Art and Sculpture in the Garden

I only caught a glimpse of the couple as I entered the garden. I followed the path around the lawn, past the pergola that gave shade to the bench below. The pair were in a corner, almost hidden in foliage. As I approached, I felt I was intruding on an intense conversation between lovers that had fallen silent at that very moment. Had they declared their love? Had they quarrelled? What had she asked of him? Had he answered? I tried to interpret their expressions, to imagine their thoughts. I wanted to hear them speak, however, the silence continued. But then why would five feet of inanimate concrete have words for me?

They’d been lovingly placed there when the garden was young; so many years ago that bright yellow lichen now adorned his jacket. The quiet presence of this piece of statuary enhanced the garden, perhaps evoking pleasant memories in the one who tended it throughout the seasons. For me, a casual visitor to this garden near Portsmouth, England on a sunny day in 2005, it caused me to pause and to ponder, just one of the reasons artwork is created.

 It was a little disconcerting to see the face peering from the foliage at the foot of the garden, the late afternoon sun casting shadows, further obscuring the figure. It wasn’t that I was startled; I’d been forewarned on entering the garden to look out for Leila. She’d be waiting beyond the rose garden, near the stand of Japanese Silver Grass. I said hello Leila, not expecting a response. I mean, why would five feet of inanimate concrete graced by a soft patina of pale green lichen have words for me.

But then she didn’t need to speak. Her silent presence enhanced the peacefulness of the garden; she was a part of the garden, part of the family, at home where she stood. She’d been placed there some years previously, when the garden was young. At the time she stood alone in a corner of a lawn. As the garden grew, evolved, shrubs and trees took their place, and Leila, no longer standing alone in a bare expanse of manicured green became one with nature, as I discovered her.

Artworks in the form of statuary and sculptures have long been used to elevate the sometimes prosaic nature of gardens since the earliest times. The ancient Greeks and the Romans had their peristyle courts; enclosed gardens where classical sculptures would be displayed, typically reflecting philosophical or religious motifs and set on pedestals to be gazed at in awe.

It was during the Italian Renaissance in the fourteenth century when gardens became larger, symmetrical, and besides the grottos and fountains, there was always classical statuary. The Italianate style found its way to Britain, particularly during the nineteenth century when travelers returning from a
Grand Tour of Europe developed their own Renaissance gardens and filled them with statuary.

Travel the great gardens of Britain today, those built long ago by the aristocracy or early industrialists, and it’s soon apparent statuary was big business in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Materials were still the traditional marble, stone, or bronze, but in far greater numbers — every garden owner of note wanted to enhance their estate.

The need was filled by using composite materials, though often of inferior quality — a crumbling David would be unlikely to inspire or impress anyone. This was resolved around 1770, when enterprising Eleanor Coade invented Coade stone, an artificial material used for moulding neoclassical statues and garden ornaments. Of such high quality and virtually impervious to the eroding effect of weather, it outperformed natural stone. By the 1840s artificial stone produced using Portland cement came on the market and the more expensive Coade stone was largely phased out.

Lost over time, the original secret recipe, a form of ceramic using crushed flint, fine quartz, and crushed glass was rediscovered and further refined by sculptor and stone carver Stephen Pettifer. In 2000 he founded the Coade Company in London, England, which continues to produce all forms of statuary.

In those great gardens, even now, two centuries later, what may appear to be an original piece carved from stone could well be Coade stone.

By the start of the twentieth century the popularity of classical sculpture waned somewhat with the advent of modern sculpture, beginning with the work of Auguste Rodin, who exhibited at the Universal Exhibition held in Paris in 1900. Since then, every form of abstract artistic expression has made an appearance, in galleries and as public installations, in gardens as originals or more often replicas, and produced now in every possible medium.

Just as the Greeks and Romans created places to display their sculptures, today, parks are created specifically to display sculptural works, or they are exhibited in existing gardens. Somehow, the placing of sculptures in a natural setting enhances the moment, and is a way of introducing such works to the public. Cambridge has its delightful Sculpture Garden located on Grand avenue South alongside the Grand River. At the Homer Watson Gallery in Kitchener, there are whimsical works by local artist, Glen Smith on display in the small garden there.

The Seattle based revolutionary blown glass artist Dale Chilhuly exhibits his work in gardens around the world with multicolored pieces that can be mistaken for plants and trees of the natural world. At Kew Gardens in London, his work was once exhibited both in the gardens and inside the majestic palm house because, as he said, he always wanted to show his glasswork in a glasshouse. His pieces have also appeared at the Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix, Arizona. While visiting, I could easily have mistaken his spiky, chartreus cactus for a rare saguaro if it hadn’t been sparkling so in the bright desert light.

I’d much rather wander a park or garden than a gallery or museum, and it was first in those large stately gardens of Britain where classical statuary abounds that I first discovered my love of sculpture. Renishaw Hall in the north of England is typical of the nineteenth century style with its stunning Italianate gardens. Statuary there graces the pathways, at flights of steps, between garden rooms and within them, where they stand in the shade of topiary hedges five meters high. Sometimes the topiary works are sculptures in their own right.

Likewise in the south of England at Hever Castle, the childhood home of Anne Boleyn, the American millionaire and philanthropist William Waldorf Astor, beginning in 1906 added a magnificent Italian garden and filled it with his own collection of statuary retrieved during his European travels.

More a park than a garden, the Yorkshire Sculpture Park was developed specifically for the display of sculpture, including a number of Henry Moore pieces. Not sure how Henry would feel about sheep wandering around his work, although it honours his commitment to having his work placed in the open air.

It was in a more formal part of the park that I discovered the 'Moon’, a piece I’d perhaps unfairly describe asa large scale version of a Victorian gazing ball.  Hand-blown glass garden accents were first recorded as being produced in Venice 13th century. In the 16th century the English philosopher Francis Bacon commented that a proper garden would have round coloured balls for the sun to play upon, and by the Victorian era they became a popular garden feature, and are still. They are intriguing, the way they reflect and shimmer as the light changes, but I’m happy to gaze at them in someone else’s garden.

The ‘Moon’, however, by Swiss artist Not Vital (a confusing name in English) is something I’d covet if my garden were large enough to house it. ‘Moon’ is a highly polished sphere in stainless steel replete with tidy, random dimples representing, I suppose, the more ragged craters of the moon.

Three meters in diameter, it sits in an expanse of grass, and like the real moon’s gravitational field, it draws viewers to touch, to marvel, to observe the distorted reflections of the tree filled park. It now has its own Saturn like ring, formed by the circling footsteps of a captivated audience.

One of the finest, though fleeting, exhibitions of garden art is to be found at the Chelsea Flower Show held annually in London, England. It’s here where designers compete for gold medals in garden design. The gardens are imaginative wonders, works of art in their own right, and typical contain sculptural pieces to complement and enhance the experience.

At the 2016 show, a garden by Russian designer Tatyana Goltsova explored the complex relationships between Russia, Ukraine and the UK, though not in the current political sense. A work by Ukrainian sculptor Victoria Chichinadze that embodied the spirit of the traditional lace makers of Eastern Europe was allowed to beautifully dominate the garden. Crafted from 600kg of aluminum, the white, lace-like form, in sharp contrast with the surrounding green, swirled through the garden to skim the surface of a water feature called River of Time, culminating at a transcendent female figure.

Also at the 2016 show, a gold medal winning garden by Chris Beardshaw prominently featured a haunting, contemplative face. Named The Fallen Deodar, it was one of a limited edition of six in verdigris bronze. At 1.5 meters across, the original was carved from, and inspired by, a massive Deodar tree (Cedrus deodara) that had fallen on bleak Dartmoor, not far from the home in Devon of artist Jilly Sutton. The original work now resides in a garden somewhere in Tokyo, fittingly owned by one of the tree leaping Japanese actresses who appeared in the movie Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon.

Given the long historic association of art and gardens, it would almost seem that a garden is not complete without a sculpture or piece of artwork. Ensuring each complements the other is the challenge. Those who design both sculptures and gardens understand the importance of scale, texture, and appropriate placement, and it’s no less important in a home garden.

I’ve always believed a garden is a personal space, accepting of anything the owner chooses to place
there. Garden gnomes, super heroes, well-dressed mannequins and even the many nefarious Lord of the Rings characters have all found a place in gardens. A monstrous orc, however, would be more suited to a huge gothic garden rather than lurching out of a flowerbed, unless, of course, it happens to frighten rabbits.

Besides these outliers an endless supply of decorative, often beautiful accoutrements awaits the browser at every garden show and gift store where there’s something to suit anyone’s taste. Smaller items are useful for punctuating an entrance or creating particular interest within a planting, but too many are . . . well, too many.

Plonk something in the middle of the front yard, though, and it’s on public display. That group of fake deer on a country property viewed through a morning mist can for a moment be delightful — or induce a moment of panic, but in the harsh light of midday . . . well, they’re still plastic deer. And massive concrete lions rampant at the foot of a suburban driveway somehow don’t capture the essence of the veldt — they’d be far more effective lurking in the shrubbery.

Many an expanse of green lawn does indeed cry out for a focal point, yet it is so worthwhile to reflect on those masters of design when choosing a sculpture and the way they considered theme, scale, location — and the garden. The appropriately placed classical statue awaiting discovery at a random turn in the garden will gently delight the unwary visitor.

A graceful Aphrodite, framed naturally in an arch of trees can be perfect. Position her at distance point to become a silhouette at sunset or sunrise and the effect is magical. When a piece such as this has attained an ancient, mossy patina, and is revealed only when a breeze stirs foliage, it becomes an enchanting dreamscape, and sometimes startling part of the garden.