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Landscape Journal 20:2–01 Treib 119

THE CONTENT OF LANDSCAPE FORM [THE LIMITS OF FORMALISM]Marc Treib

Marc Treib is Professor of Architec-ture at the University of California atBerkeley, a practicing designer, and afrequent contributor to architecture,landscape and design journals. Hehas held Fulbright, Guggenheim, andJapan Foundation fellowships, as well as an advanced design fellowshipat the American Academy in Rome.Professor Treib is the author of Sanc-tuaries of Spanish New Mexico (Univer-sity of California Press, 1993), editorof Modern Landscape Architecture: ACritical Review (MIT Press, 1993) andco-author of A Guide to the Gardens ofKyoto (Shufunotomo, 1980). The Re-gional Garden in the United States,which he co-edited, was published in1996, as was Space Calculated in Sec-onds: The Philips Pavilion, Le Corbusierand Edgar Varèse (Princeton Univer-sity Press). Forthcoming in 2002 areThe Architecture of Landscape, 1940–60(University of Pennsylvania Press)and Thomas Church, Landscape Archi-tect (Monacelli Press).

Abstract: The values behind the question of landscape appreciation and evaluationalso inform the greater question of landscape content. Here the content of landscape archi-tecture is taken as the raw material transformed through design, material from which wemay derive pleasure and/or significance. What sort of raw material, its potential and itsrelevance, is the essay’s subject. Admittedly, structure, space, and pattern may constitutecontent in and of themselves, a poetics of form and space. But deeper works may result fromusing these vehicles to embody other types of content, among them the understanding andjudicious application of ecological processes (including the immediate as well as larger siteover time), and the regard for humans singly and in groups, contemporary and over time.The manner in which the designer addresses these factors may also elevate a physical state-ment of these concerns, alone or together, to a poetic level. It is admittedly a difficult task,and without doubt, no work is ever perfect in all respects. Nonetheless, several landscapearchitects currently in practice have produced designs with these considerations at theircore. The work of Hargreaves Associates in the United States, and Georges Descombes andDieter Kienast in Switzerland serve as the prime case studies.

The landscape architect’s project here utilizes the eternalized moment of history to in-form the making of physical places. The landscape must succeed in the present—social pro-visions, construction intelligence, aesthetic interest—amalgamating the voices of the pastwith those of the “now.”

How do we evaluate andappreciate landscape ar-

chitecture? Is it the skill with whichthe walls, rills, and floors have beendesigned and crafted, the power ofthe spaces, the formal beauty alone?Or do we praise the success withwhich the spaces please us, how theyprovide warmth in a cold climate, asweet fragrance among dust, orplaces for sitting and human con-duct, or settings to eat or to dream?Do we appreciate a design because itseems so appropriate to the climateor to the topography, or as an escapefrom it? Do we reward the landscapearchitect for using a minusculeamount of water in a desert land-scape, no matter the corollary sen-sual deprivation?

The question of appreciationand evaluation informs the greater

question of landscape content. Ofwhat value is a landscape design;what is its content? It has been saidthat since there is no landscape with-out content, so can there be no workof landscape architecture withoutcontent. This assumption has partic-ular resonance if one believes, as Ido, that meaning derives from thetransaction between the perceiverand the artifact.1 According to thisway of thinking the designed land-scape serves essentially as the mate-rial for sense and interpretation. Ulti-mate comprehension and pleasurerest with the individual influenced,perhaps formed, by his or her cul-tural matrix. Of course, other schoolsof thought do exist, and several of

them hold that it is possible to imbuemeaning in the course of design andmaking, especially in cultures boundwithin a common system of belief. Inthis essay, I would request a tempo-rary suspension of disbelief fromthose who follow this latter view.Here I would propose that the con-tent of landscape design is the rawmaterial to be transformed throughdesign, material from which we mayderive pleasure and/or significance.What sort of raw material, its poten-tial and its relevance, is the basis ofthe essay’s subject. Of the panoply ofpossible sources of content, for rea-sons hopefully explained below, I willfocus on ecology, social/historical as-pects, and form (and space) them-selves.

Form/Formalism In recent years, that is at least

since the mid-1980s, landscapesstructured by patterning, realized innatural and synthetic materials, andrestricted in vegetation have receivedconsiderable attention and wide-spread publication. For the most partthese designs strike vivid retinal im-ages and make striking photographs;they are experienced on site as exer-cises in order and form. They may bebeautiful or ungainly, pure or assem-bled, uniquely crafted or drawn fromvaried vernacular and industrial ele-ments (Figure 1). While their visualinterest is, for the most part, undeni-able, often their experience as land-scape—considering the full potentialoffered by a designed landscape—iscircumscribed and limited. Whatworks in the photograph does notnecessarily thrill on site or maintaincontinued interest over time. Is thisbecause the work itself lacks suffi-cient richness, or that the photo-graph (through isolation, recomposi-tion, idealized lighting condition,etc.) has so increased the power ofthe place that it is difficult to matchthis image on site?2

Since its invention in the nine-teenth century, the photographic im-age, as printed or more recently digi-tized, has exerted a potent influenceupon the formulation and witnessingof the designed landscape.3 Ofcourse, photographic experience is,by its very nature, more narrowly lim-ited to the visual sense, in turn, sup-pressing the haptic, olfactory, audi-tory, and temporal dimensions oflandscape perception. The result—sadly, to my mind—reduces the po-tentially manifold dimensions of ex-perience to only two. In the process,the formal aspects become the pur-pose or content of the design; the im-age reigns supreme.4

While the skill of design, con-struction, and detail certainly consti-tute a subject in and of themselves,there are limits to the continued ef-fect of this formalism and the atti-tude with which it regards the envi-ronment and society. Form ascontent is an old story in modernpainting, of course, and to a lesserextent in architecture. CriticClement Greenberg argued that

painting, before it ever representedany subject external to its physical di-mensions, was essentially a questionof marks made upon a canvas. By ex-tension, the paintings that mostclearly manifest that definition—freeof the burden of mimesis—should bemore highly regarded. This led to aquest for “flatness,” which remaineda central concern of painting fordecades after World War II.5 In land-scape architecture, this theory wouldargue for concentration on spatial,material, and horticultural inventionmore or less free from the directivesof social and environmental issues.

Rather than structure, space,and pattern as content, deeper worksmay result from using these vehiclesto embody other types of content,among them the understanding andjudicious application of ecologicalprocesses (including the immediateas well as larger site over time), andthe regard for humans singly and ingroups, both contemporary and inthe future. The manner in which thedesigner addresses these factors mayalso elevate a physical statement of

these concerns, alone or together, toa poetic level. It is admittedly a diffi-cult task, and without question, nowork is ever perfect in all respects.Nonetheless, several landscape archi-tects currently in practice have un-dertaken designs with these consider-ations at their core. As examples Icite several projects by Hargreavesand Associates in the United States,and Georges Descombes and DieterKienast in Switzerland.

Landscape, Form, and ContentIn the last few decades, the pen-

dulum that traces the evolution ofdesign styles has once again swungregularly between formal and morenaturalistic manners. This shouldcome as no surprise, of course. Sincethe very origins of landscape archi-tecture as a defined practice, themanner in which we construct land-scapes has featured these alternatingmodels, with an almost complete gra-dient of variations in between the twoextremes.6 The Garden of Eden, forexample, is normally conceived as anatural landscape, albeit bounded byan excluding wall. And from its veryorigins, agricultural production hasrequired a more efficient organiza-tion of planting and irrigation, lead-

120 Landscape Journal

Figure 1. Center for Innovative Technology, Herndon, Virginia, 1988. Martha Schwartz.Mirror ball garden. Photograph by Marc Treib.

ing to landscapes in which the hu-man hand has been more, ratherthan less, apparent.

While convenient for historicalstudies, this two-part division into for-mal and informal is only partially use-ful. For one, it greatly favors thesense of sight, undervaluing the sig-nificance of botanical or cognitiveprocesses. The power of garden de-sign as visually perceived, it wouldseem, instead rests in the overallscheme and the balance of the gar-den’s elements, as well as the colli-sions and transitions among them.There is no formality or informalityin isolation, as there is no concept ofnature free from a concept of cul-ture. Never is the question of formaland informal one of simple opposi-tion, nor a simple choice of one overthe other. Most importantly, we needto question to what extent the forms,the space, and the manners of realiz-ing landscape design truly embody itscontent.

Although there are many prob-lems in assigning merit to landscapesonly on the basis of form and space,even the most logocentric critic mustadmit that it is just these aspectswhich ultimately confront humanperception. As such, they seem virtu-ally impossible to avoid.7 It is usefulto further comprehend the reasonsbehind formal manufacture, andhere art critic Dave Hickey’s discus-sion of the painter Brigit Riley is in-structive. Hickey distinguishes be-tween perceptually- andcognitively-intended art works, fur-ther dividing the more formally insti-gated category into two groups ofvarying value. He discusses the threecategories in this way:

[T]he rhetorical-empirical brandof ‘behaviorist modernism’ prac-ticed by Bruce Nauman andRichard Serra, for whom, as for Ri-ley, the manipulation of materialand formal means is directed to-ward the evocation of a local, cog-nitive-kinesthetic experience that isquite distinct from linguistic com-munication (which presumes thatthe work of art bears a message)and formal appreciation (whichposits the work of art as a deadthing, artfully manipulated andsensitively perceived).8

Do formally conceived landscapesserve a greater purpose—“local,cognitive-kinesthetic experience,” forexample, or do they exist only for“formal appreciation (which positsthe work of art as a dead thing . . .)?”A painting or a sculpture tends tobe more finite than a designed land-scape, no matter how perfectly main-tained it may be. If perception is theprimary vehicle for understanding,we also need to consider aspects ofcognition, which are equally, if notmore, crucial for maintaining inter-est and pleasure—and for evaluatinglandscape merit. This mental dis-cernment distinguishes between themanner of making a landscape andhow we think about that landscape.It again raises the issue of landscapecontent.

Thus, we might gauge the con-tent of landscape design along threeaxes: the formal (which includesspace, form, and materials); the cul-tural (which includes history, socialmores, and behavior); and the envi-ronmental (among them ecology, to-pography, hydrology, horticulture,and natural process). Of these—andI admit here to a personal bias—theformal serves best as a means to anend rather than an end in itself.

The cultural landscape histo-

rian John Brinckerhoff Jackson de-fined landscape as: “a space on thesurface of the earth; intuitively weknow that it is a space with a degreeof permanence, with its own distinctcharacter, either topographical orcultural, and above all a space sharedby a group of people.”9 This definitionsuggests that basic to all landscapes—whether destined for functional,contemplative, or entertainment pur-poses—is the presence and accom-modation of human beings as indi-viduals or in society, and a landscapethat serves their physiological or psy-chological needs.

In addition, the conditions par-ticular to the location also inform themaking of a designed landscape—al-though I would not go so far as to saythey truly determine an approach. Thus,landscape design—consciously ornot—always reflects contemporaryvalues and attitudes; there is no oneway to create a landscape, even at aparticular time. Creating places in anarid landscape, for example, couldfollow several paths. The designercould accept the limitations of thedesert and frame existing topogra-phy and vegetation, as did FrankLloyd Wright in 1938 at his ownhome and studio Taliesin West in Ari-zona (Figure 2). Or the desert could

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Figure 2. Taliesin West, Scottsdale, Arizona, 1938+. Frank Lloyd Wright. Photograph byMarc Treib.

be approached more abstractly, asnon-professional garden makers of-ten do (Figure 3) in suburbanPhoenix.10

But one needn’t accept the lim-its imposed by local conditions: alandscape could also be conceived asa vehicle to transcend the constraintsof everyday life. The idea behind theparadise garden, for example, has al-ways been to escape what nature of-fers, to develop irrigation systemsand horticultural methods thatwould allow landscapes to deny thestrictures of local conditions. In thelore of many peoples, paradise pro-poses the antithesis of where a people live, as Yi-Fu Tuan has shownin his book Topophilia.11 To those liv-ing in cold climates, paradise is warmand lush; to desert folk, it is lush andwell-watered.

The exquisite Patio of the Or-anges in Seville derives from the par-adisiacal idea, where the golden fruitand the enjoyment of shade derivefrom an adroit management of irri-gation (Figure 4). There, the tech-nique—the formal organization, thedetails, the true design—is more ob-vious than in evocations of paradisebased on a more naturalistic model.

Without doubt, we do read and ap-preciate this garden, like manyflower gardens, on formal termsalone. But this initial pleasure may be heightened by sensing the gardenthrough more than one dimension.As landscape architects or artists orarchitects we may appreciate morerapidly the beauty with which thisreligious courtyard has been made.This creates somewhat of a dilemma,with questions such as those thatopened this essay. How do we weighthe value of a designed landscape?

As we cannot accept any simpleopposition of formal and informal tocategorize landscape form, so we cannot evaluate landscapes using anyone of these three sets of considera-tions taken in isolation. All three setsof concerns: cultural, environmental,and formal (here “formal” describesthe properties of form and spacerather than the style)—warrant con-sideration. Social accommodationwithout a consideration of the placemay lead to uncomfortable land-scapes. Surrender to the restrictionsof climate may produce landscapesdevoid of beauty or human appeal.Visual beauty alone risks the danger

of being sterile and removed fromlife. Engaging the full trio of con-cerns both to create and evaluatelandscape architecture offers fargreater potential. Cultural concerns,as translated into planning for use,need to be taken quite broadly. ByWestern standards, gardens in Japansuch as those created for the Zensects, appear to have no function(Figure 5). Yet contemplation,dreaming, and aesthetic appreciationat times are all valid landscape func-tions in and of themselves. On thosegrounds, the dry gardens performhandsomely as cultural vehicles.

With this proposition of values,the focus now shifts to several se-lected tendencies in recent land-scape design practice. My principalconcern here is the escalating appre-ciation of landscape design via thephotograph or cinematic image, andmore recently, as digital representa-tion. That we now more often look atrepresentations rather than actuallandscapes has allowed formalist de-signs to achieve great prominence.Other aspects of the landscape, moresubtle or less easily conveyed in pho-tographs and publications, have suf-


Figure 3. Residential front garden, Scotts-dale, Arizona. Photograph by Marc Treib,1998.

Figure 4. Patio of the Oranges, Seville, Spain, Sixteenth century+. Photograph by Marc Treib.

fered neglect.12 As a result, we oftenreward form-as-content (which, asnoted above, it can be), rather thanform and space as what the painterBen Shahn once termed “the shapeof content.”13

Discussing content questionsthe medium by which most land-scapes are known today: the photo-graph in publication. In many cases,it is the visual appeal of the land-scape—or even the appeal of thephotograph alone—that seduces theviewer. There may be no apprecia-tion for the managing of the con-straints that guided the design andcoerced the true brilliance of its solu-tion. Since viewers of the photographrarely experience the actual land-scape, the experience of the photo-graph substitutes for the experienceof the place. As a result, we “filet” thecontent by appreciating only the lookof the design.

In some ways this may not be acompletely negative practice, aseven in photographs new ideas en-ter the landscape discipline andpractice. On the other hand, engag-ing images of landscapes by PeterWalker or West 8 or MarthaSchwartz may be copied in almostevery country on Earth, with little

regard for their possible ill fit withinan alien situation. But even here, inthis worst case scenario, some lati-tude must be granted. If the land-scape architect appropriating theseforms understands the specific con-ditions of his or her own society andenvironment, perhaps design doesbecome principally a question of

formal idiom. Perhaps. The dangerof blind copying, however, is that ittends to replicate patterns andforms without any real considera-tion of the local conditions or theconsequences of such replication.Perhaps a grid of squares or lines ordiagonal planting beds just doesn’tmake much sense in the Swedishforest or a sub-Saharan desert. Toooften, we are skillful at copyingforms as portrayed in photographswithout investigating to sufficientdepth the ideas behind them.

How can we balance these fac-tors? How do we acknowledge contem-porary needs and contemporary pro-grams? How can we interpret lessonsfrom histories, both local and exotic?How do we address ideas of contem-porary culture, or related art formsand thinking in other disciplines?Only those most conservative individ-uals would argue that landscape ar-chitecture should not advance with itsculture and with its times. There stillis merit in the modernist belief thatonly rarely does a historical answerserve us as a precise model for con-temporary life, although history doesaid our understanding of the presentand the future.

A highly selective sample ofwork from the very recent past mayhelp answer some of these questions.

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Figure 5. Daichi-ji garden, Shiga Prefecture, Japan, Seventeenth century. Photograph byMarc Treib.

Figure 6. Kempinski Hotel, Munich, Germany, 1994. Peter Walker Partners. Photographby Marc Treib.

Formalist TriumphsSomewhat in reaction to the

then-prevailing analytical and usuallynaturalistic manner that stemmedfrom the writings and practice of IanMcHarg, a group of landscape archi-tects in the 1980s and into the 1990scame to rely to a large degree on for-mal pattern. Peter Walker in theUnited States and later West 8 in theNetherlands (and followers world-wide) have utilized stripes, grids, ro-tated geometries and regularity tostructure their designs (Figure 6).14

Even when addressing ecologicalrequirements, these landscape de-signs are in many respects return tothe parterres characteristic of the sev-enteenth-century French garden—except that now the parterre and thegarden as a whole are rendered con-gruent.

A number of these works, alas,are more stimulating in photographsthan in reality. The photograph su-perimposes a rectangular frameupon the landscape, against whichare composed the linear rotations orregular bed plantings.15 The photo-graph is a fragment that is forced torepresent the whole, like the synec-doche of literature. But a landscapeis not a fragment: it is a whole, and at

times these designs maintain our in-terest only at small scale for short pe-riods of time. At Burnett Park in FortWorth, Texas, for example, the over-all pattern is arresting in its overlaysof orthogonal and diagonal lines,and their relation to the structure ofthe park as a whole (Figure 7).16 Thepattern, which in this case was said to

derive from pedestrian movementacross the park, on first look, appearsto be a dynamic play of oblique lines.Yet in the end, the net experientialeffect is quite static. Little draws usfrom point A to point B becausepoint A is just about the same as pointB. In this sense, the more extremeexamples of formal patterning—especially those that remain flat,without true spatial consequences—demonstrate little regard for thehuman body, mystery and appeal, orfor senses other than vision.

The use of pattern has had itssuccesses, however, and it is not aproclivity so easily dismissed. Two ex-amples of landscapes from the late1980s stand as the high points of re-cent formalism. The first comprisesthe landscapes designed for the IBMcommunity at Solana, outside Dallas,Texas; the Office of Peter Walker andMartha Schwartz were the landscapearchitects (Figures 8 and 9). The ar-chitect for the Solana IBM campusand the town center was RicardoLegorreta; Mitchell Giurgola de-signed the West Campus. The powerof the IBM scheme derives fromgraphic structure’s directing spatialdevelopment rather than remaining


Figure 7. Burnett Park, Fort Worth, Texas, 1983. SWA/Peter Walker. Photograph by Marc Treib.

Figure 8. IBM Southlake, Solana, Texas, 1989. Office of Peter Walker Martha Schwartz.View of the east campus. Photograph by Marc Treib.

a two-dimensional figure alone. Inthe main office complex, for ex-ample, the architect convoluted theperimeter of the building blocks, us-ing courtyards as transition spacesbetween the landscape of the archi-tecture and the architecture of thelandscape. These courts function ashinges that pivot the eye and thebody from inside to outside and viceversa. Zones of varied shades and en-closure result, providing comfortduring outdoor occupation, and vi-sual pleasure throughout the year.Legorreta’s vibrant color palette in-tensifies the architectural presenceand heightens the visual articulationby setting yellow and purple planesagainst the greens of the vegetationand the blues of the canals.

This is the key: at Solana, pat-tern generates and structures itsthree-dimensional consequences andbecomes spatial; architecture andlandscape architecture enfold withina charged equilibrium geometricallyconceived, formal in their pleasures.However, this aesthetic pleasure—asnoted above—also derives from mod-ulating climate and light for physicalcomfort. Success is measured alongmore than the aesthetic axis alone,even if it may not have been the de-

signer’s primary concern.The mid-1980s plaza/terrace

for the North Carolina NationalBank (NCNB) in Tampa, Florida ismore rigorous than the Solana land-scapes in using purely geometricstructure (Figures 10 and 11).17 Here

Dan Kiley superimposed several lay-ers of gridded pattern to generate acomplex chessboard for trees andground covers rather than for rooksand castles. The predominant gridpositions a field of Washingtoniapalm trees upon the ground plane,which is in fact the roof of the park-ing garage below. Against this ortho-gonal organization sweep clumpedplantings of crepe myrtle that blooma vivid pink in springtime. The treesappear irregularly spaced, but in factfollow judicious placement on asmaller-scaled grid. The groundplane demonstrates the project’smost complex patterning by far,composed by alternating strips ofpaving and zoysia grass. In the de-sign of the office tower, which theterrace serves, architect Harry Wolfutilized the proportional system ofthe Fibonacci numbers to modulatethe proportions of the architecture.Kiley extended this proportionalthinking into the garden, usingthese progressions to generate thevarying balance of grass to pavingfrom the bank to the far extant ofthe terrace. This admittedly highly,almost maniacally, structured effectproduces a complex, though equili-brated, composition whose readings

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Figure 9. IBM Southlake, Solana, Texas, 1989. Office of Peter Walker Martha Schwartz.Canals and plantings as elements of the pattern. Photograph by Marc Treib.

Figure 10. NCNB Bank Terrace, Tampa, Florida, 1988. Dan Kiley. Photograph by Marc Treib.

continually change with the visitors’position.

Water creates the garden’sfourth layer. Glass roofs the entrycorridor to the parking garage. In itsearly years, the water that filled thisroof created a canal that fed a seriesof rills and fountains that penetrated

deeply into the greenery of the gar-den. There is little doubt that the de-sign drew inspiration from the gar-den traditions of Moorish Spain, andit is difficult not to recall the magnifi-cent gardens and courtyards of theAlhambra while strolling in Tampa(Figure 12). Yet despite these historic

references, through Kiley’s rigorousgeometries and masterful play of lin-ear elements against those more mas-sive—and more importantly perhaps,the development in space of the fourlayers of the vegetation and water—agarden that is perceptually rich re-sults. There is little doubt of its con-temporaneity, and yet there is littlethat does not suggest some historical,classical precedent. This is the magicof the Kiley manner, and it demon-strates that the past always maintainsits relevance to the present as asource of learning through discern-ing transformation.

Despite the appreciation andenjoyment of landscapes such asthese, problems do result from usingpattern-making as the basis for land-scape design. For example, variedorientations or slopes require differ-ent planting solutions—and yet thecontinuity of the pattern demands arepetition of similar elements. At thepowerful walled entrance gateway tothe Solana complex, for example,the four slopes face four different di-rections; and the tops of the hillshave different drainage conditionsthan their bottoms (Figure 13). As aresult, it has proven difficult to main-tain the shrubs equally on four slopesin order to preserve the pattern ofthe striping.18 Perhaps greater con-sideration of these factors wouldhave modified—and conceivably in-vigorated—the pattern; or furtherstudy may have determined thatarrangements of rocks or gravel


Figure 11. NCNB Bank Terrace, Tampa, Florida, 1988. Dan Kiley. Photograph by Marc Treib.

Figure 12. Court of the Myrtles, The Al-hambra, Granada, Spain, Fourteenthcentury+. Photograph by Marc Treib.

Figure 13. IBM Southlake, Solana, Texas, 1989. Office of Peter Walker and MarthaSchwartz. Freeway overpass and entrance to the east campus; banked earth with stripes inmid-distance. Photograph by Marc Treib.

would have been the best approachto constructing the stripes. The twomethods—formal and ecological—are not antagonistic, unless one ofthese is employed with little regardfor the second.

Horticulturists have noted theever-present danger of planting treesof a single species. If one should fallill, all its neighbors may be taintedand threatened. And if too many diein one area, the pattern is destroyed.This, too, has remained a constantthreat to the Solana landscape.

Despite these cautions, however,the success of the Solana and Tampaprojects demonstrates the sizable po-tential for these architectural land-scapes, if the means to maintain themare available. They emphatically re-mind us that the formal tradition willnot disappear, and that it can achieverenewed vigor in contemporary timesthrough influences such as minimal-ist art, mathematical progressions,and even historical reference. Theproblems with the selection of treespecies, one would believe, can besolved through shrewd plant selec-tion. More critical is the continuedneed for focusing on geometric struc-turing that unfolds as truly three-dimensional and structural ratherthan as pattern making which beginsand ends as a flat surface.

The lack of concern for habit-able spaces raises issues about inten-tion and content in landscape archi-tecture. As I proposed earlier, couldwe not agree that human occupationand use are the content of landscapedesign, and that nature and ecologi-cal process constitute the matrix inwhich we create these new terrains?

Landscape architecture thus becomesthe compounding of these two as-pects into a legible cultural expres-sion, using the formal means we callstyle.

Natural Process as Art FormThe work of Hargreaves Associ-

ates, based in San Francisco andCambridge, Massachusetts, exempli-fies a heightened interest in form de-veloped from natural process and hu-man use, especially in their designsfor a series of waterfront parks. Theland for Byxbee Park, located southof San Francisco on the westernshore of the bay, comprised garbageand earth fill, in some places measur-ing more than fifty feet in depth (Fig-ure 14). The site, which was intendedto become much-needed recre-ational land, was thus the product ofhuman hands and built on humanwaste. The governmental sponsor forthe park’s hundred odd acres strin-gently restricted modeling of theearthen contour. To stabilize the pu-trefying garbage below, a meter-deepcap of soil and clay was applied, with

a flame perpetually exhausting themethane collecting beneath theground. Because it was believed thatany rupture in the earthen toppingmight allow the escape of noxiousgas, no trees were planted.19 Becauseseepage might percolate pollutantsinto the water table below, irrigationwas precluded. These constraints di-rected the designers’ attention toland contour as the principal designfeature and fostered a respect for na-tive species of grasses, completely de-pendent on rainfall for their nourish-ment, they were allowed to turnbrown during the dry months of thenorthern California summer.

Despite problems of the frag-mentation of the various design fea-tures, as a complete entity the Byxbeeproject demonstrates that ecology—and entropy—are not antagonistic tolandscape design; quite the contrary,an understanding of environmentalforces can stimulate significant inno-vation. The land artist Robert Smith-son called our attention to the aes-thetic potential of entropic process asearly as 1970s; (the effect of entropyon landscape over time was an impor-tant aspect of his thinking). But onlyrarely have its possibilities informed

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Figure 14. Byxbee Park, East Palo Alto,California, 1992. Hargreaves Associates.Photograph by Marc Treib.

Figure 15. Guadalupe River Park, San Jose, California, 1988–96. Hargreaves Associates.Plan. (Courtesy Hargreaves Associates.)

the design of landscapes rather thanthe making of art.20

During the last decade, Har-greaves Associates have designed wa-terfront landscapes in San Jose andSan Francisco, California, Portland,Oregon, Louisville, Kentucky, andLisbon, Portugal. Although each de-sign rigorously investigated preciselocal conditions, as a group the parksreflect a common attitude toward theprocesses and meeting of land andwater, reforming them in accord withecological, social, and aesthetic pa-rameters. They also constitute someof the more provocative recent land-scape architecture at a larger scale,and in their distinctive approach, re-solve conflicting attitudes within theprofession.

The Guadalupe River Park,whose master plan dates from 1988to the present, was intended to revealSan Jose’s obscured riverine openspace (Figures 15 and 16). MissionSan José had been established in thelate eighteenth century, as the Span-ish established their hold on Alta Cal-ifornia. Into this century, the riverhas remained a green space withinthe city, but new highways, shiftingdemographic patterns, and limitedaccess have all impeded its enjoy-

ment. During the boom 1980syears—heightened by the growth ofthe nearby Silicon Valley—San Josewitnessed the active infusion of inter-est and capital into its downtown in-frastructure. The city landscaped pri-

mary arteries and constructed majorpublic works including a sports arena,several museums, and the HargreavesAssociates-designed Plaza Park, com-pleted in 1989.

At the threat of inundation andmajor devastation to the downtownarea, the Guadalupe River was itselfslated for overhaul by the ArmyCorps of Engineers. The narrowsliver of a river had frequentlyflooded its banks—and there wasevery indication that the increaseddensity of recent construction wouldonly escalate the impact of the nextmajor inundation. Why not use thenecessary flood control work to cre-ate a three-mile-long park that wouldbring the people and city to the riverand vice versa?

Working with a small army ofspecialists, the landscape architectsdeveloped the general plan and spe-cific designs for the length of theriver in the downtown, dealing equallywith the “underlay” and “overlay” ofthe landscape along the banks.George Hargreaves uses the term“underlay” to describe responses toflood control during times of heavywinter rains or spring run-off; “over-lay” comprises the more visually ap-parent aspects of the design: the re-


Figure 17. Louisville Waterfront Park, Louisville, Kentucky, 1990+. Hargreaves Associates.Model. Aerial view. (John Gollings, courtesy Hargreaves Associates.)

Figure 16. Guadalupe River Park, San Jose, California, 1988–96. Hargreaves Associates.Steps/Amphitheater. (Courtesy Hargreaves Associates.)

forming of the earth and the plant-ing of vegetation. Ordinarily much ofthis project would be regarded ascivil engineering, but in this in-stance, the landscape architects tookan active interest in hydrology and itsconsequences in form. Their think-ing—developed in close coordina-tion with the Army Corps of Engi-neers—derived from anunderstanding of water flow, in asense abstracting and enlarging theconsequences commonly formedalong the river’s banks.

The design models the land inaccordance with the necessities offlood control, settings for use, andthe need for plantings along the longlinear strips of river. The park’s de-sign could be described as a series offlows and interruptions, not unlike ariver itself. The prevalent terrain par-allels the axis of the river, but at keypoints it is reformed into levelplanes, slopes, and mounds that par-allel the patterning and branchingthat results from dendritic process.21

Both the citizens and the professionhave acknowledged the success of thedesign, although additional phaseshave been left unimplemented—acommon fate for public projects ofthis magnitude.

The winning park competitionentry for the Louisville WaterfrontPark addressed the site’s despoliationfrom prior use (Figures 17 and 18).Industry had lined the bank for overa century, removing the land frompublic access, despite the long tradi-tion of public parks in the city. In theminds of the citizens, the land was anabsence, seen only from a speedingcar on the elevated highway.22 Thelandscape architects rejected theidea of bringing the downtown to theriver, and instead convinced the cityto bring the river to the downtown.

Unlike the San Jose park, theLouisville scheme occupies a singleshoreline. The land, given its historyof industrial use, required detoxifica-tion and regrading. Severed from theurban fabric by freeways and bridgeapproaches, the design proposed re-planting trees as links between thepark and the downtown. While thescheme appears linear in the plan,the park is actually conceived as achain of event spaces which vary in

their function and form from thosethat are more open, ceremonial, orevent-oriented, to those that aremore natural and solitary.23

From these more urban func-tions, the park extends northeast-ward to more private areas, more

“agrarian” in appearance, and moreintimate in scale. As conceived, theLouisville Waterfront Park will be agreen park, but it will not be a greenpark in the Olmsted mold. The cen-tral green, with its play of skewed rec-tangles and watercourse, may func-

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Figure 18. Louisville Waterfront Park, Louisville, Kentucky, 1990+. Central area withwater course. Hargreaves Associates. (Geoffrey Carr, courtesy Hargreaves Associates.)

Figure 19. Louisville Waterfront Park, Louisville, Kentucky, 1990+. Hargreaves Associates.The folded edge of the river. (Courtesy Hargreaves Associates.)

tion at times as a community com-mons for meetings and concerts; ona daily basis it offers broad openspaces for sports, taking the sun, oreven flying a kite (Figure 19). Inother areas, mixed plantings of deci-duous and conifer trees providechange throughout the year yet guar-antee spatial closure at all times. Ahierarchy of paths allows for a variety

of movement; again the shapedmounds articulate spaces withinspaces that offer retreat from thewind in the dales and the exhilarationof a view revealed after a short climb.

The new park reclaims as wellas reforms; this is a man-made land-scape for human pleasure and activ-ity, characteristics Hargreaves freelyadmits. Considerations of hydrology,


Figure 20. Crissy Field Restoration, SanFrancisco, California, 2000+. HargreavesAssociates. Projected wetland restorationat maturity. (Courtesy Hargreaves Associates.)

Figure 21. Crissy Field Restoration, SanFrancisco, California, 2000+. HargreavesAssociates. The site March 2001.(Courtesy Hargreaves Associates.)

Figure 22. Parc André Citroën, Paris,France, 1992. Gilles Clément. Jardin enmouvement. Photograph by Marc Treib,1992.

Figure 23. Parc André Citroën, Paris,France, 1992. Gilles Clément. Jardin enmouvement. Photograph by Marc Treib,2000.

Figure 24. Eschler garden, Uitikon, Switzerland, 1988. Dieter Kienast. Photograph byMarc Treib.

Figure 25. Swiss Re Terrace, Zurich, Switzerland, 1996. Dieter Kienast. Photograph byMarc Treib.

paired with an investigation of thesite’s history, have generated a saw-tooth land pattern that brings theriver deeper into the site. Recallinginlets that existed before the river’sregularization; these denticulationsalso increase the waterfront perime-ter and articulate distinct areas of usewithin the prevalent linear organiza-tion. The novelty of the landformsand overall landscape design perhapspostpones direct understanding, co-ercing the visitor to interact with, andinterpret, the park’s design as an in-dividual. This, of course, was a lessonof Minimalism in sculpture. This istrue abstract landscape design; ab-straction that derives from an under-standing of its sources in nature butmakes no attempt to replicate them.The park is a human construct usingnatural elements where appropriate.

The first phase of Louisville Wa-terfront Park has been completedand the succeeding stages are in pro-gress. Paired with the completion ofthe Guadalupe River project, it con-stitutes positive prospects for land-scape architecture in the future. Thecurrent wetlands restoration projectfor Crissy Field in San Francisco ismore sweeping in its scope and morecomplex in its attempts to mediatethe disparate values of its con-stituents—a set of considerations atleast equally complex to those con-cerning ecology (Figures 20 and 21).Some factions wanted a completerestoration of the wetlands; use forindividuals and groups was of second-ary importance. Others sought tocontinue the current primarily recre-ational activities on the site. And, onewould suspect, the designers felt thata contemporary landscape should re-flect contemporary aesthetic ideas aswell as social and ecological con-cerns. The resulting design, at leastas it stands today—still incomplete—reflects quite distinctly these threearenas of consideration.24 The formof the landscape reflects a designstrategy of juxtaposition rather thanany single aesthetic entity; an appro-priately complex model for land-scapes in the contemporary era.

First, the waterfront designs re-ject the notion of a landscape thatemulates nature (unless constraintsdictate otherwise); they are intended

to be “natural, without being natura-listic.”25 They are green; they areheavily planted; they engage the wa-ter in a very active way, normally in-creasing the length of the edgewhere shore meets river. But they donot directly strive to recall or repli-cate natural forms in the manner ofthe nineteenth-century Olmstedlandscape. Although not the words ofthe designers, one could argue thateven nature herself would never pro-duce a “natural-looking” landscapegiven the condensed time span ofconstruction. Construction alters thesweep of process, as a stone tossedinto a shallow creek alters its move-ment. The water continues to flow inaccord with gravity and geomorphol-ogy, but its nature and its rate ofchange have themselves changed.Could we not regard landscape designas giving form to natural processesconstrained by contemporary socialand aesthetic conditions, executed ina mere blink in geological time?

These parks by Hargreaves As-sociates are, without question, de-signed landscapes from the 1980sand 1990s. While rooted in socialuse, the varied settings contribute tothe whole of the park as a greater en-tity—they are not a series of adjacentplay fields or more significant fea-

tures taken independently. Theseparks evince an art built on history,use, ecology, and, of course, the aes-thetics of contemporary form. Theytake a direction of their own butshare parallels with European land-scapes evincing similar values.

At the Parc André Citroën inParis, for example, Gilles Clément in-stalled a jardin en mouvement using aneo-Darwinian attitude in whichbroad scale seeding was modifiedover time by the survival of theheartiest species.26 As it happens,many of the species seem to have sur-vived and this one quarter of thepark is today heavily planted, evidentin these images (Figure 22) taken atthe time of the park’s opening in1992, and (Figure 23) in summer2000. For some, perhaps, there is in-sufficient form apparent in this strat-egy, particularly as portrayed in pho-tographs. Beyond the camera’sframe, however, it is the frame of thepark’s overall structure, which struc-tures and domesticates this wildnessand makes it inviting.

Perhaps more surprising arethe ecological ideas that supportmany landscape designs by the Swisslandscape architect Dieter Kienastwho died in 1998. American audi-ences first encountered Kienast’s gar-

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Figure 26. Koenig-Urmi garden, Maur, Switzerland, 1996. Dieter Kienast. Flat steel tanks for aquatic plants. Photograph by Marc Treib.

dens in a book published by Birk-häuser in 1997.27 In photographs byChristian Vogt, the Kienast landscapeis black and white, subtly texturedand composed, resting serenely un-der mostly cloudy skies. In reality,however, one encounters vibrancy,life, and ideas of far greater abun-dance than those captured on theflattened plane of the photograph.

Without question, Kienast pos-sessed a deft ability for making bal-anced yet quirky compositions, andin some ways his manner conflatedthe structured spaces of the ItalianRenaissance garden with the heavilylayered plantings of the English cot-tage garden—all set in careful repose(Figure 24).

Ecological understanding un-derlies many of the Kienast gardens,although his ideas are not evident tothe photographic eye. For example,in the restructuring of the terracearea for the insurance company SwissRe in Zurich, clearance for the park-ing level below necessitated a changein terrace level above. Kienast in-clined, rather than stepped, thepaved surfaces to collect water runoff, using the gaps between thepavers as drainage channels (Figure25). In areas neither intended forseating, nor draped by the weepingKatsura trees, the gaps were plantedwith irises almost in the manner ofGertrude Jekyll’s terrace garden atHestercombe.

The horticultural properties ofa gigantic collection of plants pro-pelled a garden design for twobotanists in the hinterlands aroundZurich. In their previous garden, thecouple had accumulated nearly 500species of plants: more or less one ofeach. In 1996, they turned to DieterKienast for a new garden that wouldsupport aquatic as well as terrestrialspecies, in a projected number evengreater than their then-current col-lection. The landscape architect de-scribed his task as the following:“What does a garden look like tobotanists? Moss, loam, solitary bees,handkerchief tree, sand, dragonflies,rushes, gravel, hedgehogs, cucum-ber, earth, butterflies. How can these

thoughts be formed into a garden?”28

Alongside the house Kienast aligned,in enfilade, a set of flat steel tanks forthe aquatic plants that led to the reargarden beyond (Figure 26).

The primary design act for theKoenig-Urmi garden was to dividethe soils of the rear garden into four

distinct strips: gravel, clay, sand, andloam (Figure 27). Species best suitedto each of the soils were planted inthe corresponding zone. A field ofconcrete slabs suggesting river icebreaking with the spring thaw over-laid the structured zones of soil, anantiphonal composition of two dis-


Figure 27. Koenig-Urmi garden, Maur, Switzerland, 1996. Dieter Kienast.Rear garden divided into four soil zones, overlaid with concrete pads. Photograph by Marc Treib.

tinct voices. A terrace provided a sur-face for entertaining or individual re-treat; and as a social gesture to thecommunity, the garden jumped therammed earthen wall to offer itspleasures to passersby.

A cognizance of horticultureand soils was the basis of the design,

and the landscape architect’s inter-vention rested in the superstructureprovided by the soils and the frag-mented paving. The botanists them-selves did the rest. The garden todayhas somewhere around 650 species—

even the owners didn’t know for sure.Thus, underlying the jagged pattern-ing that seems so willful is substantialknowledge and structuring.

Kienast also experimented withthe accumulation of mosses onporous lava stone in a manner thatmight have shamed the entropicyearnings of Robert Smithson. Oneportion of the Swiss Re project was awall built of this tufa in which is em-bedded a series of misters thatdampen the surface, and encouragethe growth of moss (and one mightsuspect, mold). Perhaps the pump-ing system required to maintain thenecessary humidity undermines thepurity of the idea—for example,would the terrace garner even morerespect if the run-off had been usedfor just this purpose? In fact, Kienastemployed just this strategy in a smallcourtyard for an architectural andengineering firm, Ernst Basler + Part-ner. Set almost a story below ground,adjacent to six-story office and apart-ment buildings, this tiny courtyardfor Basler + Partner receives almostno direct sunlight (Figure 28). Herethe tufa forms a retaining wall infil-trated by ground seepage. Over timethe moss reflects the passage of years,the roughness of its wall texture setagainst the purity and timelessness ofthe cylindrical water basin fed bypiped water runoff.

Planners and designers whostress ecological factors as the sole ba-sis of landscape architecture have of-ten disregarded the idea of landscapearchitecture as form, space, and cul-tural practice. Those who favor socialuse have often rejected landscape de-sign as an art. And those who have de-signed from aesthetic concerns alone,have often produced landscapes ofstillborn human involvement or neg-lectful of basic site conditions. In con-trast, these projects by Dieter Kienastand Hargreaves Associates propose apotent model for park design, gar-dens, and more broadly landscape ar-chitecture; one based perhaps moresquarely on episodic planning—ifone looks to the ideas rather than theparticular forms, and time ratherthan a single moment.

Social and Historical UnderstandingSocial understanding under-

pins almost all of the landscape

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Figure 28. Courtyard, Basler + Partner, Zurich, Switzerland, c.1996. Photograph byMarc Treib.

Figure 29. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. General view. Photograph by Marc Treib.

designs of Georges Descombes:where to place a bench; how the fig-ure moves; what is the history of thesite; how culture enters the discus-sion. In this context, Descombes’sParc de Lancy in Geneva, Switzerlandand the commemorative Voie Suisseon Lake Brunner serve as representa-tive examples.

The Parc de Lancy, which wasconstructed between 1988 and 1990,lies on the outskirts of Geneva,amidst housing tracts of relativelyhigh density. The first phase of thedesign addressed a parcel of land as-sembled from the sites of three sub-urban villas from the early part ofthis century.29 The terrain slopessteeply from the road toward a shal-low ravine; at the lower level vegeta-tion accumulates in a greater pres-ence, and creates a strong contrastwith the open spaces of the upperzone near the road.

For Descombes, the first act ofdesign was a careful reading of thisrapidly-becoming-urban site. Consid-erations included the contour of theland and its vegetation, physical sur-roundings such as the neighboringhousing and shops, and of coursepatterns of pedestrian and vehicularcirculation (Figure 29). To these con-

siderations a deeper reading of thepark as a place and an institutionwas added, attempting to understandnot only the superficial aspects ofthe program—rest, relaxation, play,

social interaction, contact with theoutdoors—but also less obvious ideasabout society, behavior and the his-tory of the site.

The primary strength ofGeorges Descombes’s work is notrooted in its formal appeal—which,one should note, is considerable—but in its integration of history andbehavior into landscape design andarchitecture. The invisible, intan-gible aspects of the design do notcapture the eye of the camera and yetare deeply felt on site. The limits ofthe original villa sites, for example,are traced in the pathways and stepsthat join the upper and lower por-tions of the land (Figure 30). Under-standing the fatigue that accompa-nies climbing, and in some casesdescent, Descombes placed benchesand seats where they are logicallyneeded—often superimposed uponretaining walls or walls that double asscreens against the wind (Figure 31).He also investigated, at a level be-yond the norm, aspects of children’splay. The park’s central sandbox, forexample, is less a tract of undifferen-tiated play space than a projection ofadult politics onto childhood. In con-


Figure 30. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. Stairs descending the slope towards the stream trace the historic division of villa sites. Photograph by Georges Descombes.

Figure 31. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. Simple wood seat affixed to concrete block wall. Photograph by Marc Treib.

sultation with a child psychologist—and from his own informal observa-tions—Descombes determined thatif the sand box area is made as only asingle zone, disputes over territorywill probably result. Instead, he di-vided the play space into several de-fined zones, each identifiable as dis-tinct (Figures 32 and 33).30 Thesezones psychologically join into oneunit, however, as does the house inthe neighborhood or the neighbor-hood into the city. The political les-sons for the developing child,though unstressed, seem obvious.

The design of the park devel-oped over time, as the success of theearly phases became obvious and thepopulation density grew. While ex-amining the parts of the project indepth is beyond the scope of this es-say, one of the park’s principal archi-tectural elements may serve as repre-sentative. In a subsequent phase ofthe park’s design, a major parcel ofland was added on the opposite sideof the main road, creating problemsof linking the land and people on ei-ther side. One could have a trafficlight, although this was impractical;neither did a pedestrian overpass

seem to be the appropriate solution.In their place, Descombes proposeda tunnel (Figure 34).

Tunnels can be exciting placesfor children and even adults, butthey can also be frightening spaces,

whose terrifying darkness is com-pounded by the sudden shift awayfrom the comforting brilliance ofdaylight into a dismal zone of insecu-rity. Descombes translated the tun-nel into a site of magic, choreo-graphing light levels and modulatingthe passage from woods to metaltube as a passage from open natureto confined architecture. The bridgestructure extends the tunnel into theland at either terminus, rendering anegative space into a positive one.The landscape architect collabo-rated with the city road department,and suggested dividing the trafficlanes above the tunnel, allowing abroad median between the two di-rections of traffic. Here a verticalshaft brings light into the heart ofthe tunnel; just where it was neededmost (Figure 35).

As in the big ideas, so in the de-tails. Common materials comprisethe basic palette: concrete block leftunstuccoed; elements of vernaculargreenhouse systems; the metal tub-ing of drainage culverts. But theseare given heightened design atten-tion, elevating the everyday into thespecial, much as simple bamboo andclay became prized aesthetic objectsthrough the sophisticated transfor-

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Figure 32. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. Sandbox divided in four zones with common area. Photograph by Marc Treib.

Figure 33. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. Child at play in the sandbox area. Photograph by Georges Descombes.

mations associated with the tea cere-mony in sixteenth-century Japan.31 Itis not only in his detailing, but also inhis sense of detail, that Georges Des-combes is such an unusual designer.Like Carlo Scarpa, he understandsthat a simple mosaic tile placed in

just the right position will reflectlight or give color and animate aninanimate surface.(Figure 36).32

In many ways, the design forthe Voie Suisse on Lake Brunnen fol-lows in the path of the Parc deLancy.33 But in other respects it is a

completely independent projectthat instigated its own way of think-ing and its own formal manner. Aspart of a commemoration of the800th anniversary of the Swiss Con-federation, the various cantons pro-posed a series of memorials andmonuments. Quite typically, De-scombes eschewed the monumentin favor of a less obtrusive presence;instead of a singular marker, hewould propose a landscape two kilo-meters in length that would under-score the idea of commemoration byabsorbing it into that which couldonly be Swiss: the Swiss landscape it-self. The principal design idea, De-scombes once said, was to use abroom.34 The design of the walkwould be less a totally new creationthan a revelation of that which oncehad been in this case an early nine-teenth-century Napoleonic roadlong derelict and almost invisible.

The strategy would be moreabout replacement and emplace-ment than about displacement. Us-ing the “broom,” the design teamswept away accumulations of vegeta-tion and earth. Where the roadneeded to be reestablished, smallconcrete blocks provided supportand marked the edge. Where surfacedrainage threatened erosion, opentracks of stainless steel accommo-dated the safe passage of water (Fig-ure 37, see contents page). Whererailings did not meet contemporarysafety standards—in an existing over-look terrace, for example—newstructures overlaid the old (Fig-ure 38). Where the terrain was toosteep, or where revised pathways cre-ated new intersections, the land wasstepped simply and functionally to al-low for the transition.

The design team included theartists Richard Long and CarmenPerrin. While Long’s piece includeda letterpress print based on the fea-tures of the surrounding landscape,Perrin’s contribution was her ownparticular use of the broom. The siteis dotted with erratic boulders; thatis, large stones carried by the glaciersfar beyond their normal point of de-


Figure 34. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. Tunnel with bridge used as a transition to the park. Photograph by Marc Treib.

posit. Where most of the local stoneis dark gray or black, the erraticboulders are white—their reflectiveproperties kept them relatively cooland underwrote their longer jour-neys. For Perrin, nothing more wasneeded than to wash the rocks freeof their deposits of moss and dirt(Figure 39). Recast as punctuationmarks and sculptural objects withinthe landscape, the boulders achieveda heightened presence, but they re-mained an integral fragment of thelandscape nonetheless.

One could discuss the formalbrilliance and elegance of all theparts of this design in great detail,but more significant is Descombes’sderivation of ideas from the historyand form of the site, a poignantmodel of what the artist Robert Ir-win called “site conditioned.”35 Bythis, Irwin implied a sculptural artthat could come only from that placeat that time under those conditions.There is no way that one can graspthe essence of the Voie Suisse orLancy landscapes in photographs be-cause it is not concerned with formalstructuring. Unfortunately, wordsmay increase our understanding butnot necessarily our experience onsite, which is broadly cinematic. Be-cause the work extends for a mileand a half, the visitor encounters thelandscape in a linear manner. Butthis is not the linearity of a single rib-bon or a single wire filament. A bet-ter analogy would be a frayed cable,with twisted multiple strands whosebreaks cause impulses or stoppagesalong the way. At certain points theway is physically challenging, causingthe visitor to heed the act of walking.In other places, where the slope flat-tens or a gap in the forest reveals avista, the event rather than the pathcontrols perception. Underlying theentirety of this episodic path andmovement is the micro-scale of earth,flowers, and shrubs. (A part of theproject involved selective reseedingwith native wild flowers).

Descombes’s regard for behav-ior, site, history, and structure alsoinformed his design for the 1998Bijlmeer Memorial outside Amster-dam (Figure 40). Only the moredominant formal elements of thedesign—the canal, the fountain, and

the long concrete retaining walls thatdouble as benches and tables—attract the viewer in photographs.The sense of longing and absence,however, remain unrecorded. Thereis no way to transport a landscape by

Georges Descombes to another placebecause the place itself is its most im-portant element. The landscape ar-chitect’s project here utilizes theeternalized moment of history to in-form the making of physical places.

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Figure 35. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. The park usescommon materials such as concrete block and metal culvert pipe, here used to form thetunnel connecting two areas of the park. Photograph by Marc Treib.

The landscape must succeed in thepresent—social provisions, construc-tion intelligence, aesthetic interest—amalgamating the voices of the pastwith those of the present.

ConclusionIn this essay, I have tried to es-

tablish the possibilities and limits oflandscapes that give primacy to theformal conditions of landscape archi-tecture and patterns that the photo-graph easily comprehends—and thatjournals quickly publish for visualconsumption. Instead, I would pro-pose that we continue to seek a land-scape architecture that engages morefully aspects of human and naturalpresence, as well as human and natu-ral histories, poetically elevatingthem through formal dexterity. Toprovide drainage or seating is onlythe first response; then one can makethat canal or bench beautiful in itselfand, perhaps more importantly, anintegral contributor, if not instigator,for the greater scheme. As EdwardWeston once said: “Photograph athing not for what it is, but for whatelse it is.” 36

Of course, all of this must seemvery simple and very preachy, as if thisthesis were the first lesson in any land-

scape architecture curriculum. Per-haps it is; I believe it should be. But Ialso believe that the lure of the photo-graph and the attraction of the mediatoday have reduced our interest inthese very basic concerns, which is un-

fortunate. Given the continued evolu-tion of the landscape and its culturalmatrix, we should not stop in our at-tempts to understand their changingcontent, or in our search for newmanners in which to make them.

NotesAn earlier version of this essay was pre-

sented at the 1999 meeting of the Interna-tional Confederation of Landscape Architects,held in Copenhagen, Denmark.

Trespassing onto such slippery philo-sophical slopes as those encountered here canonly lead to trouble, compounded by the ab-sence of any fixed answers to the questionsraised. But as the Zen scholar D.N. Suzukionce said after a particularly animated classdiscussion: “That’s what I like about philoso-phy: no one wins, no one loses.” For intelli-gently challenging an earlier draft and helpingguide my rethinking, revising, and expansionof the essay I wish to thank the journal’s threeanonymous readers, and Editor Kenneth Hel-phand.1. I have examined this issue in an earlier ar-ticle in this journal. Marc Treib, “Must Land-scapes Mean? Approaches to Significance inRecent Landscape Architecture,” LandscapeJournal, Spring 1995, pp.46–62.2. A review essay of books concerned withlandscape photography centers on this issue:Marc Treib, “Frame, Moment, and Sequence,


Figure 36. Parc de Lancy, Geneva, Switzerland. 1988. Georges Descombes. Insertions ofmosaic tile provide color and sparkle in reflected light in shaded areas. Photograph byMarc Treib.

Figure 38. Voie Suisse, Lake Brunnen, Switzerland, 1990. Georges Descombes. The new metal mesh belvedere overlays an older overlook terrace. Photograph by Marc Treib.

Journal of Garden History, Summer 1995,pp.126–134.3. Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux,relatively early in the history of photography,used the medium in presenting their“Greensward” design for New York’s CentralPark. The before (photograph)-and-after(sketch) aspect of these presentations prob-ably derives from the “slides” prepared byHumphry Repton for his varied landscapes.See Elizabeth Barlow, Frederick Law Olmsted’sNew York, New York: Praeger, 1972, in particu-lar pp.72–73.4. The English language is unkind here, pro-viding one word to cover at least two greatlydiffering applications. The word “formal” mayaddress “of or pertaining to form,” the adjec-tive drawn from the noun. On the other hand,it may be used as the antonym of “informal,”which in landscape terms translates, for ex-ample, as gardens planned according to geo-metry as opposed to those based on nature. Inthe past and, I fear, also in the current essay, Ihave found no way to graciously resolve the is-sue nor to find other words that convey nearlythe same meaning. See Marc Treib, “FormalProblems,” Studies in the History of Gardens andthe Designed Landscape, April–June 1998,pp.71–92.5. See Clement Greenberg, “Modern Paint-ing,” (1960), reprinted in Charles Harrisonand Paul Wood, editors, Art in Theory, 1900–-1990, Oxford: Blackwell, 1992, pp.754–760.6. The merits of these distinctions have beendismissed by some critics, however. See JohnDixon Hunt, Greater Perfections, Philadelphia:University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000, espe-cially pp.170–75. Here, with good reason, theauthor takes issue with the recurring dicho-tomy in general, and my essay, “Formal Prob-lems” (cited above) in particular. 7. One could easily imagine, however, thosedeprived of vision more heavily favoring theperception of the landscape by other sensessuch as touch, sound, or fragrance.8. Dave Hickey, “Bridget Riley for Americans,”in Bridget Riley: Paintings 1982–2000 and EarlyWorks on Paper, New York: Pace Wildenstein,2000, pp.8–9.9. John Brinckerhoff Jackson, “The Word It-self,” in Discovering the Vernacular landscape,New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984, p.5.10. See Marc Treib, “Aspects of Regionalityand the Modern(ist) California Garden,” inTherese O’Malley and Marc Treib, eds., Re-gional Garden Design in the United States, Wash-ington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1995, pp.5–42.11. Yi-Fu Tuan, Topophilia: A Study of Environ-mental Perception, Attitudes and Values, Engle-wood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1974.12. The annual awards program of the Ameri-can Society of Landscape Architects also citesprojects in research, planning, and communi-cation. In this paper, I remain directed to an-swering questions of landscape design that areor could be realized rather than studies aboutlandscapes.13. “Form in art is as varied as idea itself. It isthe visible shape of all man’s growth; it is theliving pictures of his tribe at its most primitive,and of his civilization at its most sophisticatedstate. Form is the many faces of the legend—bardic, epic, sculptural, musical, pictorial,

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Figure 39. Voie Suisse, Lake Brunnen, Switzerland, 1990. Carmen Perrin. The artist’steam scrubbed the dirt and moss from erratic boulders, rendering them white sculpturalforms. Photograph by Georges Descombes.

Figure 40. Bijlmeer Monument. Amsterdam, The Netherlands, 1998. Georges Descombes. The configuration of the project derived from the footprints of thehousing blocks destroyed in the crash. A single fountain feeds a sheet of water that quietlystains the concrete as it falls into the canal. Photograph by Marc Treib.

architectural; it is the infinite images of reli-gion; it is the expression and the remnant ofself. Form is the very shape of content.” BenShahn, The Shape of Content, New York: VintageBooks, 1957, p.62.14. See Linda Jewell, editor, Peter Walker: Exper-iments in Gesture, Seriality and Flatness, NewYork: Rizzoli, 1990; Peter Walker, “The Prac-tice of Landscape Architecture in the PostwarUnited States, in Marc Treib, ed. Modern Land-scape Architecture: A Critical Review, Cambridge,Mass: MIT Press, 1993, pp.250–59; and MarcTreib, “Motifs, trames et structures” (ThePlace of Pattern),” Pages Paysages #4, 1992–93,pp.128–133.15. The extreme example of this phenomenonis the work of Andy Goldsworthy, whose sculp-ture is often more powerful in photographsthan in actuality. The play between the installa-tion and the defining rectangle of the photo-graphic frame heightens the presence of thework and removes it from its greater context—of which, often, it is only a very small part.Rather than reading a spiral of colored leavesagainst the irregular patterns of natural ele-ments, for example, we read it against the pho-tographic frame infilled with the irregular pat-terning of nature. See Andy Goldsworthy,Hand to Earth: Andy Goldsworthy Sculpture1976–90, New York: Abrams, 1990.

Richard Long’s documentation of hiswalks differs in that the photograph is amnemonic device for the artist and a narrativedevice for the viewer. The photograph recallsthe event as marked by Long’s constructionrather than as acting as part of the work itself.See R.H. Fuchs, Richard Long, New York:Guggenheim Museum, 1986; and Richard R.Brittell and Dana Friis-Hansen, Richard Long:Circles, Cycles, Mud, Stones, Houston: Contem-porary Arts Museum, 1996.16. For a discussion of the ideas behind thepark and its design process, see Alistair T.McIntosh, “Burnett Park,” in Jewell, PeterWalker, pp.30–37.17. This project is presented in Dan Kiley andJane Amidon, Dan Kiley: Complete Works,Boston: Bulfinch, 1999, pp.106–112; and Dan

Kiley: In Step with Nature; Landscape Design II,Process Architecture 108, 1993, pp.46–54.18. Tom Maver in conversation with the au-thor, Solana, November 1996.19. While this essay was in press, Kenneth Hel-phand informed me that the proscription oftree planting over garbage fills no longer di-rects current practice. I thank him for bring-ing this to my attention. At the time thatByxbee was designed, however, these restric-tions were in place.20. I would imagine that few clients would bethrilled by the idea that their garden willerode over time, or that distinctions of bedand lawn might disappear with the spread ofweeds or native grasses. The distribution ofgrasses and wildflowers through reseeding, orthe growth of volunteer trees over time, mightconstitute beneficial examples of applied en-tropic order, however. The most important ofSmithson’s essays to focus on this subject is “ATour of the Monuments of Passaic, New Jer-sey,” (originally published in Artforum Decem-ber, 1967), in Nancy Holt, The Writings ofRobert Smithson, New York, New York UniversityPress, 1979, pp.52–57. As early as 1971, art his-torian and psychologist Rudolph Arnheim hadpublished Entropy and Art: An Essay on Orderand Disorder, Berkeley: University of CaliforniaPress, examining this natural drift in relationto art production.21. These forms, in fact, have become a signa-ture element in the Hargreaves Associateslandscape, appearing in all the waterfront de-signs, but are less apparent here—at least sofar—due to thick natural vegetation. Planta-tions of palms, poplars and conifers reinforcethe patterns set at ground level. While someareas have already been completed, work willcontinue for half a decade.22. The site was first slated for redevelopmentin the mid-1980s.23. There will be some few structures for din-ing or recreation, but the hotels and housing

of the original proposal will have to addressthe river from beyond the limits of the park.24. As of January 2001.25. George Hargreaves, in conversation withthe author, Cambridge, Massachusetts, Octo-ber 1997.26. Gilles Clément, Le Jardin en mouvement: dela vallée au Parc André Citroën, Paris: Sens &Tonka, 1994.27. Dieter Kienast, Gärten Gardens, Basel:Birkhäuser Verlag, 1997.28. Dieter Kienast, Gärten, p.168.29. For an overview of this projects see Gior-dano Tironi, editor, Il Territorio Transitivo /Shifting Sites, Rome: Gangemi editore, 1998.30. What should happen if there are morethan four play groups, however, is open toquestion.31. This elevation of common objects to thestatus of high art depended on erudition intaste and painstaking selection or reworking.As the museum today recontextualizes ethno-graphic or artistic production, the teahouse re-moved the everyday object from its mundanecontext, elevating its aesthetic status by an ap-preciation of its simple values. In actual prac-tice, the tea masters more commonly devel-oped their own arts with a nod in the directionof the everyday rather than extensively usingtruly common wares.32. In his use of the judiciously placed reflec-tive metallic tiles, Descombes recalls elementsof the 1969–78 Brion Cemetery San Vito d’Al-tivole, and the 1973 garden for Palazzo Quer-ini-Stampaglia in Venice, both designed byCarlo Scarpa.33. A book documents the process and the ele-ments of the project: Voie Suisse, l’itinérairegenevois: De Morschach à Brunnen, Fribourg:Canton de Genève, 1991. Descombes consid-ers the book a part of the project, the land-scape of which was understood to beephemeral.34. Georges Descombes in conversation withauthor, July 1999, Geneva.35. Robert Irwin, Being and Circumstance: Notestoward Conditional Art, Larkspur Landing, Cali-fornia: Lapis Press, 1985, pp.26–27.36. I have not been able to locate the exactsource of this quote, although I suspect itcomes from Nancy Newhall, editor, The Day-books of Edward Weston, New York: HorizonPress, 1966.


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