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Typographic design by Nicole Arnett Phillips.
When it comes to garden sculpture, the battle lines are clearly drawn: you’re either Team Plastic Flamingo or Team Tyre Swan.
I know, I know, touchy subject, isn’t it.
Or maybe you have a beloved who fashions sculptures out of treasures bought home from the tip?
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Typographic design by Nicole Phillips
What’s the most magical thing that happened in your garden today?
If you answered “I played croquet with a flamingo and some hedgehogs” then stop reading now – there’s nothing new here for you, my friend.
If, however – sadly - there were no flamingos, no hedgehogs, then read on...
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Typographic design by Nicole Phillips.
In San Francisco, bay is a big thing.
You’re sitting by the dock of the bay, or dreaming about bay windows fronting fairy floss coloured houses.
If you're feeling hungry you can take a trip across the bay to Chez Panisse for the duck legs braised with white wine, green olives and bay leaf.
Which brings us to today's topic:
Laurus nobilis. Image via Wikimedia Commons.
The bay tree – Laurus nobilis – is also known as sweet bay and bay laurel.
It hails from the Mediterranean, and carries a history and mythology almost as heady as its perfume. The noble bay grows as woody tree or shrub and it leaves are dark and leathery, ruffling slightly along the edges.
From Classical times the laurel wreath has been a symbol of victory.
Starting in the 770s BC laurel wreaths were awarded to the victors of the athletic contests that were the forerunners of the Olympic Games.
Never a group to rest on its laurels (yep, the saying had its origins here too), politicians quickly warmed to the vote-winning potential of the victory wreath.
Gaius Julius Caesar was crowned with laurel for the bravery of his fighting in Asia Minor. Some suggest he took to wearing a crown quite frequently and enthusiastically thereafter.
Leaping ahead a few centuries, Napoleon Bonparte adopted the laurel wreath as part of his brand strategy, having himself crowned with an actual gold wreath and ordering the production of coins featuring his wreath-bedecked head.
Detail from Apollo and Daphne, by Andrea Appiani circa 1795-1800, via Wikimedia Commons.
The early laurel wreaths were created and given in honour of Apollo.
Apollo, the god of light and poetry, was the son of Zeus, and he developed quite a thing for Daphne, a beautiful mortal. This was unfortunate in many regards, chiefly because Daphne did not share his feelings.
Undeterred, Apollo pursued Daphne, until finally she asked her father to intercede. He transformed her into a laurel tree - thanks Dad – leaving Apollo heartbroken.
To remember her he took the laurel as the symbol for poets: the poet laureate is therefore one who is signified by the laurel wreath.
Dante, he of the inferno, is often depicted wearing a wreath of laurel.
For those less in need of crowns, the bay tree is most admired for its aromatic leaves.
The bay leaf is a key ingredient of the bouquet garni. Along with parsley and thyme this twined bundle of herbs is used to flavour stocks, soups and sauces.
Bay leaf is also the key ingredient in Queen Mab’s Pudding. This 17th century English dish of creamy custard scented with bay leaf and laced with dried fruit is named after a fairy mentioned in a speech by Mercutio in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. In case you were wondering.
On the savoury side of the meal, this recipe for Laurel-Leaf Soup was given by Picasso’s muse and lover Dora Maar to Alice B. Toklas, the longtime partner of Gertrude Stein and a renowned cook, hostess and writer.
“Boil a branch of laurel with its leaves in a saucepan for 20 minutes. Remove the laurel. Stir 1 yolk of egg to every 2 cups of the laurel water. Add a little hot water to the yolk of egg, stir and add laurel water. Heat but do not allow to boil. Serve. Croutons may be added to soup.”
Toklas describes this as “an invigorating soup”, and I have no doubt it is.
Most homes today know bay leaves in the dried form, but the flavour is stronger in fresh leaves. Being able to pluck a fresh leaf at will is a pleasure, and bays are so easy to grow it’s surprising they don’t feature in gardens more often.
Bay trees are tough and versatile. They can be grown as big trees, hedging or topiary specimens, or in pots, and they're supremely drought tolerant.
Brisbane gardeners keen to try can check with local nurseries or make the trip down to Mudgeereeba to this place.
My own bay tree - a gift - endures almost criminal level of neglect and has more scales than a conservatorium of music. Despite this it cheerfully continues to produce thick strong leaves.
For that alone it deserves to be crowned with the laurel wreath of victory.
According to The Witchipedia (a fascinating resource about which I was desperately unaware prior to researching this article) "bay leaves may be added to any spell or potion designed to enhance psychic ability and is [sic] a great addition to a psychic dream pillow."
It doesn't specify if adding the leaves to other liquids will also aid psychic ability, but if you do notice anything after eating your next bay-laced meal, please let us all know...
In the blink of an eye we've arrived at the end of another year. Thank-you so much for spending some of your valuable reading time with our little tales.
If you'd like to revisit any particular faves, here's a complete list of the 2014 articles. Click on either the picture or the heading to read.
We're looking forward to seeing you in a few weeks for the 2015 season.
Love and holiday wishes from Landscapology to you!
That's a wrap! See you soon.
Question: What could be better than sh*t-hot sculpture in a beautiful park or garden?
Answer: Not much.
At least not in the humble opinion of your correspondent. And as proof I tender into evidence, Your Honour, Exhibit A, the Sculpture Garden at the Art Institute of Chicago.
There are two gardens at the Art Institute, the one to the south designed by the remarkable landscape architect Dan Kiley, and the one to the north by the equally influential Laurie Olin.
It’s separated from the Art Institute’s be-columned façade by some fruity balustrades and planted urns, a get-up that sits surprisingly comfortably beside its more contemporary neighbour.
Olin’s sculpture garden was completed in 1960 and it’s a deceptively simple space. A generous path surrounds a central garden, half of which is open lawn, with the other half given over to a lush floral display.
Gorgeous as the plants are, they struggle to compete with the art. Cubi VII is a stainless steel work by David Smith, installed here in 1963.
The showstopper work is Flying Dragon by Alexander Calder. The painted steel sculpture landed amongst the flowers in 1975, and good luck to you if you think you’ll be able to visit without taking about a thousand photos.
Very simple stone benches line two sides, and they’re detailed so you can face into or away from the path.
The north of the garden is a linear space, with trees lining a soft path.
A Henry Moore bronze, Large Interior Form, juts its hip and tips its head at the end of the way.
A tall wall terminates the eastern end, providing a backdrop for Ulrich Ruckriem’s untitled work, a slab of infinitely textured and coloured granite.
The sculpture garden changes character with the weather. An overcast day clears the crowds, leaving the green garden pulsing with chlorophyll in front of the pale Art Institute building and the pale sky.
When the sun comes out so do the people, flocking to the lawn, and seeking out the quiet seats, the sunny spots, and the shade.
It’s a beautiful thing.
Go dotty over the clever graphics at the McCormick Tribune Campus Centre at Chicago's IIT.
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