Form and Feeling: How Garden Design Influences Experience

Initial Sketch of Garden Design

Recently, I tasked myself with creating a simple garden design. When I sat down to sketch out what I imagined when I heard the word "garden", I instinctively began drawing a square. I'm not sure whether it was because a square is the easiest representation of a plot of land or the types of spaces you would be working with on a grid. However, I couldn't help but feel discontent with the shape I had chosen as my foundation. It seemed silly to wrack my brain over a basic shape. Is there really a difference between a square, a rectangle, or a circle? What significance can be found in one shape that can't be found in the other? And can something so simple really impact how I would experience a garden? If I reflect on the types of gardens I've visited and the experiences I've taken from them, it's clear that it's these simple details that influence me the most - especially when I'm experiencing a garden without any technical knowledge of the ecosystems the garden is trying to conserve or represent.

There are many types of gardens, each created with different intentions. With gardens, intentions must be represented through form and function. The reason I was discontent with my initial decision to draw a square as my garden's base, was because the shape did not match my intention. To flesh this out, I'll start by clarifying my intention. In creating this garden I wanted to create a space for introspection. A garden that could be walked through a thousand times and still feel like a new journey each time. I wanted a garden that was, foremost, a place of reflection and growth.

The reason for this was that while I believe that gardens should be spaces where we can facilitate the growth and conservation of native plant species and push for greener initiatives through beauty and design; this is not what the average person walking through a garden is thinking. They are thinking one of two things: either "I'll be coming back to this garden to experience this feeling again" or "I don't think I need to come back to this garden since I took pictures/have already seen it once". A variety of beautiful flowers or the well-meaning intentions and science behind the types of plants and their significance to ecosystems or green living is not enough to bring someone back to the same garden again and again, despite these being things that people value. The average person does not have a vested interest in the garden before they arrive. They need to be inspired to return after they've experienced it once.

You might question how this relates to the problem of form. The simple answer is that forms reflect intentions in ways that other means cannot. The forms we base our designs on will set the tone and decide whether you've designed a one-hit wonder or a timeless experience that people will willingly seek out. To exemplify this, imagine the grand gardens of Versaille. Hedges tower around you from all sides, the pathways are long and silent, and everything in the garden is made with grandeur and opulence in mind. Its intentions as a garden are clear. It's a statement of power, it feels domineering because it is. Versailles is not a place to reminisce on your journey as an individual, and it is not a place that was made to facilitate your growth as a person. To me, Versailles is a one-hit wonder. It is beautiful, it is grand, and it is not something I need to go back to since I've already experienced it once before.

Contrary to the gardens of Versailles, the gardens of the French countryside, such as Giverny, paint a very different picture. Famous painter, Claude Monet is well known for using his home and garden to inspire his artwork. Despite the Gardens of Giverny and Versaille both being examples of French gardens, their intentions and experiences couldn't be more different. Monet's house and gardens inspire you to immerse yourself fully in the garden. To reflect on where you are and where you want to go. The intentions of the gardens are not as clear. This garden may not have been made for me, but it feels as though it has a thousand things to teach me. Its sprawling paths, how vines and trees enshroud you under their canopy, and how its natural ecosystem thrives through a mix of curation and untainted wildness. Where Versailles is dominating, Giverny is freeing.

If I were to describe each garden in terms of basic forms, I would describe Versailles as a rectangle or a square with harsh, or sharp, corners, clearly defined boundaries, and paths that are straight and narrow. Giverny would be like an amorphous rounded shape. Its paths are interconnected and its corners (or lack of corners) are curved. The visual representations I have of each garden are opposite to one another, as are their intentions and, therefore, experiences.

Ironically, I ultimately decided to use a rectangular shape as my base for this project. Not because I suddenly devalued the importance of form. But, instead, so I could remind myself and others of the discomfort and tension that beautiful gardens can still have. Even if this form of garden is not my favorite, in delivering a message these forms and types of gardens are still undoubtedly valuable.