Above walks the guy who tills the land here; he had left something from the tractor or rig assembly in the utility driveway just out of view to the far right.
Soil preparation is rarely included as part of the final work of landscape design. Rather like creating a gesssoed canvas, soil preparation never makes it into the brochure that people pick up at the entrance to a formal garden. The plant material and their placement, preferably in full growth, are considered by general consensus as the art in landscape design, much as the painted work on the canvas is hung for view. But can we justifiably equate soil preparation with creating the right surface for paint even though landscape art and painting have been so frequently compared?
Dance or music would be more appropriate points of comparison to landscape design because all three art forms require ongoing care of the instrument: dancers must care for the body, musicians must care for both the body and the musical instrument, and the landscape artist or grounds keeper must attend, in most instances, to the soil and plants for the life of the design. Gardens created solely as native habitat require only observation for disease.
Trained to think in the tradition of the museum, for a long time I didn't consider soil preparation an essential part of the artwork; I worried mostly about plant selection and placement. Site preparation, though, is the first intentional gesture I make in fullfillment of the dream I might have for a landscape; in a very real sense, relationship building with a place is my first reality check in what dream I can realistically dream with a piece of land. For instance, it would be hopeless for me to put Zone 8 plants into this land where I live because I now live in zone 7. It would be similarly heartless to install desert plants in a section of low lying soil, heartless for me and heartless for the land.
The reader can probably anticipate where this essay is leading: in making landscape art do we dream about or for the land, or do we dream with the land? A native plant enthusiast possibly would go further, suggesting that the artist surrender the soul to the land's own dreaming.
Soil preparation is rarely included as part of the final work of landscape design. Rather like creating a gesssoed canvas, soil preparation never makes it into the brochure that people pick up at the entrance to a formal garden. The plant material and their placement, preferably in full growth, are considered by general consensus as the art in landscape design, much as the painted work on the canvas is hung for view. But can we justifiably equate soil preparation with creating the right surface for paint even though landscape art and painting have been so frequently compared?
Dance or music would be more appropriate points of comparison to landscape design because all three art forms require ongoing care of the instrument: dancers must care for the body, musicians must care for both the body and the musical instrument, and the landscape artist or grounds keeper must attend, in most instances, to the soil and plants for the life of the design. Gardens created solely as native habitat require only observation for disease.
Trained to think in the tradition of the museum, for a long time I didn't consider soil preparation an essential part of the artwork; I worried mostly about plant selection and placement. Site preparation, though, is the first intentional gesture I make in fullfillment of the dream I might have for a landscape; in a very real sense, relationship building with a place is my first reality check in what dream I can realistically dream with a piece of land. For instance, it would be hopeless for me to put Zone 8 plants into this land where I live because I now live in zone 7. It would be similarly heartless to install desert plants in a section of low lying soil, heartless for me and heartless for the land.
The reader can probably anticipate where this essay is leading: in making landscape art do we dream about or for the land, or do we dream with the land? A native plant enthusiast possibly would go further, suggesting that the artist surrender the soul to the land's own dreaming.