Why Gardens Don't Have Water Features

Continuing the investigation of water in design, and more specifically in the designed landscape, my insistence that water be considered an element and not a feature deserves more attention. If the artful working of the land takes human activity from farming to garden-making, then the question begins with the land itself, the earth.  Ancient philosophers declared earth was one of the four fundamental elements along with water, air and fire. The plants of pleasure grounds and productive fields thrive when they are rooted well in the earth, irrigated by water, open to the air (and protected from destructive winds), and nourished by the fiery sun. Harmony results when the four elements are in balance.

For many gardens, wells or cisterns collect water supplying irrigation through channels or conduits, and on a grander scale, by aqueducts and pumps. Gardens meant to be more than the utilitarian kitchen vegetable patch, orchard, vineyard or plowed field, used devices that displayed water in its many attributes. Contrivances exploited water's inherent desire to fall with gravity, to splash, bubble and ripple, and to seek levelness. Designers make fountains, basins and pools that contain water giving a shape to a formless material. Flowing through runnels or dropping down cascades, water cools the air and soothes unwanted sound. The effect inspires contemplation, or stimulates reactions. This emotional range was well employed by Lawrence Halprin's design of the FDR Memorial in Washington, DC.

The site plan is composed of four garden “rooms” following Roosevelt’s four terms, and water is the material used to signify four distinct perceptions: slight drips represent the Great Depression’s poverty; cascades signify the Tennessee Valley Authority dam project; World War II is referenced by chaotic activity; and a still pool reflects Roosevelt's death. A fifth and final area has large and jubilant waterfalls that symbolize his entire achievement. Water is present throughout the entire memorial in such an integral manner that it is impossible to stand anywhere and point to a single water “feature.”

Looking at this issue from another point of view, there are no earth “features,” although designers do use mounds, berms, ridges and swales as topographic elements; or air “features” although we do frame views, establish up fore and back-grounds, layer space and extend visual depth with forced perspectives; or fire “features” which are not barbeques that cannot approach the cultural significance of the hearth, or fire pits that allow only a banal imitation of a consuming bonfire. A birdbath or self-circulating fountain may be a modest element in a small garden and are appreciated for attracting birds or masking noise, but let them not be formed or placed as if they are one more thing on a checklist of attractions. Rather, when water’s character is expressed in design as one of the four fundamental elements of the natural world in an integral way, it says something about it – and us – that is unlikely to arise when water is treated as merely a garden ornament.

The perishable paradigm

Visitors to Andrew Jackson Downing’s home recall his habit of putting a flower on their breakfast plate that he knew to be his guest’s favorite. What a lovely, civilized act. Of course, breakfast in a mid-nineteenth century gentleman’s home on the Hudson is a bit different from the typical mad scramble of the over-worked American family facing a long commute to an uncertain job. For Downing, this was a reminder that life is more than unending labor; also important is leisure and its display.

My mother did something similar. Often her day would start with picking a single bloom and placing it in a bowl of water knowing full well that it would fade by the end of the day, and then the cycle would have to be repeated. For her, that flower represented all that was beautiful, especially the fleeting things that are so difficult to capture in design. No matter her worries – and she had many – taking a moment to bring a fragile blossom into her world was time well spent.

Recently, the Garden and Landscape Studies program at Dumbarton Oaks in Washington hosted a symposium on food and the city. Presentations covered many aspects of food production, delivery and consumption over the last few centuries and across many cultures. Unfortunately no one seemed to address a key issue:  what is food? If you ask a nutritionist, whose expertise was not included with these scholars, the ideal response might be a list of nutritional plants, organically grown in local farms that are readily available to people where ever they live. No fast food, engineered varieties, hormone-laden animals, corn-based sugar products or even restaurant fare would come to their mind. And then these fruits and vegetables would want to be carefully and slowly prepared, mindfully eaten with family in a relaxed manner, and with gratitude for the sense of calm and well-being that surely emerges.

Is this possible? Well, yes. Just as Downing found that a little consideration only took moments to execute engendering feelings that lasted all day, bringing perishable food onto our tables requires thinking a little differently: a paradigm shift from days full of business, distractions and attending to our needs in the most convenient, although unsatisfying manner to valuing the perishable. The effort to do this might be bundled with other aspects of our lives: spending time with family and friends, committing to work projects of significance, and amusing ourselves with only the best cultural productions. Attaching too much importance to the quantity of commitments produces only a false sense of accomplishment as getting through the day is a heroic achievement. Perhaps the lessons from the recent recession and our new understanding about making more sustainable choices means attending to fewer things, but insisting they be of quality. To value the perishable then may require recalibrating our expectations, but it would also support more appreciation for what is possible in dwelling . . . well.