It's All Research

It’s a funny thing that happens when people find out that I’m a student of Landscape Architecture. “Really? Why would you want to do that?” is a most common response, along with “don’t you know how to plant things?” Then comes the plant question, “My rose is dying. Why do you think it is?” (Umm…I think this is the real reason landscape architects claim plant ignorance). Next, people want to see my garden. It’s amusing to see people’s response when they finally drive the long hill to my house. People frequently have that look of “Is that all?” I have a little garden, not more than 10 feet wide in places, and 5 foot side yards.

The entire garden is over-planted with both the common and the uncommon, and divided into sections. Only natives are supposed to be allowed in the front, according to the neighborhood covenant rules. It even specifies that nothing is to be planted and what grows must be allowed to grow. Very few of my neighbors follow these rules. There is a rosebush and rosemary in the streetside strip of one yard, another has miniature roses and boxwood. Those that do attempt to follow the intention of the law frequently have non-natives such as Spartium, or Perovskia in their front yards. Some follow the letter of the law strictly, but not intentionally. These may be yards of neglect, others are those whose owners are simply not interested in what goes on outside the house. They are banks of gravel (with plastic showing through), and a spray of Roundup once or twice a year. My front yard is planted with natives and “almost natives.” After all, how do you define “native?” Is it just what grew on that piece of land upon development? What about a mile away? 10 miles? 50 miles? 100 miles? What about plants that grew there 50 years ago? 100 years ago? 1000 years ago?

The expression people generally wear on their faces when they pass through this front yard is one of confusion. They look lost. At first I made excuses, “it’s not grown-in yet,” I say, or “I can’t help it, I have 35 species in the front yard, more than 50 species in my tiny courtyard, and nearly that much in my backyard.” My interest in plants allowed me to use as an excuse, the English gardens and the glorious gardens of Lauren Springer in Colorado. These gardens have dozens of species all vying for attention, packed in elbow to elbow. There’s always another jewel to check on, even if it isn’t blooming. I think it looks great. “What’s this?” is the visitor’s most common question, pointing to an unrecognized plant. Salvia pachyphylla nudges the local Penstemon palmeri and Yucca glauca.

My courtyard was originally named “The Garden of Guilty Pleasures,” but to be truly honest with myself, it was recently renamed the “California Dreaming Garden” . In this garden, I have planted things that are not native to New Mexico, and although xeric, the garden is an homage to my California roots. If one were generous, they would call the courtyard a miniature maquis, on the edge of being a garrigue. This is where the comments change to “I know what that is,” and “I have that.” These are comments that hover somewhere between pride and disappointment. People seem proud that they have a plant that is in my garden, and perhaps they have entered a more comfortable zone than the unfamiliar front yard. The underlying subtext to this is “if I have this planted in my yard, why would I need a Landscape Architect?” The flip side is that they are disappointed that I have something in my yard as common as lavender, or rosemary. Others are disappointed that I have not celebrated native plants in this garden, and used the space for design work. I have noted from these responses, that my garden is about the plants, and although designed, the focus is not on design. “Lean palette!” I yell, slapping the table, in parody of one of my instructors.

My back yard is what I call the “Smoke and Fire” garden. Using the colors of the view of the Sandia Mountains, as well as those of the interior of the house, the result of red/grey/white/brown made me think of smoke and fire. For example, the fluffy seed heads of Apache plumes make the “smoke” and the flowers of Agastache make the “fire” which matches the colors of the Sandia Mountains as the sun sets. Here the garden is not finished, with flagstone poorly set by the landscape firm I hired. Paths are not finished. Here, the expression turns once again to confusion. “Your plants look really weird,” said one visitor who wasn’t familiar with my plant choices. “It’s all research,” I told him.

Here’s the lesson. If I am considering using my home garden as a display garden, there are certain things to keep in mind. People think that landscape architecture is only about planting schemes. When they see plants that are commonly used, they think that they can do the plants themselves (more often false than true). I will need to have the design speak loudly in order for people to see it, as well as to overcome preconceived notions about what a landscape architect does. Most of all, the groundwork will have to be finished.