In a season celebrated for its colors—from the yellow and orange cups of daffodils to the blood reds and purples of tulips—one color stands out for me more than any other. And the reason why became evident to me this past week as I made a new friend over coffee. (New, in this case, is a relative term, as she and I first made a connection just as the world went into COVID lockdown, and it has taken us two years to finally meet.)
One of the joys of conversation with a new acquaintance is the chance to share thoughts about topics near and wide. She is a graphic designer and an artist, but also a gardener. And as our conversation serpentined from subject to subject, as is often the case when we meet someone new, we found ourselves talking about design, art, and some of our favorite museums. We both sorely missed the old MOMA, and she even confessed to a fondness for the old Whitney on Madison Avenue, which I share. When talk turned to the Clark, and particularly to the Reed Hildebrande landscape and the Tadao Ando addition, neither of us longed for the old Clark, which we loved, but what we loved even more was how the new spaces, both the garden and the addition, did not subsume the old building, but allowed one to see it anew. And it was at this moment that I came to realize why the greens of spring, from the grassy foliage of bulbs and trees leafing out to photosynthesizing swards of lawn, are more powerful to me than any of the flower colors. It struck me that the greens are the foil that offsets the colorful flowers and allows us to see them anew.
This same principle is often incorporated into art of graphic design. Empty space, just like the smooth concrete walls of Tadao Ando’s long concrete wall at the Clark, or like the expanse of lawn one crosses to enter Hollister House garden, resets our eyes, like a sorbet between courses of a meal cleanses our palettes so we can see, or taste, things anew.
This principle was evident in the graphic design of earlier eras, where white expanses on the pages of Vreeland and Brodovitch’s Harper’s Bazaar offset images of women in spring florals, or a brash pink handbag. That white, like the green of a lawn or woodland, makes no attempt to take center stage but somehow without it the pieces they offset, whether a trillium in the greening expanse of Bartholomew’s Cobble or the spring blooms on that lawn at Hollister House, would not hold their place. In fact, they might even appear shrill. It made me realize how much I love the power of green and how exciting it can be to see it take center stage, in the way it does at Saiho-ji, the moss garden in Kyoto which one enters after copying a Shinto scripture on one’s knees in the monastery. Giving our eyes a moment’s rest—whether it be through the black and white inkwork required at Saiho-ji, along the concrete wall or through the fields on the way into the Clark, or in the long expanse of lawn at Hollister House—improves how we see and is essential to good design.
As my new friend and I sat finishing our beverages, I realized that a moment of silence (although I would have preferred not to have waited two years to start the conversation) can also allow us to see the value of what is in front of us. And for this too, and for her, I am grateful.
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A gardener grows through observation, experimentation, and learning from the failures, triumphs, and hard work of oneself and others. In this sense, all gardeners are self-taught, while at the same time intrinsically connected to a tradition and a community that finds satisfaction through working the soil and sharing their experiences with one another. This column explores those relationships and how we learn about the world around us from plants and our fellow gardeners.
