulness of light, form, silhouette and movement in the garden that all grasses bring. Darke, in a recent interview, calls them “neat little urchins.” They are low growing, tufted, neat, and fine-textured. Grown in groups or sweeps, or as groundcover, they appear rich and lush. Singly, among a great many architecture-less and full perennial plantings, they haven’t much to say.

There is something satisfying in combing this fine foliage of fallen leaves in autumn, restoring plant to a presentable, tidy appearance as its companion perennials fade nearby. They are mostly evergreen, and a fine sight poking up through a moderate snowfall.
Last year, I bought four plants, F. glauca ‘Blausilber’, and put them in a straight line against a sharply defined right angled walkway, as I hadn’t decided what where they were to go. The result was a lovely softening of this sharp edge. As they are low growing, they are good in low settings, good for not only edges but for holding spaces, as they give a grass-like appearance.

In Darke’s book, there is a photograph of F. glauca handsomely triangulated with yucca and Sedum ‘Autumn Joy.’  In my own garden, my four sliver-blue-leafed rather bristly ‘Blausilbers’ (8 inches) will be joined by at least a dozen others near a Miscanthus sinesis ‘Gracillimus’, maiden grass, and a curved sweeping combination of Salvia ‘Blue Hill’ and a catmint. (It may be a bust, but I’m going to try it; if it doesn’t work, the salvia and catmint will go.)

Although differences among varieties may be almost indiscernible to the eye, variations in color are remarkable when sweeps of cultivars are planted side by side.

Culture

Most blue fescues are hardy to Zone 4, but they are picky. They don’t like wet heat, extreme dry heat, too much rainfall, heavy soils, or soils that are too rich. “They are useless in the Pacific Northwest,” says Dan Hinkley of Heronswood Nursery on the Kitsap Peninsula in Washington State. Tony Avent, owner of Plant Delights in Raleigh, North Carolina, says they perish in the wet heat of his Piedmont area.

They do like good drainage, soil light in nutrients, and full sun. Mine are grown in mostly sand with added organic matter. They are drought-tolerant once established. Blue fescues should be cut down to the mound at the end of winter. Richard Simon, now retired from Bluemount Nursery (his daughter and son-in-law make it a third-generation business), suggests cutting off flowers after they appear. “If the panicles get heavy, they can split the plant,” he says.
If blue fescues are grown in soils that are too rich, their life cycles are speeded up. “They get pumped up,” says Rick Darke. They can’t repair themselves.”
Maintenance of blue fescues may involve replacing the plants every 3 to 5 years in soils inhospitable to their ideal cultivation. The plants tend to die out at the center, especially if subjected to extreme heat or an unusually wet winter. In Rick Darke’s own Pennsylvania garden, blue fescue last for 6-8 years. Kurt Bluemel reports he was astonished to see festuca succeed as a ground cover in Virginia (Zone 7) for 25 years, growing in full sun, with good drainage, among Mugo pines.

Fescues are good in rock gardens and troughs, adding color, texture, and strong form.
Although propagation by seed is not difficult, cultivars should be divided instead, to avoid variation.

Cultivars

In the last decade or so, blue fescue cultivars have been clearly defined and delineated. Many nurseries sell generic “blue fescue grass” which is more than likely clonal cultivars “adulterated,” as Darke puts it, “by seed propagation.” For the discerning gardener, the named cultivars of the various foliage color forms are important distinctions for the effect they will have in the garden.
Kurt Bluemel, Inc.’s 2000 Nursery Catalogue lists 17 named cultivars for Zones 4-8. The olive-green ‘Aprilgrun’ reaches 12 inches, while ‘Azurit’ of the same height, is silver blue. ‘Blaufink’ is 10 inches in height and is a soft blue, while ‘Blauglut,’ also 10 inches, is an electric blue. ‘Daumling’ or ‘Tom Thumb’ is a good ground cover, 4 inches tall and green-blue.
‘Elijah Blue’ is a very popular silvery blue variety which was discovered and named by Lois Woodhill of The Plantage Nursery, Cutchogue, Long Island, New York. Rick Darke recommends it as one of the longer-lived selections.
‘Frulingsblau’ is a 6-inch light blue; ‘Meerblau’ an 8 inch rich blue-green, which Darke calls “distinct and attractive.” ‘Silberreiher’ is a six-inch silvery blue. F. glauca ‘Superba’ grows to 10 inches, with amethyst stalks. Bluemel’s catalogue calls it the “best blue.”

Other Fescues for the Garden

To serve other purposes in the garden, the taller fescues, like Festuca mairei , are good mid-sized and long-lived grasses. “Handsome and under-appreciated,” Darke says of it. The Atlas fescue, as it is known, grows to 2 ½ feet, and is a neat mound of fresh gray-green. Hardy to Zone 5.

F. valesiaca , the Wallis fescue, is hardy in Zones 4-7 in the right conditions. ‘Glaucantha’ grows to four inches.
F. glauca ‘Golden Toupee’ (Zone 6) was spied in the Heronswood 2000 Catalogue, and its description of “tight and sturdy mounds of chartreuse yellow foliage no taller than 8 inches, adding a a spritz of light to a full sun border with well-drained soil.” A chartreuse yellow, F. glauca? Tony Avent supplied this plant to Heronswood; he in turn acquired it from Ron Strasko, owner of the Creek Hill Nursery in Leola, Pennsylvania. Strasko says his source for ‘Golden Toupee’ was a man who carried a pot of it back from England in the 1990s. The man in question didn’t respond to a telephone enquiry; nonetheless, if it does well in England, that’s why it will survive the foggy and damp Pacific Northwest.

Alternative Plants

Seslerias are a good alternative to blue fescues, according to Darke, if climatic and soil conditions will never suit the growing of the little urchins. Seslerias are also tufted, dense perennials with grassy texture but are easy to cultivate, tough, and long-lived. Sesleria caerulea, blue moor grass, is hardy to Zone 4, is low-growing, to 8 inches tall, and is evergreen to Zone 6. S. heufleria, blue-green moor grass, grows to 15 inches, and is less blue than blue moor grass.
Blue fescues are not for every gardener in every climate, with every soil condition. Yet stunning , subtle designs can be made with selected clonal varities. In the early days of ornamental grass production in the U.S., the renowned landscape architect Wolfgang Oehme was an eager customer of the grasses produced by Bluemont Nursery and then Kurt Bluemel, Inc.
From a designer’s standpoint, Kurt Bluemel says, one has to look at what will grow best in the circumstances, and what will hold up. He would recommend ‘Elijiah Blue’ in a cold climate, or a climate of high humidity.
But what of blue fescue’s reputation for fussiness and its maintenance requirements? “This is not pachysandra or ivy,” says Bluemel. It may have to be replanted. This is the art and joy, like raking the gravel in a Japanese garden. You do it as much as necessary, bringing horticulture to a new level.”

– Paula Panich

A shorter version of this article first appeared in the January 2001 issue of Nursery Management & Production.

A Dogwood By Any Other Name

by Paula Panich

If you find yourself without a toothbrush, you might chew the end of a fresh twig to clean the teeth - think of the lovely Gwyneth Paltrow at the window in Shakespeare in Love.

Four hundred years ago, almost to the moment, the English botanist and barber-surgeon John Gerarde was cataloguing the plants in his garden. In a corner he saw a dogwood, and mused over its many names – “Hounds tree, Hounds berry, Dogs berry tree, Pricke-timber . . . Gater tree.”  But what could this lovely tree have to do with dogs, or with gaters, for that matter? The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary gives us no hint of what gaters might be, at any rate. In 1831 John C. Loudon in The Hardy Trees and Shrubs of Britain, wrote that the ornamental dogwood (Cornus florida) was called such because a “decoction of its leaves was used to wash dogs, to free them from vermin,” but more recent writers have found no evidence of such a use. Dogwood has been used to make toothpicks, and its crushed bark could intoxicate fish if thrown in water.
Several sources have suggested “dogwood” to be a corruption of “daggerwood” – as the in the whittling of wood to make a small knife. Its fruits have been used to make soap; its bark has been boiled in water to soothe sore muscles and to bring on a sweat to cool a fever – thus its reputation for being a substitute for quinine. If you find yourself without a toothbrush, you might chew the end of a fresh twig to clean the teeth –  think of the lovely Gwyneth Paltrow at the window in Shakespeare in Love.
In Native American folk-lore, there’s a story about a greedy chief with four daughters, who called for suitors to bring him rich gifts. The gods weren’t pleased; this was no way for a chief to behave.  The gods took measure of his mean spirit, and turned him into a small, low tree with bent branches – one that will never grow tall. His four daughters are still with him – the four white bracts surrounding the clustered flowers.

Writer Robert Hendrickson reports that in 1907, an informant to an issue of American Folklore explained that a “dogwood winter” was a spell of bad weather in May, when the dogwoods are ablooming – several days of “cold, disagreeable, cloudy weather, and often a touch of frost.”
When our sole dogwood (C. florida ‘Rubra’) is covered (we hope) by tiers of intoxicating flowers enclosed in elegant pink bracts, may we be spared from that spell of “dogwood winter.”  We’ve had enough winter already.

– Paula Panich

Plant Hunting in Tibet

The Yak Tea and Blue Poppies

The Land of Blue Poppies by Frank Kingdon Ward

Frank Kingdon Ward (1885-1958) breathed his last in a dull English pub, an unfitting end for the dashing plant explorer who trekked through Tibet, China, and Southeast Asia. Beginning in 1911, the diligent, savvy traveler collected 23,000 specimen plants in the course of his 24 long and dangerous expeditions into previously unknown (in the Western world, anyway) mountains and river gorges.

That he was brave and intrepid and changed our gardens forever might have been enough – but he was also a fine, direct, engaging writer. I can think of no better way to spend a snowy dark afternoon than in his company and with In the Land of Blue Poppies: The Collected Plant-Hunting Writings of Frank Kingdon Ward.

The blue poppy of the title is Meconopsis betonicifolia. Several species of blue poppies are found in Tibet, but Kingdon Ward brought the hopeful seed of this one woodland plant back to Britain:

“ [I]t will suffer less from the tricks of our uncertain climate; coming from a moderate elevation, it is accustomed to that featureless average of weather which we know so well . . .” he writes.

He was a brilliant and shrewd collector, training mind, eye, and hand over the years of his explorations. “[T]here are two phases of the work to be considered: plant hunting and seed collecting. Only years of experience in a region such as Western China justify the collector harvesting seeds of plants he has not seen in flower but even so he cannot be certain he is not collecting rubbish . . . He may know sufficient to recognize the capsule and foliage of a Primula when he sees one, for all fifty or so types into which the 500 species might be grouped; to recognize the beaked capsule of a Mencopsis with its lidded ports; the very characteristic capsule of a Rhododendron, for all its limitless variety; . . . But many . . . capsules are not dissimilar, and unless he has made a keen study of the genus, the most hardened collector is likely to go astray. The mastery of Rhododendron alone has now been elevated to an all time job . . .Yet there is much to be said for a journey across unexplored mountain ranges in winter, grabbing seed of anything which tickles the collector’s fancy.”

And he can be lyrical about plants. Here is his description of a mountain pass in Tibet, at 15,000 feet:

“[O]n the sunny lawns the glorious trumpet gentian . . . which opens its blue eyes in fine weather, and languidly closes them at the first sign of atmospheric trouble. It cares not. Indifferent to rain and snow and screeching wind, which rage overhead and even bury it, it shuts up like an oyster. When the storm has passed it peeps out, and satisfied, opens its eyes again. In a flash drab lawns are sparkling with blue, as though the dome of heaven itself had cracked and rained splinters on the grass.” (Note to seed catalogue devotees: it’s Gentian sino-ornata, K.W. 4859)

As illuminating as Kingdon Ward is about the plants and seed he collects, his writing about place and character – those unexplored mountain ranges in winter, peopled with the Tibetans who share his journey — are what allow us to see and touch and taste the Himalayas through this book.

“A narrowing valley stretched northwards in front of us,” he writes, “and was cut off abruptly by the converging mountain ranges. But the river came thundering out of a deep gash, and a mist of spray hung in the air. Beyond, the cobalt blue sky shut down tight, like a lid. I felt rather awestruck . . . noting the puffs of bright cloud shining against the violet hills. No white man had ever seen this valley before. The river was not less than a hundred miles long . . .”

He describes yak butter tea, frizzy with yak hair; the ho-p’an, an iron tray filled with charcoal beneath his bedroll at a rude inn — alight, it’s his sole source of heat in the dark, cold Himalayan winter. We see a Tibetan wedding; monks curious about a microscope; a deathly ill child; Kingdon Ward swinging across deep gorge on a twisted bamboo rope, where he had “a snap-view of the muddy river foaming below.” After the first time, he says, there was nothing he enjoyed more.
Kingdon Ward made his explorations in the time of empire and its accompanying attitudes about people of color. But the reader feels the writer’s admiration for the Tibetans and their love for their land transcending his bred-in-the-bone inner Kipling.

Editor Tom Christopher, in the introduction to the book, quotes Kingdon Ward’s diary of 1935, when he returned to Tibet:

“Sometimes I have almost wept with joy at the sight of the jungle, green and serene, the softly undulating water, smooth hills flaring out the distant plains. Now I greet the snow-covered hills and the dark coniferous forest with the same joy.”

And so do we.

In The Land of Blue Poppies
The Collected Plant-Hunting Writings of Frank Kingdon Ward

Edited by Tom Christopher
Introductions by Michael Pollan, Jamaica Kincaid
$13.95
(Modern Library Gardening, 2003)

The Bible of American Landscape Design

Pioneers of American Landscape Design
Charles Birnbaum and Robin Karson, editors
McGraw-Hill, 2000
486 pages, well illustrated
$59.95

Landscape DesignIn Camden, Maine in years past, I often sat in an amphitheater behind the Camden Public Library. I would watch my child play there, or we would watch a theater performance for children together all the while sitting on the amphitheater’s gentle risers. It is a gracious, curving space, with an astonishing view across Atlantic Avenue to the pretty Camden Harbor. I knew, rather vaguely, that the amphitheater was built in the 1930s, and if I thought about the space at all, it was in the sense that it was lovely, and must have been a result of the design trends of its day.
When I finally understood that the amphitheater was the work of the renowned landscape architect Fletcher Steele (1885-1971), and was astonished to learn about its revolutionary bent-axis design, it was as if my consciousness had been raised to a degree I had never imagined. This site was well known to me, but only as a pleasant green generality: How could I have been so ignorant?
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Pioneers of Landscape Design, edited by Charles Birnbaum of the National Park Service Historic Landscape Initiative, and Fletcher Steele scholar Robin Karson, of the Library of American Landscape History, will serve as a consciousness-raiser for what I hope will be thousands upon thousands of American garden lovers, garden and park preservers, American history lovers — anyone who loves the land of this country and the efforts that have been made to create and preserve beautiful outdoor spaces.
The book is an encyclopedia, with entries by scholars, writers, landscape architects, and others, which chronicles the lives and careers of 160 key individuals whose legacies have made critical contributions to the American landscape. The joy of this book is that even the garden-and landscape-savvy may well learn something on almost every page. Such a statement risks hyperbole, but even previous knowledge of landscape history brought to the reading of this book will be illuminated by context and connection in time and/or spirit to other works or to other designers.
Especially noteworthy is the range of occupations among these landscape pioneers, far beyond the expected practitioners of landscape architecture. Architects, engineers, city planners, horticulturists, nursery owners, and even garden writers are present here, along with their contributions as to how we see or experience or think about the gardens and landscapes of this country.
This book, a decade in the making, is an invaluable record of the American landscape. As Catha Grace Rambusch, one its godmothers, director of the Catalog of Landscape Records in the United States at Wave Hill, said recently to The New York Times: “We see it as a bible, the keystone for further research and revelation.”
Yet the text can be read on another, important level. It is a chronicle of a collective American creative spirit as it relates to the landscape. As such, the book is also a chronicle of individual artists who struggled to live, and to make a living, expressing their artistic visions. The stories of the search for these opportunities and the odds against finding them are illuminating. Time and again, I was moved by the sheer will and genius of many of these pioneers. Many died young. Some, though, were given their due share of life to make their multi-layered and complex cultural contributions to the designed American landscape.
Benjamin Banneker (1731-1806) was a surveyor and astronomer chosen by Thomas Jefferson to work with Pierre Charles L’Enfant as he worked on the design for Washington, D.C. Banneker was an African-American whose grandmother, a white indentured servant, bought two African slaves, freed them, and married one. His mother, too, bought a slave and freed him. A marriage followed. Contributor E. Lynn Miller writes, “[His] grandmother taught him to read, to write, and to assess the landscape and its elements . . . His African grandfather passed on to him the knowledge and love of astronomy.” In conclusion, Miller writes, ” . . . Banneker was without a doubt one of the most original scientific intellects America has ever produced.” Who can resist this story?
The story of Alfred Caldwell (1903-1998), a “landscape architect, poet, civil engineer, architect, city planner, philosopher, teacher” should be read by anyone engaged in creative work. He was born in poverty, and his mother’s insistence on his reading and memorizing poetry and history resulted in his becoming a “thinker and dreamer early in life,” according to his chronicler, Dennis Domer. He never completed his landscape architecture degree at the University of Illinois, and he was fired from or abruptly left every job he ever held. But his quest for knowledge and freshness never ceased. As a young man, he left a secure job designing small buildings and landscapes because he had “only been trading dollars, and needed to learn something first.'” He then found his mentor, Prairie School landscape architect Jens Jensen. He called Jensen “the great symbol of my life.” Jensen called him “an artist — a poet”; the two men were friends and correspondents to the end of Jensen’s life. Caldwell was influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright; his subsequent work was championed by Mies van der Rohe, especially his Lily Pond in Chicago’s Lincoln Park. Caldwell quit his professorial job at the Illinois Institute of Technology in 1960 when Mies was fired as architect of the campus.
Caldwell’s creative life as a designer of landscapes never ceased. Later, ITT in Chicago took him back as the Ludwig Mies van der Rohe Professor of Architecture, where he taught until he died, at age 95.
Equally compelling, and far less known, are the stories of the women — landscape architects, designers, and horticulturists — who made their marks in gardens and landscapes across the country. Marjorie Sewell Cautley (1891-1954) was orphaned at 12 and earned a B.S. degree in landscape architecture at Cornell at 25. She worked for Warren Manning and Julia Morgan before starting her own practice after World War I. Her first park project was Roosevelt Common in Tenafly, N.J., which contained an arboretum of native plants. In 1924, her career took a “profound turn” as writer Nell Walker says, when she was hired by two wealthy philanthropists who supported the Garden City movement. Cautley served as landscape architect for several projects in New York City and New Jersey. Her contributions were to use native plants, and the orientation of houses and gardens to face an interior common area. She taught at Columbia and MIT, and consulted with the CCC in New Hampshire on state parks. In her 40s she was struck with a severe illness “that dominated the rest of her life.” She was often hospitalized for months. But she continued writing about gardens and landscapes, and managed to earn a graduate degree in city planning from the University of Pennsylvania. Her thesis detailed a renovation plan for inner-city Philadelphia. She died in 1954 at age 62.

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