The Hepatica leaf pool

Hollywood, California: Philip Ilsley estate, Hepatica-leaf pool.

While doing research for an article about free-form pools, I found this amazing picture of a pool in form of a Hepatica leaf. It looks so completely whimsical and irrational and I've never seen anything quite like it. Still, it is a merry pool, and I can easily imagine myself in it, happily paddling my way from lobe to lobe past the gently curving sides of the pool.

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Philip Ilsley, who built his pool in 1949 on the Hollywood Hills overlooking the San Fernando valley, insisted that it was both beautiful and functional. He explained, that "the Hepatica shape provides the most swimming and diving space for the least water. Its three lobes separate the sun-tanners; who like to loll on the warm brink without getting wet, from the divers, who splash and splash around the springboard on the opposite side, while the athletic types who like to swim can tee off at the far end of the leaf and paddle right up the stem..."

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A eccentric pool for an imaginative person, it seems, but this eye-catching form was made to grab attention, which it did very well, as several articles were published about it. Ilsley was an entrepreneur who revolutionized the construction of pools using pressure-sprayed-concrete (Gunite), which made them affordable even for the middle classes, making Ilsley's firm the largest pool-building company in the US. He became the preferred pool-builder of the rich and famous in Hollywood. Many film stars wanted their pools to be unique, and Ilsley was able to meet their dreams with creations like the piano-shaped pool he built for Frank Sinatra in Palm Springs.

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What I find intriguing is that a fashionable pool-builder like Ilsley chose the leaf of the humble, small Hepatica as a model for his own pool. Being so sought-after by the stars of the old Hollywood, why didn't he choose something more glamorous, like the old symbol of fleur-de-lis, that could have stood for Iris douglasiana, the beloved native iris of California? What was his relationship to the dainty little liverwort that needs cold winters to thrive and therefore is not even suited for the warm Californian climate? I guess I will never know, but I still find the Hepatica leaf pool quite attractive in its own, quirky way.

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Thomas A.P. van Leeuwen: The Springboard in the Pond. An Intimate History of the Swimming Pool.

MIT Press, 1999.

Rancho Santa Ana Botanic Garden

Yucca brevifolias, like rambling, shaggy sculptures in one of the Plant Communities areas at Rancho Santa Ana Botanic Garden.

Winter seems to have forgotten Seattle, but we still had a 'mid-winter break' from the schools, so I made a short tour to Los Angeles and surroundings with my family. As I walked out from the plane into the glistening sunshine at the tiny Long Beach airport and felt the balmy winds caress my pale cheeks, I once again wondered why we ever left Melbourne and settled into the chilly climates of Stockholm and Seattle, when the southern zones are so much easier for your mind and body...

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A member of the genus Mimulus, I had misplaced my notes and can't find the right name for this...

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Arctostaphylos tomentosa, the woollyleaf manzanita, also member of the heather family.

A small mishap on the agenda made my planned visit to Huntington Botanical Gardens impossible, so instead I made a surprise visit to Rancho Santa Ana Botanic Garden in Claremont. Covering over 86 acres, Rancho Santa Ana is the largest botanical garden of California, exclusively dedicated to native California plants. Its was founded in 1927 by Susanna Bixby Bryant, a member of one of California's pioneering families, who was worried about the rapidly disappearing native California flora - an amazingly visionary deed at time when most people and even scholars had no interest for the local plants. Originally founded on her ranch in Orange County, Rancho Santa Botanic Garden was relocated in 1951 to Claremont College campus to be part of its graduate program in botany.

One of the plantings in the Plant Community areas, with yuccas and cacti.

Located on a plain of the San Gabriel Mountains, the paths are laid out in meandering circles that cover three different areas. Indian Hill Mesa with its dense clay soil is planted with California wild lilacs, Manzanitas and other mature cultivars of native Californian plants. The East Alluvial Garden contains the desert garden and the coastal plant collections, including the Californian Fan Palm Oasis, where native palms have been allowed to keep their skirts of dried, brown fronds; a surprising reminder of how palms really should look like. The third area is the Plant Communities display. Here, Californian natives as cacti, yuccas, pines and the legendary Joshua trees cover a huge 55 acres, all planted in habitats that looked so naturalistic that it was difficult to believe them to have been planted by people.

* Fremontodendron 'California glory' (flannel bush) in the California cultivar garden, where new varieties of native plants are selected and grown for commercial use.

Wandering through the winding paths of the Plant Communities, I was happily reminded of some of the hikes I have made in South Eastern Australia and in the Big Sur area in California; so far apart from each other, but still so similar in their nature. Only a few people were out in the gardens, so I was left to my own devices, admiring all the members of Californian plant families, represented there in all hues of green from ashen grey to the deepest emerald. Only some 20 miles away from the bustling LA, Rancho Santa Ana was filled with sparkling birdsong. As the sweet scents from the aromatic plants filled my lungs, I felt well compensated for my disappointment for not seeing the Huntington gardens.

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Overview of the Plant Communities area, with San Gabriel Mountains as a majestic backdrop.

Freeway Park in Seattle

The rectilinear forms follow through all parts of the Freeway Park in Seattle; the pathways, water features, planter boxes are all made of concrete.

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Seattle is a city full of contrasts. Situated on steep hills, Seattle overlooks the crystal waves of the Puget Sound, and wherever you look, stunning snowcapped mountains fill the horizon. Several lakes weave into the scenery, creating a rich tapestry with the lush, majestic forests of this evergreen, rainy part of the world. In this magnificent setting, the city centre is something of a visual shock: a high rise jungle of asphalt and concrete, with a train track and two major freeways, I-5 and the Alaskan Viaduct, cutting through it. There is very little greenery, only minor plantings dwarfed by the high buildings, and a few street trees struggling to keep alive in the harsh environment. With few exceptions, the best way to catch a glimpse of the city, the residential areas, the mountains and the sea is to drive through Seattle on one of the freeways. It feels like the early Seattleites, eager to tap into the natural riches of the area, forgot everything about the principles of good town planning when they started carving their mark into the landscape a bit over hundred years ago.

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Above: Part of the path around the park. Below: The park seen from the University Street ramp leading to the I-5 freeway.

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Freeway Park, situated in the heart of Seattle city centre, was designed in the early 70s to reduce the impact of the the I-5 freeway and to reconnect the city centre with First Hill, an older area on the east side of it. Landscape architect Laurence Halprin, who designed the park with Angela Danadjieva, wanted to integrate the I-5 freeway into the park and to emphasize the highly urban nature of the site. A result of their creative work, Freeway Park is a rectilinear board-formed concrete maze that sits like a monumental lock over the freeway. The passing cars below make a constant, obtrusive element of the park. To mute the sounds of the traffic, Halprin and Danadjieva included several fountains, many of which are now defunct. The largest one, the American League Fountain, is a huge, concrete canyon on several levels that was inspired by the waterfalls of the Cascade and Olympic mountains that surround Seattle. The vegetation is planted in large, concrete containers and consist mainly of native evergreens and shrubs, chosen because of their ability to survive high levels of pollution. Only a few flowering cherries and Magnolias add a seasonal, softer note to the otherwise quite static greenery.

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The American League Fountain was designed like a huge canyon and Halprin wanted the immediate sense of danger to make people cautious; therefore, no fences were used. At least two people have died by falling from the concrete platforms and steps of the park, so the renovation project will address the need for increased safety.

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The Freeway Park opened in 1976 as part of Seattle's celebrations of the U.S. bicentennial and was an immediate success that attracted large crowds. Later on, its maze-like design turned out to be a magnet for the criminal elements of the city: all the turns and nooks, designed to inspire intimate meetings between law-abiding citizens, showed to be a perfect place for robbers and murderers to hide and attack their offers without being noticed. The zigzagging design made it difficult for the victims to escape and the cascading fountains together with the neverending roar of traffic drowned effectively their cries for help.

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Emergency call buttons can be found in several places. They remind vividly of the many murders and robberies that have taken place in the park, adding a disconcerting feel to a visit there.

The Freeway Park, celebrated as a breakthrough in urban design in the 1970s, fell fast into disrepair. Later on, it was often referred to as one of the most unused or even hated parks in Seattle. First in 2006, The Cultural Landscape Foundation profiled the Freeway Park in its Landslide program for endangered cultural landscapes. This prompted Seattle Parks and Recreation Department to start a project for making it safer and more usable together with the people living nearby the park. When I visited the park yesterday, no results were visible, only several yellow signs and a large project presentation plan announced that repair works were on the way. Walking through the concrete paths in the rain, with the defeaning noise filling my ears, I had a slightly creepy feeling thinking of all the unlucky incidents that had taken place there. The Freeway Park felt like a place that was born out of idealism, but fallen deep into the raw reality of life. Still, with all the work that is going into reviving this people's meeting place, I hope that the Freeway Park will again be the urban oasis to "encourage meditative thought, excite senses and celebrate life" that Lawrence Halprin and Angela Danadjieva envisioned it to be.

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Later update (Feb 22, 2010): The Cultural Landscape Foundation just published an interview with Lawrence Halprin on their Oral History Project part of their website.

Fergus Garrett, the gentle keeper of Great Dixter

Fergus Garrett, the Head Gardener of Great Dixter, changing the bedding plants in the huge borders. East Sussex, England, 2006.

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Yesterday, I visited Seattle's Northwest Garden & Flower Show mainly for one reason: to listen to Fergus Garrett, Head Gardener of Great Dixter, the house and garden of the late Christopher Lloyd. We were handed out an almost stressfully long list of pictures Fergus was going to show, but there was no need to worry: his presentation was an amazing voyage through the past and the present of Great Dixter, all delivered at an enjoyable pace. The storyline flowed lively from historical black and white pictures of the Lloyd family via glorious garden imagery from different periods of time, to touching, personal details about Christopher Lloyd, the legendary gardener and writer. Seeing Christopher's old, worn out shoes with his note to the housekeeper about getting them mended, or his letter in perfect handwriting, when he as 6 year old thanks politely for the Viburnum carlesii he'd got as a present, are details very seldom seen when these legendary gardens are written or talked about. And yet, they give such an intimate picture of their owners as personalities and human beings, adding an important layer to our understanding of their achievements.

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Great Dixter during the hot, late days of June 2006. The ancient house with its steep roof and high chimneys forms an architectural background for almost every view of the gardens.
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Fergus Garrett's presentation was a personal and sensitive account about the enormous responsibility of preserving a national cultural treasure like Great Dixter. Fergus gardens, lives and breathes Great Dixter, and he was a close friend of Christopher's, with whom he "gardened in the fast lane" for a long time. All of this I keenly felt when he talked. Preserving an estate as dynamic as Great Dixter, where experimentation always was a defining characteristic calls for a deep understanding of the place; it still needs to be Great Dixter, the garden of the legendary Christopher Lloyd, but at the same time, it can't be preserved in aspic. For not lose its heartbeat and become a living museum, it has to move with the times, keeping its experimental nature. As Fergus mentioned, Christopher Lloyd accepted no rules, no fads and no fashion: he never went for perfection, but for excellence, and there is a significant difference.

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Osthouses for drying hops, an important function in the old days of Dixter.

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Fergus talk was wonderful, personal and knowledgeable, and the pictures were a joy for the eyes of anybody who loves gardens. Christopher Lloyd's intensive, overblown cottage garden style on the grand scale is not everybody's cup of tea, Fergus said, but everybody who is knowledgeable about gardening must admire the talent and skill needed to create it. As he pointed out, many forget that Great Dixter is not only about the house and gardens so well-known from countless pictures, but also about a carefully balanced natural ecosystem of meadows, ancient woodlands with orchids and other rare native plats, all surrounding the great gardens, and all in need of care and consideration.

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One of the long borders in late June 2006, with Allium christophii and Ammi majus in the foreground.

Christopher Lloyd's wonderful, witty and knowledgeable writing had made me love Great Dixter long before I first visited it in 2006. I walked along the paths and admired the scenes, so familiar from his books, but they were different: Christo was not there any more, he had died in January the same year. I felt like I had lost a friend, even if I had never met him. And that is what truly good writing does: it makes the writer and the reader to meet in the text: it is an intimate contact and dialogue between both participants, their thoughts and ideas. Christo was able to do that with his millions of gardening readers. As Fergus gently pointed out at the end of his speech, Great Dixter remains a living testament to Christopher Lloyd's life as a remarkable gardener and writer. And in Fergus Garrett, Great Dixter has a talented and gentle keeper, hopefully for a very long time to come.

My girls wandering through the stone paved paths of Great Dixter in 2006.

See also my previous post about Great Dixter, Meadows, meadows everywhere from July 2008.

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Museum Insel Hombroich

Orangery, a sculpture by Erwin Heerich, 1983.

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Wandering through the grounds of Museum Insel Hombroich is a strangely quiet but yet strong experience. All parts of this unusual museum are art: the landscape and pathways are carefully designed to offer a meditative experience; the pavilions scattered in the landscape are giant, minimalistic sculptures in themselves; and then the amazing collection of artworks, carefully exhibited inside the pavilions.

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Inside the orangery, sculptures in direct connection with the surrounding landscape.

Museum Insel Hombroich had its start in 1982 when real estate broker Karl Heinrich Muller purchased the property by the Erft River near Dusseldorf to display his extensive collection of art. Despite its name, Insel Hombroich is not a true island but an enclosure, where the busy life of the surrounding metropolitan Dusseldorf seems to disappear far away behind the surrounding tall greenery. The landscape is a naturalistic combination of wetlands, meadows and wooded areas, sensitively designed by landscape architect Bernhard Korte. Wandering through it, the visitor passes through fifteen pavilions, most of them by sculptor Erwin Heerich. Built of recycled, rough bricks, steel and glass, these minimalist buildings have a cloister like feeling. Some of them contain artworks, some are empty, functioning themselves as huge sculptures to be experienced both from outside and inside.

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Inside of Turm, by Erwin Heerich, 1989.

After entering Museum Insel Hombroich, there are no guards or attendants. The works of art are shown without any artificial light, so the experience of them changes depending on the time of day and the season of the visit. The scope and quality of the collection is amazing: there is ethnic art from Africa, Polynesia, Mexico and East Asia, and then works by Western artists, from the traditional to the ultra-contemporary. Rembrandt, Matisse and Cezanne, Schwitters, Arp and Calder are just few of the artists on display. There are no signs or nametags around, and the visitors are left alone with the artworks, taking them in without any explanations. An eccentric but effective choice, and a great contrast to the information overload confronting visitors in most museums today. The cloister like atmosphere continues in the museum restaurant; nothing there can be bought with money, all is included in the entrance fee. The choices are minimalistic. When my sister and I visited (in the mid-90s), it was late afternoon and the only things left were whole, red onions, some dark rye bread and cold, hard cooked eggs; not a feast directly. But despite having walked through the extensive grounds, no food was needed: we felt completely satisfied, filled up by the tranquil and meditative experience of the art and the landscape of Insel Hombroich.

The pavilions and art are surrounded with gently undulating meadows and woods.

I could not find my own paper pictures from Hombroich from the mid 90's, so I borrowed some from the Museum Insel Hombroich. Special thanks to Hanna for taking me to this unusual and memorable place!

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When everything still seemed to be possible...

Unidentified garden by Edward van Altena. Florida, 1930.

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If you feel like a bit of armchair travel in history and time, see the breathtakingly beautiful, historical garden images from the Archive of American Gardens available online at flickr since last October.

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A small selection of their complete collection, these images from the 1920s and '30s show the bucolic playgrounds of the affluent during the 'golden era' of the American gardens. Many of them were designed by the most renoved landscape architects of that time, like Beatrix Farrand and Jens Jensen.

Quote of the day

Hamamelis x intermedia 'Jelena' in full bloom, its sweet scent carrying through the endless drops of rain.

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Words are things, and a small drop of ink,

falling like dew upon a thought,

produces that which makes thousands,

perhaps millions, think.

- Lord Byron, from Don Juan, Canto III, 1820 -

No, I am not a great lover of writers of the Romantic era; I don't think I have even read Lord Byron's version of the legend of Don Juan. But this wonderful quote came up last week at a writers course I am taking, trying to figure out if I can ever be good enough to 'really' write in English, now my third language. 'A small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought...', such a perfect metaphor for the process of writing. They say that all writing is translating, turning your thoughts into symbols on paper; writing in a foreign language adds still another dimension, as there are so many meanings that each word carry, not obvious to someone like me, who didn't grow up with the language. Seeking the right words takes time, and sometimes the small drop of ink evaporates, like a dew drop in the morning sun, taking my thoughts with it before they reach the paper.

Have you ever read...

The Desert Garden at the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens in San Marino, California. Picture from Wikimedia, I'm visiting this garden in late February.

Wonderful garden writing can sometimes turn up in completely unexpected places. My family has been subscribing to the Financial Times for some time, and I usually skim it through just to get an idea of what is going on in the world. However, their weekend edition has turned into a favourite of mine, full of articles about art and culture around the world. On Saturday mornings, it is a treat to read the last page at the House and Home section, which often contains a garden column by Robin Lane Fox, an English historian. Lane Fox is a Fellow of New College in Oxford, and University of Oxford Reader in Ancient History. His book Alexander the Great (1974) was awarded the James Tait Black Memorial Prize and he has written about the different cultural aspects of the Classical Mediterranean world. As gardening is another of Lane Fox's great interests, he has also written a book with title Better Gardening besides his gardening column in Financial Times.

Sphaeralcea ambiqua, Desert Mallow, blooming in the Desert Garden. Photo Huntington Botanical.

In his garden columns in Financial Times, Robin Lane Fox writes about plants, gardens and garden history around the world. He often complements his texts with personal associations and details related to his main theme. Often, he gives details that can be quite unexpected in the context. Lane Fox's texts are always well-researched and have an enjoyable depth of knowledge, and his background gives him a strong credibility even as a garden writer. In the latest column, Appetite for Desert, he writes about the Desert Garden in the Botanical Garden of the Huntington Library in California, and gives some interesting quotes, for example by Roberto Burle Marx, a great 20th century landscape architect, who thought that Huntington was the most extraordinary garden in the world.K

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In my opinion, Lane Fox's texts are enjoyably British in their style, even if his frequent use of words like 'lovely', exceptional' and 'extraordinary' put sometimes a slight smile on my face. I can almost hear his voice speaking (in this case, in correct Oxford English...) while reading his writings, which is something that only very good writers manage to do. See if you enjoy Robin Lane Fox's columns too, one of my favourites was about the mysterious gardens at Ninfa, which I hope to visit some time in the not so distant future.

Without plants, a dull and lifeless home

A housewife discussing with her servant; flourishing plants form a suitable background depicting a happy household... 'Husmoderns rådgivare' by Kerstin Wenström, Stockholm 1923.

Potted plants are a symbol for a happy home. Think about all pictures in books and magazines: even the most streamlined modernist interiors have something live and green, preferably with a striking, architectural form. They gratify our need for a bit of nature midst our busy, often urban lives, and give us the joy of experiencing the miracle of growth.

In Scandinavia, plants seem to have a special place in peoples hearts as carriers of hope during the long, dark winters when nothing in the nature seems to be alive. Nowhere is this love for potted plants more visible than in Carl Larsson's paintings about his wife Karin's flowers filling the windowsills, adding to the charm of the home of these two, prolific artists. Even today, an average Swedish home has between 20 and 40 houseplants, many of which start their lives as cuttings from friends and family.

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Azalea, by Carl Larsson (1906), shows Karin Larsson with her flowers. The handloom that she used for her textile designs is in the background.

Most of us never give a second thought to why we grow potted plants. But Clas Bergvall, an ethnologist at Umeå University, was so intrigued by how much joy his wife got from plants, that he dedicated eight years and his doctoral dissertation to the subject. In Life, Mood and Meaning, Bergvall researches the relationship between indoor plants and their owners, looking at how potted plants affect the way they view their lives, their identity, and their space. By interviewing hundreds of plant owners, Bergvall found out that the satisfaction of seeing plants grow and change over the seasons and time was as important as the aesthetic reasons for having them. While attending to their plants, the owners felt that they got their own space for thoughts and reflections, undisturbed by other people or daily chores. Also, being able to nurture the plants was a confirmation of their capability to create a real home; many thought that a home without indoor plants is dull and lifeless.

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A selection of indoor plants from 'Husmoderns rådgivare'. Roses 'Hermosa', 'Marechal Niel' and 'Gloire de Dijon', which are still available from some growers, are given as examples of reliable choices for forcing in pots.

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Bergvall tells also the history of potted plants in Sweden. First, they appeared in the orangeries of the nobility during the 17th century and were symbols for wealth and status. From there they slowly spread to the houses of the new and affluent middle classes of the 19th century. By the end of that century, even the modest homes had potted plants, often grown from cuttings taken by people who worked as servants in the wealthier households. By the first half of the 20th century potted plants were a given part of a home.

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In my life, I've gone through periods of having many plants and absolutely no plants. Some of them I still miss, like the lemon tree that I grew from pips that came from a huge Meyer lemon tree in my garden in Melbourne. In only five years, it shot up to over two meters, showing clearly its genetic parentage. It felt like a living, direct link to our wonderful life in Australia, and I spent many times contemplating how to take it with me to the US. Fortunately, my mother with green fingers is babysitting it now. The lemon tree seemed like an exception to my success with indoor plants in general. I've always doubted the link between successful indoor and outdoor gardening; I seem to be much more capable of nurturing plants in the open, somehow forgetting about the poor indoor ones until their wilting leaves nearly shout out their need of water. But with or without plants, I've luckily still never thought of my home as dull and lifeless...

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'Husmoderns rådgivare', a book about housekeeping by Kerstin Wenström was published in Stockholm 1923. It was hugely popular; eight editions came out during its first year in print.

First ones out!

The first snowdrops of this spring are already out

I think I should confess it: I am an incurable galanthophile, even if my collection still is in the making... But snowdrops, these joyful harbingers of spring, are one of the plants that I do not want to be without. I love the nodding little bells with their clean white and jade green colors, and the delicate, honey-like scent of them. Despite their dainty looks snowdrops are very easy to grow and completely hardy, bravely withstanding the harsh weather of the North. They even keep well as cut flowers, if you have the heart to snip some off for a tiny vase indoors.

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In Saltsjöbaden, I was lucky to inherit thousands of them, shooting up happily in crowded groups under the old lilac hedges every spring. They didn't mind me separating them and spreading them eagerly all around my garden. Here in Seattle, my garden is much less poetic in appearance, so I was very happy to receive a large tuft of these little 'milk flowers' (from Greek gala meaning milk, and anthos meaning flower), from my gardening friend Marian. I divided it to seven smaller groups, planted them during the Christmas week and now they are already pushing up from the dark soil near my entrance. That tells you how mild this winter has been in Seattle, while the rest of the Northern hemisphere has been covered in snow, shivering in temperatures of arctic cold.

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Unidentified Galanthus (same as above) already flowering in a south facing slope near my house

My newly planted snowdrops are just out from the soil, but I spotted some already in flower in a south facing slope nearby. Their white outer tepals (snowdrops have no petals, only tepals, which I just learned in a book about them...) are larger and more rounded than in the common snowdrops (Galanthus nivalis) and the markings on the inner tepals are bright green and very distinctive, as can be seen in the first picture. I tried to find the name for this Galanthus species or variety, but after viewing over hundred pictures of them, I gave up. The International Bulb Society had some pictures of Galanthus 'Sibbertoft Manor' and Judy's snowdrops in England showed G. elwesii 'Kyre Park', both of which looked quite similar to the ones above. It seems that I still have a long way to go on my galanthophile career, but in this case, I really am one happy learner...