Posts Tagged ‘gardens’

REVIEW: Inspirational Gardens of New Zealand

Wednesday, August 24th, 2011

Kristin Lammerting, photography by Ferdinand Graf von Luckner, Inspirational Gardens of New Zealand, Penguin Books: Auckland, 2010, 228pp. ISBN 9780670074785. 

Stuart Read 

This book looks great on first glance. If you picked it up off a bookshop shelf and flicked through, von Luckner’s photography alone would start you thinking, “I should buy this”.

Perhaps that’s symptomatic of what in recent decades garden books have become. Cook books of my mother’s era were workaday things, with colour photographs. They were mostly small format and had pages heavy with text. Cookbooks, like garden books, have become a phenomenon, with rising standards of photography, typesetting, books-as-seductive ‘must-haves’, often regardless of whether they have any meaningful content. Quite collectable for those who never cook: are there similarly garden books for lounge-chair non-gardeners?

I suppose garden selections depend a great deal on the author’s contacts and extent of travel: how well do they know a country?; can they convince owners to ‘share’? Some gardeners are proud to show off, others shrink and value privacy above all else.

It’s interesting to flick through Lammerting’s book and to contrast it with Derek Fell’s Great Gardens of New Zealand (2003), Mary Burnard’s The New Garden Heritage of New Zealand (1990) or Barbara Matthews’ Gardens of New Zealand (1983/8). Contrast helps to flesh out the trend: and that trend is less and less text (and history), and larger and larger images – even when a selection of the same gardens bobs up in each survey. Perhaps the differences in selections say more. Will a long-resident Kiwi make a clearer or muddier survey of what makes Kiwi gardens ‘tick’, to convey their essence? Will a newcomer/outsider have a clearer view unclouded by local loyalties, small-town and bloodline ties? There are merits either way. It’s not easy to pinpoint what makes a New Zealand garden unique. It may be easier to say what makes it inspirational. Inspiration in the owners or creators of course can differ from inspiration given to a visitor – and varies with their familiarity and frequency.

I wanted to like this book more than I ended up doing. Dipping in and out of it (another modern trend with book production, targeting and time-poor buyers/owners) is fine, a brush over each garden gives an idea of its character, place and the intent of the creator(s). A lingering leaves one aware of the ‘glissando’ approach that seems the book’s strength and its failing. Not much depth is given, or can be, in such a format and product.

In Inspirational Gardens, twenty-seven gardens are featured from north to south. Some are old but most quite young – 10 to 30 years seems the more common time span covered. Statistically, we buy and sell homes every 4-6 years so perhaps this is a long time span? But as someone who often finds gardens the more inspiring the older (and less titivated) they are, I beg to differ.

The book leads you to conclude that New Zealand gardeners are still taking inspiration from European gardens, albeit transplanted into and onto Antipodean landscapes. A good acid test for any purportedly ‘national’ garden survey is how many of them have native plants in them and how are these treated. This is very telling of ‘bedding down’ in a landscape; putting down roots beyond the first few generations of migration, ‘camping’ and ‘settling’, the process of mental and physical embedding, belonging. By this I don’t mean ‘native-only’: but it is instructive to focus on the few such shown.

The text is ‘coffee table’ and saccharine in tone – laced with adjectives like ‘stunning’, ‘breathtaking’ – not that New Zealand landscapes aren’t, but over-use can quickly diminish their power or credibility. Lammerting describes the landscapes as ‘endless’, something risible to a Kiwi long-residing in Australia. New Zealand’s landscapes might be big and seemingly ‘empty’ to a European used to paucity of scale and density of settlement, but hardly ‘endless’. What about Africa’s, America’s or Russia’s plains?

Sloppy botanical naming and captioning let this book down. It’s hard to get right every time but for the book’s price it should be better. Butler Point’s ‘manuka’ trunks shown on p.9 are clearly kanuka to be that tall! It’s a garden book but barely two images show anything of Butler Point’s historic buildings – a great pity. Captions such as those on pp.10-11 point up imported ornaments yet omit to ‘locate’ them in the South Pacific. The New Zealand cabbage tree (p.10) and New Zealand kawakawa (p.11) go unmentioned. If I were a foreigner buying this it’s exactly such plants I’d want identified. English buyers gaga over New Zealand flax cultivars might be delighted to learn more of our plants. Captions like that on p.12 mentions daisies where none are anywhere in view, whereas the ‘lichen’ shot on p.15 makes no mention of the New Zealand tui perched mid-shot: why?

Escapism and conjuring up ‘somewhere else’ (from New Zealand!) seem common here. Lammerting’s PalmCo garden in Kerikeri is described as “South Sea/Pacific”, yet the plants shown are mostly Californian desert fan palms, Canary Island dragon trees, South African birds of paradise flowers, Central/South American in origin. Does ‘look’ or ‘theatre’ over-ride accuracy: who cares where the effect comes from? Many a Hollywood Tarzan movie shot inside a warehouse in California never got any closer to an African jungle than the local pot plant shop – does it matter in a garden book? On p.23 is the first of several mentions of Gardens of (Inter/)National Significance, and the New Zealand Gardens Trust. I am suspicious of the vaunted claims of this system. It seems heavily weighted towards ‘feature’ gardens open to visit, often ‘commercial’ in focus and presentation. Of course visiting gardens is a major popular pastime and pleasure. This phenomenon is nothing new: Vauxhall Gardens in London’s suburbs or Caserta’s palace grounds near Naples offer 17th and 18th century equivalents: what bothers me are the criteria – judged by whom for whom. And the youth of the chosen gardens. Most date from the early 1990s, some after 2005, and surely all of which are too young to be nationally significant. And their quantity?  I wonder how many can be of ‘national significance’ before the term becomes a cliché. Would ‘regional’ be more honest /less marketable? Is the focus more on ‘show’, ‘surface appeal’ or ‘makeover’ than sustainability, endurance and soul? Should it be?

‘Chinaberry’ on p.29 might be more widely known here as white cedar or Persian lilac or Indian bead tree. ‘Ixia viridiflora’ on p.30 is lime green: the lilac/pink one shown is I. flexuosa. Its home, Woodbridge, is claimed to be a New Zealand garden, large and with a ‘free spirit’, yet noting its owners annually travel overseas and bring ideas home with them, it seems derivative, with few New Zealand plants bar tree ferns and renga renga lilies. It could be anywhere, in England’s south, South Africa, south-eastern Australia?

Ted Smyth’s name changes from the title on p.36 to column two: now he’s Tom! He of course deserves inclusion here as a notable modernist and minimalist, much copied. Perhaps these are less gardens than wealthy stage sets but they are no less marvellous for that. He seems also genuinely curious about and reflective on the landscapes he works in: with Auckland’s volcanic scoria, boulders and plants always featured or somewhere in view, along with a few favoured exotics: aloes, bromeliads, aeoniums. Note that spelling, the italicised “Bromelia” (p.38) doesn’t exist: these are Alcantarea or Vriesia sp. I wonder if the kaitaki stones on p.38 should be ‘kaitiaki stones’ – i.e. guardians, or is their origin Kaitaki? I love the irrelevant p.39 mention of stones worn smooth by the sea, “like those found in the Seychelles”. Perhaps the author’s a regular there – stones on any sea coast are sea-worn! I think it open to challenge that Smyth is the ‘founder’ of modern garden design in New Zealand: he perhaps founded minimalist garden design, quite a different thing. What about modernists such as Alfred Tschopp, Odo Strewe (publishing in magazines) and Anna Plischke producing modern gardens in the 1950s? All were influential two decades before Smyth. Poor history perhaps, but good myth-making!

Ayrlies always shows up in such surveys. What a pity that one of its highlighted plants is the Cocos Island/Queen palms over the pool (p.43). This species is a serious environmental weed in Sydney and I wager is getting into South and West Auckland bush as easily. There are far better palms to feature in such a prominent, visited and over-published, location. The yellow candelabra primulas above are in fact P.heladoxa: the caption’s P.bulleyana is apricot. The ‘lime green cypresses’ (p.47) seem far more like golden honey locust (Gleditsia) or black locust (Robinia) in form and colour than any cypress. The ‘Bush Noon’ (p.48) would be a more helpful caption if it added ‘kangaroo paw’.

Trudy Crerar’s formal row of titoki trees in giant planter pots are the best thing in her garden (pp.52-3), yet their name is New Zealand ash, not ‘NZ oak’: the leaves are pinnate like an ash. And Lomandra x ‘Tanika’ is a matt rush, not a grass. Again sloppy captioning won’t help keen gardeners find the right plant if they want to emulate some of these ideas. This garden is of interest, being basically urban and formal but making use of native plants. Perhaps there should be more of this in New Zealand’s gardens as a whole?

Mark Read’s prize-winning Takapuna garden (p.57) is intriguing yet poorly described. If its planting at the front and lining the drive ‘incorporates it into the surrounding environment’, this is not borne out by the photographs, which show a high grey cement wall that obscures the house/surrounding environment. Text and images seem at odds here, which is unfortunate.

New Zealand is one of the great rhododendron-growing climates in the world and Hollard Gardens (established, 1927) and Pukeiti (established, 1951) feature this genus, in two of the book’s oldest gardens. Sadly no image actually shows Hollard Gardens, an inexplicable omission. Couldn’t one of the loving close-ups of “rhodos” been substituted for a landscape shot of Hollard’s?

One of the best gardens in the book for me is Te Kainga Marire in New Plymouth: all native, rich in ‘bush feel’, texture and layering – beckoning exploration. Yet again poor botany lets down its captions: ‘ponga’ trunks (p.74) are in fact wheki ponga (Dicksonia spp. not Cyathea) with quite distinct ‘bark’ effects. This may not matter to a European but to an Antipodean or someone trying to grow wheki ponga, the former is far hardier than the latter. Southern English gardens such as Heligan can keep dicksonias alive. Accuracy matters. Cyathea medullaris (mamaku) is shown with its larger fronds (top right p.74 and ditto p.75) yet the distinction is not made – again, a pity. The standout plant Xeronema’s home on the Poor Knights Islands (p.76) is to, not ‘in’, the north of New Zealand – bad grammar.

I think it sad that the Richmond Garden in Carterton is vaunted as being internationally significant – it’s hardly Versailles, Schönbrunn, Studley Royal or Aranjuez, all formal gardens listed on the World Heritage List. Perhaps the New Zealand Gardens Trust thinks it needn’t convince anyone but itself of such stature? The garden seems wholly derivative – a kind of ‘House & Garden’ lift – the oeuvre of undoubtedly lucrative and successful garden ‘designers’ such as Paul Bangay (Australia), Russel Page (UK/Europe), but ‘New Zealand’? More like a stage set from France or Italy dropped in and around a New Zealand house. I can’t make out a single native plant – the water at least is local. Odd but undoubtedly the garden of an architect’s daughter and a mathematician: and good on them, having fun! How much more exciting would this be if the pleached hedges were Nothofagus sp. and the box balls and cubes were made of Gaultheria, Coprosma, Lophomyrtus – move over, France! Of course even the captions get it wrong – fanned hedges are of beech, not ‘beach’!

Assisi Gardens, near Masterton, is full of Echium pininniana, (not ‘pinnifolium’ – p.90) and Viper’s bugloss is actually Echium vulgare, a lower weedy species, quite different. At least they’re playing with native hedges (Corokia sp., p.93) – bravo! Spiky combinations of flax, grasses and echiums work very well here. And animate in the constant winds no doubt.

Woollaston Estates’ winery with its green rooves (not as stated ‘roofs’) of tussock seems eminently well-grounded in a sea of grasses, though contrasting with bright green paddocks beyond! It’s good to see an industrial building trying to fit into its landscape and using all-native plants to do so. More of these would be inspirational indeed. No doubt the insulation value of an earth roof on a winery building makes good economic and thermal sense too.

Lammerting’s lack of research again shows on p.100’s claim that wine has only been grown and pressed professionally for a few decades in New Zealand – rot: perhaps ‘on an industrial scale’ might be true. James Busby’s vineyards in Waitangi and Northland in the 1830s; the Reverend Samuel Marsden’s in Kerikeri from 1819 and the French (Lavaud), Monte in Otago from the 1860s offer mockery of this ‘fact’ – the second wave of wineries and perhaps widespread export date from the ‘Dalmatians’ and 1970s on, but not the first.

Hortensia, Blenheim’s gazebo, is claimed to be French (like its owners), yet isn’t. ‘Gazebo’ isn’t the French word for ‘beautiful view’ – that is ‘belle vue’. Gazebo, the word, has disputed origins (likely Middle-English/Latin, corrupted) though these structures are built for views. My French dictionary says gaze means ‘gauze’, actually! P.114-5’s captioned ‘Acacia podalyriifolia’ is in fact Podalyria calyptrata, a pea bush from South Africa, not wattle.  Last time I knew the plural of chateau was chateaux (cf ‘chateaus’, p.123) – Madame’s French seems lacking for someone German!

A highlight for me is Jimma’s garden by the sea at Seddon (Marlborough). To my expatriate eyes, this is ‘stunning’. Striking in its sensitivity to the wind-blown, salty yet beautiful coastal views and its all-native (bar the golden lupins redolent of coastal dunes) plants and rolling drifts of planting seem well-adapted and settled: yet it only dates from 2000. The house has a green roof and nestles into its surrounds. Only a folly skylight pokes up above the green and gold waves. Restraint and ‘fit’ seem well-thought through and likely to survive, far more so than some ‘transplanted Sissinghurst/Versailles’. I found his grove of upright lollipop ngaios amazingly formal. Either he’s pruning them up on straight trunks or they’re something else, like a Pseudopanax: the crowns are so marvellously tight they seem far from ‘shaggy/irregular’ ngaios. Again why can’t natives be pruned, like a marvellous parallel ‘sand dune’ garden on Melbourne’s Mornington Peninsula, Fiona Brockhoff’s Karkalla is pruning local she oak (Casuarina glauca) into lollipops on poles/half spheres on ground. She clearly has had great fun and in its way, exactly what the wind does to them in such situations: why ever not!?

Similarly Ralf Kruger’s Queenstown gardens seem well-adapted to their adopted landscape. He’s clearly been growing and studying NZ plants for decades in Germany before migrating. Perhaps, too, Otago’s dramatic montane landscapes are not such a change of ‘scenery’ for high-altitude Germans, Austrians, French or Swiss? His work deserves wider coverage. He appears to have a real feel (like Jimma) for the landscapes and plants he has adopted. A certain boldness and largeness of scale fits such large scale settings very well, in my view.

Ohinetahi (1970+) bobs up time and again in such books, deservedly so. Gardening on a volcanic rim and not far from fault lines brings rather more chaos to the evident order here than perhaps has been its experience to date. Sissinghurst-transplanted the garden plane may be, but Kent has nothing like a caldera as backdrop, nor the limpid mud-silt-blue of Lyttelton Harbour as backdrop. Such advantages! Again an architect’s garden and it shows. Great to see Miles Warren reworking it into bolder reds: way too much cream in such situations! Nice too to see plain concrete block used so elegantly (he has for decades), an overlooked very ‘kiwi’ everyday material worth elevation. But England holds swain: a kowhai, single cabbage tree (and some wonderful ‘lines’ of Hebe topiara) seem the only natives to have ‘jumped the fence’. Bit more reworking would make it sing stronger. Libocedrus, Plagianthus,  Hoheria, totara and Coprosma could replace yew, hornbeam, beech and box – surely?

Sloppy history again appears in Lammerting’s discussion of Akaroa’s Tree Crop Farm. It wasn’t Capability Brown who ‘jumped the fence and saw all nature as a garden’. It was William Kent, his competitor. Brown demolished the fences altogether and brought grass and sheep up to the house’s windows.

Hamilton Gardens’ history guidebook claims that New Zealand gardens are getting more conservative with time. This seems borne out by many of the selections in this book, such as the Trott’s garden in Ashburton (p.172). Isn’t a knot garden being ‘a natural work of art’ a tautology? A ‘work of art’ is by definition ‘art-ificial – something made cf. ‘natural’ – even if the ingredients themselves are living, natural plants. And I think it fairer to say knot gardens were not ‘rediscovered’ in the 20th century. They’d been lovingly replanted in some instances in each century since the middle ages, but were popularly revived in the 20th.

The other highlight for me is Broadfields near Christchurch – reinvented European formality but using New Zealand plants instead – boldly and well: with totara hedges, native shrubs replacing herbaceous border plants… Makes others trying to ‘do formal’ look very formulaic. Not to knock them: they’re done beautifully – but less ‘inspirational’ than this is. Pity p.194’s formal vista isn’t centred on the power pole over the fence and hedge (can’t hide it. Perhaps in time those kauri trees will!) Wonderful that this is an ‘allotment’ garden with no house either. It is intriguingly silent on what David Hobbs’ wife thinks of it all. Does she want flowers? Or does she enjoy having time free to herself!?

Larnach’s Castle garden also is a regular flag-bearer for New Zealand gardens (and buildings), and with ample justification. This is gardening (heritage ‘rescue’ and business-running) with verve and aplomb. And great to see it under snow. But here small things let the text down: ‘Neo-Gothic’ is less accurate than Italianate-Gothic for the house. European trees and shrubs are not the only things planted near the castle. Two cabbage trees flank its front steps, a rimu grows close to its northern side and several large native beech are to its south (shown on p.212 and labelled ‘cedars’!) and a large northern rata is on its northern lawn not far from the house. Are these not all native trees? I’d question whether the glass-topped cupola, box parterre (a very French word/concept) and border are in fact ‘British’ style par excellence. Far more continental (Franco/Italo/Indian) in effect and eclecticism, I would say. If that’s British, so be it. Interesting that Margaret Barker is growing totara-clipped hedges and planting a great number of native plants in the gardens now – in its own ‘transplanted exotic’ way, the castle is innovating. Its south-Pacific garden full of Gondwanaland-shared plants between fragmented continents is one of the absolute highlights of this place. It’s worth a visit alone.

REVIEW ARTICLE: Thomas Mawson: Life, Gardens and Landscapes

Saturday, August 14th, 2010

Janet Waymark, Thomas Mawson: Life, Gardens and Landscapes, Frances Lincoln, London, 2009, pp.240, ISBN-13: 978 0 7112 2595 4 (hbk.).

Walter Cook

Figure 1: Thomas Mawson in early maturity. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 6.

Figure 1: Thomas Mawson in early maturity. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 6.

Janet Waymark’s account of Thomas Mawson’s life and work includes copious descriptions and analyses of the gardens, parks, and towns he designed, well supported by plans and photographs. Mawson (Figure 1) was the first English garden designer to call himself “landscape architect,” and as a second string to his business he took up the emerging profession of town planning. In both garden design and town planning he gained a national and international reputation.

Thomas Mawson’s early life

Janet Waymark’s introduction deals with Mawson’s early life and the state of Britain at the time that he established his nursery business at Windermere in the Lake District in 1885. It is very much a rags to riches story typical of the Victorian period. The lives of architect and garden designer Joseph Paxton and novelist Charles Dickens are obvious examples that spring to mind. So also is the life of one of Mawson’s wealthiest clients and patrons, Andrew Carnegie, the Scottish born, American iron and steel millionaire for whom Scotland remained a second home.

Mawson’s father, John, died in 1877 and two years later in 1879, at the age of 16, like Dick Whittington, the largely self-educated Mawson was forced to leave home and seek in London, not only his fortune, but that of two brothers, two sisters, and a mother. This strong sense of family responsibility was combined with ambition, a liberal, protestant work ethic, and that great Victorian virtue of self-help. Family was important to Mawson throughout his professional life, and his business was very much a family affair that included brothers, sons, and at times members of his extended family. Between 1879 and 1885 he gained positions with several commercial nurseries in London and Somerset, and through this work acquired a training in horticulture, a knowledge of plants and plantsmanship, and some of the skills required in running a business.

It was during his time in London that Mawson met Anna Prentice, a trained nurse and the daughter of a doctor. They married in 1884 with the security that Mawson had been given a partnership with a firm that promised him the opportunity to train as a landscape designer. In the event the offer of a partnership fell through, and instead, he found land in the Lake District, and with the help of his brothers established a nursery, Mawson Brothers (later Lakeland Nurseries), from which he hoped to establish a landscaping business of his own.

Mawson the garden designer

The world which Mawson hoped to break into as a garden designer with no qualifications other than those of a gardener and nurseryman, was one ruled by rigid social hierarchy. The occupation of gardener was at the very bottom of the pile. This had not always been the case, and in the mid-Victorian period gardeners could become famous arbiters of taste, creating gardens, writing books, and sometimes overriding the wishes of their employers. But as the late-Victorian class system became more rigid and stratified, the gardener was relegated to the role of a servant, fit only to take instruction from the master, the owner of the estate. In the words of historian Brent Elliott, ‘the Victorian myth of the heroic gardener was replaced by the myth of the amateur plantsman, of aristocratic, or at least wealthy extraction, whose garden was informed by his own artistic sensibility, and whose gardeners have disappeared without trace in horticultural literature.’[1] Gertrude Jekyll is an obvious example of the new myth, a woman from a well-off middle class background, art school trained, who took up garden design when her eyesight began to fail. She was able to form partnerships with successful professional men of her own class such as architect Edwin Lutyens, and fill a role that in the recent past had been the preserve of professional gardeners. According to Janet Waymark, Jekyll’s attitude to Mawson, a man who had risen through the trade, was always rather distant and frosty, though she could not ignore him, and he was included in the book Gardens for Small Country Houses that Jekyll wrote with Lawrence Weaver, architectural editor for Country Life.[2] In the context of these realities, it was important for Mawson to be seen as a “landscape architect” rather than a landscape gardener with all the lower class connotations that being a gardener implied. But as well as this, it was also important because architects were getting in on the act, and leading the charge in modern British garden design.

There was also a battle of horticultural styles emerging which would include an assertion by architects that as they were the professionals trained in design, they were best qualified to design gardens, especially in relation to the house. In part this was a reaction to the natural, or wild garden promoted by William Robinson. Followers of Robinson tended to abandon form and design in favour of a paradise wilderness in which the native British vegetation was enhanced by colourful hardy exotics. To counter this, architects such as John Sedding and William Blomfield proposed a return to formal gardens, which should be seen as extensions of the house and even enclosed by walls and hedges from the landscape beyond. Mawson was one of the garden designers of the late-nineteenth and early twentieth centuries who resolved this dichotomy by developing gardens in which formal elements were not only associated with the house, but also thrust out into, and included, the immediate landscape or surrounding woodland which could also be enhanced in the manner of the natural garden.

The intellectual background of garden design in Britain

Another aspect of the new formal gardens lay in a political and cultural shift in late-nineteenth and early twentieth century Britain and Europe that historians have subsequently dubbed “romantic nationalism.” In Britain, empire was a large part of this– more particularly, the imperial destiny of the Anglo Saxon Race. Janet Waymark deals with this in the person of the politician and arch imperialist, Joseph Chamberlain, and the political idea of “Greater Britain.” She suggests that, for Mawson, its cultural implications related to his town planning activities outside Britain, especially in Canada, and ‘the danger that Englishness would be adopted without any consideration that settlers in new lands would want to evolve styles of their own’ (17). Certainly the city he projected for Calgary, Alberta, was a grand imperial fantasy for a frontier city in the throws of what historian James Belich calls “explosive settlement.”[3]

Another aspect of romantic nationalism was the belief that national cultural characteristics were rooted in ancient traditions. This led to movements in architecture and design throughout Europe and beyond that promoted vernacular traditions as a source of modern cultural expression linked to national identity. Architect Reginald Blomfield’s book The Formal Garden in England (1892), as well as trouncing landscape and natural gardeners in favour of architects, was also intended to demonstrate that, unlike the mid Victorian view that British formal gardens existed only as a local response to those of Italy and France, there was a distinctive native tradition reaching back to Tudor times and beyond.[4] This was to lead to the revival of the old English formal garden that became very popular with another movement that fed into romantic nationalism and the search for a vernacular based modern culture.

The Arts and Crafts movement arose from the writings of John Ruskin and William Morris, both of whom were protesting against the industrial revolution and the factory system in particular. This protest included utopian ideas for an anti-liberal, communal, green, post-industrial future for Britain, predicated on an idealised view of a supposed green, communal, pre-industrial past. In practical terms it was a factor in the development of the garden suburb and the idea of the garden city, and inspired a generation of architects, many of whom designed gardens with their houses, to study local building traditions, crafts and trades, and to design houses that fitted the locality in terms of traditional styles and materials. The Arts and Crafts movement was a strong influence on Mawson, especially in the gardens he designed in the 1890s and early 1900s. He went into partnership or association with arts and crafts architects Dan Gibson and Charles Mallows, who also designed gardens, and used local stone for dry stone walls and facing terraces, or brick if stone was not available, wood for garden furniture and trellis work, and hand made wrought iron gates designed by Gibson. He also absorbed and made use of those features of the old English formal garden favoured by Arts and Crafts garden designers, such as spaces enclosed by clipped hedges and topiary forms as features within formal garden spaces.

The other source of inspiration for modern formal gardens in Britain from 1890 to 1914 was a return to the Italian Renaissance garden as a model. This favoured less baroque examples of Italian gardens than those that informed the work of Charles Barry, for example, from the 1840s to 1860s. The new Italianate gardens were particularly associated with the work of architect Harold Peto, whose reputation in the style even won him commissions in Italy.

The old English formal garden and the new Italianate garden brought structure and form back to the modern British garden of this period in a new way that stood out from the rest of Europe. In the opinion of Edward Hyams, writing around the late 1960s, ‘in France, Germany, Holland, South Africa, Japan, and above all in the United States, advances in scientific horticulture were great; but there were none in the art of composing a garden, except in Britain.’[5] He goes on to claim that what emerged was a style that would accommodate, in a unity, the picturesque, the Italianate, the architectural, and plantsmanship. Thomas Mawson’s career as a garden designer was in the thick of this development (Figure 2).

Figure 2: Detail of the upper terrace, Rydal Hall. Designed in 1909 this garden has been recently restored. In spite of the influence of the Arts and Crafts Movement on him, Mawson was not above using moulded concrete for the balustrades and the large pots. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 46.

Figure 2: Detail of the upper terrace, Rydal Hall. Designed in 1909 this garden has been recently restored. In spite of the influence of the Arts and Crafts Movement on him, Mawson was not above using moulded concrete for the balustrades and the large pots. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 46.

The business of landscape design

Mawson established his business at Windermere at a propitious time. The Lake District, in spite of protests from conservationists, was being connected to the British railway network, which opened the area for development. Wealthy industrialists from nearby cities in search of country estates and sites for country houses were attracted to the area and its long established scenic reputation. It was from this group that Mawson gained most of his early commissions for gardens, and once in, satisfied clients passed his name on to others. This combined with Mawson’s cultivation of connections and promotional abilities, enabled him to grow his business beyond the Lake District, first throughout northern Britain, and finally, nationally. By 1901, as well as his nursery and home base in the Lake District, he had a head office in Lancaster, and a subsidiary office in London. Over the next 10 years, as well as designing gardens, he established himself as a maker of urban parks and a town planner, with offices in Canada and Greece. During this period, he also gained three very wealthy clients, two of whom facilitated his first opportunities to work outside Britain. One was Andrew Carnegie mentioned above. Another was the furniture manufacturer, Samuel Waring; the third, William Lever (Lord Leverhulme), who had made his fortune from Sunlight soap.

In 1897, Carnegie bought himself a permanent home in Scotland, Skibo Castle in Sutherland, and commissioned Mawson to improve the landscape. But more importantly for Mawson’s standing in his profession, was Carnegie’s decision after his retirement in 1899, to turn his fortune into a foundation for welfare, education, and peace. In 1903, he gave $1.5 million U.S. to build the Peace Palace at The Hague. When work on the Palace finally commenced in 1908, Mawson, as one of three invited competitors, won the commission for the laying out the grounds. Through the influence of Samuel Waring, Mawson got the job of designing the garden for Queen Alexandra’s holiday home in Copenhagen. Both of these commissions were important for Mawson’s professional reputation. The first established him as a leading garden designer in the context of Europe, and the second enhanced his status in class-conscious Britain. Janet Waymark also suggests that the royal commission, given Queen Alexandra’s links with the Greek Royal family, may have been an important factor in King Constantine’s decision in 1913 to select Mawson as the man to provide a town plan and a park system for Athens as well as work on designs for the Palace gardens. This was a commission on which Mawson and his firm could use all of their accumulated skills in garden and park design and town planning (Figure 3).

Figure 3: A pergola of Pompeian splendour designed by Mawson for the garden of The Hill, Hampstead, for William Lever. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 54.

Figure 3: A pergola of Pompeian splendour designed by Mawson for the garden of The Hill, Hampstead, for William Lever. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 54.

Town planning

Mawson became a pioneer town planner via park design. In the early 1890s, to give his business another income stream, he decided to enter competitions for the design of public parks. It was through one of these projects that he connected with the guru of the early town planning movement in Britain, the Scotsman, Patrick Geddes. In 1903, he and Geddes were invited by the Carnegie Trust to prepare plans for a park in Pittencrieff, Dunfermline, on land given to the town by Andrew Carnegie. In

the event Carnegie rejected both proposals, but offered Mawson the job at Skibo Castle. Mawson’s illustrated report on the park was published, and through this his reputation reached North America and was important in relation to his future work there. For a brief period Mawson and Geddes considered working together, but as each man’s approach to design was so very different, it is not surprising that this never eventuated.

City improvement was not unknown in Britain before the 1890s. From the middle of the century this had been instigated by civic leaders, and patrons, and motivated by public health and sanitary concerns. Industrial cities like Manchester, Glasgow and Halifax had cleared central city slums and created new urban centres with grand town halls, museums, art galleries, and even parks. Effecting these improvements was in the hands of architects and civil engineers. Along with this, an understanding of the causes of disease had been growing since the 1830s, and from the 1860s this had instigated a great age of drain laying. London was provided with 1,100 miles of sewage tunnels and subsidiary drains in the 1860s, and by 1883 the factories of Doulton’s of Lambeth, for one, were churning out each week 37 miles of salt glazed stoneware drain pipes for use in British towns and cities.

City improvement did not constitute town planning as it developed from the 1890s. Slums may have been cleared from areas undergoing improvement, but tenants were simply evicted and left to regroup where rents were low, reconstituting the slums out of sight of the new urban centres. Nor did city improvement espouse an overall plan with zones for the various functions of the city. Britain also continued to urbanise throughout the second half of the nineteenth century, placing continuing pressure on the services and facilities of cities. By 1911, 80 per cent of the British population lived in cities and towns. It was in the context of these realities that town planning emerged as a profession designed to deal holistically with cities and towns and their various functions and communities.

The sort of town planning espoused by Mawson went by the name of “civic art.” It dealt with practical issues such as traffic circulation and zoning , but was strongly influenced by continental examples of urban renewal such as took place in Paris, Vienna, and Berlin, and through the teaching and styles of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, Paris. Practitioners imagined ideal cities imposed on exciting urban landscapes. This vision brought with it difficulties

in liberal democratic Britain and Canada, where elected governments and local bodies were of temporary duration, and dependent on a voting public with a strong interest in their own property rights and the spending of public money. These schemes needed the miracle of democratic consensus, or a ruthless dictator with vision, security of tenure, and a strong stable economy. It is notable that the only British example of this sort of city was not achieved in their homeland, but in India where they ruled as imperial autocrats: New Delhi’s construction did not depend on permission from the representatives of a voting public. Mawson had experienced these sorts of difficulties as a result of his proposal for Pittencrieff Park. His plan included ‘driving new streets right through the town and destroying nearly half the buildings including the new baths’[6] and the house of the chairman of the Carnegie Trust who had commissioned the plan. Thus its rejection was probably a foregone conclusion. In Britain, the situation was never going to allow the sort of makeover that Baron Haussmann implemented in Paris during the reign of Napoleon the Third.

Janet Waymark characterises civic art as a mixture of town planning and park building, and Mawson’s version of it as a concern with the aesthetics of town planning. It was an approach where town planners spent most of their time considering the appearance and arrangement of buildings, leaving local authorities to take care of water, sewage, and electricity. Waymark also presents Mawson as being strongly influenced by the American “city beautiful” movement and the writings of its promoter, Charles Mulford Robinson. This movement flourished from 1893 to 1903 and remained an influence on town planning during the first two decades of the twentieth century.

In concert with the rise of civic art and the city beautiful, there was a revival of classical architecture that superseded the various free historical styles of the 1870s to 1890s. In Britain this was manifested in a revival based on baroque and renaissance models for public buildings, and a return to Georgian domestic architecture, which had entered the cannon of “British vernacular” (Figure 4). Mawson took to this change, approving of its formal discipline and order, and through this style gave expression to his vision of the ideal cities that he planned for Canada and Greece. In 1910, his eldest son, Edward, joined the firm. By that time Edward was a qualified architect trained in Britain and at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. In 1913, he was given the job of running Mawson and Sons’ office in Greece. Mawson’s second son, John, qualified in town planning at Liverpool University where a department of civic art had been established in 1908 funded by a grant from William Lever. John was to take charge of the Vancouver office in 1912.[7]

Figure 4: Robert Atkinson’s presentation watercolour of Mawson’s gardens for the Peace Palace at The Hague, 1908. The unexpectedly high cost of preparing the site meant that most of the architectural embellishments were abandoned, and stone was replaced by brick. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 65.

Figure 4: Robert Atkinson’s presentation watercolour of Mawson’s gardens for the Peace Palace at The Hague, 1908. The unexpectedly high cost of preparing the site meant that most of the architectural embellishments were abandoned, and stone was replaced by brick. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 65.

Mawson and Sons’ involvement in town planning projects in Canada and Greece lasted for about four years. In Canada the firm worked on town plans for Ottawa, Vancouver, Regina, and Calgary, and on plans for the universities of Saskatoon and British Columbia. Ultimately, I am left with a sense of frustration that so much was planned and so little realised. Local politics, local competitors, and an emergent Canadian nationalism were part of the problem. The other part was Mawson himself and his idealistic approach to town planning. His vision of the imperial city beautiful bore little relationship to the realities of frontier states that in the case of Saskatchewan and Alberta were not far away from tents in the wilderness. Their priorities lay ultimately in establishing viable economic bases, and Mawson’s vision was too expensive to implement. Alberta was still experiencing a settlement boom when Mawson arrived on the scene. In just 12 years Calgary had grown from a town of four thousand to a city of 44,000. The situation was volatile and potentially unstable, even without the disruption of the First World War. Of Mawson’s supporters in Canada, Janet Waymark writes ‘they were the leaders of society and higher education … [who] either admired or were intensely patriotic to empire and its roots in the crown’. Mawson himself, notes Waymark, ‘could write of the malls he planned for Vancouver that these were places for viewing royal processions, without a flicker of doubt that this might not be appropriate’ (164) (Figure 5).

Figure 5: Calgary as the imperial “city beautiful.” Frontispiece to ‘Calgary’, Mawson’s report on his town plan for the city. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 160.

Figure 5: Calgary as the imperial “city beautiful.” Frontispiece to ‘Calgary’, Mawson’s report on his town plan for the city. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 160.

The situation in Greece was also a political minefield and the country was unstable. The new Athens planned by Mawson exists only on paper. In 1917, his patron, King Constantine, went into exile and his younger brother took his place as a puppet of the nationalist goverment. Anti-royalist feeling in the country and parliament left Mawson high and dry without any support for his scheme. But in the same year, he was invited back to Greece as part of an international team brought together by the government to formulate a plan for rebuilding Thessaloniki, a large part of which had been destroyed by fire. The resulting plan was a fusion of the generically similar schemes of Mawson and the French member of the team, Ernest Hébrard. It is only in Theasaloniki that a shadow of Mawson’s formal city beautiful can be seen today (Figure 6).

Figure 6: Modern Thessaloniki. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 181.

Figure 6: Modern Thessaloniki. From: Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 181.

The Greek venture was Mawson’s last commission outside Britain. After the First World War the firm worked, as before, on town plans, parks, and to a lesser extent, gardens, but Mawson’s schemes for cities like Bolton foundered as they had in Canada and Greece. He died in 1933 just as the new international modernism was beginning its rise to world dominance. It was also the year that Hitler came to power, so he missed the experience of Europe’s most extreme manifestation of romantic nationalism, Nazi Germany.

Conclusion

Janet Waymark’s richly detailed study of Mawson’s life and work is a valuable addition to our knowledge of a period of culture that almost vanished from human consciousness after the Second World War. The last 40 years has seen its slow emergence from the closet. It was a time when the modern English garden and the English house were widely admired throughout the western world and Mawson played an important part in these developments. Though he may not have achieved his ideal cities, he helped to humanise urban environments through designing and building parks, and perhaps without his visionary town plans, which also contained a good deal that was practical, the city leaders involved would not have been challenged to consider possibilities beyond the pragmatic and immediate. This is often the main purpose of the consultant’s work.

The twentieth century with death duties, world wars, economic depression and rising labour costs has not been kind to Mawson’s gardens. Of those featured in the book only a few have come through largely intact. One has been recovered through restoration, and given the extent of Mawson’s archive more may be revived from their original plans.

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[1] Brent Elliott, Victorian Gardens (London: B.T. Batsford, 1986), 216.

[2] (London: Country Life; New York: C. Scribner & Sons, 1914).

[3] Replenishing the Earth: The Settler Revolution and the Rise of the Anglo World, 1783-1939 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009).

[4] (London, Macmillan, 1892).

[5] Edward Hyams, A History of Gardens and Gardening (London: J.M. Dent and Sons, 1971), 299.

[6] J. Howard Whitehead, Carnegie Trustee, quoted in Waymark, Thomas Mawson, 194.

[7] In 1926, Parliament passed New Zealand’s first town planning act. In 1928, John Mawson was appointed as the second Director of Town Planning in this country, a position he held until 1933. Caroline Miller, ‘A Prophet in a Barren Land: the New Zealand Career of J.W. Mawson’, in The 21st Century City: Past/Present/Future, Proceedings of Seventh Australasian Urban History/Planning History Conference (Geelong: Deakin University, 2004), 258-271.

REVIEW: The Painted Garden in New Zealand Art

Saturday, August 14th, 2010

Christopher Johnstone, The Painted Garden in New Zealand Art, Godwit, Auckland, 2008, pp. 272, ISBN: 978 1 86962 141 4 (hbk.).

James Beattie

Christopher Johnstone’s The Painted Garden in New Zealand Art is a beautifully produced book that should appeal to lovers of gardens and garden art the world over. Containing over 100 artworks of New Zealand gardens from early colonial times to the present, The Painted Garden is testimony to the powerful place of garden-making in the New Zealand artistic imagination.

An art historian and former Director of the Auckland Art Gallery (1988-1995), Johnstone selected the images for their innate aesthetic appeal as well as for their depiction of identifiable gardens owned by or known to the artist. A useful introduction surveys some of New Zealand’s main (European) garden history themes such as the vogue for the gardenesque, the introduction of exotics, and the initially gendered nature of botanical art, while each of the book’s five main parts is prefaced. Its five parts are organised into the following sections: the Early Artists (1830-1860); Later Nineteenth Century (1860-1890); Early Modern (1890-1940); Modern (1940-1970); Contemporary (1970-2008). A one-page discussion accompanies each image, placing it in its cultural, gardening and art historical setting. This allows Johnstone to guide the viewer through the image’s multiple layers and greatly enriches one’s appreciation of its aesthetic and historical significance.

The book’s wide breadth, both temporally and stylistically, means that it provides a visual record of different pictorial traditions and garden styles. Traditional topographical images informed by European picturesque conventions can thus be compared with neo-pointillist garden depictions. Richard Kelly’s draughtsman-like depiction of semi-rural Dunedin in 1862, with its close attention to detail and gorgeously vivid greens, can be contrasted with William Cumming’s neo-pointillism in ‘Garden’ (1976), with its Seuret-like haziness. In some instances, the individual layout of gardens – as interpreted by artists – can be discerned. Consider the two images of Governor George Grey’s paradisiacal hideaway on Kawau Island (by Alfred Sharpe and Constance Cumming respectively), which reveal the owner’s fascination with acclimatisation of exotic plants and animals. Compare the Grey mansion’s grandeur with the more modest settler home and garden of the Ardern family in Taranaki (by Hamar and Francis Ardern), with its neatly tended lawn and bright flowers. Contrast the gently subdued pinks and greens used to depict the garden (displaying the vogue for the ‘gardenesque’) and residence of Captain William and Mary King in Jermyn St., Auckland (1858) with Pat Hanly’s psychedelically bright, abstract ‘Garden Energy’ (1972).

In reflecting on the methods and perspectives of garden history, eminent garden historian, John Dixon Hunt, complains that, in their popular writing, ‘new wine is poured into old-shaped bottles,’ as ‘gardenists’ shirk their responsibility ‘to set their local work in context’. They make little attempt, he observes, to explain those ‘figures emerging from the shadows of the shrubbery in the light of either any narrative of garden making that might explain their significance over and beyond their mere presence on the scene, or any idea of the garden, to which they may or may not have contributed.’ In other words, there is often little attempt by writers of popular garden histories to contextualise their work in relation to other garden developments, let alone wider historical processes. While this, in part, reflects the divergence between popular and academic approaches (and here Hunt finds fault also with practitioners sequestered in the ivory tower), it also, he notes, arises as a result of a distinct lack of methodology or acceptance of garden history in university circles.[1]

With its sumptuous illustrations, printing on glossy art paper and hard-back publication, The Painted Garden in New Zealand Art is clearly a luxurious book. Its appearance would seem to indicate its market – towards the popular – yet it also is rare among such works in that it provides welcome detail and further notes that can be followed up on both garden history itself and the artists whose work is reproduced. As noted, there is a particularly useful contextualisation of New Zealand garden history in the introduction, while each entry facing the image contextualises the scene from a garden and art historical perspective. At the end are biographies of the artists mentioned (236-261), a glossary (263) and a bibliography (265-268) of further works an enthusiastic reader can follow up.

The author thus succeeds admirably in catering, first and foremost, to his popular audience, in the process also situating the work in its wider garden and art historical contexts. As such, then, The Painted Garden in New Zealand Art is a fine book, which should find a home in the library of many garden and art lovers while also serving admirably as a useful reference tool to academics.

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[1] John Dixon Hunt, ‘Approaches (New and Old) to Garden History’, in Michel Conan, ed., Perspectives on Garden Histories (Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1999), 77-90 (quotes, 81-82).

GARDEN REVIEW: ‘Te Parapara Garden’ and ‘The Indian Char Bagh Garden’, Hamilton Gardens

Saturday, August 14th, 2010

Peter Sergel & Geoff Doube

Introduction

First-time visitors to Hamilton Gardens who arrive expecting a collection of plants in a traditional botanic garden will be in for a surprise. Rather than simply focussing on plant collections, at Hamilton Gardens the emphasis is on the gardens themselves. While botanic gardens concentrate on plant taxonomy and classification, Hamilton Gardens concentrates on the cultural meanings and contexts that gardens have historically had.

Throughout history, gardens have been a way of expressing the important philosophical ideas of their time, and in many respects the story of gardens corresponds with the story of human thought. There is more to be learnt from gardens than plant names. They can also increase our understanding of the beliefs and values of the people who made them.

Hamilton Gardens tells the story of gardens by recreating some of the most historically important garden styles from a wide variety of times and places. The aim of this short article, the first of several, is to explain a little bit about each style of garden and to place each of them in their historical context.

Te Parapara Garden

While some modified landscapes were valued solely as spiritual sites, it was more common to combine the spiritual aspects of a garden with more practical purposes, for example, that of food production. An outstanding example of this could be found in pre-European times along the banks of the Waikato River, which were important sites of Tainui Māori settlement. The fertile sandy soil ideal suited the cultivation of traditional crops, the most important of which was kumara (Ipomoea batatas).

Figure 1: Entrance to Te Parapara Garden.

Figure 1: Entrance to Te Parapara Garden.

Te Parapara (Figure 1) represents these earliest of Waikato gardeners and it takes its name from the pa that occupied part of the site of Hamilton Gardens. The two sections of Te Parapara are separated by a carved waharoa (gate). The carvings on the waharoa are based on designs from a house called Te Urutomokia that was built for Potatau Te Wherowhero, who became the first Māori King in 1858.

Before the new Māori arrivals in Aotearoa were able to develop largescale horticulture, they were nourished by the foods they found growing wild in the bush. The section between the Piazza and the waharoa is the realm belonging to Haumia Tike-tike, the deity of uncultivated plant food. This section, called Te Ara Whakatauki (the path of proverbs), features many of the wild plants that were sources of food for traditional Māori society, for example, the Aruhe (Pteridium esculentum), the Karaka (Corynocarpus laevigatus) and the Kiekie (Freycinetia banksii) can all be eaten, although they tend to require extensive preparation to render them edible.

The section inside the waharoa is the realm of Haumia’s brother Rongomatane, deity of cultivated food crops. The Kumara was brought to Aotearoa (New Zealand) by the Māori along with other food crops but was the only one to thrive anywhere except in the far north. The cultivation and storage of Kumara was therefore a matter of the utmost importance to Māori society. Fresh Kumara were stored in covered pits called rua, whilst dried Kumara could be stored in storehouses called pataka, which were elevated on posts to protect against rats and other threats.

Indian Char Bagh Garden

Figure 2: Image looking towards garden entrance.

Figure 2: Image looking towards garden entrance.

Like Te Parapara, the Char Bagh Garden (Figure 2) is a form of garden that contains a wealth of spiritual representation in its design. While Te Parapara’s symbolism represents local deities and the day-to-day concern of horticulture, the Char Bagh symbolises a more general and abstract spirituality. In Persian, ‘Char’ means ‘four’ and ‘Bagh’ means ‘garden’. Char Bagh are thus walled, four-quartered gardens. They are sometimes called ‘universal’ gardens because of their very widespread occurrence.

Char Bagh have a history that stretches back at least four thousand years. Although they originated in ancient Persia, it was the Muslims who distributed them over a geographical range that extended from Spain in the West to India in the East. The wide extent of their geographical and historical dissemination is mirrored by the commonality of their appeal across cultures; traces of Jewish and Christian influence mingle with Islamic and Hindu motifs to create a truly universal garden. Char Bagh were adapted for the plains of Northern India by the first Mughal emperor, Barbur. While the Mughals themselves were Muslim, many of their subjects were Hindu and so the resulting Mughal Empire and its gardens were a blend of the two cultures.

The Hamilton Gardens example is based on an Indian Kursi-cum-Char-Bagh, or ‘Riverside Garden’. One of the distinctive features of this type of design is the location of the pavilion at the end of the garden overlooking the river (Figure 3). The flowers in the Hamilton Gardens Char Bagh ‘carpets’ are representative of those that would have been found in Mughal gardens. The water features are designed to bubble rather than splash because of the need to preserve water in arid climates, which lends the Char Bagh a calming, peaceful atmosphere.

Figure 3: Pavilion of Char Bagh Garden.

Figure 3: Pavilion of Char Bagh Garden.

ENNZ: Environment and Nature in New Zealand

GARDEN REVIEW: ‘Te Parapara Garden’ and ‘The Indian Char Bagh Garden’, Hamilton Gardens

PETER SERGEL &

GEOFF DOUBE

Introduction

First-time visitors to Hamilton Gardens who arrive expecting a collection of plants in a traditional botanic garden will be in for a surprise. Rather than simply focussing on plant collections, at Hamilton Gardens the emphasis is on the gardens themselves. While botanic gardens concentrate on plant taxonomy and classifi cation, Hamilton Gardens concentrates on the cultural meanings and contexts that gardens have historically had.

Throughout history, gardens have been a way of expressing the important philosophical ideas of their time, and in many respects the story of gardens corresponds with the story of human thought. There is more to be learnt from gardens than plant names. They can also increase our understanding of the beliefs and values of the people who made them.

Hamilton Gardens tells the story of gardens by recreating some of the most historically important garden styles from a wide variety of times and places. The aim of this short article, the first of several, is to explain a little bit about each style of garden and to place each of them in their historical context.

Te Parapara Garden

While some modified landscapes were valued solely as spiritual sites, it was more common to combine the spiritual aspects of a garden with more practical purposes, for example, that of food production. An outstanding example of this could be found in pre-European times along the banks of the Waikato River, which were important sites of Tainui Māori settlement. The fertile sandy soil ideal suited the cultivation of traditional crops, the most important of which was kumara (Ipomoea batatas).

Figure 1: Entrance to Te Parapara Garden

Te Parapara (Figure 1) represents these earliest of Waikato gardeners and it takes its name from the pa that occupied part of the site of Hamilton Gardens. The two sections of Te Parapara are separated by a carved waharoa (gate). The carvings on the waharoa are based on designs from a house called Te Urutomokia that was built for Potatau Te Wherowhero, who became the first Māori King in 1858.

Before the new Māori arrivals in Aotearoa were able to develop largescale horticulture, they were nourished by the foods they found growing wild in the bush. The section between the Piazza and the waharoa is the realm belonging to Haumia Tike-tike, the deity of uncultivated plant food. This section, called Te Ara Whakatauki (the path of proverbs), features many of the wild plants that were sources of food for traditional Māori society, for example, the Aruhe (Pteridium esculentum), the Karaka (Corynocarpus laevigatus) and the Kiekie (Freycinetia banksii) can

all be eaten, although they tend to require extensive preparation to render them edible.

The section inside the waharoa is the realm of Haumia’s brother Rongomatane, deity of cultivated food crops. The Kumara was brought to Aotearoa (New Zealand) by the Māori along with other food crops but was the only one to thrive anywhere except in the far north. The cultivation and storage of Kumara was therefore a matter of the utmost importance to Māori society. Fresh Kumara were stored in covered pits called rua, whilst dried Kumara could be stored in storehouses called pataka, which were elevated on posts to protect against rats and other threats.

Indian Char Bagh Garden

Figure 2: Image looking towards garden entrance

Like Te Parapara, the Char Bagh Garden (Figure 2) is a form of garden that contains a wealth of spiritual representation in its design. While Te Parapara’s symbolism represents local deities and the day-to-day concern of horticulture, the Char Bagh symbolises a more general and abstract spirituality. In Persian,

‘Char’ means ‘four’ and ‘Bagh’ means ‘garden’. Char Bagh are thus walled, four-quartered gardens. They are sometimes called ‘universal’ gardens because of their very widespread occurrence.

Char Bagh have a history that stretches back at least four thousand years. Although they originated in ancient Persia, it was the Muslims who distributed them over a geographical range that extended from Spain in the West to India in the East. The wide extent of their geographical and historical dissemination is mirrored by the commonality of their appeal across cultures; traces of Jewish and Christian influence mingle with Islamic and Hindu motifs to create a truly universal garden. Char

ENNZ: Environment and Nature in New Zealand

GARDEN REVIEW: ‘Te Parapara Garden’ and ‘The Indian Char Bagh Garden’, Hamilton Gardens

PETER SERGEL &

GEOFF DOUBE

Introduction

First-time visitors to Hamilton Gardens who arrive expecting a collection of plants in a traditional botanic garden will be in for a surprise. Rather than simply focussing on plant collections, at Hamilton Gardens the emphasis is on the gardens themselves. While botanic gardens concentrate on plant taxonomy and classifi cation, Hamilton Gardens concentrates on the cultural meanings and contexts that gardens have historically had.

Throughout history, gardens have been a way of expressing the important philosophical ideas of their time, and in many respects the story of gardens corresponds with the story of human thought. There is more to be learnt from gardens than plant names. They can also increase our understanding of the beliefs and values of the people who made them.

Hamilton Gardens tells the story of gardens by recreating some of the most historically important garden styles from a wide variety of times and places. The aim of this short article, the first of several, is to explain a little bit about each style of garden and to place each of them in their historical context.

Te Parapara Garden

While some modified landscapes were valued solely as spiritual sites, it was more common to combine the spiritual aspects of a garden with more practical purposes, for example, that of food production. An outstanding example of this could be found in pre-European times along the banks of the Waikato River, which were important sites of Tainui Māori settlement. The fertile sandy soil ideal suited the cultivation of traditional crops, the most important of which was kumara (Ipomoea batatas).

Figure 1: Entrance to Te Parapara Garden

Te Parapara (Figure 1) represents these earliest of Waikato gardeners and it takes its name from the pa that occupied part of the site of Hamilton Gardens. The two sections of Te Parapara are separated by a carved waharoa (gate). The carvings on the waharoa are based on designs from a house called Te Urutomokia that was built for Potatau Te Wherowhero, who became the first Māori King in 1858.

Before the new Māori arrivals in Aotearoa were able to develop largescale horticulture, they were nourished by the foods they found growing wild in the bush. The section between the Piazza and the waharoa is the realm belonging to Haumia Tike-tike, the deity of uncultivated plant food. This section, called Te Ara Whakatauki (the path of proverbs), features many of the wild plants that were sources of food for traditional Māori society, for example, the Aruhe (Pteridium esculentum), the Karaka (Corynocarpus laevigatus) and the Kiekie (Freycinetia banksii) can

all be eaten, although they tend to require extensive preparation to render them edible.

The section inside the waharoa is the realm of Haumia’s brother Rongomatane, deity of cultivated food crops. The Kumara was brought to Aotearoa (New Zealand) by the Māori along with other food crops but was the only one to thrive anywhere except in the far north. The cultivation and storage of Kumara was therefore a matter of the utmost importance to Māori society. Fresh Kumara were stored in covered pits called rua, whilst dried Kumara could be stored in storehouses called pataka, which were elevated on posts to protect against rats and other threats.

Indian Char Bagh Garden

Figure 2: Image looking towards garden entrance

Like Te Parapara, the Char Bagh Garden (Figure 2) is a form of garden that contains a wealth of spiritual representation in its design. While Te Parapara’s symbolism represents local deities and the day-to-day concern of horticulture, the Char Bagh symbolises a more general and abstract spirituality. In Persian,

‘Char’ means ‘four’ and ‘Bagh’ means ‘garden’. Char Bagh are thus walled, four-quartered gardens. They are sometimes called ‘universal’ gardens because of their very widespread occurrence.

Char Bagh have a history that stretches back at least four thousand years. Although they originated in ancient Persia, it was the Muslims who distributed them over a geographical range that extended from Spain in the West to India in the East. The wide extent of their geographical and historical dissemination is mirrored by the commonality of their appeal across cultures; traces of Jewish and Christian influence mingle with Islamic and Hindu motifs to create a truly universal garden. Char Bagh were adapted for the plains of Northern India by the first Mughal emperor, Barbur. While the Mughals themselves were Muslim, many of their subjects were Hindu and so the resulting Mughal Empire and its gardens were a blend of the two cultures.

The Hamilton Gardens example is based on an Indian Kursi-cum-Char-Bagh, or ‘Riverside Garden’. One of the distinctive features of this type of design is the location of the pavilion at the end of the garden overlooking the river (Figure 3). The flowers in the Hamilton Gardens Char Bagh ‘carpets’ are representative of those that would have been found in Mughal gardens. The water features are designed to bubble rather than splash because of the need to preserve water in arid climates, which lends the Char Bagh a calming, peaceful atmosphere.

Figure 3: Pavilion of Char Bagh Garden.

Bagh were adapted for the plains of Northern India by the first Mughal emperor, Barbur. While the Mughals themselves were Muslim, many of their subjects were Hindu and so the resulting Mughal Empire and its gardens were a blend of the two cultures.

The Hamilton Gardens example is based on an Indian Kursi-cum-Char-Bagh, or ‘Riverside Garden’. One of the distinctive features of this type of design is the location of the pavilion at the end of the garden overlooking the river (Figure 3). The flowers in the Hamilton Gardens Char Bagh ‘carpets’ are representative of those that would have been found in Mughal gardens. The water features are designed to bubble rather than splash because of the need to preserve water in arid climates, which lends the Char Bagh a calming, peaceful atmosphere.

Figure 3: Pavilion of Char Bagh Garden.

Some notes on the philosophy of Hamilton Gardens

Thursday, December 10th, 2009

Geoffrey Doube[1]

There is an interesting and on-going philosophical debate that can be traced through the scholarly journals of human geography, landscape architecture, and garden history.[2] The central question with which this debate is concerned is, “are gardens meaningful?” This debate is pertinent in relation to Hamilton Gardens because one of the key messages that visitors to Hamilton Gardens come away with is (hopefully) that gardens are meaningful. Thus the very existence of Hamilton Gardens seems to weigh in on the affirmative side of the debate. In this article I illustrate some ways gardens can be considered meaningful through the example of the Italian Renaissance Garden at Hamilton Gardens. (more…)