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Last week a friend mentioned seeing a yellow-flowering shrub on the VFW Parkway in Boston. It reminded me of the show of Hamamelis that used to appear outside of the Harvard Business School’s Baker Library back in the early 80s; when I first saw it (this was a few years before I became a landscape architect and learned what Hamamelis was) I thought a bank of Forsythia was blooming in February.

Saturday I was in Cambridge, and drove down a street that used to be on my route home from work at CRJA. As I turned the corner, this sight greeted me.

This street runs roughly east-west, and with buildings on both sides gets a slice of sun in the middle of the day. The sycamore maples further along the street add a bit of dappled shade to that slice, too. These Witch Hazels don’t seem to mind. And they have the room they need to spread and fill out their characteristic fountain habits.

Deskside greenery

Cattleya in bloom; Ripsalis in background


Another grey and cold day in a long, cold month. Going to my desk and working is a good antidote to the gloominess, especially when the Cattleya next to my drawing board blooms (as it did last fall), or the Ripsalis in the window each January reliably turns from a mop of green string into a mop of green string and yellow confetti. Each plant has its own delicate flower fragrance, which rests quietly in the air until someone walks through the room and stirs up faint currents of deliciousness. It’s a good reminder to use scented plants in the landscape.

Deskside landscape

The upside.


Years ago, a friend lent me a copy of this originally tiny ad from Nature magazine; clearly, it had already been copied and enlarged quite a few times before I got a copy of the friend’s copy. I keep it next to my desk, sometimes for encouragement, sometimes for a laugh. When a different mood strikes, or I need to step away from the desk after too long there, I flip the FomeCor placard over to see this other image:

The other side.

When I do that, clearly it’s time to take a walk outside and see what’s happening in the natural world, or even just to pat the cat.

meanwhile the wild geese

Landscape architects tend to use the term “sense of place” to describe the aspects of a place that set it apart from other places.  In a rapidly homogenizing world, noticing and honoring these differences is important.

But another component of “sense of place” lies in a place’s connections outward, and its place within a larger world: A town on a trunk railroad line, for example, will have a different sense of itself than a town on a one-track commuter line. Knowing that the same sun you see setting is simultaneously at high noon somewhere far to the west can give you a sense of your situation on the globe.  A cold front coming in from Canada reminds you that even though you may never see the arctic, it’s not really that far away.

This “sense of situation” can gain some support from the electronic media that are often seen as the enemy of place:

  • On the eve of New Year’s Day, 2000, we could sit in your living rooms watching TV and see, hourly, the celebration of the New Year approaching across Asia, Europe, the Atlantic islands, and the Eastern Provinces before it reached the US.  We could picture a front sweeping the globe, or the earth gradually rolling into the new millenium.
  • On facebook, we can listen in as our friends in different regions announce their weather.  It’s snowing in North Carolina … in Washington … in Pennsylvania …
  • And now we can use our phones to connect the bird that is (or isn’t) in our back yard to its species’ seasonal migration, reported and mapped in real time.

We are becoming more like John McPhee’s basketball players, whose “sense of where they are” combines alertness to their immediate surroundings with a constantly updated awareness of the court as a whole.

(Thanks to Mary Oliver for the title of the post.)

Every month Landscape Architecture Magazine arrives in the mailbox, and some months I look through it quickly for pieces that catch my eye. Other months it has to go on the stack of periodicals next to my desk until I can pick it up on a slow day.

The 2009 series on field sketching was a dandy one, and I found myself pulling out each of those articles to save. One of my favorite things to do is to look at process art — the work that shows you the inside of someone’s mind — so I dawdled over these issues. It was inspiring to look at different sketching styles and to read each landscape architect’s approach to the materials, subjects, conditions, and opportunities of sketching.

The January 2009 issue of the magazine, which I only just recently read, had a fine piece on designing for the winter landscape. What struck me about this piece was its tying design to maintenance. Anyone who has designed a place that gets regular snowfall knows the challenges of dealing with the need to move snow, of coping with ice, and of accommodating the freeze-thaw cycles of every winter. This article, written by Adam Regn Arvidsen, outlined some fairly commonplace tactics for designing in northern climates: including a basic inventory of a site’s winter maintenance needs, considering what happens to grout when it is exposed to moisture and cold, paying attention to pavement textures and slopes in areas where ice might accumulate.

The bit that most appealed, though, was the sidebar called “Quick Tips from Winter-Savvy Landscape Architects”. Arvidsen distilled suggestions from landscape architects in Vermont, Michigan, New York, Minnesota, and Maine into a useful tip sheet, with ideas about communicating with winter maintenance crews about design intent, using darker paving materials that will heat up and help melt snow, and avoiding evergreen plantings that might hang over cars or walkways, as the shade they make can encourage ice to form. (I’m always inclined to plant shrubs and trees fairly far back from pavement that’s going to get plowed, and instead use tough, blocky herbaceous plants, like peonies or hosta, that can hack getting snow dumped on them.)

These things all make sense, and as nuts-and-bolty as they are, consideration of this sort of practicality can lead to the kind of project detailing that lends ease and comfort and an air of gracious inevitability to a designed landscape.

Photo from Flickr, courtesy of the Chemical Heritage Foundation.

Sweep


‘Balnahard Bay, Colonsay’ by Bryan Dickinson 1 September 2009
“Noticed the lines that the Marram grass was drawing in the wind…. Rain shower just as we were finishing, had to run for cover.”

Piggybacking on your post, Toby, here’s another image from the same V & A exhibit; maybe two photos will compel even more people to look at this link.

I’m reminded by this image of the lesson to make sure that an element in plan has a three-dimensional reason for being.

World Beach Project

"At first my 2 girls drew a huge picture in the sand that they were going to fill with stones, but then realised there were hardly any stones on the beach!"

At the V&A, here.

On the Greenway

Save Boston’s Greenway Gardens is a facebook page (here) and a web site (here) devoted to protecting and enhancing the three blocks of gardens on the Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy Greenway.  (For more, look here and here and here too.)

Keep ‘em green!

Herbie

I just wrote a post on Herbie, the champion American elm in Yarmouth, Maine, that was taken down last week after a life that spanned more than two centuries. The post, at Taking Place In The Trees, included several photos I took the day before Herbie came down. In his prime, Herbie was the largest American elm in New England — 110′ high, 120′ wide at the crown’s widest point, and 20′ in girth. When I saw him, more than half of his largest limbs had been removed, but the tree’s presence and majesty were unmistakable.

Herbie the American Elm, in his prime.


A field count of the rings on Herbie’s trunk indicated that the tree was at least 212 years old. This was a tree that largely defined the genius loci of its neighborhood. It filled the corner of a private yard and marked the intersection of two streets; it cast high shade over a wide and fortunate area.

It’s not difficult to extrapolate lessons from Herbie’s presence and longevity, lessons that might inform how landscape architects design and advocate for planting spaces. I can think of these lessons:

1. Plant trees! They provide cover, coolness, oxygen, and identifiability to a place.

2. Plan for the long term — aim to foster a tree’s growth for decades, not just for years.

3. Design for root space — bare-root transplanting of large trees shows us how trees benefit from space in which to grow, and how far from the trunk their roots need to grow to add crown growth. Push those developers, homeowners, and city agency officials to allocate more space for subgrade growth; it’ll pay off in happier, healthier trees, and broader shade canopies.

4. Remember how big trees want to get. Putting a large-scaled canopy tree in a slot of soil better used for skinny grasses won’t give you the tree you’re looking for; it’ll give you a tree that whimpers for a few years, declines, and then dies. Scale your trees to your site (aiming for as big a planting site as possible — see 2. and 3.)

5. Shoot for size. People love the giant, and are more apt to preserve and take what they love. A large tree builds its own constituency, which helps when you’re trying to keep nature from being overtaken by pavement. If you want people to engage with nature, give them something with which it’s easy to engage. (Keeping in mind 4.)

That’s for starters. What other lessons do you see in Herbie’s story?

I just got a rough cut today of the video, shot last summer, of the moving of a very large (about 14″ caliper, 30′ height) London Plane Tree in Wellesley, MA. It’s taken a while to edit several hours of footage down to a half an hour, but it’s about done, and in the next few weeks I hope to have added commentary. This video is from the project run by Matt Foti’s crew, aided by Mike Furgal, and it showcases the techniques used in air-tool transplanting. I hope to be able to preview the rough cut at New England Grows, and have the final version completed by the end of February; if there’s enough interest in the landscape architecture, architecture, or arboriculture communities I’ll sell copies. Stay tuned.

The first of five 12-14' caliper London Plane trees being excavated with air tools and transplanted bare root in August 2009.

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